Work Text:
Wilbur was sick. There was no denying that, not in the way he coughed harshly when he saw people that once loved him, not when his chest felt tight and his stomach felt knotted, not in the way he could taste blood on his tongue, the splatters on the sand below him, mixed with the petals that were harshly exhaled out of his throat.
He didn't know what was wrong with him, he just knew that something was wrong. He tried his hardest to deny it but there came a point when it just couldn't be ignored anymore. It came to the point where it was harder to deny than it was to just accept. He had to accept it.
Wilbur was sick. He was sick and he was alone.
The first time it happened, it was alarming, yes, but he could pass it off quickly as something he had hallucinated, being in the desert, the heat on his back as he worked? It was a given that he had the opportunity to imagine vividly horrible, bloody things, the remnants of his death and war on the back of his brain with very little to push it out of sight and mind. He could push it away, as real as the pain and as wet as the blood seemed to be, he could push it away.
But then it happened again
And again
And again
And it was starting to get harder and harder to deny that something was very wrong with him. It wasn't something mild either, not a cold, not a cough, well, not a normal cough, not a fever, it wasn't normal.
He could almost feel the flowers blooming and bursting inside of him, clogging and scratching his throat with every shaking, stuttering, fearful breath that he took in. Every cough spurted out another petal, another blood soaked, crying, burning, aching, another cry. His face was stained, wet, blood and tears, his nose was starting to run, his vision was blurred and his heart ached with every gut wrenching cry.
The flowers were colourful, a violent, disturbed mess, a sickly sweet aroma and a bittersweet beginning. They were red and pink and blue, each one painted with his own blood under his blurred vision. They were lilacs and peonies, flowers that Wilbur knew well, flowers that his head stabbed at, unwanted memories resurfacing with laughing faces and happy rejoices.
Another cough.
Another splatter of blood below him. Another flurry of petals.
For Wilbur, the flowers were family, they were memories of laughter and joy and reckless play fighting, shoving and pushing, rushing past blurred faces to get to the best seat at the dinner table, it was the flowers that bloomed around the borders of his long gone country, the petals decorating the ground as eager children ripped them from the ground, making flower crowns in the safety of the walls that Wilbur had made. It was the memories of his brother, his Tommy, someone he had loved almost like a son, it was the memories of him sitting beside him, weaving crowns from the unlucky, dead flowers, a crown made from the dead, placed upon the head of the son of Death, herself. It was family.
For Wilbur, the lilacs, the peonies, they were family. They were family and happiness, a desire to go back to the childhood that he had once had, years ago, a need to go home, even if home wasn't home anymore, even if his family weren't family anymore, they had made that painfully clear.
Not just in their words, the remarks, the announcements that Wilbur was no longer Philza's son, Tommy's brother, and Fundy's father. The hatred and fear in their eyes, the way that Technoblade, once a friend, a mentor, steered Ranboo away and snapped at Wilbur getting too close, the pity in the enderman's eyes, the disappointment in the piglin's eyes. The glares, the stares, the hesitance, the joy they had whenever Wilbur turned and left.
It hurt.
He hurt.
Wilbur was more or less left to his devices, left to wander the SMP like an aimless shadow with nothing to hide behind anymore, the civilians and faces of once friends and once enemies ducking away or glaring at the man.
It stung.
It was his fault after all. He realistically had nothing to complain about, nobody to blame, nowhere to go and no one to love or be loved by.
Not anymore.
He remembered the feeling he had when he was racing Tommy down the grass hills, the wet tips dragging along his legs, the mud splattering up his trousers, staining with splashes as he jumped and stumbled, falling when Tommy pushed him, dragging the other down, making them both muddier, the rain drenching the both. The feeling he had when they went home, scolded by their father for the mess, sharing fake faces of seriousness, secretly grinning and laughing at each other as their father threw towels at them, a stern yet soft tone telling them to go and wash.
His heart ached.
His heart ached and he couldn’t help but heave. His throat itched, his lungs were tight, he was breathless, he wheezed and gripped onto the table, hacking as hard as he could, desperate, so desperate, to cough up what was bothering his body, to get the intrusion out of his lungs, out of his body. Nothing helped, nothing ever helped, he was at mercy to the Gods.
It just kept getting worse. Worse and worse, weaker and weaker, until he could barely stand.
