Chapter Text
Sometimes, it all feels just too good to be true.
When Schlatt was in his teens, he didn’t think he’d make it to twenty-five. When he reached twenty-five, he didn’t think he’d make it to thirty. By the time he entered his presidency, he’d already felt like he was living on borrowed time for years. Every time he died, it felt inevitable. He doesn’t remember much from the day Manberg fell, from the day of his heart attack, but somewhere in the drunken haze of a memory he remembers the stabbing pain of it, the gasping for breath, collapsing. He remembers being scared, being upset, being somewhat resigned to it all, but he knows he wasn’t surprised. Whether consciously or not, he thinks he’d gone into that van with the intention to drink himself to death.
It’s not the kind of thing you think you’ll come back from. Not just in terms of living through it, but in getting better, genuinely better, getting sober for the first time since you were fourteen some twenty some years ago. And it’s not that it wasn’t hard, because it was, and it’s not like he feels he hasn’t earned it, because he’s learned to accept all the goodness that’s come his way without asking if he deserves it. But you think that life after that might be livable, at best, better than it was, at least, just getting by. And there are rough days, sure, but most days– most days, he’s pretty goddamn spoiled.
It’s one of those days, where he could sit back and revel at how lucky he is forever if he was thinking about it. It’s a warm August day, just a couple of days after the one year anniversary of that fateful day in the van. Schlatt had been expecting it to suck a lot, and to be fair, it wasn’t great , but everyone around him seemed to be very intent on making sure he was busy and surrounded by people he trusted that day, the sentiment of which did make Schlatt cry a little. He’s grown soft, over the past year, in a lot of ways. Emotionally, and yes, of course, physically– he’s up nearly a hundred pounds from then. The weight has been tempered and slowed by his body finally adjusting to his new lifestyle and from the summer weather drawing him out and about much more than he is in the winter time, as well as he and Techno’s now regularly scheduled, strictly casual training sessions. It’s nice, Schlatt had mentioned to Techno during one, that it feels more like an activity to do to get some exercise in rather than something he had to do because of some kind of imminent danger. Techno had emphatically agreed. Still, he’s sure the weight will keep creeping on, and he’s more than okay with that.
Quackity– his husband now, what the hell– is certainly more than okay with that too, as is Niki, his nebulously defined but much loved partner of some kind. They’d tried the whole labels thing, the three of them, and decided that it didn’t quite matter to them much. Schlatt’s on the couch, lounging with his head in Quackity’s lap, closing his eyes to the sensation of his fingers absently carding through his hair, the warm afternoon sun beaming in from the window, the smell of lunch cooking on the stove, tomato and garlic and basil. Niki’s at the stove stirring the sauce, and when she’s satisfied with it she’ll come join them on the couch. Schlatt could fall asleep like this, and he knows they’d let him, until the food is ready. It’s all so perfect, so warm and safe, such a far cry from his life only a year ago that he still sometimes wonders if he’s dreaming.
“ Schlatt!”
He hears Tubbo before he even gets to the front door, his voice coming through the open window just as he’s running up to the entrance. He’s up in a second, all his previous drowsiness dissipated, and he and Quackity are both immediately on their feet. Tubbo throws the door open, which is unlocked as usual. He’s in complete disarray, his hair wild, his shirt untucked, his expression panicked.
“Schlatt!” he cries out in relief. “Oh, thank fuck you’re home.”
“What’s going on, kid, what’s wrong?” Schlatt asks, alarmed, crossing the room to him.
Tubbo looks like he might answer for a second, but once he makes eye contact with Schlatt he immediately tears up, with a kind of resigned tiredness that makes Schlatt think he’s been on the verge of crying for a while. He takes a step to steadingly pull Tubbo into his arms, and Tubbo immediately half-collapses against him, letting out a stifled sob. Schlatt glances from Quackity to Niki, both of them looking as confused and concerned as he is.
“Sorry,” he chokes out, and Schlatt shushes him as gently.
“It’s okay,” he assures him, stroking his hair and taking care to avoid his still-growing teenage horns, knowing from experience how much they can hurt. “You’re alright, Toby.”
He’s not sure what exactly he’s comforting him for, and his mind is racing with what could possibly have Tubbo, usually pretty reserved and closed off about the things that make him upset, acting like this. His first thought is Ranboo– they’ve been dating for a little while now, and they have their spats now and again, but Tubbo has never come to Schlatt with them; it’s always been something Schlatt has had to coax out of him. And anyways, this doesn’t seem like a reaction he would have to relationship drama. So something must be wrong, really, genuinely wrong– one of his pets died, maybe? That fox he likes? Or something worse?
After a moment, Tubbo takes a deep, shaky breath and pulls back a little, his hands still on Schlatt’s arms but pulled away enough that Schlatt can see his expression, grim and pleading. He sniffs and cautiously rubs at his eye on his scarred side, before taking another breath and choking out:
“He’s back. Wilbur’s back.”
There’s a crashing sound as Niki drops the measuring cup she was holding, color draining from her face. Schlatt can feel his own heart skip a beat, his chest suddenly feeling tight.
“What do you mean, he’s back?” Quackity asks slowly, shakily.
“Like–” Schlatt’s mouth feels dry. “Ghostbur?”
He knows that’s a stupid question, that Tubbo sees Ghostbur all the time and that he wouldn’t elicit this kind of reaction. Tubbo shakes his head miserably.
“No, like– him . Real him. Real… physical body him, I don’t know, I don’t know how it happened, but Tommy had been missing for a couple days and– and suddenly I got this cryptic fucking call from him telling me to go to Wilbur’s old house, and he’s– I don’t know what happened, Schlatt, but he’s fucking back.”
It’s silent for a moment in the house, the air feeling dead and still.
“No,” Niki breathes, quietly horrified. “No, no, he’s–”
She suddenly crosses the room and heads out the still open front door, grabbing her bag from the coat rack as she does. Schlatt makes helpless eye contact with Quackity, who looks just as pale.
“I don’t know,” Tubbo repeats. “I don’t know what to do.”
It’s silent again for a moment, before Quackity shakes his head and starts hastily tugging his shoes on.
“I’m gonna make sure Niki’s okay,” he says, and Schlatt nods gratefully.
“Please,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try and deal with this. I’ll do… something, I don’t know.”
