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“Fuck you!” Tommy hisses, like a feral beast. Wilbur looks up at his eyes again. “Ghostbur—he wasn’t you. He was nice. And maybe he was confused and couldn’t keep a thought process to save his life, but he—” Tommy stops, almost flinches. Continues quieter: “He never pulled me into some drug war, not once, Wil.”
Oh. Wilbur looks at him, assessing. I see. “You prefer him,” he states, matter-of-factly. Like it didn’t crush something buried very deep—the only hope that survived the void. “You prefer my ghost over me.”//
or:
the ways in which Wilbur’s revival will never not be fucked up.