It just happened to be his luck that it was one of the days where he could barely stand when the man would have an intruder. He was only just starting to drift off into a slumber when there was a loud crash outside of the hole that he had decided to call home, a yelp of pain and a crash into the door that sent Wilbur’s body into overdrive, adrenaline flowing through his body, the pain of his crushing lungs reduced as he bolted upright, hazily reaching for the closest weapon, or at the very least, the closest thing that could work as a weapon. He ended up grabbing a stick that had been discarded on the floor, the reason for it to be there already long forgotten by Wilbur.
He held it above his head, a wave of nausea and lightheaded pangs throbbing in his temples, he could barely stand up straight, his vision was blurry, blurred with tears of pain and sleep, tears that he rubbed harshly away as quickly as he could.
Then through the blur, through his fogged vision came a pair of bright heterochromic eyes, bright and unblinking, stopped like a deer in headlights, laying on the floor with their limbs spread out like spaghetti in the way they had fallen down.
Wilbur breathed, a shaky exhale that almost sent him into another coughing fit, one he was trying desperately to avoid.
“Ranbus?”
Ranboo hesitated, “..Wilbur?”
Wilbur stepped back, the adrenaline finally wearing off and leaving him feeling weaker and more breathless, he let go of the stick, barely registering it when it clattered to the floor, barely noticing when Ranboo scrambled to their feet, giving Wilbur a small look of concern, rubbing a hand up and down in a small motion of self soothing.
"You- uh, you don't look so good."
"Uh huh." Wilbur couldn't concentrate, pain panging all through his body, his throat was itchy, his lungs felt like they were closing in on themselves, they felt full, it was hard to breath.
"I'm sorry, I- uh, I didn't know you lived," Ranboo looked around the complete mess that Wilbur had the luxury to call home, the dirt and hole in the side of a mountain, messily made in a clear rush, "here. I didn't know you lived here."
Wilbur ignored that pause in his tone, choosing to skim over the insult, instead steading himself against the wall, taking a deep shaking breath and forcing a smile unto his face.
"What are you doing here?" Wilbur forced out, trying to swallow the rising flower that was threatening to bloom in his throat
"Uhm, well," Ranboo looked around, clearly nervous, "I was looking for resources for Tubbo. I didn't know you'd be here, I'm sorry, I can leave-"
Wilbur interrupted him by kneeling over and coughing violently, shaking, Ranboo stepped back, looking almost scared, they didn't know how to react, didn't know what they were doing. They weren't equipped for situations like this, they weren't prepared for things like this in the slightest.
They wracked their brain to think of what they could even do in this situation. They weren't a doctor! Far from it, in fact.
Finally, they managed to get their head together and force words out.
"Should I- get someone? I could get Tubbo, he might know what to-"
"Don't."
Ranboo stopped talking, Wilbur's tone insistent, almost harsh, almost demanding. Their tail wrapped around their legs in an effort to soothe themself as Wilbur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to ignore the scarlet blood that came back with him. He stared at it for a moment, in awe and anguish. Anger and grief and the pure anchor of loneliness.
He knew about loneliness. He knew well about the deep dread of sitting alone in a dark room with nothing but your own mind to keep you company through the nights that dragged out, again and again, night after night, left alone to his own thoughts and regrets. He sat on cold concrete floors, quietly strumming the tune of a nation that crumbled by his own hands. Not Tommy's, not Tubbo's, not Fundy's, but his. His hands were the product of disaster and grief, the hands of death, blessed by a Goddess that he never truly knew. His goal was legacy and the price that had come with that was loneliness.
He took a shaking breath, "I don't need Tubbo."
"It doesn't have to be Tubbo, per say," Ranboo responded, slightly defensive, "I could get someone else, I don't know, Niki? Sam? Philz-"
"Definitely not!" His throat was starting to itch again at his father's name. The stabbing pain in his gut, replaced by lines of scars and stitches, a constant reminder of the bond he had broken and the death he had faced.
He had once had a close bond with his father, when he was a child. When it was just him, his brother and his father, nothing in the way of a close bond shared by family.
Because that's what they were. A family. A family with a bond shared through blood and death, death that they each brought to people's doorsteps, without intention but still real, still there and still affective. They were close, closely knit and tightened together, being sure that nothing could break that bond.
