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SUMMARY: Phil remembers the death of his son, it was his hand who caused it after all
WARNING(S): Mentions of death/murder, blood, Wilbur-centric fic told from Phil's POV (second person), in game au (292 words)
AUTHORS NOTE: I need a little break from writing reader inserts so I'm just trying to write more character-centric fics
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"Kill me, do it Phil- kill me!"
Those were his last words before his father, Phil, had dug the sword through his sons chest.
His black wings were now barely able to shield them from the debris due to the explosions but he paid them no mind. They were nothing compared to the pain he just inflicted upon himself as Wilbur looked up to him with a lazy smile before collapsing to the ground.
Phil fell to his knees as he caught the boy, broken wings attempting to shield him as he sat there, watching as blood stained his sons coat and tears stained his cheeks.
He had ignored the flash of silver that seemed to fall from the boys body. Shrugging it off as a trick his mind created in the midst of his grief but a few days later he saw it again. This time however, it took the form of a boy. A familiar boy he had once he called his son.
"Wilbur?" He called out hesitantly. He didn't know if it was actually him but it looked just like him. It couldn't be, could it?
The figure turned around and Phil felt his heart drop. It was him, but it also wasn't. He looked translucent almost and when he moved, it was like a glimpse of silver flashing by.
"Phil! It's me, Ghostbur! Your son." The boy said with a smile on his face.
He hasn't seen that smile in years.
The two stayed quiet, with the ghost persisting on him taking something he called 'blue' while Phil simply remained silent because it was him. His son, who died in his arms, was back. Or at least, to some degree he was.
"Hi Ghostbur." Phil replied, thankful that his voice didn't break as he smiled back at the ghost.
