TW for the series: Swearing, graphic depictions of injury 

The day was chilly, and the cold cut through the loosely woven strands of Wilbur's sweater. He felt sad today. The kind of sad that makes a brisk wind on your skin a relief compared to the all-consuming greyness on the inside, freezing you until you're so cold you can't even move.

So Wilbur welcomed the chilly breeze.

"What's wrong?" A voice asked beside him, and he saw that bright yellow hair and those vibrant blue eyes staring into his own. It was like Tommy was the only colorful thing in his world of grey.

"My dad," Wilbur said, and he wasn't sure why he said it. "And my brother."

Instead of changing the subject like he would have done another time, Tommy pressed on, pushing on the bruise.

"What's wrong with your dad and your brother?"

"They've been ignoring me for almost two months now. Our house is silent. They're upset about something but they won't tell me what. Sometimes they catch my eye, but it's like they're looking right through me. And the days are blending together because nothing happens, and you're the only thing keeping me steady, because it's like my family is falling apart."

Wilbur sniffled. "I don't know how to fix things if they won't tell me what went wrong."

Tommy looked at him with an expression Wilbur couldn't read, but he didn't have the energy to navigate the emotion swirling in those blue eyes. So he looked down at his lap, and at the hot, salty tears falling on his clasped hands.

He watched as a smaller, warmer hand rested itself on top of his dry knuckles, catching the tears on it's back. The hand grabbed one of his own, and pulled him up.

He followed as Tommy led him somewhere, he wasn't sure. He didn't move much, he liked the stay on that park bench. It was peaceful.

"Where are we going?" Wilbur asked. "Somewhere I should have brought you a long time ago," Tommy said, almost mournfully. "I was just too selfish."

They walked down sidewalks, turned through alleys, until they reached a black metal fence. Intricate designs attached one fence pole to another, and each post was brought to a four-sided, sharp tip on the top.

"Why are we at the cemetery?" But neither of them cared for the answer to Wilbur's question, their attention brought to the two figures entering the cemetery, gate creaking gently behind them.

The shorter had blond hair and the taller's hair was pink, and both of them carried bouquets. The blond man held a collection of waxy, white lilies, while the pinkhead held a handful of wildflowers. The wildflowers looked like they had been thoughtfully handpicked.

They walked forward, saying nothing until they reached a headstone. They crouched in front of it for a while, muttering to it and each other every few minutes, flowers placed in front of it.

Wilbur watched in bewilderment since he knew that his mother was buried in a cemetery on the other side of town. So whose grave were his father and brother visiting?

Eventually, the pair left, wiping under their eyes and looking so incredibly broken. Their faces seemed to reflect the strange quiet that had filled Wilbur's home for the past few months.

Wilbur and Tommy went around the small cemetery to the gate, creaking as they entered just like it had for the pair before them.

Nothing could have prepared Wilbur for what he saw when they arrived at the grave with the lilies and the wildflowers.

The name, carved recently into the headstone, was his own.

Wilbur Soot
2002 - 2021
Beloved brother, son, and musician

"No," He whispered. "No."

It came flooding back to him. The cheerful beat in his step as he listened to his favorite song, crossing the road. The screech of the brakes of a car. The vicious thump when it didn't break fast enough.

The pain shooting down his spine, the crack of the back of his skull against the pavement. The searing pain coursing through his body and feeling like he was dying, and then waking up in his bed to the beginning of that aching silence that would steadily come to fill his house like a gas.

Now, in front of his own grave, he fell to his knees and moved his hand to the back of his head. He felt something wet, and as his fingers went deeper into the nest of his hair, an unnatural gap stretching from the middle of the back of his head to the crown. It didn't hurt.

He pulled his fingers away and looked at the tips that were now red. He stared at the color, and then back at his name in the stone.

Wilbur thought he might feel a wave of deep anger creep up on him just about now, but he felt that same greyness, and he realized the feeling wasn't so bad. It was calming.

He looked down at the boy who was the sun in his life, who liked listening to his music and starting pointless arguments with him, who wanted to marry the Queen, and he smiled.

Tears were streaming down Tommy's face, and Wilbur wiped them away with his clean hand.

"Oh, Tommy," Wilbur whispered, pulling the boy to his chest.

"Wilby, Wilby," He sobbed, grasping Wilbur's sweater tightly in his small fingers, pulling the man's torso to his face. "I don't want you to go, please don't go," He cried out, and Wilbur ran his fingers through the boy's hair. "It's okay. It's all going to be just fine," He whispered, continuing to hold the boy to his chest.