Until Wilbur broke the bond.
Wilbur, obsessed with pride and legacy, determined to find a way to match his father's history and triumphs. Wilbur, obsessed with power and politics, an ego that grew as his ambitions took flight.
Wilbur, who knew that he didn't belong with family, in safety, in the confines of the artic that he had grown up in. Wilbur, who knew that Tommy would stick with him, through thick and thin.
Wilbur, who had shattered the bond he had with his father. He couldn't face him again, not now, not ever. He wasn't his father's son, and his father seemed fine with that.
Don't cough. Don't cough. Not now. Not now.
Ranboo flinched at the raise in Wilbur's tone, backing away from the elder, almost fearfully. They took a deep breath, trying to remind themself that they could be brave, they could face this.
They could handle a dying man's last day. Right? Right.
Ranboo almost tiptoed over to Wilbur again, reaching out to take his arm, a gentle touch, not harsh, but still harsh enough to get his attention. Wilbur didn't pull away. They guided him, cautiously, carefully, slowly, to a more open area. Watching as he wiped blood and petals from his mouth, grimacing and gagging as he pulled another petal, then two, lilacs and roses from his throat, discarding them on the ground as quickly as he could, letting Ranboo guide him.
They sat and Wilbur followed suit. No words. Silence.
"You know, I- uhm, I've heard of something like this before."
Wilbur turned his head, looking at the hybrid in curiosity.
They didn't meet his look, the anxiety creeping up their neck, and flooding their senses, as if something was warning them away from the scenario that they had found themselves ensnared in, without any ability to turn or look away, nothing stopping them from running away but the weird force of gravity that they found themselves caught in, like a spider caught in a web.
"Hanahaki, I think it's called, caused by unreturned love." Ranboo flashed him a look of sympathy, almost empathy, almost something akin to friendship, yet not quite.
"So, I'm going to die." Wilbur breathed out, his tone a fresh air of acceptance, almost like he was ready for it. But he wasn't, he knew that he wasn't, he wouldn't ever be ready for this, the stabbing pain and the breathless sensation that came with it as he lost consciousness, the feeling as he was submerged into nothingness again, forced to bear witness to that godawful train station of a limbo again, watching as trains pulled and trucked by, his limbs forcing him to run along the concrete in a sad, desperate, almost pathetic attempt to catch up with it. He never did though. He never would. He kept running though, even as the train was long out of sight and his lungs burned with heavy breaths that he no longer needed.
There was something almost calming about it though, ignoring his agonising existence inside a limbo that he couldn't escape from, there was something calming about the feeling of dying, that short last breath after the rising storm of flowers, an escape, an exit.
Funny how he had to die before anybody would love him, right?
Ranboo's voice perked up, sickeningly sweet, it made Wilbur want to puke, to stand up and yell at them that he did not need to be babied in a voice that was stepping over eggshells to keep him composed.
He didn't have the energy for it though.
"Not necessarily! There are cures for it! Kinda."
Wilbur scoffed, well, that was reassuring, "Kinda?"
"Yeah, uhm, I heard you either need to get the other person to return your feelings or you need to surgical remove it, but, uhm," Ranboo paused, biting their lip and flinching slightly, forgetting about the fangs in their mouth as they had bit down.
"But?"
"You lose the feelings for the other person."
Well. That was it then.
Wilbur sighed.
Live, and have no emotional attachment to his family? The people that were once his friends? His brother? His son? His father? The people he had fought and died by, shedding blood and tears and sweat with? The people who had been with him until he had done them all wrong?
Or die, and die knowing that deep down, he loved them all along. Even as he turned into nothing for them, even if they grew and left him behind in the rubbles of his broken and beaten legacy. Die, knowing that he could love, that he wasn't truly a monster, that he loved them all, even as he hurt them, even as he knew they could never love him back.
He'd rather die a loving man than live a heartless one.
"I don't want it."
"What?" Ranboo couldn't keep the shocked surprise out of their voice, "You'll die, Wilbur."
"I know."
"And you're fine with that?"
"If it means I can keep loving them, always."
Ranboo looked at him. Then they looked back down at their hands. Black and white. Black and white, just like the server. You were good, or you were bad and once you were bad there was no good, just like when you were good, there was no bad.
