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Sometimes he looked like a child. It was harder to see now with revival scars on his face. They marred his reflection, his smile, and his eyes. Phil and Wilbur applied cream to the scars that disfigured his body, and Wilbur couldn’t spend too long in the water. Hot water also wasn’t good. Since he’s been revived, they had to keep bandages on him to keep his skin from flaking and bleeding.
Sometimes Phil could still see that innocence in his face though. When he used to tuck Wilbur into bed as a child. There was no stress here. He was simply asleep, safe under his father's wing.
Phil reached out a hand but decided not to touch him. Wilbur was a light sleeper now. Even just touching his cheek would make him wake. He rests it back on the bed and he watches his son sleep. He listens to his breathing and feels his chest fall up and down under his wing.
When Wilbur finally does wake up, he opens his eyes and looks around the room. He looks confused, or perhaps annoyed, and then rests his head. He notices Phil’s staring.
“Morning, mate.” Wilbur doesn’t say anything. His throat is too dry. He simply scoots closer to Phil, bringing his pillow along. He moves downwards, facing Phil’s chest. One leg is stretched out, foot hanging over the edge, while his top leg is bent, knee on top of Phil’s also bent knee. His hands are simply between the two. He closes his eyes.
Phil gently pets the feathers on Wilbur’s head. They’re white now, when they used to be black. Wilbur’s body relaxes, feeling so much cozier under Phil’s wing than a blanket. And he loved having his hair and wings combed gently by his father's fingers. Nothing better.
Phil stays awake, his hand rests on top of Wilbur’s. If Wilbur wants to fall asleep against him, why would he move? He sighs and waits until he can’t lie down anymore or Wilbur wakes up.
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Wilbur finally had woken up. He yawned, stretched, and rolled over, though unable to fall back asleep. Phil sat up, patted Wil’s thigh, and said, “I’ll make breakfast.” He got a hum in return.
Pancakes from scratch. Phil and Techno ground their own flour and picked their own sugar. They were self-sufficient, as were half the people on this server. Wilbur loved their cooking.
The pancakes were plain. It’s all Wilbur could take at the moment. The syrup was too sweet and too sticky. It irritated him. He drank water with his pancakes. He watched Phil drizzle syrup on his own food.
It’s only been a few months. He still needs to replace bandages on his revival scars - he couldn’t even stretch too much without them breaking or tearing apart. He couldn’t look in the mirror anymore. He brushed his hair however felt right and let Phil cut it. He was ugly.
He stares at the dark red scarring on his fingertips. Some of his nails were bruised; he liked to keep them painted. Ugh. His skin looked wrinkled, disfigured, and rough. It felt smooth though, just looked hideous.
How could anyone look at his face and want to kiss him? No one could look at his yellowed eyes and teeth and love him. No one will want to lay in his bed again. No one will take off his shirt, stare at the sword wound on his chest and stay the night. He’s fucking ugly.
He gasps and pulls his head up when he sees his tears drip onto his pancakes. He wipes his eyes. Phil looks up at him and raises his brow. “Will?”
Wilbur shook his head. “I’m fine.” He already knew what Phil was going to ask, no need to waste time stalling. Just as Phil opened his mouth to speak, Wilbur spoke first. “I need you to paint my nails again. The paint’s all chipped now.” He looks at his nails and picks at the paint. He scoffs when it flicks onto his plate.
“Uh, okay. Any colors of mind?” It was nice to take his mind off of his self-loathing from time to time. Thinking of how much he hated himself led to suicidal ideation; which led to limbo; which then led to an anxiety attack.
“Maybe gold and black.”
They finished breakfast and did exactly that. Wilbur’s hands shook whenever he tried to do his nails. His muscles were weak. It was too quiet in the living room. Wilbur hated the quiet, but his head hurt if it was too loud.
He looks at Phil. He was concentrating on Wil’s gross hands. Did Phil also look at Wilbur’s wrinkled, scarred skin and find himself repulsed? Sometimes Phil looked at Wilbur with this look on his face... He couldn’t tell if it was pity or disgust.
Wilbur dragged his gaze from the floor to his dad. Wilbur was a mistake. He should’ve died out in the forest when his wings had been stolen from him. Phil shouldn’t have to put up with him like he does.
Something clicks in Wil’s brain. Phil doesn’t want him, does he? He suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Phil pushed him out of the house at eighteen years old. He only came to see L’manburg when Techno showed up. He blew up New L’manburg.
He loved Ghostbur. He loves anyone who isn’t Wilbur. He adores Techno more than anyone, he loves Ranboo, and he has a strange soft spot for Tommy. But when his flesh and blood-related son is resurrected, he stares at Wilbur with fear.
Wilbur suddenly needs to stand up, ignoring Phil calling after him. He decides to duck into the bathroom rather than hide in his bedroom. He locks the door and falls to his knees in front of the toilet.
Phil killed him. He stabbed Wilbur through the chest. He assisted his suicide. He doesn’t love Wilbur; he doesn’t want Wilbur. He doesn’t want Wil back, he wants him to stay dead. He’s just too kind to say anything. He’s obligated to care for a zombie.
He fumbles with the sink faucet, turning it on to drown out his sobs. He cries against folded arms, resting on the toilet seat. He tries to be careful of his nails, though he’s sure the paint is all smeared now.
He should just leave. He already has a backpack with some clothes stuffed inside it. He’s never dared to pick it up and walk out. What if he was caught? He doesn’t want to listen to Phil lie to his face about loving Wilbur and wanting him here. Would Techno even stop him?
“Wilbur?” He ignores the voice. “What happened?” What would he even say? Does he lie? What good would that do? Phil would know anyways, he can always tell.
“I’m sick.” What a weak.. vague response. Though, his stomach still felt like it was being weighed down by an anchor. His throat felt like it was closing on him. He can’t tell whether Phil walks away or not. He can’t even hear over the water.
He stays there for a good while, somewhere over ten minutes. He finally leaves when he stops sniffling and wiping his nose. Phil seems pleased to see him out. That look doesn’t make Wil feel any better.
Phil speaks for him for the rest of the night. Techno comes over, he cooks dinner with Phil. Wilbur is forced to listen to them joke and banter and chat away. Ranboo joins at some point, suggesting they could play a board game. Wilbur was just a stain on this household.
Why do their smiles and laughter, and their chatter and playful shoving, only make him feel worse? Why does it hurt seeing them happy? Oh. He’s not a part of it. If he joined them in the kitchen, he would just dampen the mood. Like he’s a bomb waiting to go off. A stray dog that you’re unsure of will either bite you or take the food.
Ranboo tried to include him. He’ll eat their food and he’ll play their board games. Even if it’s just for five minutes, he’ll take the warmth. He’ll take kind words and eager expressions. He’s not a monster, he’s their friend. Just for a few minutes.
Wilbur goes to bed alone that night.