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Technoblade was the younger twin (they weren’t biological twins, but they were only 6 minutes apart), but he outshone Wilbur in every way. Techno got straight A’s and was strong and at least had a reason when he had a had a panic attack. And Tommy might not be the best in school (or the best behaved), but he was kind beneath all his profanity. He had a heart of gold even though he would deny it to his dying days.
And what could Wilbur do? Strum his guitar? Very impressive. He was, essentially, useless. He knew that if he were to vanish, people would worry for a little bit, but everything would be fine in no time. Tommy’s loud jokes, some okay and some inappropriate (most inappropriate) and Techno’s sarcasm would quickly fill the empty space he left behind.
Things like that were only some of the things his bullies whispered to him on a daily basis, but they were the most hurtful. But that wasn’t to say the insults spat at him during passing period and sometimes during class if the teacher was particularly oblivious didn’t hurt either.Weirdo. Wuss. Oddball, Weakling freak. Failure. Sucker. But it wasn’t even the being yelled at, the being slammed into lockers, the eating alone (more like just sitting alone, ignoring the hunger that shot through his body). It was the popular girls, Niki and Puffy and Minx, chuckling and jeering when he went to raise his hand or chime into a conversation. It was having the teacher forget to call him to the front of the class for a presentation. It was having the oddballs of the school not even looking at him.
And it was his brothers not noticing anything. Tommy was only a freshmen, in a completely different building then everyone else with his friends, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Drista. But Techno was in the same building- hell, they had history together, because history was the only class Wilbur could pass besides band! And yet, he never noticed. Although, to be fair, if you were Techno, would you want to worry about your twin brother all hours of the day? And besides, that was second period, and all his bullies were on the other side of the school during second period, so he wasn’t really bullied there.
“Hey, Wil,” Eret chirped as they sidled up next to him, a smile on their face. Eret was Wilbur’s only friend. They were (unfortunately) related to Niki, siblings, actually. Eret went out of their way to avoid her. Niki didn’t torment Eret, maybe because she had at least some respect for blood. “Lunch at the swings again?” Guilt pooled in Wilbur’s stomach. Eret, if they wanted to, could have sat with anyone they wanted. They were pretty chill, and pretty much anyone from the jocks and cheerleaders to the theatre dorks (which might have included Wilbur if he had any social skills whatsoever) would have let them sit with them, but no, Eret sat with Wilbur. They ate in the empty halls or classrooms or some days, like today, they ate at the nearby park.
“Wil?” Eret asked, snapping their painted fingers in front of his face. He jerked back to the present, to kids flowing around them as they chattered and made their way over to the cafeteria. “You good?” Wilbur took a deep breath, before giving Eret a pained smile.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sure. You need to grab your lunch?” Eret gave him a suspicious look but shook their head, and followed him out, down the street and to the county park. It was creatively titled, “Local County Park”. It was small, with a couple slides and a large swing set, along with a small gazebo and a hopscotch court. The swings were too small for the two high schoolers (especially considering a Wilbur was 6’1” and still growing), but they squeezed in for their 45 minute lunch break.
Niki first began her rise to popularity when she brought in hand baked goods, and she was still a pretty good baker, even though she was a bitch, so she made her own lunch and made some for Eret too. It was probably because Eret’s parents were decent people and Niki acted like a good person at home. So Eret had a neatly made sandwich, a cupcake, half an apple, and chips, a pretty good deal when Eret once fell asleep while making toast and nearly burned their house down.
Wilbur, on the other hand, was trusted to make his own lunch in the same way Techno and Tommy were. Tommy always grabbed leftovers and a Gatorade, or if there weren’t any, he threw together something edible. Techno had always had erratic eating patterns, so sometimes he brought a granola bar or two, and sometimes be brought in four sandwiches. It was always some kind of sustenance, so Phil didn’t say anything. If one of his children didn’t get some kind of meal every day, he would burn down a building or two (even though Wilbur had barely eaten enough to count as one meal over the course of a week. Nobody noticed. Why would they notice?)
“Is that it?” Eret demanded, their eyes widening behind their sunglasses as they look at Wilbur’s pathetic lunch of crackers and apple slices. Wilbur winced, looking down at his Converse swinging back and forth. “Wil, you’re over 6 feet and and still growing.”
“Your point?” Wilbur asked, eating as fast as he could so he could swing. He had always loved swinging; something about it seemed so relevant to his life. The feeling of almost being free from gravity (he remembered when Tommy was only in middle school, when he had joked that they should remove gravity, as well as Tuesdays and wives), only to be dragged back down to to the Earth. Hope was so... what was the fucking word? Ambivalent. Why should he hope for something that could never be achieved?
“Wilbur. You can’t survive on crackers and apple slices.” He had been surviving on so much less for so much longer, but Eret didn’t know that. He couldn't eat, and Wilbur knew that Eret would never understand why he couldn't. At first it had been about him being fat, and then it had been about the control. He had bullies, and he was the forgotten child, but he could control his calories, at least. Right? Wilbur pumped his legs, swinging almost higher than the bar. He could feel Eret’s worried, silver eyes on his back, but he ignored them. Eret shouldn’t have to worry about him. They would be so much better off if he just vanished.