Wilbur was bad. Everyone knew that. Wilbur was evil, a villain, a monster, someone that your kids needed to be warned to avoid, someone that you should never trust nor befriend, an evil force of chaos that did nothing but hurt and manipulate everyone and everything that he ever came into contact with. They were warned to stay far away, by Tubbo, Techno, by Philza and Fundy.
Yet, here was the man himself, the physical embodiment of everything that went wrong on the server. Here he was, alone, in pain and dying, with nobody but the hybrid he had accidentally killed by his side.
It was almost... sad.
Maybe he wasn't as bad as everybody had made him out to be.
Ranboo didn't have much time to reflect on it though, as Wilbur suddenly kneeled over, coughing and hacking and coughing in a horribly violent fashion, falling onto his knees and shaking, his body racking violently with coughs as he struggled to breath, grasping onto the floor in a harsh grip to try and keep himself grounded in reality.
Ranboo had to move quickly, pulling the man back up, trying desperately to do anything to let him live, hold on, even just a moment longer.
They knew they should've gotten someone!
No. They can't panic. Not now, not now. This wasn't the TIME to panic. They had a man's life, quite literally, in their hands.
"Okay- okay, uhm, it's okay, Wilbur! It'll be- it'll be alright, just keep breathing, yeah? Ju- just keep doing that, please?"
"Trying," Wilbur managed to wheeze out, through violent hacks of blood coated petals that spilled out of his mouth every time he opened it to speak, "Hard when there's flowers in it, Ranbus."
"Ranboo." They corrected harshly, earning a wheezing laugh, that soon turned into a cough, the laugh Ranboo took as a win, the coughing, not so much.
"It's all the same, isn't it?" Wilbur wheezed, punching his chest in a rough pattern to force the intrusion out, "You're Ranboo and Ranbus, you'll be Ranbus to me, my greatest employee."
"Shut up, please." Ranboo was almost begging now, begging him to stay alive, "Just breathe, think of your son, your brother, Tommy! Tommy needs you."
Wilbur laughed.
"He never needed me. You know that."
"He's strong because of you."
"He's ruined because of me." Wilbur corrected, weakly pushed Ranboo's arm away, pulling himself closer, a hand on their shoulder, a tight, bruising grip on it, in a way that was needing, a childish wish to have someone close to him while he finally breathed out his final breaths.
"Wilb-"
"Shut up," The tone wasn't harsh this time, it was quiet, almost muffled, "Shut up, it's me and you now. You're a good kid, Ranbus. Dream won't have nothing on you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got caught up in my mess," more violent coughs, harsher, bloodier, more anguished, "Tell Tommy and Fundy and Phil I love them, yeah? I'm sorry. You shouldn't have been here."
Ranboo couldn't move. They gripped onto Wilbur, almost like they inaudibly begging him not to leave, not to die, not now, not yet, not here.
They couldn't move.
They should've moved
Why didn't they move?
Minutes passed and Wilbur finally fell silent, no more coughing, no more blood, no more deathly sick ramblings about the mistakes and prides of their lives.
He was gone. He was still.
Ranboo stood up, shaking, their breathing heavy.
Wilbur didn't stir.
The enderman hybrid didn't know what to do with themself after that.
One moment, they were fine, almost happy, collecting stone for the ram that they loved more than anything, the next they were watching one of the biggest threats to the server coughing his lungs and heart up, desperately trying to comfort their ex employer, trying to help the man hold on for just a minute longer, their own heart aching, pained, heartstrings pulling as the arsonist desperately held onto their shoulder, an iron grip that wouldn't let go.
Then, time changed again, as it did and they were walking home. Stone in their hands and blood on their shoulders and arm. They couldn't stop shaking.
They didn't know when they got home, hands empty, but covered in blood of someone who was now dead. They didn't know when they got home but they were home, and the smell of carrots and beef filled their senses, followed by laughter and happy shouts of family, their family that loved them.
That had once loved Wilbur.
The laughter stopped when Tubbo saw them though, his eyes immediately going wide in worry and concern as he rushed over to them. Tubbo's words flooded their head in a familar flood of garbled nonsense, his hooves- hands? hands, taking their own as they were asked a million questions in a too fast time for them to answer.
Where had they been? Were they hurt? Was that their blood? What had happened?
Ranboo could only muster out four words.
Wilbur Soot is dead.
The world fell silent after that.