Quackity crosses to quickly lean up and kiss him, puts a comforting hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, and then turns to leave. Almost as if an afterthought, he grabs his axe from where it’s mounted on the wall. Neither of them have carried around weapons in a while– unless they were traveling through the nether or something, there was no need. Schlatt can’t believe how much the energy has already changed, just from speaking his name like that. God.
“Explain to me again exactly what happened,” Schlatt says as calmly as he can manage, bringing Tubbo over to sit on the couch.
Tubbo nods and wipes at his eyes.
“I hadn’t seen Tommy in a few days,” he starts miserably. “Which isn’t that out of the ordinary, because he’s been really weird lately, but, I dunno. It’s. I figured it was just hard. With the anniversary, and everything, and he’s been. More distant. I’ve been worried about him, of course, but I didn’t think it was anything major, I thought it was just. Everything. And I got this call from him, and I was like ‘hey man, where have you been’, and he sounds just awful. His voice is all gone and everything, and he just keeps telling me to meet him at Wilbur’s old house. He won’t explain anything. And I thought maybe, I dunno, he’d found something, some old journal of his or something. I know he goes there sometimes when he’s upset.”
It wrenches Schlatt’s gut a little to think of Tommy having been struggling lately and him having had no idea. Sure, Phil’s around sometimes, but a lot of times he’s not, and even when he is around, Schlatt gets the feeling that Tommy doesn’t all the way trust him anymore. So he feels some kind of responsibility for Tommy, as much as Tommy would certainly reject that, as his best friend’s dad, even if their past wasn’t… great. Picturing the kid alone on the anniversary of his brother’s death, sitting in his old house and going through his old stuff, makes Schlatt’s stomach turn.
“And then,” Tubbo takes a shaky breath, and Schlatt puts a hand on his comfortingly. “Then I headed over there, and when I got there, he was there.”
It’s still sinking in with Schlatt, the idea that Wilbur, Wilbur the destructor, the terrorist, the madman, his fucking ex-boyfriend, his political opponent and archnemesis, whose name people still have trouble uttering a year after his death– a death that Schlatt has already processed, that they’ve all processed, that they’ve come to an unspoken, solemn conclusion that it was probably for the best– is back. Is alive, somehow. What a goddamn cosmic joke.
“Did he look the same?” Schlatt asks, trying to picture Wilbur’s face that day through the drunken fog of his memories. He remembers his stupid coat, his round glasses, a gash on his face, a manic energy to him. “As– when he died?”
“No,” Tubbo says, leg bouncing and toying with the fringe on the edge of one of their throw pillows. “He looked. Awful. It was definitely him, same face and body and everything, but he looked like– like a zombie, man, I don’t know, all pale and shit.”
To be fair, Wilbur was always pretty pale, but the flash of queasiness that crosses Tubbo’s expression leads him to believe it’s not exactly the same type of pale. Tubbo takes a deep, shaky breath before continuing.
“But he was really happy to see me, I guess. He hugged me, and he– he smelled like death. And I was just so shocked, I– I wanted to scream at him, or, or I don’t know, punch him! But I just kept asking him how, and Tommy came downstairs, and Tommy looked so awful, and he was telling me something about Dream, and. And a book? I don’t know, I started panicking, and I just left. I ran away. I couldn’t do it.”
Tubbo squeezes his hand hard, and Schlatt lets him, even when his nails are digging into his skin a little and it feels like he might just pop off his thumb.
“That’s okay,” he says, quietly. “I mean, that’s. It’s a horrible situation. I understand.”
Tubbo swallows and just nods a little, his gaze far off.
“And then I,” he begins. “I don't know why, but I-- I went to Pogtopia. To the underground. That's where we buried him, Tommy and Phil and I. And I thought maybe… maybe if I just saw. If his body was there, I would. But it wasn't. The grave was dug up, and the coffin was open, and I.”
He seems to completely lose steam, and closes his eyes against a new onslaught of tears. Schlatt shushes him gently, squeezing his hand and rubbing his back. Tubbo is quiet for a minute, seeming to be steadying his breathing, and Schlatt gives him time. The sun is still shining cheerily through the windows, and the smell of garlic and crackle of the stove absently reminds Schlatt that lunch is still cooking.
“I just,” Tubbo breathes after a while. “I just don’t know what to do. I know it’s. It’s my job to know what to do, I have to, but I just. Feel so helpless. He… he makes me feel small. I don’t know, it’s stupid, but–”
“It’s not stupid,” Schlatt says firmly. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He’s not sure which he’s referring to, the not knowing what to do when you know you’re in charge part or the Wilbur making him feel small part, but he thinks it’s probably both. And he detests that, detests that Tubbo is feeling any semblance of what he felt during his presidency.
“I’ll handle it,” he says before he really thinks about the gravity of the statement.
Tubbo blinks open his eyes and looks up at him, surprised.
“You will?” he asks, equal parts relief and caution. “Are you sure?”
Schlatt had, over a year ago now, vowed to never be involved in politics again, a decision that was widely regarded as a wise one. And he’s sure this maybe counts as politics, as Tubbo’s duties to protecting L’manberg and keeping the peace, but it’s bullshit. It’s bullshit to put that all on his shoulders because of a title he’d inherited from a long line of destruction and corruption, and Schlatt isn’t going to let the weight of that title crush any other person, much less Tubbo. So as much as the thought terrifies him, he can handle it.
“Yes,” he answers honestly. “Yes, I am sure. I can handle it. I’m sure I won’t fix everything. But I’m gonna go talk to him, find out what he wants.”
“And make sure Tommy is okay,” Tubbo pleads.
“Of course,” Schlatt assures him. “I’ll bring him back with me, if I can. Now you stay here, okay? Jambo’s here somewhere, and the food on the stove’s almost done.”
He lets go of Tubbo’s hand to get up and put his shoes on, but Tubbo grabs his arm as he stands.
“Schlatt,” he says, his eyes wide and intense. “Be careful. Please.”
“I promise,” Schlatt assures him. “Let me deal with this son of a bitch.”
