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“Dream,” Wilbur says, stiff displeasure in his voice, “you wanted to talk.”
“You wanted to talk,” Dream corrects, eyeing Wilbur with a slight air of triumph that wriggles under Wilbur’s skin and makes him scowl, “I just agreed to it. I interrupted training for this, so…”
“Oh, I’m honoured.” Biting back a vehement, pained retort about how Dream’s men don’t need more training — they’ve done all the training they need, and by God has it been effective — Wilbur pushes back a chair for Dream in an attempt at civility. “Please, sit down.”
Dream obliges, sitting down without even looking around the area they’re standing in. Wilbur notes this: Dream’s getting cocky, he thinks, remembering how paranoid the younger usually is, because Wilbur could have, could have, set up traps for this conversation, and Dream never would have seen them.
“What did you want to talk about?” Dream asks, ever blunt, and Wilbur’s eyes dart to his.
“How is Tommy?” He says, stalling for a moment and swallowing heavily. “What about Fundy? Tubbo?”
Because Dream had managed to wrap those three around his finger with a few small lies and a promise of the greater good; help me put the other server members into place, Dream had told them, and together we can form a nation and make the server great.
Tommy had always admired Dream, had always been a little starry-eyed around him, as had Tubbo. It had been painful, but not ultimately too surprising, when Wilbur had walked onto the battlefield to see his pseudo brothers and his actual son staring him down.
Painful. Not surprising. Wilbur still remembers the heavy grief at seeing them against him; feels it from time to time when he bumps into them. The war is almost over now — Wilbur and his men simply can’t fight anymore, injured and low on resources and supplies and outmatched anyway by Dream’s gapples and stock of potions — but seeing the kids still hurts like a bitch.
Dream arches an eyebrow at him now. He’s clearly drunk a good number of potions before coming here (Wilbur isn’t versed enough in brewing to recognise them all) and is eager to finish the chat before they wear off. “They’re all fine,” he says idly, fidgeting around with the table they sit at, “missing you, obviously, but, uhm, spirits are high. It helps to know you’re winning and that you’re… on the right side of history, you know?”
Wilbur’s ragged temper flares, pride stung, but he keeps his composure. “You think you’re on the right side of history. You.”
“Sure,” Dream says agreeably, “I mean, I’m not on the wrong side.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I mean, of course you do. Nobody thinks they’re on the wrong side. It’s not until… you know, people look back with hindsight, that they realise.” Eyeing him in mild amusement and sympathy, Dream gestures to Wilbur’s black eye, nearly shut over with how swollen it is. “Tubbo packs a punch, right? He’s improved a lot. Tommy actually taught him that, but I think his hits are stronger than Tommy’s now. It’s nice watching them learn.”
Wilbur could slam his fist into Wilbur’s face. “You’re treading a dangerous path, Dream. If you think this is what’s going to bring server-wide peace, you’re an idiot.”
Dream adjusts his mask, unbothered by his words. “If that’s what you believe. I… think my plan will work well. I didn’t want this war, Wilbur. You demanded it-”
“Well, I wasn’t about to let you take over the server, was I?”
“You demanded it,” Dream continues, like he hadn’t been interrupted, “and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. If that means… you know, establishing some kind of system or, um, authority, to make sure it doesn’t happen again- You know, if that means creating one big country for us all to live under, then I don’t see a problem with that.”
“You don’t…”
Wilbur trails off with a horse, incredulous chuckle. I don’t see a problem with that. Dream is exactly the kind of person he’d been at twenty, and seeing his younger self reflected back at him now is a kick in the teeth. Dream is resourceful, intelligent, logical, a good twenty year old - but he’s fucking twenty. Wilbur isn’t much older at twenty seven, but he knows what being twenty is like, thinking that the solution for everything lies within your grip, and he knows that the world isn’t like that; knows the world, contrary to Dream’s perhaps childish thinking, is a lot more cruel and a lot more damaged than one war will fix.
The idea of a country to keep the peace is a pretty one. If Wilbur had thought of it first, he might have done it himself. But it’s an idealistic plan, one destined to fail - and from how willing Dream is to go to war over establishing it, Wilbur knows it’s already failing.
But telling Dream this will get him no more response than a firm reply negating his warning and a sentence like I know what I’m doing. It would be a lie - fucking nobody knows what they’re doing, least of all a twenty year old Admin with too much responsibility on his shoulders - and so Wilbur keeps his mouth shut about it all.
