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Wilbur was always painfully human.
Well, of course he was; he was alive and breathing and bipedal and had no feathers (however, not a plucked chicken).
What Tommy meant is that he was so alive. It's not that much better of a description but it made more sense.
His eyes squinted when he smiled, his laugh was loud and obnoxious, he was a bit too tall, and Tommy loved him. He had always loved Wilbur, even when Wilbur embarrassed him or ate his food or said “Hey Toms, I think I'm going to move out.”
“Why?” He had asked, looking up from the pile of string and beads on the ground. Three bracelets were laid out on the ground, yet he was still working on Wilbur's. Friendship bracelets.
Wilbur had looked away, and he fiddled with his sleeve in a way that meant he was nervous; though Tommy didn't know that at the time, Wilbur could never be nervous, he was brave and strong and smart and always knew what to do.
“Y’know, I’m getting older, and there's this new place Schlatt's going to, it's called some bullshit like Dream SMP or something.”
Tommy liked when Wilbur sweared in front of him, it made him feel grown up, and it was funny. His teachers didn't like when Tommy copied his brother's language, however.
“Why can't I go with you?” He asked, and his eyes were teary in a way that he never let himself have now. That seemed to crack something in Wilbur.
Wilbur’s eyes widened, just like how they did when Quackity didn't ignore him or when Phil smiled at him. “Well, I mean, I don't see why you can't.”
Now, older, and the slightest bit more mature, Tommy could think of why. He still had many more years of schooling, Phil would miss him, and he wouldn't get to sleep in his comfy bed anymore.
Though, younger Tommy didn't care about anything like that, all he wanted was Wilbur.
So they moved out together. Phil looked sad, though accepted it faster than Tommy thought he would. Tommy packed his bags and watched Wilbur pack up his guitar into its case.
Wilbur was at ease. He let Tommy roll the windows down and stick his head out of the window, and let him choose the music for at least a quarter of the drive, and smiled every time he looked at the blond.
Tommy held his hand when Wilbur got stressed because he misread the map, and he felt Wilbur's pulse slow. His skin was warm and his hands had freckles and scars as all human hands had, and he drummed his poorly painted nails against Tommy's knuckles. Tommy mourned the loss when Wilbur pulled his hand away to continue driving.
The ‘Dream SMP’ was pretty cool. At the time it was only a few buildings and a interconnected wooden path, and Tommy could hardly remember what the landscape looked like before it was scarred with war. Tommy could hardly remember what Wilbur looked like before he was scarred with war.
Dream had introduced himself, his voice unfriendly but calm. Tommy could remember his face clearly; he had no mask, and his armour was only enchanted iron at the time.
There were two behind him that Wilbur seemed more friendly to. A disinterested man named George, and Sapnap, who seemed more excited to have some new people. Tommy thought their names were stupid, and said it aloud. Tommy smiled when Wilbur failed to cover up his laugh with a cough.
L’Manburg was full of laughs, good food, friends, and comradery, but in Wilbur’s words: “Perfection never lasts long.”
Wilbur looked scared when Schlatt ordered them out of the newly named Manburg. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and his grip on Tommy's hand tightened until it was painful.
Quackity laughed maniacally, and Tommy hadn't heard him so happy in a while, even if it wasn't for the right reason. He bounced on his feet just like he did when he first reconnected with Wilbur after his revival, and he leaned over to give Schlatt a kiss on the cheek. Tommy had enough mercy to not bring up the memory to Quackity now.
Eventually it was Pogtopia, and Tommy remembered every day, because it was the first time Wilbur wasn't like Wilbur, he wasn't human, he wasn't alive. His eyes were tired, his hair was greasy, his skin was pale. Wilbur stayed in his room most of the time, writing and monologuing and pitying himself. Tommy almost hated him, but then Wilbur would smile—weak and tired and not too honest—and Tommy would love him all over again.
Tommy would watch him smoke from a few feet away, only speaking when Wilbur’s eyes would lazily drift over to him.
“That’ll kill you,” he would say, his voice as firm as he could manage.
Wilbur would shrug and say some bullshit like, “We all die one day.”
Tommy didn't think it was so soon. Too soon. Far too soon.
Soon, Wilbur was not alive. Truly. He was a corpse with a bleeding chest and empty eyes. Tommy could hardly believe that he was once alive, he looked like a corpse before the button was even pressed. Tommy hated him and hated him and hated him and missed him.
Ghostbur was alive, regardless of how ironic it was. He laughed and smiled just like Wilbur, but he didn't talk the same. His voice was too soft, too apologetic, too kind. No matter how much Tommy wanted to, he couldn't hug him; even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure if he would.
The clone would call him Toms and sunshine and prick yet Tommy didn't feel anything at all from it. He didn't hate Ghostbur, but he didn't quite love him either. It wasn't nuance or complicated feelings like with his Wilbur. It was neutrality, and Wilbur would have laughed if he heard him say that.