—-
Wilbur’s old house is on the outskirts of L’manberg, meaning it was completely untouched by any of the destruction of the war and of Wilbur’s little parting gift. It’s actually been pretty untouched by anything but nature for years as far as Schlatt knows, since Wilbur hadn’t lived there at all during the election and he hadn’t been back to it during Manberg. Schlatt knows, because he personally told the patrol to make sure to continually check that it was abandoned. It was a cruel play, he knows, simply designed to make sure that there was no option for them to have a bed and a kitchen and basic amenities, to force them into the cave systems and kill their morale. It was a cruel play, and he was a cruel man. That’s how Wilbur last knew him. Of course, it’s not as if Schlatt has a high opinion of Wilbur either. Which is why it’s maybe a terrible idea that he’s the one going in to do diplomacy, but it’s too late for him to turn back now. The weight of his sword against his hip is at least somewhat of a comfort, a reminder that he isn’t defenseless. Techno had given it to him, netherite encrusted and shimmering with enchantment (“I’ve got about twenty of ‘em in storage,'' he'd told Schlatt gruffly when he’d given it to him, which didn’t stop Schlatt from tearing up at the gesture) and he’d never thought that he would use it for anything but training.
The house looks about as he remembers it, decrepit and overgrown with vines and long grass, with a slight lean to it, which was a good indicator for the structural integrity of the whole thing. What stands out to Schlatt immediately is the smoke coming from the chimney. Someone is inside. He’s suddenly even more aware of the tightness in his throat that works its way down his chest and twists his stomach. Fuck. He absently wipes his hands on his pants as he steps up to the front door. The windows are all either boarded up or have the drapes closed, so Schlatt has no way to see inside. He steps up onto the porch, half worried that it’ll collapse under his considerable weight, but it merely gives a creak of protest and holds. He listens at the door for a moment, unsure of what he’s hoping to hear. Really, he knows he’s just stalling. The adrenaline and shock of it all had carried him this far, but now that he’s here… he can feel a sick sort of dread crawling up from his stomach to his throat. If he stalls any longer, he thinks that feeling might just send him right back home before he has the nerve to enter.
He takes a deep breath in, then out, then in again. Before he has the time to process the decision, he reaches up and knocks firmly three times. Nothing happens for a moment– and then, muffled through the door,
“Tubbo? Is that you?”
It’s barely enough to go off of, especially as faint as the sound is, but Schlatt immediately knows that it’s Wilbur. He thinks he’d know his voice anywhere, unfortunately. He can’t reply for a moment, his own voice caught in his throat.
“I didn’t mean to scare you off, before,” the voice continues. “Tubbo? You there?”
“It’s not Tubbo,” Schlatt finally responds, heart pounding in his chest.
“Who is it?” the voice asks, and it’s hard to tell through the door, but the tone sounds more guarded this time.
“It’s, uh,” Schlatt falters, his mouth feeling dry. “It’s Schlatt.”
There’s a few seconds of dead silence before Schlatt hears metal clicking against metal on the other side, like a deadbolt is being unlatched. There’s a split second before the door starts to open that an instinct in the back of his mind tells him to grab the hilt of his sword, just in case, and as soon as the door swings in he’s met with a loaded crossbow to the face.
He’s moving before he really processes the situation, which he guesses is the point of all that training he’s been doing, to make it all reflexive and instinctual. He ducks out of the way as he draws his sword, hearing the snap of the crossbow as the bolt fires where he was a second ago. He slams his sword into the side of the crossbow in what he hopes will be a disarming motion, but the person holding it– for a second, in the action, he catches a glimpse his face, and fuck , it’s him – but Wilbur resists back, the grappling pushing them back into the house. There’s a tense moment of struggling stalemate before Schlatt knocks the crossbow on the floor and immediately kicks it behind him so he’s in between Wilbur and it, and Wilbur wildly throws a punch once he loses it. It clips Schlatt’s jaw, but it’s such a desperate and uncoordinated blow that it hardly hurts, and Schlatt easily blocks his next blow with his forearm and shoves his own momentum back at him. He’s only practiced that move with Techno, who’s quite literally the biggest and strongest person he knows, so it’s a bit of a shocking difference in feeling to easily knock Wilbur to the ground and earn a pained grunt from him. He keeps his grip on his sword steady for a moment, prepared for Wilbur to get back up and start again, but it immediately becomes pretty clear that Wilbur is down for the count, barely lifting himself to a sitting position and coughing, the sound raspy.
Schlatt takes a couple steps back for good measure anyways, but he lowers his sword and lets himself catch his breath. He’s badly out of it, in a way that reminds him of the unrelenting asthma attacks he’d have when he first started training with Techno, and he starts to cough as well, the feeling burning in his lungs. He still coughs like this sometimes– he knows his lungs will never truly be healed, not after chain smoking for nearly twenty years– but not usually from such a short amount of combat nowadays. He supposes it’s multiple factors: the adrenaline and nerves that were already inhabiting his chest cavity, and the fact that the room smells heavily of smoke. In fact, once he takes a second to take in his surroundings, he can practically see it in the air, hazy and thick. It’s hot, too, both of those qualities probably not helped by the fire crackling in the fireplace. It’s August. It’s plenty warm out. He reaches up to wipe sweat off his forehead, takes a steadying breath, and reluctantly focuses his gaze on Wilbur, who’s still coughing and has his head down enough that his mess of curls is hiding his face.
“What the fuck was that,” Schlatt demands flatly, his voice hoarse.
“You’re dead,” Wilbur returns with a similar hoarseness. “I didn’t think– you’re supposed to be dead.”
“ You’re supposed to be dead,” Schlatt snaps back. “I was ready to handle that pretty normally, all things considered.”
Wilbur glances up at him, brushing his hair to the side out of the way of his face, and a chill runs through Schlatt’s body despite the oppressive mugginess of the room. It’s Wilbur, undeniably, the same intense, dark expression he always wore, the same rounded glasses, the same tattered old trench coat. But he’s… different. Wrong. There’s a shock of white running through his dark hair, a pale, almost ghostly pallor to his gaunt face. The only coloring in his whole face is the dark circles under his eyes, and Schlatt could swear it almost looks like there’s… stitching on his neck. Like he’s being held together. He looks undead. Schlatt’s stomach twists at the just thought of it.
“I was dead,” Wilbur says, with an air of dismissiveness that doesn’t match what he’s saying. “And I came back. You don’t look like you came back. You look…”
He seems to take him in for the first time, eyebrows raising a little as his gaze rakes over him. Jesus, Schlatt hadn’t even thought about how much different he must look to Wilbur. There’s a stupid wave of self-consciousness that washes over him that he hasn’t felt in awhile. He’s become so incredibly self-assured in his body recently, and it’s been so long since he’s even had someone give him the surprised once over he’s receiving now. He feels the nagging urge to shrink into himself, somehow minimize the damages, which he tries to shake off. He thought he was over all this. It’s the fact that it’s Wilbur, he knows. If anyone else was taking in the new shape of him with as incredulous of a look as he was, he would’ve ignored it, or, depending on how he was feeling, tell Quackity about it as jack-off material. But this feels burningly vulnerable, like he’s being dissected by Wilbur’s clouded gaze.