Dream will see. Dream will see soon enough. And when it all goes to hell, Wilbur will be there just long enough to grab his loved ones, offer Dream a pitying I told you so, and run like hell.
For now, his smile is tight-lipped and comes out like a grimace. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.” Dream’s voice is confident, calm. “I- Look. I know you may not think so, but good things will come out of this. Once we win the war, we’re going to… Well, I’m not gonna tell you just yet, but we’re going to make everything perfect.”
It’s painful, Wilbur thinks, because he knows he’s not being lied to.
“Everything will be perfect,” the younger leader repeats again, words sure-footed and certain, “and you’ll see that… you know… I was right.”
“We won’t let you.” Wilbur can taste blood at the back of his throat; wonders, with distaste, if his wounds are bleeding again. Sapnap and George and Punz aren’t the allies he would have wanted, ideally - they’re brilliant fighters, far better than he is, but when they’re survivors. “You realise that, I’m sure, Dream. That no matter what happens - whether you win tomorrow or in a month or in a year, whether you establish a country with you in charge or somebody else… We’re going to fight against it. We’re not going to let that happen.”
And sure, he could be high-and-mighty and say he cares about democracy, that he doesn’t give a single damn about power other than making sure Dream doesn’t have it, but really, he’s not as hypocritical as people seem to think he can be. Wilbur knows, deep down, that really he’s fighting because he wants the power, because he wants the glory - who wouldn’t? he tries to reason with himself. The thought of beating Dream in his own server is a sweet one, and the thought of ensuring no hierarchies spring up that feature Wilbur at the bottom is even sweeter - and Dream knows this.
…Dream is also the one person that Wilbur knows for certain isn’t in this for the power, or the glory. He wants stability, even if he’s misguided; he wants peace, even if he has to bring war first to do it.
Wilbur hardens his heart and tightens his lips. Well, he’s not going to let that happen. He’ll raise hell until he dies - through any means possible.
(Tommy’s disks sit in his Enderchest. The kid had given them in an act of trust - “Just to prove I don’t hate you, you get me?” Tommy had told him days before the war. “You can give ‘em back after. I trust you.”)
(Wilbur will do anything he needs to do to ensure this war goes in his favour. He’s not above using every means at his disposal.)
Dream inclines his head in knowing. “I believe you,” he says, “you are… You’re resilient. I honestly, uhm, was hoping you wouldn’t last this long. I prepared for it, obviously, but was hoping you’d surrender before it reaches this point.”
Something changes in the tone of his voice, just ever so slightly. Paranoid, Wilbur shifts away from him, checking Dream over for hidden weapons, potions of harming covered with armour. “You say that like you have a plan, Dream,” he says, and tries for an easy laugh that comes out wary, “here I thought we’d be able to have a peaceful talk. Isn’t that what you wanted? Peace?”
“It is.” Dream stretches, and stays sitting, though his body is hard-wired with tension. “I was really hoping to come here without… I don’t know. Being attacked.”
Wilbur’s heart drops. He hides the look on his face.
“Well, you got your wish,” he says, as lightly as he can, “look around. I told you that this was a… conflict free zone, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Dream says, regretfully, “and, I was really hoping to believe you. But Tubbo dropped by yesterday. Told us about the… uhm, the bomb, really, that you’re building. Told us about the several bombs you’re building, actually.”
Wilbur’s free hand slips to his pocket, and begins typing a frantic message into his communicator.
“And,” the younger leader continues, voice growing steely, “I know Sapnap’s hiding behind the door I just entered through, ready to stab me on the way back out.”
The world holds its breath. Wilbur is silent, damningly silent, for a long moment, before he lets the grin slide over his face, too-wide, too-mean, because it’s what he is.
“Well, I should’ve known,” he laughs, roughly, to hide his own building panic, “I should’ve expected you’d pick up on something that obvious.”
“Come on, Wilbur. You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Dream says, and when he pulls the mask from his face, his eyes are cold, “I mean, you did anticipate that, right? That’s why you sent your men to my base, right? To kidnap my soldiers while I can’t defend them?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
“But, uhm, here’s the thing.” Dream leans back, and that’s apparently the signal: Tommy, Tubbo and Fundy stride in, not uniformed, like Wilbur’s men, but covered from head to toe in polished netherite armour, glinting dully in the torchlight. They drag in a bound and humiliated Sapnap, George and Punz. “I set up a couple of traps around camp, just in case that happened. And look what’s happened.”
