itch (DreamSMP)

epilogue

Ah, the end! It has taken about 3 months for me to finish this final chapter, and I'm so so sorry that it took so long, it's just that I've been working on other projects + school + I need lots of inspiration to write! (Sorry it's also very short)

Anyway, thanks for your patience and for reading this whole thing! and on with the final chapter.
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Tommy is floating through a hallway, wide and dark, of pearly marble tiles and long boards of decorative ads. It's very quiet, and strangely, Tommy mirrors it.

He walks a long time, his gait slow and light, void of fear but still sluggishly torn. He passes by the same bench, the same strip of dim white light, and the same grey tinted windows casting shadows between sections of tiles.

He walks for a long time, but eventually, he gets tired of journeying past the same numbered signs and plaques, and he sits on the bench. He leans against the swirly black armrest, and he blinks, and suddenly there's train tracks up ahead.

"A train station." Tommy says, more of a statement than a question.

"Hello, there."

Tommy snaps his head towards the voice, familiar, so so familiar, and it clears the fog from his head. There, stands a man, with brunette ringlets of curls falling over his right eye, with gold rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a yellow cable net sweater pulled over a white collared button up.

"Wil?" Icy, cold dread, rips through him like a knife. Did he- is he dead again? How is Wilbur here, how'd he get in a train station?

"Whoa, hey." Wilbur placates, hands beckoning him back like he's a startled deer. Tommy's breath hitches, and he very suddenly, is hit with a less than comfortable realization.

Wilbur has bags under his eyes, Wilbur is dressed in a long brown coat that twirls and reaches his calves, Wilbur has a braid weaved into the side of his head. All of these things, this Wil decidedly, does not have.

Wilbur is tired. This Wilbur is not.

"This isn't real." Tommy breathes, and Wilbur- hm, not-Wilbur?- sticks his hands in his pockets. Not-Wilbur smiles at him ruefully, and nods in agreement.

Not-Wilbur walks a couple of steps, before pausing, and gesturing to the space next to him. "May I sit?"

Tommy has already concluded that this isn't very real, and he has half the mind to say no, but at the same time, it doesn't matter, does it? There's no clear reason for him to not sit, so Tommy glances away, and nods.

Not-Wilbur plops down next to him, on the other side of the bench where stickers plague the surface of the sleek wood. Tommy barely flinches, which hes proud of himself for, but he buries his head in his hands. "I'm dreaming? This is a dream."

He really didn't need Not-Wilbur to confirm this, but he nods, very Wilbur-like. Something pangs in his chest. "Stay calm, or you will wake up."

Tommy isn't sure if he wants to stay, but he huffs a calmer breath, and wills his fast beating heart to slow. He leans back against the bench again, staring at not-Wilbur from the corner of his eyes.

"Who are you?"

The older man shrugs, "A part of you. A part of Wilbur. A dream." Tommy shifts, even if he doesn't quite understand, and that this Wilbur is distinctly not the one who's dead, not the one who didn't care and not him.

"So- where's ghostbur?"

Not-Wilbur shrugs. "Dunno. Probably floating around somewhere."

Tommy slumps. He has a feeling this Wilbur knows just as much as him. "Is this a nightmare?"