(...)
Wilbur yawned as he grabbed a Monster from the fridge. He could remember just two years ago when he had ranted about energy drinks being the root of all evil to Techno, and saying that respectable British people drank tea. Techno had shot back that he wasn’t British, he was American despite having moved here when he was eight, which then led to a screaming match.
Now, Monster was his life source. His conversation with Eret still rang in his mind. Why would Eret even bother to worry about him? He pushed down his worry with a big swig of Ultra Watermelon. He was so caught up in his self-deprecating thoughts, he didn’t even notice Techno’s footsteps as he entered the kitchen behind him. “Heh?” Techno exclaimed as he saw Wilbur chugging an energy drink.
Wilbur choked, his coughs shaking his thin frame as he spat out the Monster. Techno slapped him on the back as Wilbur hacked, leaning over and resting his hands on his knees. “What the-“ Wilbur coughed heavily. “What the fuck?” he rasped, looking up at his twin’s red eyes and pink hair, braided neatly behind him. “Jesus, Tech, you scared the shit out of me!”
Okay, so warning signs. Techno cataloged a couple, being:
1. Wilbur never called him ‘Tech’.
2. Energy drinks?
3. Wilbur actually looked like he was going to collapse
4. How long had Techno been staring at Wilbur?
5. Fuck.
“You good there?” Wilbur asked, tilting his head like a puppy. Techno and Phil used to make fun of him for that, but Wilbur claimed that he liked dogs better than cats, so that was fine. Which of course led to the dogs (Wilbur and Techno) vs. cats (Phil) debate. Wilbur walked over to the recycling and threw out his can, and Techno heard it clinking against other cans. He walked over and peeked over Wilbur’s shoulder, not missing how Wilbur tensed up, even if he relaxed a second later.
There were too many cans in there to be healthy, and almost none of them were from Techno. Techno absolutely detested the watermelon flavor, but he loved the other two flavors that came in the Tesco variety packs that Phil bought, so he just shoved them in the back of the fridge. Tommy would have one if he wheedled Phil hard enough, and Phil might have one after a long day of work, but they had stayed in back there for... months? Years?
Now, it looked like all of them were in the recycling bin. Wilbur stood awkwardly, before clearing his throat and saying, “Oh, isn’t it my turn to take out the recycling?” He then grabbed the bag and hoisted it outside, dumping it in the larger bin outside, for the trash man to collect the next day. Techno blinked. This was suspicious, right? But, well, energy drinks were addictive, and so what if they stunted Wilbur’s growth? The bitch needed to stop growing, he was almost taller than Techno!
Techno marked this down in the back of his mind and migrated upstairs, but didn’t say anything. Wil, downstairs, was thinking, I need to throw those away in my room from now on.
That was close.
(...)
Tommy passed by Wilbur’s door. Paused, then backtracked. Even though Wilbur had driven him to school, always had driven him to school, it felt like such a long time since he had seen his brother. Really seen him, not just when they were both half asleep or to exchange a couple words before diving back into their rooms for homework or if games or something else.
How long had it been since he had seen Wilbur smile? Not an awkward, fake smile or a strained, tight smile, but a real Wilbur smile, one that lit up the whole room and one that reached his eyes? How long had it been since Wilbur played his guitar for them, singing some stupid Disney song or some shit? How long had it been since they had a real conversation, since they played Minecraft together? How long had it been?
He swallowed his pride and knocked on Wilbur’s door. There was some concealed shuffling and a good THUMP! before the door opened and Wilbur peeked out. “Tommy?” he asked. "Is something wrong?" Tommy hesitated, because everything about this was wrong.
Wilbur usually yelled ‘come in’ to show off his messily organized room. Wilbur was usually found in his yellow sweater, bright and clear, and a beanie and glasses and bouncy hair and smiling. This Wilbur looked awkward and confused, like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs. His yellow sweater had what was either a paint or blood stain on the wrist, Wilbur’s glasses looked hastily shoved on, his beanie was nowhere to be seen, and his hair looked greasy and limp, like he hadn’t showered for days.
“Just, uh, thought we hadn’t seen each other for a while,” Tommy said. It was his turn to feel awkward; he wasn’t the sentimental one of the house. That would be Phil, who enjoyed taking photos of them all and writing sweet cards that made them cry. “Can I come in, Big Man?” Wilbur stared at him, dumbfounded, for about two seconds before glancing behind him and slowly nodding.
“Give me a second,” he said, and closed the door. There was fumbling and rustling and a lot of noise from inside Wilbur’s room, and then the door swung open. “Come in,” he said, though it was missing Wilbur’s usual warmth. The room seemed even messier than it ever had, with clothes in small piles in the corners and his guitar looking untouched.
Something about that guitar was so Wilbur that it was hard to describe. Wilbur looked so at ease with that guitar. When he had first moved in with the Watsons, he had only been calmed down by Wilbur playing guitar. It was an acoustic, white, with cool gold shit around those things at the end that Wilbur twisted to change the strings sound (Tommy vaguely remembered them being called tuning pegs).
