The Adventures of Ghostbur & Glatt - Dream SMP fanfic

In the Dark

Everything was silent. 

It was peaceful, the quiet. He would have released a contented sigh if he had still been able to breathe. 

He knew he was dead. He didn't remember why. He supposed that didn't matter too much anymore.

He couldn't move, but that was ok; it was nice to drift slowly in the darkness, even if he didn't know exactly where he was going. 

He closed his eyes. 

And opened them again. 

As he acclimated to the new and curious environment, he began to notice other things. 

Like how dark it was, the kind of dark that makes even adults a little bit scared. 

How it was cold, cold enough for the frost to sink into your bones and set, freezing joints and muscles in place. 

How it was so desperately lonely, floating alone in the dark and cold with no one else nearby. 

He started to panic as he felt a sudden chill grip his chest and hold on, squeezing painfully. He opened his mouth to scream, but the invisible fist tightened around his vocal cords, preventing any sound from escaping the man's lips. Something was happing; there was a pressure building in his mind as memories and recollections hurled themselves against a blockade, creating a pounding headache that threatened to split his skull in two. Names and words began shoving themselves into his head, trying to force him to remember. 

Wilbur. 

The fist squeezed harder, and Wilbur's chest burned. 

L'Manburg.

Images rushed through his brain, throbbing colors and pulsating lights, adding to the already intense headache. 

The festival, Tubbo exploding in a flash of red, blue, and white, Tommy crying out and reaching for him. 

He didn't want to remember these things. 

Schlatt, collapsing on the ground, a smashed bottle in his left hand, a crowd surrounding him. 

Wilbur's chest was on fire. The memories continued to parade themselves through his mind. 

A room, underground, walls of cracked stone and weathered brick, words scratched into the wall. 

Tears streamed down Wilbur's face, freezing into small icicles on his cheeks. 

Pressing a wooden button, feeling a sense of accomplishment and relief.

He just wanted it to stop. He didn't want to see these things anymore. 

A voice. Soft, feathery wings that encircled him as he fell to the ground. 

Wilbur was in agony. He couldn't think, could only lie there helplessly as the fist continued to squeeze him and the memories flooded his head.

A cold sword, lodged in his chest, leather hilt dampened by his father's tears. 

It hurt so bad. 

And then it was gone, receding as fast and as unexpectedly as it had come. Wilbur stayed still for a moment, fearing a return and trying to stay calm. When nothing happened, he turned on his side and dry heaved, trying his best to expel the bitter remains of the memories he had seen. One by one, they slid off the walls of his mind and slipped back into oblivion, the color of regret and smelling of sentiment. 

As Wilbur continued to soothe himself in this way, he felt someone's gaze on his back, and when he turned around, there was indeed a figure studying him. When they noticed Wilbur staring back, they drifted forwards, until they stood barely a foot apart. 

Wilbur and Schlatt stared at each other for a long time, waiting for someone to move or say something to break the silence, but neither was willing to concede, and so the two continued to gaze at one another. Wilbur studied the majestic curve of Schlatt's horns, the way they traveled through his combed brown hair and ended just under his floppy ears, which twitched occasionally, as if flicking away a nonexistent fly. Schlatt wore a torn black suit and a loose red tie, and while his clothes were in disrepair and stained with beer and wine, the man held himself tall. 

Wilbur's gaze was attracted to Schlatt's torso, where a spectral heart lay still and silent inside the man's chest. It glowed a faint red color, and was entirely transparent, allowing Wilbur to see each of the ventricles and arteries that composed the dead man's heart. 

Schlatt stared back, examining Wilbur. His curly brown hair flopped over his face, hiding one eye from sight. A pair of round glasses rested loosely on his nose. He wore an expression of interest and a yellow turtleneck sweater that was ripped at the abdomen, a transparent red line detailing where the tear began and ended, tracing it along Wilbur's chest. Schlatt knew where it was from. 

He had been there when it happened, watching unseen from the corner as Wilbur fell to the ground, a sword impaled through his torso and a small smile on his face. 

Schlatt had come to find Wilbur after that, and he now extended a ghostly hand towards him. Wilbur took it hesitantly, and Schlatt led him away, pulling him along as he drifted through the darkness.

The bruised memories didn't follow.