“Spit it out,” Schlatt grumbles, quickly translating his discomfort into harshness. “If there’s something you want to say, then say it.”
He tenses up as Wilbur unsteadily gets to his feet, but relaxes some as he merely plods over to the kitchen table next to them and drops himself into a chair.
“No, it’s just…” Wilbur shrugs, a trace of a ghoulish smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re different. A little like you ate the old you. But no matter. How are you alive?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Schlatt says, reluctantly sheathing his sword and brushing off his comment. “But for your information, I never died.”
“You had a heart attack,” Wilbur insists, gesturing for Schlatt to also sit. “I saw it. I saw you, passed out in a pool of your own vomit. You didn’t have a pulse. We checked.”
Schlatt does sit opposite him at the table, despite himself, and tries not to let it show on his face that the shoddy wooden chair creaks as he sits down.
“My heart did stop,” he concedes, ignoring the corrosive shame that always comes up when he’s reminded how many people in his life saw him in that state. Whatever. He’s worked on it in therapy. “And Ponk restarted it. God knows how, or why, but they did. From what I understand, while you were pretty busy with your whole…”
He gestures vaguely, hoping he gets across the idea of the whole “murder-suicide by explosives of your whole country and then getting stabbed by your father in front of an audience” thing. Wilbur draws his mouth into a tight line and nods.
“Right,” he says. There’s a moment where he seems to process this, brow furrowed. “So this whole time, you were…? I mean, you were just. Alive.”
“Yep,” Schlatt says, folding his hands on the table. “Just regular old alive. Some of us had to deal with the aftermath.”
It’s a bit more cruel than he should really be coming in with– this is a diplomacy mission more than anything, to ease Wilbur in and figure out what he wants. But it slips out anyways, and luckily Wilbur seems too lost in thought to notice.
“I looked for you, you know,” he says, absently reaching for the cigarette pack on the table and finding it empty, which might help explain all the smoke in the room. “In limbo. I saw others. Some I knew, but. Not you. I never knew why.”
The idea of it sends a shiver down Schlatt’s spine despite the balminess of the room. He’s heard stories of limbo, of course, of the endless purgatory that supposedly waits after death, but he hadn’t thought about Wilbur being there, remembering it. Wilbur stands, leaning heavily first on his chair and then on the kitchen counter as he opens a cabinet and pulls out another pack of cigarettes.
“Yeah,” Schlatt says simply, not knowing how to respond to that. “I was here. Against my will, for a while.”
“Yeah?” Wilbur smirks, sitting back down and cracking open the pack. “Had you on suicide watch? Been there.”
He sticks a cigarette between his lips and holds one out to Schlatt, and there’s a tug of something near nostalgia in Schlatt’s chest as he thinks about them back in the past, easily blowing through a pack together at the end of the day, the shared intimacy of passing one cigarette between them. He shakes his head.
“I quit,” he tells him, and Wilbur lets out a bark of a laugh, the sound turning to a cough.
“Really,” he says dryly as he digs in his pocket for his lighter. “And how long has that been for?”
“Uhhh,” Schlatt demurs, tilting his head. “A year and five days, I suppose.”
He can see Wilbur running through the math in his head, then scoffing.
“You’re expecting me to believe you haven’t smoked one cigarette the entire time I’ve been gone?”
“Well, believe it,” Schlatt shrugs, feeling a warm sort of pride at Wilbur’s disbelief. “They put me on goddamn house arrest when it was bad, and then. I dunno. It just stuck.”
Wilbur shakes his head, taking a long drag and exhaling smoke across the table. There’s a scratchiness at the back of Schlatt’s throat, and he wills himself not to cough again.
“Was that how you stayed skinny?” Wilbur asks wryly, and Schlatt rolls his eyes.
“Very funny.”
“Sorry,” Wilbur giggles. “It’s just so… well, I can at least get you a drink. I know I’ve got some wine at least in the– you’re fucking kidding me.”
The last part is said, no doubt, in response to Schlatt’s expression, which Wilbur can still apparently read like a book.
“I’m not kidding,” Schlatt tells him. “Don’t drink anymore either.”
“Fuck off,” Wilbur snorts, taking another drag. “Now I know you’re fucking with me. You, sober.”
“Drinking yourself into a heart attack will do that to a guy,” Schlatt says. “But I’m glad to know how much faith you have in me.”
“I mean, c’mon,” Wilbur says exasperatedly. “Can you blame me?”
“I understand how crazy it sounds,” Schlatt says. “I mean, trust me. I wouldn’t believe it either. But I really… I mean, I’m different now, Wilbur. I am. I really cleaned up.”
The cheery ringtone of Schlatt’s phone in his back pocket causes Wilbur to jump, fumbling and dropping his cigarette. He curses as Schlatt takes out his phone and reads the display. Alex . He picks it up.
“You ok?”
“Yeah,” Quackity’s voice comes through on the other end, a little fuzzy from the service way out where Wilbur’s house is on the outskirts of L’manberg. “Are you… with him?”
“Yeah,” Schlatt says, and he can hear Quackity exhale on the other end. “Yep, he’s. Here.”
Wilbur, having retrieved his cigarette, gives a mocking wave. Schlatt doesn’t think he can hear Quackity’s end, but he obviously knows he’s talking about him.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Did you find Niki?” Schlatt asks, and Wilbur visibly brightens up.
“Oh, Niki! God, I should have Niki over–”
“No you should not ,” Schlatt snaps with an intensity he doesn’t think he’s yet had at Wilbur since he got here, who looks taken aback.
“Everything okay?” Quackity asks.
“Fine,” Schlatt sighs. “Did you, though?”
“Yeah, she went to Techno’s,” Quackity answers. “I figured that’s probably a good place for her for right now.”
“Yeah, it is,” Schlatt agrees. “He’ll make sure she’s okay.”
Niki and Techno have been developing a close camaraderie since before Schlatt had even been invited to Techno’s retirement home. She’s training with him as well, and sometimes they’ll spar, Techno refereeing and giving them pointers. Niki’s much better than him, and Schlatt can tell that Techno really has a soft spot for her.
“Have you laid eyes on Tommy yet?” Quackity asks.
