Dream SMP and Other MCYT Oneshots

Country- DSMP Promptober Day 2 (P! Tubbo + Wilbur)

P! stands for Platonic!
TW: heavy swearing, injury, unintentional self harm, implied death, very heavy depictions of religion, prayer, and God

A young man was on his knees. He wasn't really a man, actually, just a boy forced to grow up too soon. He didn't want what he'd been given.

It was late at night. The day had been long, and everyone who had survived was fast asleep. Tubbo almost scoffed at the idea of sleep. He couldn't even blink without fearing the shadows in the corners of his eyes. After all, every shadow was the promise of death. Every whisper was a declaration of war. Every good man was only fooling the world around him.

"Hey, Wilbur."

It felt silly. Childish, even, to pretend the dead could hear him. Wilbur was gone, dead and buried. Tubbo knelt before his grave.

It was a grave like no other. A smoking crater that had plagued his land. 'His land.' What the hell was he saying? He was no leader, and certainly no president, yet the only man who had advice to give was gone.

"I just wanted to say, Wilbur..."

He felt sick to his stomach, kicking at the ashes scattering the ground. It had been only a few hours ago that he'd stood upon grass here, starstruck as he was called up to the podium. At the time it felt like an honor, being made president on the spot. Now it just felt like a handout, a mess that nobody else wanted to clean up.

Tubbo took a sharp breath. "Fuck you."

He wished he could say it to that bastard's face.

"Fuck you," he said it again. "Fuck you for taking my home. For hurting my friends. For getting yourself killed, you stupid prick."

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He wouldn't cry for any man, not even Wilbur, if he could help it.

It hurt, how much he missed him. After everything, he just couldn't let go, could he?

'Fuck you,' he had said, but what he really wanted to say was, 'please come back.' It was pathetic.

He had no right to be in so much pain. Not when Tommy- poor, distraught Tommy- was at home crying himself to sleep. He'd always been closer with Wilbur, Tubbo knew it.

Still, he mourned as if Wilbur were his best friend. He mourned for the memory of the country they built together, for the peaceful days of independence before it all went wrong. Where had it gone wrong, anyways? Tubbo didn't want to think about that.

Maybe, if he could just think about what went right, it wouldn't hurt so much.

***

"Wilbur?"

Tubbo was nothing more than an incompetent boy. The war was over, but he hadn't gotten out of it without a broken arm, and simple tasks like putting on a shirt had become difficult for him.

It was on, mostly, but he'd buttoned it wrong and he couldn't fix it. Luckily, Wilbur stepped out of the tiny room in the back of the van to assist.

"What the hell did you do?" Wilbur raised an eyebrow, and he almost laughed, but Tubbo looked too helpless and miserable for that. He fixed the button and gave Tubbo a pat on the shoulder. "Your arm will heal soon enough, don't worry."

"How soon?" Tubbo asked, impatient.

"Do I look like a doctor?" Yet still, Wilbur answered after a moment, "I'll guess in a few weeks."

"I feel so useless," Tubbo complained. "I already can't do most things right, and now-"

Wilbur flicked Tubbo between the eyes and he flinched. "What the hell was that for?"