Wilbur says nothing. Tommy, grinning at Dream with dirt-splattered skin, does.
“Happened exactly like you said it would,” the sixteen year old says cheerfully, “we were sitting, looking all innocent and harmless-”
“You were stabbing training dummies and telling Fundy he was next,” Tubbo interrupts, “that’s not exactly harmless looking.”
“-and then we heard shouts from behind us. We turned round, and fuckin’-” Tommy claps a hand over his mouth to hide his snickers, “-Fuckin’ GeorgeNotFound is there, caught in the deepest fucking obsidian pit, and Punz is like, hanging over a tree, like Dumb an’ Dumber.”
“And then we saw Sapnap loitering outside too when we came here like you said,” Fundy says nonchalantly, “and I really kind of wanted to knock him out, so I knocked him out.”
“I fucking hate foxes,” Sapnap mutters, “I’m gona target every fox I see from now on.”
Dream’s mask is obscuring his face again - had been the moment his old friends had been brought into the room. He fiddles with it now, even as Wilbur attempts to discreetly get up, heading for the emergency supplies he keeps under his desk. “I put those traps up as a decoy for the actual traps,” Dream says, amused, “I thought they’d see those ones and avoid them.”
“Well, thanks, Dream, you thought wrong,” George says grouchily, embarrassed, if the flush on his cheeks is anything to go by, “let us go. We haven’t even done anything.”
“Well, you were going to.” Dream gets to his feet, and then there’s a sword in his hands, levelling at George’s neck. His old best friend goes still. “And you betrayed me. And you were going to hurt my allies. And you were more than happy with Wilbur planning to blow us up.”
“Dream,” George says nervously, discomfort in his voice, “don’t-”
“It’s your choice, Wilbur,” Dream calls over his shoulder calmly, “either you watch me take a life from your men, or you surrender, and you all live. It’s up to you.”
Wilbur freezes in place. What kind of choice is that?
“You wouldn’t,” Sapnap snaps, “you wouldn’t dare, Dream.”
Dream doesn’t even look at him. They’ve got bitter blood between them since their fight, and though Dream’s expression is half-regretful, it holds firm. “Do you really want to find that out the hard way, Sapnap?”
It’s not a choice at all, except it is, because he really doesn’t care much about GeorgeNotFound - fond of him, sure, but he cares more about his cause than him. Except it isn’t, because George will stop following him, and then Sapnap and Punz will, and he’ll have nobody. The Badlands are busy doing their own thing, nobody else wants to get involved - if he lets his current allies lose lives, then he’ll be utterly alone, and will have to surrender anyway.
So through gritted teeth, damning the ground Dream stands on, Wilbur surrenders. Dream smiles through lips pressed together as Fundy and Tubbo high-five and Tommy whoops, and it’s only after the peace treaty is drafted and signed that Wilbur remembers Dream cares too much about George and Sapnap and Punz to ever let them come to real harm.
But Dream’s side celebrate their victory, and Wilbur stews in his rooms, thoroughly shaken, and thoroughly angry.
Not thoroughly beaten. Punz taps out of the fight; but Sapnap and George are angrier than ever at Dream. Wilbur keeps this in mind. Wilbur keeps a lot of things in mind.
He’s mindful of everything that has transpired when Tommy knocks on his door that night, nervous, still smudged with dirt and flushed from spending the night dancing and celebrating.
“Hey, Wil,” his brother says, trying for optimistic, “I’ve come to get my disks back.”
Wilbur remembers the trust in Tommy’s eyes when he’d given him the disks, sees the trust in his eyes now asking for them back.
His own thoughts echo back to him. Whatever it takes.
“I think I’m going to hang onto them for a bit,” Wilbur says, “unless you can do a few things for me.”
The trust shatters.
Tommy leaves that night bitter and disillusioned and a spy for his older brother. Anything, he’d said, lowly, for my disks.
And maybe it makes Wilbur a dick, but the thought of the look on Dream’s face when he’s inevitably betrayed makes him smile as he watches Tommy leave.
Whatever it takes, he tells himself, and prepares for Plan B.