A renewed sense of urgency is reignited in Schlatt with the realization that he hasn’t.
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll make sure I do. Tubbo’s back at the house, can you–”
“Already on my way back,” Quackity assures him. “Be safe, okay?”
“Of course,” Schlatt says. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
Wilbur, who’s been sulking like a scolded dog ever since Schlatt snapped at him, raises an eyebrow.
“Who was that?”
“Quackity,” Schlatt answers as he shoves his phone back in his pocket.
“Oh, Jesus,” Wilbur snorts. “God, you two were terrible together.”
Now it’s Schlatt’s turn to raise his eyebrows, lifting his hand up to show Wilbur his engagement and wedding ring.
“Holy shit,” Wilbur mumbles, face falling. “How the hell did that happen?”
Schlatt chooses not to read into Wilbur’s dismayed expression any more than just him being a dick.
“Like I said, I’m different,” he says. “Everything’s different. Things changed a lot, while you were gone.”
“For the better, as I understand it,” Wilbur says with a smile dripping with bitterness.
“I didn’t say that,” Schlatt says shortly. “Well. They have, but I never said they did because you were gone. That’s a conclusion you’re jumping to.”
“Who said that’s what I was thinking?” Wilbur scoffs, coughing as he exhales smoke. “Seems to me like you’re jumping to conclusions on what conclusions I’m jumping to.”
“Whatever,” Schlatt sighs, because what would’ve once amusing banter with Wilbur now gets under his skin. “Where’s Tommy?”
“Tommy?” Wilbur frowns. “He’s upstairs, asleep.”
That raises alarm bells in Schlatt’s mind. Tommy is, generally speaking, an unstoppable force from sunrise to well past sunset, and it’s hardly two in the afternoon.
“Is he okay?” Schlatt asks, letting some of his urgency seep into his tone.
“He’s fine,” Wilbur says dismissively, gesturing broadly with his cigarette hand. “The whole ritual thing took it out of him a little, but he’s fine.”
Schlatt tables the whole ritual thing for a later discussion and instead stands.
“I’d like to see him,” he says firmly. “Just to be sure.”
Wilbur blinks up at him slowly, then lets out a raspy chuckle.
“Is that all this visit was about?” he asks. “Just a wellness check?”
“Not entirely, but partially, yeah,” Schlatt says, crossing his arms. “Tubbo was very worried about him.”
“And so he came to you,” Wilbur says dryly. “Jesus, things have changed.”
Schlatt knows what he means– the last time Wilbur was alive, Tubbo could still hardly stand to look him in the eye, and for good reason. Still, it’s not Wilbur’s place to comment on, since Tubbo is hardly thrilled to see him now either.
“They have,” Schlatt says shortly, because frankly he’s getting a little tired of Wilbur’s sardonic disbelief. “I’m just gonna go check on Tommy.”
As he’s walking past him, Wilbur goes to stand, presumably to join him, but his lanky figure immediately lurches as soon as he does, and Schlatt hardly has time to catch him by the shoulders and help him back into his seat. It’s hard to tell with how pale he already is, but he seems to have gone just a bit paler, and his eyes briefly seem to roll to the back of his head before he regains himself once he’s seated.
“Fuck,” he exhales shakily. “Stood up too fast.”
Schlatt realizes he still has his hands on his shoulders and he takes them off, letting Wilbur slouch back in his chair. Wilbur reaches for the cigarette he dropped on the table again with a visibly shaking hand, and Schlatt picks it up before he can and snuffs it out into the overfilled ashtray on the table.
“I’m just going to check on Tommy,” he says firmly. “No more cigarettes. Stay seated. I’ll be back.”
“Okay, dad ,” Wilbur mumbles irritably, and Schlatt ignores him as he heads upstairs.
He ignores the ominous creaking of each stair as he steps on it, praying that the rotting wood is stable enough for now. He makes it to the top, miraculously, and steps into the upstairs loft that functions as Wilbur’s bedroom. He’s been here, once, when it was well-taken care of and lived in, well before the election and back when he was only visiting, when he was couch hopping between servers and spending his sizable savings from his crypto days on copious amounts of booze and prescription pills rather than anything stable. The room had been cozy then, but has since fallen into disarray like the rest of the house. If Schlatt isn’t mistaken, Wilbur hasn’t lived here since months before the election, so it makes sense. The bed is in fine enough shape, though, it seems, and curled up over the nest of quilts is Tommy, in his usual red and white shirt and his boxers with an arm thrown over his face. He stirs a little as Schlatt enters the room.
“Hey, Tommy,” he says softly and casually, trying his best not to startle him.
Tommy groans and sits up some, taking his arm off his face and rubbing at his eyes. He’s definitely looked better. His blonde curls are wild and unkempt and stuck to his face with sweat, and despite knowing that he owns several different versions of the same shirt, he has the feeling that the one he’s wearing is one he’s had on for days. The room is just as muggy as the rest of the house, and it reeks of teenage boy and smoke.
“Schlatt?” Tommy asks groggily, blinking up at him. “Th’ fuck are you doing here?”
“Checking on you, dipshit,” Schlatt answers, crossing over to the window by the bed. “I’m opening this.”
“Wilbur was cold,” Tommy explains, still clearly waking up.
“Wilbur can layer up,” Schlatt says, pushing the window out and feeling the immediate relief of fresh air. “I’m suffocating, and I’m sure you are too.”
He stays there for a moment, enjoying the slight breeze blowing in, before turning back to face Tommy, who seems a little more alert now, sunken back against the pillows and nervously picking at the skin around his nails.
“I understand if you’re mad at me,” he says with a kind of resigned somberness that Schlatt hates. Tommy has these moments of jaded maturity these days that unsettle him. “I– I get it, but I–”
“I’m not mad at you,” Schlatt says firmly. “I was just worried.”
There’s a moment of quiet sullenness from Tommy where he continues to pick at his nails. His reaction confirms what Schlatt has been suspecting for a little while now, that, somehow, it was Tommy’s decision to bring Wilbur back to life. As much as Schlatt wishes he hadn't, he can’t find it in himself to be mad at him. He understands.
“Tubbo’s mad at me,” Tommy mumbles. “Lots of people are gonna be.”
“Tubbo is also just worried about you,” Schlatt says. “I can’t speak for anyone else. But it’s done, and he’s here, and we’ll deal with it, okay?”
Tommy nods a little absently.
“You look like shit,” Schlatt continues. “How long have you been here?”
