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“Count to ten with me.”
One... two... three...
Tommy balls his hands into fists, digs his nails into his palms until he’s sure he draws blood. He’s trembling, he thinks distantly, his bones rattle beneath his skin. He’s a fool. He’s a fool and he fucked up again.
Ghostbur’s talking. No, not Ghostbur, Wilbur. “Let’s be the bad guys” Wilbur, cracked laughter in dark caves Wilbur.
He’s here again, crazy-eyed and hyper and exactly the same. He’s here and he shouldn’t be, because Tommy saw him die and saw him die and saw him die, so he’s dead. (But the same is true of Tommy, right? What’s dead doesn’t stay dead anymore. The line has been blurred past recognition. They’re all bound to be zombies eventually, dead souls tied to beating hearts.)
It’s not Ghostbur, Ghostbur is gone. (It’s his fault it’s his fault it’s his fault.) It’s Wilbur, Alivebur, because that’s how bad he fucked this one up. (You promised, you promised, you promised.)
He hates numbers, he thinks, strangely, nonsensically. He fucking hates numbers and he hates counting.
(Wilbur, old Wilbur, his Wilbur. Soft-eyed, gentle. Holding his little hand as he wailed over scraped knees as a boy. “Count to ten with me, Toms.”)
He thinks maybe it’s a bit odd. Who the fuck hates numbers? They’re nothing more than a means to count, for math and the like. For money and calendars and gambling dice. But he hates them.
They make his skin crawl, they makes his fingers tremble, the make his eyes go blurry. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand himself.
Why does he hate them? They’ve never hurt him, they can’t. Why? Why is he like this? He wonders it desperately, tragically, because an answer is all he’s ever really needed, a reason he’s so fucking stupid. Why is he so spoiled, so rotten? Why does counting make him think of brothers twice dead and arrows through the skull and duels beneath uncaring skies?
It’s probably the trauma, he reasons, tugging on the ends of his hair. Counting to ten on pillars in the sky and ledges in the nether and vans in valleys.
And in prisons.
Four... five... six...
He feels fuzzy, a haze of tangled-up emotions, dark scribbles on notebook paper.
And he’s so angry. He can feel it eating at his insides, like an infection, contagious rot turning everything red, until all he sees is staticked and bright and awful. At Sam, for leaving him to die, for ruining the plan. At Dream for treating him like a little plaything, for treating his friends as a means to an ends to get to him. At himself, for jumping the gun, for seeing the man that tore him to shreds and acting on instinct despite the voices in his head screaming for caution.
His muscles are twitchy for movement. He wants to run laps. He wants to lay on the floor and never move again. He wants to shriek his throat bloody.
There’s a guilt like fire in his veins, overwhelming and burning and horrible. (Ghostbur said, “you promised.” His voice shook like the words sliced him. Gods, Tommy was afraid, his heart stalled and frozen in his chest. He used to think Sam would help. Because Sam built his hotel and Sam was his friend. But it’s was now, not is. It’s all bullshit and none of it meant anything. It’s all gone. And so is Ghostbur. And everything he cares about, really. He heard the vitriol in Ranboo’s voice. (“What the hell did you do?” He didn’t know Ranboo swore.) saw the panicked distance on Tubbo’s face. (He shuts down when he’s afraid, when he’s angry. His heart beats with denial and he wouldn’t meet Tommy’s eyes.) He’s heavy, his lungs are full of soot, his eyes sting with smoke. He tingles with regret. Why did he take the ax out early?
And there’s a sorrow, a grief. (How many times does he have to mourn his brother? How long until this pain just becomes a part of him?)
Seven... eight... nine...
Wilbur’s voice is grating, Tommy wants to cover his ears. He’s rambling about bullshit again, monologues for the walls. He’s not Wilbur’s fucking audience, he doesn’t want to hear this. He’s not in Pogtopia anymore, he refuses to be naive, he refuses to be a pushover. (Last time he was, his home went out with a bang. Last time he was, his brother went with it.) He cuts Wilbur off in his rant, barely having heard a damn word.
“I promised him,” Tommy says lowly, venom on his tongue. “You made me a liar.”
(Ghostbur was shaking like a leaf. His face was misted, it was burning. And Tommy could do nothing but count, all he could do was spout stupid fucking numbers and yell at Sam and he didn’t listen, he wouldn’t fucking listen, and now Ghostbur is fucking dead, he’s dead and-
And it was for nothing. The bastard let him die. Tommy let him die.
