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When Wilbur's heart seizes, he immediately knows something is going wrong.
Him and Schlatt are playing a casual game of Uno. The one advantage to being dead and waking up in a completely white wasteland afterlife is being able to have anything you want. The ability to create anything, the mindset to live your own. A power given to the dead of the world who can't return.
"Draw two." Schlatt says tiredly, slapping a yellow +2 card onto the coffee table.
"Hmm," Wilbur hums as he sits over the armrest, quiet and content, humming soft melodies of L'manburg's old anthem that played on the radio. Sat on the side of the coffee table, it was bubbling with static every-so-often and had the quality of a walkie-talkie, but thats what he wanted. The good days, way back when, reminding him of family.
Drawing a few cards from the deck, he picked a yellow skip from his hand of three and slipped it on top of the desk with a slap.
"Bitch," Schlatt hissed, watching with his own hand of about seventeen.
Wilbur smiled, but gently. More eerie than Schlatt could ever pretend to be.
"Blue," A wild was pushed to the deck with a thump, with Wilbur tapping it closely. "Uno."
Schlatt drew a +4 and smacked it onto the deck, making the radio cut out for a second and fade back in with crackles and pops.
"I win," He slapped his +4 onto the desk, waving his hands to celebrate his win.
"You fucking strategist," The ram spat, flicking his wrist, and cards flew across the expanse and fell, and fell, and fell; through and through and down into the white void despite each of them staying right on top. Schlatt lied back in his chair, a bottle of booze slipping between the gap of his palm when he called for it. "You never let me win."
"You never had the ambition to win, Schlatt." He leaned over, tuned the radio, twisting the knob and ridding of the static that filled his ears with memories. It played the same song, over and over again.
"With bloodied hands and weakened knees," He sang as the radio came back into play, his own symphony remembering his name. "If you try, you can win."
"Uh-huh," Schlatt said sarcastically, popping the cork and downing a few gulps. "And that's why Manburg was blown to fuck all."
"L'manburg," Wilbur corrected simply. He had no reason to be angry here. "I didn't try, anyways. I never tried, you should know this by now."
"I know," The clank of a glass bottle against the coffee table, and Schlatt sighed. "I already apologized, anyways."
Wilbur shrugged, his coat smoldered with ash and dust. "It's over."
Schlatt hummed as he downed the rest of the bottle, throwing the bottle behind him It fell through the white expanse just like the cards did.
Wilbur turned to adjust the radio, spinning the dotted cog with his fingers before his heart seized. A gasp left each of them.
"Wonder who died," Schlatt hissed, clawing against the armrest of his chair. "Why do we gotta' get this shit when someone else dies?"
"Probably someone who just lost a third or second life," Wilbur stated, his lip twitching in anger at the dumb pains. They never found out how to stop it, but what they did find out is that it only happen when someone loses a life; as if part of them is lost and returned to their afterlife. "Probably something stupid. Maybe Fundy, or possibly eve-"
Wilbur felt something pull his heart.
He heaved, clutching desperately at his chest. The radio slipped from his hand and into the void below.
"Wilbur?" Schlatt questioned, raising a thick brow at his hunched posture.
He didn't think it was that bad.
"What the fuck?" The ram tensed when he saw the white around him flicker into darkness. A verbal crack filled the expanse, bouncing off nothing and continuing infinitely; too loud. So loud that Schlatt had to close his hands around his ears before it stopped suddenly and everything went black
Oh. Oh fuck.
He'd experienced this before. Someone had just lost their last life.
Wilbur gulped for air, the pain relieving itself once the void flickered back to its pure white.
"Schlatt," Wilbur gasped, panting. His skin felt hot and his non-existent heart was pumping quick with an unexplainable feeling. "Why was that-"
"Someone just lost their last life," The ram explained, breathing raspy nothings. His fingers felt tingly. "And seeing your reaction, you probably had a strong connection with them or some shit."
"God fuckin' ell," His chair rocking behind him as he stood, feeling lightheaded from the sudden flicker of the universe. "Who is it? It better not be Fundy, he's gonna be pissed when he sees me-"
". . .Wilbur?"
Wilbur gulped. Ringing filled his ears and he couldn't hear Schlatt cough behind him.
He turned, slowly, time slowed and everything slowed- His breath, his heart, his- his-
Tommy.
Tommy is standing, blood dripping from his head and red dribbling from his lips. His wings are drooping behind him, limp and awry- his clothes are rurnt and ripped, his fingers- they're burnt with pops of lava.
The first thing he notices though; Tommy's eyes.
They're fucking gray and lifeless.
When Tommy stumbled towards him, tears pooling in those eyes of him, Wilbur couldn't help but run to his dead little brother.
"Tommy, Tommy. . ."
Wilbur reached out, gripping bloodied shoulders, gracing his fingers along the newfound, dead cloth.
Tommy was scared, he realized. Tommy is scared. His gift, his wings; they twitch against the blue wind that was never really there. Those feathers are fire against the flame, reflecting and glimmering off the endless floor that goes on until the years end. A gift from the gods that will never be burned.
"Tommy, I told you. I told you it wasn't your time to die."
His friend, his brother, the one who stayed with him till' the very end; He looks up, and all Wilbur can see is gray. This wasn't the Tommy he'd grew up with; before the wars, before Dream, before L'manburg.
But he'd take it, anyways. It wasn't Tommy's fault, it was his. He made this: He'll take what he can get.
"You didn't listen," Wilbur sobbed, loud and clear for any of the dead to listen and plead. Pulling him in to a hug felt like freedom, and his ashy coat was beginning to get wet and cold from his younger brother's tears and blood. Silence fill the white area, but his ears were ringing. So, so loud. Wilbur whispers when he digs his nose into Tommy's (finally clean) hair. "You never listen."
He'd forgot about Schlatt, but fuck that. His brother was so, so important right now. He was here, and he was dead. That lil' fucker was probably watching them cry.
"Wilbur-"
"Shut up," Wilbur wept, bringing him closer as he felt Tommy clutch the back of his shirt. "Shut up. Please, just let me hug you, you son of a bitch."
"Oi." Tommy sounded tired, done with everything, and Wilbur's heart clenched when it his voice was clear through his shirt. "You're also a son of a bitch if I'm a son of a bitch."
"You fucker," Wilbur lightly punched the side of his arm after detaching his hand from Tommy's torn t-shirt and pushing him so that they weren't stuck together like a pair of otters.
It meant to be playful: Tommy flinched, and it showed.
Wilbur pursed his lips and squinted in confusion, his hand retracting as if he'd touched a flaming pan. "If I may ask," He stuck his hand in his pocket as Tommy blinked, looking around the area he was abruptly thrown in after his death. "How did you die?"
"Oh, that." Tommy gulped, sticking his bloodied hands behind his back, surveying the void around him. His eyes fluttered close before he made a strange noise akin to acceptance. His wings fluttered against the air. He was finally free.
"Dream beat me to death with his bare fists."
And didn't hear a single thing.