“Uh,” Tommy says, lifting a hand up to scratch the back of his head. “How long ago was the anniversary?”
“Five days. You’ve been here since then?”
“Jesus Christ. I guess so.”
“And I take it you haven’t bathed at all in that time,” Schlatt says dryly. “Okay, tell me what I can do to help. Are you hungry?”
Tommy frowns pensively, like he hasn't thought about that.
“Actually, yeah,” he says. “Kind of starving.”
“I can't imagine you’ve been eating well,” Schlatt says. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up, okay? I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” Tommy says quietly, letting his head fall back against the pillows and tossing his arm back over his eyes.
Schlatt sends a quick message to Quackity and Tubbo as he heads back downstairs reassuring them that Tommy has been better but is completely unharmed. Wilbur looks up from where he’s had his head buried in his arms at the table, blinking blearily over at Schlatt.
“See? He’s fine,” he says coldly. “I suppose you can leave now.”
“I’m not leaving,” Schlatt says. “I’m gonna try and make a decent meal. Tommy’s hungry, and I bet you are too.”
“I’m not,” Wilbur says immediately.
“Alright, well, I don’t believe that,” Schlatt says, crossing over to Wilbur’s pantry. “But either way, Tommy’s hungry, and so am I, so it doesn’t matter.”
“I bet you are,” Wilbur grumbles sullenly, almost petulantly.
Schlatt ignores whatever this sudden irritability is from him in favor of taking stock of the somewhat scant contents of Wilbur’s pantry, which is understandable considering how long it’s been since he’s lived here. Assuming that all the food that he does have has been sitting there for over a year eliminates a lot of the possibilities, but Schlatt is decently sure that rice stays good for a long while, and Wilbur luckily happens to have an unopened bag of it. There’s also some canned vegetables as well as a modest collection of spices. Schlatt wouldn’t consider himself an expert at cooking, but he’s done enough of it, especially in the last year, that he’s pretty confident in his abilities to make something passable here.
It’s quiet besides for the crackling of the fire in the fireplace as Schlatt goes about setting up the ingredients, a reminder of Wilbur’s undeadness in that he manages to be cold in such a sweltering room. Schlatt’s shirt is short sleeved and breathable linen, and even still he’s sweating. The house miraculously has running water, he discovers as he attempts to fill the pot for the rice in the sink, and he relishes in turning the water to its coldest setting and letting it wash over his hands for a moment. His stove is a gas stove, luckily, so the lack of electricity isn’t an issue.
“What are you sulking about?” he finally asks Wilbur once he has the water on to boil.
“I’m not,” Wilbur says, sulkily. “It’s just. It’s a lot, okay?”
“I understand,” Schlatt says, opening another cabinet to search for a pan.
“Do you?” Wilbur gripes. “I’ve been in Hell, Schlatt, literal purgatory, and all of a sudden I come back and everything’s different. Nothing is right .”
“What do you mean, right?” Schlatt asks. “I’d say things are more right than they’ve ever been.”
“That’s not…” Wilbur struggles for a moment, combing a hand through his tangled curls. “It was supposed to be the end. Of L’manberg, I mean. It’s only brought bad things, and I thought I finally ended it, just to have Tommy tell me that it did nothing, that they just rebuilt. It’s not right.”
“It’s not the same anymore,” Schlatt shrugs, succeeding in finding a can opener and opening the canned vegetables. “The name just really continued because it’s a lot of the same people. People who wanted to stick together in the same community, no matter what its history is. Hell, it makes no sense that I’m a part of it.”
It’s a discussion he’s had with Techno a lot, on the ethics of the new L’manberg. They never get too far into the conversation, because Schlatt would much rather not argue politics and he doesn’t think Techno wants to either.
“It really doesn’t,” Wilbur says, somewhat cruelly. “None of you makes sense.”
Schlatt tries not to let the barbed wire of his words affect him. He remembers how he was the first week after Manberg fell, in his makeshift prison cell because they couldn’t trust him not to run or find a drink somewhere, spitting nasty things at anyone who came to visit and begging for just one cigarette. It’s rough. Even though he never technically died, he still often feels like he came back from the dead. He focuses on pouring the vegetables into the pan to heat them up and dutifully adding what seasoning Wilbur has. After a little while, Wilbur seems to realize that the harsh approach isn’t going anywhere with Schlatt, and begrudgingly more calmly asks,
“So. You and Tubbo are good, now?”
“Yeah,” Schlatt says, smiling a little. Repairing his relationship with Tubbo is maybe his proudest achievement. Reconciling with Quackity was hard, but at least they had had a pretty good relationship at some point to go back to. With Tubbo, he had to build it from the ground up. “Yeah, we’re really close now. He’s been– I mean, he’s a great kid. He really is. More than I think you realize.”
“Of course he’s great,” Wilbur scoffs. “I’ve always known that.”
Schlatt remembers how awed Tubbo was when he would give him tasks early on in the Manberg administration, how eagerly he confessed that Wilbur never trusted him with anything like this. He's not going to argue with Wilbur right now, so he pushes that aside.
“He’s doing a great job as president,” Schlatt simply continues. “Much better than I ever did, that's for certain.”
“Not really much of a metric to measure up to,” Wilbur snorts. Then, “I suppose it's not like I can judge.”
Schlatt merely chuckles, pouring the rice into the now boiling pot.
“Quit politics,” he advises him. “I highly recommend it.”
“I can tell you’ve had a lot of time to relax,” Wilbur says dryly.
“You know, I really have,” Schlatt says cheerily, brushing off another attempted dig. “Turns out my dream job this whole time was house husband.”
“Husband,” Wilbur marvels. “And how– how long has that been?”
“We got reengaged in December,” Schlatt says, turning around to rest his hips against the counter so he can face Wilbur while the food cooks. “And married in May. So like, three months ago.”
It had been a beautiful wedding. Eret had let them have it in the courtyard of their castle, and Niki and Tubbo had taken charge on decking the space with an inhuman amount of flowers. He savors the memory of that night, stuffed full of leftover wedding cake, Quackity murmuring “I love you”s against him as he kissed all over his body.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Wilbur says quietly.
Schlatt tries not to read too far into it, to pretend that Wilbur’s fixation on his marital status has nothing to do with their years-long life-ruining situationship. Wilbur has a special talent of doing that to people, he’s learned from Niki.
“Me neither,” he replies simply. “But hey, y’know.”
