•When the rose blooms [Dream SMP × Bnha]•

|8.2|

Wilbur rolled his eyes, "Well I have, and you wouldn't guess where they are!” Jared stared, predicting what the other’s next line would be, “Up—” “Up your fucking arse.”

“Well, there's one thing my ass and your mouth have in common—” Jared put his hand on Wilbur's shoulder, both mimicking and mocking a comforting gesture,“—they both spout shit.”

How he had said such foul words in such a calming manner was completely baffling, Wilbur needed better friends.

“Where have you been?” murmurs Jared, the playful tone of before gone like–

“Pardon?” Wilbur swallows the lump forming in the back of his throat, he already knows what Jared means.

“Where have you been in the last, I dunno, ten years?” Jared leans back, legs swinging back and forth in the water.

Wilbur is struck dumb, words forming but never leaving his tongue.

‘I had to fight multiple wars.’

‘I got thrown out of my own country.’

’I destroyed my own creation.’

‘I grieved the loss of being able to raise my son.’

‘I spent 13 years in limbo with nothing other than a mutilated cat.’

“I was busy,” is all Wilbur says, nothing better to explain the past decade of events.

“I was starting to believe you died.”

And Wilbur has the urge to laugh and cry at the same time.

‘I did,’ he wants to say, but knowing Jared, the other might not believe him despite the odd things they’ve experienced together as children, he wonders if Jared would've mourned his death, how he would’ve reacted seeing a once dead man alive again.

“You fuck,” he’d probably say, looking frustrated while shoving Wilbur, “Send me a letter before you raise out of the fucking grave again next time, dear fuck, you scared the shit out of me.”

Wilbur thinks he would've preferred Jared already knowing he died, but here he is, stuck with the fact the last time they properly spoke to each other was when the idea of L'manburg only existed in his shitty little van.

“You probably hoped I did,” he grins, false bravado one of his only skills that remains with him beyond his years in limbo.

“Well fuck you too, if I really hoped you died I wouldn't have written you an entire novel about what happened in my life while you were gone, would I?” Jared rolls his eyes, resting his head on his palm.

Wilbur needed more friends like Jared.

He did, but he ruined their friendship one way or another.

“I suppose you wouldn't have,” the confidence in him wavered.

It's quiet for a long, long time before Jared stands up, standing knee-deep in the flowing river while he pulls out perfectly flat round rocks from his inventory.

“Do you just keep that stuff in your pockets?” Wilbur laughs, making an attempt to bring back the calm playful atmosphere from before.

Jared doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls his arms back, posing himself as a baseball pitcher and throws the rock.

It sinks.

“Nice shot, dumbass.” Wilbur repositions, sitting cross-legged, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the ridiculous but horribly sentimental book.