Mhm | MCYT Oneshots

I Did This For You (5)

TW: Blood, mention of SH (kinda), body horror

Not Requested

A/N: imagine spending twenty minutes trying to figure out if the "the" in "the community house" was capitalized or not... couldn't be me /s

 Wilbur's hands shook as he re-shuffled the cards for the umpteen time, his once confident fingers trembling from what was probably a messy combination of exhaustion, blood loss, and cold. Ghostbur still watched on, empty eyes boring holes into his skull with a strange mix of concern and judgment. Wilbur wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Everything was just too much. The constant buzzing of the lights, the whistling of trains that never arrive, the monster that always met his eyes in the reflection.

He shuddered at the thought, ignoring the wide smile that his mirror made, the strange sort of glee that he knew came from his hopelessness. The thing always felt... wrong. It was as if he had been shattered, the broken pieces that had once made him up scattered and impossible to be put together. It was everything that he regretted, everything he hated about himself, balled up into the only thing that he could see in the endlessly polished floors and walls.

And he supposed what bothered him most about it was that it looked like him. It wasn't something ugly and hulking, like all of the creatures that are described in myths and fairytales. No, it was just him in all of the wrong ways.

Its eyes were soulless and black, its mouth always open in a smile that wasn't his. It was inhuman, almost, the way its skin stretched and the muscles moved. Uncanny was the only word Wilbur could think to use. The way its lips quirked up in a cruel grin, how its soundless laughter echoed through the brunet's head as if mocking his very existence.

Wilbur hated it. Hated this. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be back in this wretched place; where smog hung heavily in the air, clinging to his ruined throat like a cough that he couldn't force out. Inescapable as the walls that surrounded him and his ghost. As ever-present as the knowledge that his life was no longer his.

He wondered if this was how Tommy felt during his exile. His entire being suspended by Dream's ruthless puppet strings, constantly subjected to the fact that he had no power, no control. All he could do was try to keep his body afloat as waves crashed over his head, knocking him back to the murky depths again, and again, and again.

He supposed he could understand why Tommy stopped trying to swim. It would be hypocritical if he didn't, really.

He had already drowned.

-

Tommy fidgeted with the edge of his communicator nervously, wondering for what was probably the millionth time if this was worth it. For fuck's sake Wilbur had to turn up at some point. He always did. But alas, he was impatient, and he didn't feel like walking another couple thousand blocks to find somewhere safe.

He knew it was stupid of him. He knew that it was so easy for someone else to see his message, for his words to be seen by everyone that shouldn't know. But on the other hand, everyone knew that. So no one would expect someone as paranoid as him to use such an unstable form of communication. Especially 'cause so many people had given up on them completely, either losing them in the various conflicts or the fragile things getting completely wrecked by a stray creeper or piece of TNT. No one's communicator was completely intact. For fuck's sake Wilbur's was quite literally shattered into pieces.

(No one was sure if the man had broken it himself, or if it had simply been destroyed in one of the many explosions and fights. Either way, it made Tommy's job infinitely more annoying.)

Frowning at the thought, the boy looked back down at the cracked screen, biting his cheek as he rewrote his message once again. He didn't want anyone who wasn't meant to see it be able to use it over him... or Niki, he supposed.

You whisper to Nihachu: is there anywhere we can meet to talk?

He had debated over the wording for a while, adding and subtracting details as he tried his best to make it not sound like he was gonna try to murder her. Because he wasn't! Why did everything he write sound so ominous?

Nihachu whispers to you: why?

You whisper to Nihachu: idk where u live and i figrud youd wanna keep i tthat way

You whisper to Nihachu: i jut wanna talk

Nihachu whispers to you: okay

Nihachu whispers to you: community house?

You whisper to Nihachu: sounds good

Tommy managed a small smile. He was getting somewhere.

-

It had been a bit over three weeks of the same, mind-numbing routine. Shuffle, deal, play. Shuffle, deal, play. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost (mostly the latter). And still, Ghostubur watched on, never saying a word.

(But also rubbing his back gently whenever Wilbur's breaths couldn't seem to make it out of his throat. When his nails dug into his already ruined skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his arms and palms.)

Pausing mid-shuffle, Wilbur shot a glance towards his phantom, nerves going haywire as he debated whether or not he should say what he wanted to say. Fuck it.

"You wanna play?" Ghostbur startled.

"Play what?" The brunet gave him a half-hearted shrug, wincing at the motion.

"Cards?"

"I- I don't know how to play."

"I'll teach you." The phantom's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?"

"I mean it's not like we have anything better to do." Wilbur let out a bitter laugh, ignoring the twinge of pain that came with it. "Plus, Go Fish sounds more fun than Solitaire." Ghostbur tilted his head, but nodded, and Wilbur gave him a small smile, gesturing for the ghost to come closer.

The process of explaining the game was almost therapeutic to Wilbur (if he ignored how much it hurt his throat). It was reminiscent of the time of Before. Before L'Manburg and Pogtopia, before he and Tommy had ever even heard of the Esempi. When it was just him and his brother trying to keep their minds off of reality. Because reality sucked. It always had, really. It was a wonder they had made it as far as they had.

He grimaced at the thought, ignoring the concerned look that his phantom shot at him in response. He didn't need pity, in fact he hated it. The emotion was only ever evoked out of shame. Shame and the innate human need to seem like they ever cared in the first place. Because that's what made people seem trustworthy, he supposed. Not that he trusted anyone, anyway. Because, why would he?

No one trusted him, either.

-

Niki shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably as she waited for Tommy to get to the Community House. It was stupid, really, to be this nervous. It wasn't like the boy could beat her in any form of combat, and last she checked he didn't have good gear. But, that's what years of conflict do to a person, she supposed.

Biting her cheek, she resisted the urge to check her surroundings again. She trusted her ears, and she really didn't want to seem paranoid (even if she was the only one there to see). What was she expecting, anyway? For Tommy to suddenly drop in and splash her with two splash potions of harming and leave? What would be the point of that?

Revenge. A part of her whispered, and she quickly shook it off. There was very little (that Tommy knew about) that he could get upset over. And, it had been almost a year since pretty much all of them. It was (probably) exactly what the boy had said when he messaged her. He just wanted to talk...

Right? 

Hydrate! Rest if you can! Have a wonderful day/night!