“And everyone else is good?” Wilbur asks. “Techno?”
Schlatt fights back a laugh, because if Wilbur is shocked by how much he’s changed in the past year, he can’t imagine his reaction to Techno.
“He’s good. He’s very good. Also retired. He’s been teaching me some combat stuff, actually.”
“And Niki?”
Schlatt hesitates.
“She’s good,” he settles on. “She has her bakery running again. It’s very popular.”
Wilbur fiddles with the buttons on his filthy trench coat for a second, almost seems to reach for the pack of cigarettes, then pulls back as if expecting reprimand.
“Earlier, why did you say I shouldn’t have her over?” he asks.
Schlatt sighs, reaching up to wipe some of the sweat off his forehead.
“She just… you really fucked her up, man,” he answers honestly. “She’s worked through a lot of it, but I don’t think she wants to see you.”
“How do you know that?” Wilbur bristles. “You fucked Quackity up, fucked Tubbo up, and now look at you guys. Just one big fucking happy family. How come I don’t get to prove myself?”
“You do,” Schlatt says placatingly. “Look, I didn’t just tell the people that I hurt that I was sorry and that was that. It took fucking work. I didn’t talk to Quackity for months after you died. It took time, okay? Some people might be happy to see you immediately. I don’t think Niki’s gonna be one of those people.”
“How would you know?” Wilbur demands. “You don’t know her like that. She hates you.”
“Back when you were alive she did,” Schlatt amends. “But she doesn’t anymore. We’ve. We’ve gotten close.”
He’s not trying to reveal too much of anything so soon, not when Wilbur is already agitated, but he forgets just how easily Wilbur can read him, and he must have somehow betrayed something. Wilbur’s gaze narrows, and he huffs out a laugh of disbelief.
“Oh yeah? Close ? And how close is that?”
“I just meant–” he fumbles, glancing over at the stove to avoid eye contact, which he's sure does him no favors in not appearing guilty. “That's not– we’ve talked a lot about a lot of things.”
“Really?” Wilbur presses. “That's all?”
Schlatt used to be a hell of a liar, and he knows that. He's been a salesman and a politician and an addict, all things that require a healthy dose of bold-faced lies. Lately he feels like he’s lost that skill, that the guilt and instinct to be honest sells him out immediately. Is he really supposed to act like all they do is talk, when she slept in their bed last night wearing one of his old t-shirts? Like she hasn't held him down and purred praise in his ear as Quackity forces another bite into his mouth, like she's not half the reason he's had to upgrade his whole wardrobe for the third time in a year? He carries the proof of their closeness on him every day, just like he does with Quackity, and to deny that feels like denying himself. His silence must tell Wilbur enough.
“You’ve slept with her,” Wilbur says, with a laugh that edges on manic. “You have, haven't you? Is that what this is about? And now suddenly I can't talk to her?”
“No!” Schlatt protests, pressing down the urge to escalate the argument. “That's not– Wilbur, that's not at all what–”
“When was it?” Wilbur demands. “Before Quackity? Does he know?”
“Yes,” Schlatt sighs, rolling his eyes. “Yes, he knows, I'm not having a goddamn affair. He's the one who initiated it, and it’s not a big deal.”
“Well, forgive me,” Wilbur snaps, snatching up the pack of cigarettes and fumbling to pull one out. “It wouldn't be the first time.”
“That’s not–”
Both of them stop and turn as the stairs creak, a still drowsy looking Tommy blinking back at them.
“Lover’s quarrel?” he asks dryly. “Shall I go back upstairs?”
“Not at all,” Schlatt says quickly, turning back to the stove and turning the burner off. “Lunch should be just about done.”
The room is painfully quiet except for the flick of Wilbur’s lighter and the clatter of dishes as Schlatt plates up three servings of rice and vegetables on the most presentable looking plates he can find. All things considered, it looks and smells pretty good, and he’s starting to realize just how hungry he is. His lunch has been severely delayed by this whole revival thing, and he’s not used to just going hours without eating anymore. Food will be good for all three of them, he decides.
“Why’d you light a cigarette when you’re about to eat?” Tommy asks, and there’s a difference in the way he talks to Wilbur, a sort of disaffectedness that he never used to have.
“I’m not hungry,” Wilbur says as he exhales smoke.
“No,” Tommy says immediately. “No, Will, don’t do this again.”
There’s a tired desperation in his voice that immediately slices right through Schlatt. He has a feeling this whole business might not have turned out how Tommy was envisioning it.
“He’s going to eat,” Schlatt reassures him as he sets their plates down in front of them and sits down. “I’m not leaving until everyone eats.”
That seems to relax Tommy some, a little stress seeming to go from his perpetually hunched shoulders.
“He’s gotten so weirdly maternal,” he remarks to Wilbur, who snorts.
Schlatt rolls his eyes, frankly too glad that there’s at least some spitfire left in Tommy to care about his usual snipes, and starts to eat. For what he had to work with, it’s not a half-bad meal. Tommy immediately digs in as well, while Wilbur regards the plate in front of him.
“It’s really not bad,” Schlatt tells him. “I’m a pretty good cook.”
“He is,” Tommy agrees with his mouth full.
Begrudgingly, Wilbur rests his cigarette against the ashtray and picks up his fork, pushing some of the rice around on his plate before finally scooping up a bite. Schlatt tries to focus on his own food and not make it obvious that he’s watching intently as he pushes it into his mouth and makes a nearly imperceptible soft noise in the back of his throat. His body hasn’t eaten in over a year– no doubt he’s starving. He assumes it’s that instinct that drives Wilbur to move quickly through the rest of his plate, almost warily, like he's a starved animal guarding a bone. Schlatt politely pretends to not notice this and focuses on finishing his own serving, while also casting a glare at Tommy to signal not to mention it and scare him off from actually eating, to which Tommy mouths back an exaggerated I didn't say anything!
“There’s more if anyone wants any,” Schlatt comments casually, like the comment could be to anyone, despite the fact that Wilbur is the only one finished, scraping up stray rice grains. “Probably enough for everyone to have seconds.”
Wilbur doesn't make a move, though he does glance over several times to the stove. He seems to be somewhat placated with food finally in his system, and also seems to be a little out of breath. Once Schlatt finishes his food, he takes the initiative to push his chair out and stand.
“Well, I’m getting seconds,” he declares, and Tommy shoves the last bite of his in his mouth and holds out his plate to him. “Use your words, Tommy.”