They gripped each other, both dissolving into tears and sniffles, not willing to let go.

"It's just like you said," Wilbur murmured eventually when Tommy's choke-filled hiccups died down a bit. "I've got business to finish here, and I've got to go in a little bit. I can promise you, I will always be with you. Nothing will keep me from being with you; you're my little brother. So I'll be here, I just won't be the ghost you can see."

Tommy cried harder but nodded into the yellow fabric.

"Now, do you think you could help me finish my business here?"

"Mhm," Tommy choked out.

"Do you think you could pass a message on for me?"

---

"Excuse me, sir, are you Phil?" A boy asked as Phil opened the door. "Sure am," He said, and the boy smiled with a hint of sadness. "May I come in? I have something very important to tell you."

"Uh, sure, I guess..." Phil led the kid to the living room, sitting down in his armchair as the younger sunk down into the couch slowly. "Is Techno here?" He asked, and Phil eyed the boy quizzically. "Yes. Would you like me to get him?"

"Yes, please. It's very important."

Phil went upstairs to retrieve Techno, shaking his head in confusion at the strange kid on his couch who looked so tired.

"Tech, there's a kid here to talk to us. He says it's important, you need to go to the living room."

Techno looked up from his bed and the two men shared a confused look, but the pinkhead shrugged and placed a bookmark on his page before heading downstairs. The Art of War would have to wait a few minutes.

The boy hadn't moved, which Phil was relieved about. He didn't look like the type of kid to try and steal, but Phil was the suspicious type.

"Alright, what's this important news?" He said gruffly, sitting back down. He felt a little bad when the boy shrunk back, looking a bit threatened.

"It's about Wilbur." Phil's eyebrows practically shot to his hairline while Techno focused a scathing glare on the kid.

"He and I hung out at the park every day. He would play the guitar for me, and he was really funny."

So far, so good. But then the kid opened his mouth again. "I met him two and a half months ago."

"Wilbur died three months ago," Techno said lowly, his glare not wavering.

"...Yeah, I know."

He paused.

"I... have an ability to talk to ghosts, dead people who don't know they're dead. Wilbur didn't know he was dead either.

"A few weeks ago you two went to the cemetery and left flowers on his grave, on the two-month anniversary of his death. We were there."

Techno looked seconds away from strangling the kid, and Phil knew the boy's age wouldn't save him if Techno went through with it.

"I can't control whether you believe me or not, but Wilbur wasn't able to move on because he had unfinished business here. Maybe I was the unfinished business, or maybe the message was – I'm not sure, but he wanted me to tell you something."

"Techno," Phil hissed as the man slowly began rising from his seat, but he sat back down with a huff at his father's warning.

"He wanted me to tell you that he always said he never recorded his music and he never played it live for you because he was embarrassed. But under his bed, there's a box. A piece of him is in there when you want to remember him."

The two men sat in silence, too stunned to say a word. At this point, Phil didn't care if the boy was telling the truth or not, all he cared about was what he had said.

He got up and went to his son's rooms, where the items had been collecting dust. Neither Technoblade nor Phil had been brave enough to go in.

Strangely, the only thing not dusty was Wilbur's guitar, perched neatly on its stand. When Phil brushed a hand over it, it even felt a little warm.

Or it might have been his imagination.

He crouched down and, lo and behold, there was a shoe box sitting in the darkness underneath the slats holding the mattress. He brought it out and saw a thin, square case, black and undecorated.

He popped it open and gasped sharply at what he saw.

It was a CD, and written in Sharpie was Wilbur's messy handwriting.

Your City Gave Me Asthma / Final
May 12, 2021

That was just a day before Wilbur's death. He had recorded an album the day before he died.

He sat there on the floor, staring at the CD until he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was his oldest son, who could see what was in his hands from over his shoulder. Now, they just needed to gather up enough courage to play it.

Slowly, Phil rose and turned around to see the kid in the doorway, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. It took him by surprise; he'd forgotten the boy had been in the house.

"What's your name?" He asked softly.

"Tommy."

"Tommy, do you think you could pop this into that CD player over there?" Phil pointed to the player, top dusty and black speakers covered in a grey film. "I don't think either of us will be able to play it."

The boy took the disc reverently and opened the player. He placed the disc in, closed it up, and his finger hovered over the play button. After a moment, he pressed it, and a static filled the room.

Then, as if Wilbur was with them, his smooth voice came out of the speakers, rolling over the bed and the desk and their shoulders and faces, a delicate yet sure touch that he was there.

---

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