Wilbur was back and he was wrong. He was just short of human, and he was giddy and Tommy didn't realise how much he missed him.
Tommy listened to his brother's plots and plans and tried not to comment, knowing that they would have the same fate as all his other plans; forgotten once Wilbur found something newer and shinier.
Quackity and Wilbur are weird with each other, but Quackity seemed to make Wilbur more human. Tommy would pretend not to pay attention, and Quackity would look at Wilbur and he had longing in his eyes. Wilbur didn't wait for Tommy to look away to look at Quackity like he loved him.
Tommy would hear them argue, and no matter how much Wilbur preached “words over violence”, it always ended in a fight. Tommy always left before they could start making out or something—yuck—but Wilbur would come back to the van with a black eye or bloody nose and would say “let’s go vandalise the strip club.”
Tommy remembered Wilbur laughing, turning into a sputter as he got water in his mouth. Maybe he was swimming in the fountain, waiting for Quackity to catch him, or maybe he was in the pool, or maybe he was in the lake behind the van. The memory was distant and vague. The only thing clear was the human, normal, lively way Wilbur grinned as he splashed water at Tommy.
Wilbur was acting weird, but this time it was in his human way. He would look at Tommy and he would smile, but his eyes were sad. He gave his guitar to Tommy, and Tommy was so happy that he didn't see how unusual it was. Even when Wilbur started apologising to people it didn't quite click. He assumed Wilbur was finally changing for the better.
Wilbur’s apology tour was nearly over and Tommy was still waiting for his. He waited outside in the cold outside of Phil's cabin, and heard muffled conversation.
“Is there anyone else you feel you need to apologise to?”
Wilbur sighed, frustrated. He wasn't a big fan of these therapy sessions, and he made it clear. “Yeah, well– one person.”
Wilbur opened the door, and Tommy looked up at him hopefully.
“We’re going to Las Nevadas.”
Tommy's hope disintegrated.
Tommy's eyes were filled with tears and he felt like a kid again. Wilbur smiled at him pityingly, but he didn't look guilty.
“Why can't I go with you?”
Wilbur laughed like it was funny and Tommy couldn't manage to hate him for it.
“Tommy, I’ve hurt too many people here, I can't stay.”
You hurt me, but I still want you here, Tommy thought to himself, and the sentiment carried into the future.
Tommy took in Wilbur for the last time as they hugged. He smelled like cigarettes, Quackity's cologne, and oranges. He shared an orange with Tommy. He could still taste the juice on his teeth. His fingers were still sticky.
His hair was washed and clean, and he had his stupid friendship bracelet on. The string was worn and discoloured but the beads were still bright; there was probably some symbolism there that Tommy didn't understand.
“I love you,” he had whispered, his voice ugly and wobbly with tears.
“Love you, too.”
Tommy watched Wilbur sail away, and something human left him.
Tommy strums the guitar, the strings out of tune and worn. He doesn't know how to tune it, and the thought of the strings snapping—getting rid of the dullness where Wilbur’s fingers pressed—terrifies him. He’s scared a lot now.
Quackity is angrier and quieter and lonelier now, and Tommy doesn't visit him anymore. He probably sits in his clean office all alone with no one to bother him, doing paperwork for an empty country with empty people with empty hearts; what a prick.
He stares out at the dimming lights of the Las Nevadas sign, watching a dull bulb flicker and give out. One day the sign would go dark, and no one would replace it. Tommy watches as sand drifts over the streets. One day, it would cover up the city one day, and no one would remember the great country of Las Nevadas. One day no one would remember Quackity.
Tommy looks away, and instead cranes his head back to look at the inside of the van. It's just how Wilbur left it, though with a bit more dust and with a bit less colour. It's like Wilbur took life with him.
Though, anyone who visited the van wouldn't know that. It's like Wilbur never existed at all. Adverts for Wilburger-Ranvan had been torn down or weathered away, L'Manburg propaganda posters had been burned during the Manburg Era, and the trees that had initials carved into them had been chopped down for firewood or repairs to crumbling, old buildings.
Tommy wonders if he would forget Wilbur one day. He laughs, the sound soft and drowned out by the din of the van’s engine rumbling—barely hanging on, just like Tommy.
When there would be another war, or Tubbo miscalculated and set off a nuke, or everyone died and were forgotten, or whatever way this awful place would be finished, Tommy wouldn't forget Wilbur.
He only wishes he got another chance to yell at Wilbur and see him finally understand Tommy's pain. Then he would apologise and Wilbur would never need to leave and it would be Tommy and Wilbur again like it always was.
For now, instead, he plucks a disjointed tune that takes the vague shape of the L'Manburg anthem. His fingers hurt. He's hungry. He's angry.
He hates Wilbur, he hates him, he hates him, and he misses him, and he loved him, and loves him.