what tragedies befall us

how much pain can we hold?

TW: Death, suicidal thoughts, blood, weapons, brief mention of drugs

You can set yourself on fire

The second Wilbur joined the world, the idea of an independent nation tugged at him. It started as just a drug van, of course. Just a small caravan, laughing and doing stupid things with his friends. But Dream kept pushing, kept controlling, and he likes to think that was where everything started to go downhill (it started going downhill the moment he entered the new lands). That Dream was the cause of all their misery (he was the cause of all their misery).

He remembers all too well that night. Fighting, side by side with his comrades. The smell of smoke, the sound of gunfire, the determination of his fellow soldiers and their panic when things went sideways. Running, running after one of their own, or so they thought. The dim room, alleged escape. He remembers the rush of fear when that person, the very same person who stood with them from the start, lets loose their enemies on them. The fear, the betrayal, the yells. Watching his friends, his family, fall, one by one.

To this day, he doesn't know what drove Eret away (he drove them away it was all his fault).

But you're never gonna burn, burn, burn

Gone were those carefree days of jokes and grins. All those sleepless nights, hanging around a warm campfire and talking their way to the morning. All the little things, like how Tommy would purposefully mess up his hair, or how Tubbo would always throw his responsibilities out the window to care for his bees, or how Fundy would make an effort to see the sunset every evening. Wilbur didn't even know how to be so relaxed anymore, it had been so stressful.

Eret's betrayal was a crippling blow. Though everyone acted tough and indifferent, he knew the truth. He's seen how Tommy's smiles flicker when he thinks no one watches, how Tubbo's eyes stay puffy with tears having fallen all night, how he himself can't touch his guitar anymore. Gone was the lightness, the insulting jabs. Tension hung in the air, the looming threat of war right at their heels.

There was no time to play, to have fun, not if they wanted to win. To survive.

You can set yourself on fire

Everything was falling to dust before his very eyes. Wilbur remembers the feeling of emptiness where hope once lay, remembers how tired his shoulders were from carrying all this responsibility. The whole revolution was his idea, L'Manburg was his idea. Maybe Tommy came up with the name, maybe Fundy supplied their weapons, maybe Tubbo brought all those smiles, but in the end, it was all up to him. His responsibility to keep them alive. His responsibility to get them the independence dangling tantalizingly out of reach. His responsibility to win this goddamn war.

He should've been the one to strike the deal, to agree to the duel. He was their leader, their motivator (wasn't enough). He was the one who first wanted to have his own, separate nation (it's all his fault). He should've been the one to pull back the drawstring (he was a better shot), the one to suffer in tense nervousness with every second (he deserved to).

He should've been the one to die (it was his cause).

But you're never gonna learn, learn, learn

Instead, it was Tommy. His Tommy, his gremlin of a brother, his determined and loyal right-hand-man (not determined enough). It was Tommy who proposed the duel, who shook hands with Dream, that bastard (he was still a child). It was Tommy who knocked the arrow, pulled back, and waited (wilbur just counted he just counted and watched). Wilbur remembers watching his brother, below on the boardwalk (just watching). Remembers lowering his arm on ten (so far why didn't he do anything). Remembers the chaos that ensured.

Tommy missed. Dream missed. Tommy missed. Back and forth, back and forth. Tommy, surfacing from the water. Tommy, climbing back onto the wooden planks. Tommy, red dripping down his clothes, an arrow in his heart, and an empty promise on his tongue. He remembers the terror, the fear for his little brother. Remembers racing down to them, to the still body of his brother, half-submerged in the water, turning it pinkish-red (he's dead he's dead). Remembers yelling, desperately shaking his shoulders, hands trembling too much to yank out the arrow (he's dead he's fucking dead). Remembers holding his golden head to his chest, remembers the suffocating feeling in his chest, remembers the exhaustion and the pain and the grief (he's dead he's dead it's all your fault).

He remembers being so tired, too tired. Remembers just wanting to close his eyes and leave this world, this world where his brother died on his watch, just for a bit. Remembers being so drained, too drained to harness any anger and use it against Dream (he was the real cause for tommy's death). He remembers feeling so empty.

A week later and he was back at familiar territory, back at the house he and Tommy, dead Tommy grew up in. Back in Phil's arms (he didn't deserve them). He thought he was so exhausted it would be easy. No tears had been spilt, and none would (or so he thought). He couldn't even comfort his shocked family members, he was so, so tired. He left with empty promises and the hole in his heart just a little bigger (he's dead he's so dead he's fucking dead).

Tommy, with his bright smiles and mischievous grins. Tommy, with his sparkling blue eyes and golden hair. Tommy, with his carefree gait, his loud laughter, his unbreaking loyalty. Tommy, with his red shirt, his deadly arrow, his stillness. Tommy, who should've lived (but he didn't it was all his fault tommy is dead).

Wilbur remembers the numbness, the oblivion to the world around him. Nothing mattered anymore. No one mattered anymore. He drew away, cut his ties, made that cabin in the woods Tommy always wanted. He sat at his table for hours at end, staring at nothing, nothing, because nothing mattered anymore. He turned into a shell of his former self, never talking, never playing his guitar, never going out. He just sat there, thinking and feeling nothing, nothing at all, except for tommy is dead he's fucking dead it's all your fault it should've been you.

It should've. It should've been him. It should've been him, on that platform. It should've been him, scrabbling to aim another arrow. It should've been him, hands trembling with fear and missing. It should've been him, swimming blindly through the dark water.

It should've been him, lying dead on the boardwalk, blood staining his clothes, eyes dull and unseeing.