Summary: In his first life, Wilbur made the mistake of throwing away the things that mattered the most, and months of torture taught him his wrongs. Now, he was handed the miracle of life to make things right. Genre: angst to fluff Warnings: death, implied suicidal thoughts, blood, scars Pronouns: they/them Note: this got a bit sad, so sorry, but the ending is fluffy so i hope it's worth the pain i'm putting you all through <3
Wilbur's head felt heavy. Lately, everything seemed heavy.
In the distance, faint as always in the seconds it took for the machinery to rush out in front of him, he could hear the whistle of the train; it always was mocking him.
It passed him by while he stood and watched, brows drawn to the center, stuck in a perpetual scowl. The first few times, as he picked at the skin of his arms and at his nails, the corners of his eyes stinging from the tears, he ran towards it. Each time the train rushed past the platform, Wilbur grew a little smaller.
The train was old and rusty, made of steel painted black. The wheels squealed against the rails, the wind from the speed brushing his hair up. It always whistled louder as it went past his pathetic frame at the end of the platform, almost like it was going to stop.
The sound startled him, he never got used to it. It was loud. Or maybe, he just felt guilty.
It didn't help that the TVs surrounding him showed him what he was missing, like some sort of sick joke. He remembered clawing at the wires, sick of watching you, his lover, mourn him. It took every bit of strength left inside of him to tug and rip the wires apart, sparks of electricity flying everywhere, landing quite a shock against his hands.
He didn't feel it much.
In the end, it didn't stop the TV. The screen followed you around, displaying the way you screamed at night, shaking in your bed moments after as you hugged your knees to your chest.
It was in those moments that Wilbur wished he could crawl through the screen, just to hold you once more.
This was his punishment.
Wilbur watched Tommy and Tubbo grow older, and grow apart. He watched Phil wash his hands a little longer on his birthday, as if he could still feel his son's blood coating his fingers. He watched you hurt all alone, trying to save that stupid beanie he left in your home right before the elections.
Most of all, it hurt to watch everyone walk by his grave without a single glance over at the name etched into the stone, framed by the flags of his country.
There were countless moments throughout his time in limbo where he suppressed the urge to stand at the edge of the platform, perhaps making a simple mistake in hopes of easing the pain. But he knew better, it would achieve nothing. He was already dead. Throwing himself at the tracks, thinking he had even a semblance of control over what's left of his deteriorating life, only to fail, would save to be another reminder of how he was here to be tortured.
If revival was ever a possibility, Wilbur needed it now more than ever.
Days passed slowly, Wilbur watched himself age. He wanted it to stop, he didn't feel old, he didn't feel ready to be old. He still felt the vigor of being in his mid-twenties sometimes.
Pulling at his greying hair, scrutinizing the way his usual waves had flattened, Wilbur leaned against a support beam holding up a cement canopy above him.
The familiar hiss of the train coming down the tracks interrupted the uncomfortable silence, making his thoughts scatter. Even now, after spending months in limbo, he still looked forward with a glimmer of hope that this time, the train would stop.