“Mah mout’ fuh,” Tommy points out wisely, flashing a two on his fingers for seconds.
Schlatt snorts despite himself, and heads over to serve them both a second serving. He can feel Wilbur’s gaze on his back, like he's still staring at the food in contemplation.
“Wilbur, while I’m up?” Schlatt offers as he drops the newly filled plates off, pointing to his empty plate.
Wilbur mumbles something affirmative and hands his plate to him. Tommy shoots him a grateful glance over his shoulder as Schlatt scrapes the rest of the rice and vegetables onto Wilbur’s plate, probably a bigger serving than he and Tommy got. He hands it back to Wilbur, who goes back to eating like it's going to get taken away from him immediately. For a bit, anyways, as Schlatt and Tommy eat at a slower pace and engage in an attempt at small talk about the spider infestation out in these parts of the woods, until he starts to lose steam about halfway through the serving and resigns to slouching back in his chair and covering hiccups. Schlatt probably shouldn't have let him eat that much that fast, he reasons, with his body probably still booting back up. Once Schlatt and Tommy are finished, Wilbur still hasn't made a move towards continuing, shoulders jerking with each suppressed hiccup. Schlatt takes the liberty of finishing the rest, and Tommy stands and stretches.
“Well,” he yawns. “Thanks, Big Man. I’m going back to sleep.”
“We’ll talk eventually,” Schlatt tells him with what he hopes is an understanding but firm look.
“Yeah, okay,” Tommy mumbles, plodding back upstairs.
Schlatt busies himself with collecting and washing the dishes, while Wilbur remains breathless and pitifully hiccuping in his seat, a plight Schlatt knows well. Once the dishes are done, he fishes out a sealed plastic water bottle from the pantry, because he might trust the water here for cooking, but drinking is another thing, and sets it down in front of Wilbur.
“Drink it,” he tells him, and Wilbur glares and hiccups in response.
He obeys, though, taking careful sips and evening his breathing as Schlatt takes it upon himself to go through and trash the more suspicious looking food from the pantry and to sweep away some of the cobwebs that have infested every corner of the house. Wilbur’s hiccups eventually stop, and he lights another cigarette, which Schlatt doesn’t reprimand him for, but he does open the windows. Wilbur pulls his trench coat around him a little more in response, but he doesn’t protest. After a couple more minutes, Wilbur finally speaks up, voice hoarse:
“Why are you doing this?”
Schlatt sighs and turns to face him, leaning in the doorframe of the pantry.
“To be completely candid, because Tubbo asked me to,” he says. “L’manberg is about the stablest it’s ever been right now. You being back could throw a wrench in all of that. I’m not saying you have any plans, or anything, but you can see why that would be a concern, and I’m sure it’s why Dream helped bring you back. It was Dream, wasn’t it?”
Wilbur just grunts, taking another drag of his cigarette and gazing absently out the window.
“But also,” Schlatt continues. “I know what it’s like to have to face the world again after everyone’s seen you at your lowest. It’s fucking terrifying. I didn’t have to go through it alone, and I don’t think anyone should have to.”
“Well, lucky me,” Wilbur snarks. “Do I also have to gain fifty pounds?”
“Oh, it’s much more than that,” Schlatt chuckles. “And I know you’re being facetious, but no. Although ten or so couldn’t hurt. You should have Ponk take a look at you. I’m not sure how exactly your body is functioning, but it surely still follows some laws of nature. At the very least, he can get you on some prozac or something. That was a lifesaver for me.”
Wilbur just nods a little, gaze still far away. Schlatt can tell he’s overwhelmed, that he’s throwing a lot of things at him at once.
“But not today,” he assures him. “You need time to adjust.”
“I,” Wilbur says calmly. “Am going to throw up.”
Schlatt appreciates the warning. It’s enough of a head’s up that he’s able to haul Wilbur to his feet and to the sink. Not the best option, he knows, he himself having been the sole reason every bathroom in the White House had a note in Fundy’s scratchy handwriting that read “Puke in toilet ONLY please”, but he’s working with what he assumes is a seconds-long window. He’s right, because as soon as he gets Wilbur over the sink he starts emptying the contents of his stomach, just as he predicted. It’s more for Wilbur’s dignity than for his own sake that he politely averts his gaze as he does, rubbing his back soothingly where he’s helping to hold him steady. It’s funny– Schlatt used to actually have quite a thing about throwing up back when he was a teeanger, a sort of anxious avoidance, but becoming an alcoholic quickly gave him all the exposure therapy he needed to not mind it at all anymore. He supposes it’s the one good thing that came out of it.
“This is,” Wilbur coughs out breathlessly. “Your fault.”
He gags again immediately, stopping him from making any further points, and Schlatt snorts, reaching to brush some of his hair back behind his ear to avoid it getting caught in the fray.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with chain smoking for hours on an empty stomach. That doesn’t fuck with you at all.”
Wilbur just makes a disapproving sound, still quite engaged at the moment. It’s maybe a minute before Wilbur seems to trust himself enough to back away from the sink, pushing himself out of Schlatt’s hold and stumbling back into his chair exhaustedly. Schlatt turns the faucet on and pours some dish soap in for good measure.
“If you’re reaching for a cigarette I’m gonna kill you a fourth time,” he comments without turning around.
“Fuck you,” Wilbur rasps out, voice even more gone than it was pre-puke.
Wilbur doesn’t have a cigarette when Schlatt’s finished with the sink, just the water bottle Schlatt gave him which he’s clutching with shaky hands.
“I take it back,” he says, crossing his arms. “I am gonna have Ponk see you today.”
Wilbur doesn’t say anything, just gives a tired eye roll and sips his water.
“Next time, we’ll start you with some toast or something,” Schlatt says. “That’s my bad. We should’ve started slow.”
“I don’t think I need to eat anymore,” Wilbur says quietly. “I think I’m past that.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of goddamn witchcraft Dream gave Tommy to make this work, but I highly doubt that,” Schlatt says dryly. “Something just tells me that after a year your body needs to get back up to speed.”
Wilbur doesn’t have a response to that, just combs a hand through his sweaty hair and then retires back to burying his head in his arms on the table. Schlatt’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to read a message from Quackity.
Alex: everything still good over there?
Schlatt: might need to tag in another babysitter
Alex: oh christ
Alex: how are we the most well adjusted people in this country rn
Schlatt: dude i dont KNOW
Alex: alright i’ll be over in ten :]