He looked so terrified, across the lava. Nervous little Ghostbur, yellow and blue and crying for him.
It’s always fucking lava, isn’t it?
He was scared and Tommy brought him there, a ghost, a hostage. And Dream killed him.
Dream killed him. Dream killed him Dream killed him Dream killed him Dream killed- )
Wilbur stops speaking, tilts his head in that way that’s so familiar he aches. (For the brother he knows is gone, has been gone for years, lost to the itchy waves of paranoia. For the one he damned himself, smiley and spacey and kind. For anything but the man stands before him, stained with gray and tinged with insanity like sugar.) “What?” He says, provocative. He’s feigning ignorance, he’s mocking. He always does this, taunts, plays, like the world is prey. Tommy meets his eyes. (They’re still brown. He still knows those eyes like he knows the inside of his own mind. He feels terribly nauseous. It’s funny how people change but they don’t. It's funny how things are always the same.)
“He died! And now you’re back and I don’t want you back.” He says it with his whole chest. He means it, he does. His heart stutters and his stomach sinks and squirms, but he means it, he has to, after everything.
Wilbur laughs, infuriatingly. “What did I do to you, Tommy? We’ve all got trauma, you know.” He winces and smiles. “What the fuck is your deal?”
Tommy stares at him, incredulous. “My deal?” He heaves, and it’s heavy, the way it falls from his throat. He looks at the ground, something like shame stirring up between his ribs. “You ruined me.”
Wilbur purses his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t think I did.” He says it like it’s a question almost. Tommy wants to scream at him, but he’s screamed so much today, and he’s so tired he could curl up against the glass over L’manburg.
(Ghostbur was singing the old anthem. It was like a punch to the gut, his echoey voice, innocent and plain and painfully similar to the one that used to sing him to sleep. He said he lived in L’manburg, poor bastard probably forgot it was a crater.
He was so wholly good, so uncorrupted. It was a little silly at times, painfully ironic, the juxtaposition of it all. Because he was pure and sweet and sad and hollowed out. But Wilbur was angry and vicious, bloodthirsty and twirling on the line between insane and the man he used to be.
Ghostbur wasn't like that, he didn't have outbursts. He was pleasant, and he wasn't overemotional, he was in control, whatever that looked like for him. He knew who he was and what he wasn't.
Ghostbur only yelled once, in the rain as L’manburg burned around him. He yelled and yelled and yelled for his stupid pet sheep. Phil didn’t care though, and Tommy couldn’t help, couldn’t do a damn thing, stood there watching, helpless as ever. And he forgot! Ghostbur couldn’t even bear to remember. Tommy wonders if Ghostbur will remember him at all.
All he wanted to do was make them happy, because he had sadness in him, and he didn’t want to have to share it.
And Tommy fucked it up. Because that’s what he fucking does.
He’s distraught. It’s tearing him in two, splitting him right down the middle. He’s splintering. He wants to escape but he’s trapped, claustrophobic in his own skin.)
“It doesn’t matter what you think, you bastard. You’re-I hate you.” He spits. Wilbur gives him a look.
“No you don’t,” he shoots back easily. “You’re just upset.”
“Yeah, I’m upset. You took away my brother.”
“I’m your brother.”
“Not anymore.” He shakes his head as firmly as he can. “You forfeited that right the second you chose fuckin’ explosives over me.”
Wilbur still somehow remains unfazed. Tommy forgot how frustrating it is to talk to this version of Wil.
“I hate you.” He says again. And Tommy sees a crack. Wilbur’s fingers twitch. He blinks a little bit too fast. Something like twisted satisfaction blooms in him, but it’s as hollow as everything else. “Fuck you.” He mutters. His voice is hoarse from his shouting match with Sam. “I hate you.”
“Don’t.” Wilbur says. Not a comment, just a statement, a word.
“It doesn’t work like that!”
Raised eyebrows. “No?”
Crossed arms. "No."
Wilbur chuckles, throws his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. Please, continue to sulk. Don’t let me stop you.” He gives a little wave and begins to walk off.
“See you later, Toms!” He calls over his shoulder. A tear streams down Tommy’s cheek, plinks against the glass under his feet.
(“See you soon”)
(“Goodbye, I’m Ghostbur.”)
(“It was never meant to be.”)
Ten.
Tommy hates numbers.