“Want to hear something?” Wilbur eventually asked, picking up the guitar gently but quickly and sitting crossed legged on the floor. Tommy nodded and wordlessly sat down. Wilbur’s fingers moved automatically to play a couple scales, and he frowned before quickly tuning it, then looking up at Tommy. “What do you want me to play?”
Tommy didn’t know. He was tempted to give an un-Tommy like answer. Something that means string to you, Wil. Something that tells me what you’re feeling now, because I have no clue. Wilbur used to be so easy to read, but now, Tommy didn’t know. He didn’t like not knowing, especially when it came to his brothers. And there was a difference between playing something for the hell of it and actually meaning every single word.
“I dunno,” he said instead, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders, staring up at Wilbur. “Whatever you want.”
Wilbur paused. There was a lot he could play. There were the Disney songs that he knew by heart, and the Hamilton that he and Tommy scream-singed along to. But there were also the songs that compressed everything he felt into a short, sweet 3 minutes. His fingers already moved to form a chord, but he stopped himself. What was something neutral, something that wouldn’t arouse suspicion?
“Here comes the sun,” he sang quietly, his hand moving to the familiar chord positions. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tommy’s shoulders relax. He might be only good for music, a tortured jukebox, but the one thing that bring him some peace was seeing the effect his music had on other people.
His effect was Tommy, slumped over and half-asleep (how long had the poor boy been studying? It was end of year exam time and everyone knew that exams were hardest for freshmen and seniors, while sophomores and juniors more or less got a break) while his mouth and fingers moved separate of his mind. It was Phil, eyes shining with pride (they used to shine with pride, now they’re full of pity, disgust, he was useless) as he raced downstairs to show off a new song. It was Techno, a rare smile on his face as Wilbur played a song he knew Techno liked, one that he had made sure Techno would like (definitely not by logging into Techno’s Spotify and camping out outside his door and taking note of which songs came on and how often) and had learned especially for him.
“Is that you’re favorite song?” Tommy asked, eyes closed. Wilbur paused as the last chord still rang out.
“No,” he admitted.
“What is your favorite?”
Ones that told story of my life, that helped the voices tell me the truth. That I’m useless. That you and Techno and everyone else on this miserable fucking planet is better than me. That I’m better off gone.
“I’ll show you later. It’s not really made for guitar.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
(...)
“Hey, boys, where’s the scale?” Phil asked. “I haven’t seen the thing for, like months.” It was a day off for him, so he had used this knowledge to call a family movie night, no one allowed to skip. With his boys, there was a diverse selection of movies. Tommy chose Up, like always, and other Disney classics like Mulan. Wilbur chose 80s movies and musicals, like Little Shop of Horrors and Airplane. And Techno... wasn’t allowed to pick movies after he had made them sit through a 5 hour National Geographic segment (the part about anteaters caused far more controversy than it should have).
“I dunno,” Tommy said and Techno hummed his agreement. They were both focused on Mulan. Wilbur stiffened, eyes wide, for a couple seconds before relaxing, his eyes darting around the room as he checked for anyone watching him. When they landed on Phil he froze again, but shrugged, his eyes moving to the screen once again.
Phil’s dad senses were tingling. Something was wrong with Wilbur. He knew it, he knew it, he did, he just didn’t know what and didn’t know how to help. He also noticed that Wilbur still hadn’t changed out of his yellow sweater, which looked dirty, and he hadn’t eaten any popcorn or any dinner. Phil’s stomach filled with unease and his nerves twisted and tangled as the credits rolled.
“Wil. It’s your turn to pick,” Techno grumbled, shifting a bit. Wilbur snatched up the remote and fiddled with it, exiting Disney+ and opening Amazon, flicking back and forth between letters. “Clue? Like the game?” Wilbur nodded.
“It’s really funny, trust me,” he said. Tommy frowned and reached for the remote as it started, no doubt to try and fiddle with the volume. Wilbur reached up a lanky arm to keep it away from him, his yellow sleeve dropping a bit. The corner of something white (his shirt? A bandage? Something) peeked out. Wilbur looked panicked again, and dropping the remote on Tommy’s head before letting his arm fall limply.
“Oh, what the hell?” Tommy griped, rubbing his head. Wilbur laughed nervously then clamped his mouth shut, eyes firmly focused on the screen. Tommy and Techno both glanced at Phil, but looked back at the movie when the butler appeared. Phil tried to put this out of his mind as the film played. It was, as Wilbur promised, funny. It was like Airplane, except people were dying much more frequently.
Tommy, at several points, was laughing too loudly for anyone to hear, and they had to rewind and ask Wilbur to explain things more than once.
All in all, a normal movie night.
(...)
Wilbur lay on his back, staring up at a crack in his ceiling. His yellow sweater was discarded on his bed, and he had a dark blue one from the university Phil went to on instead.
Not for the first time, he had cut too deep and the sleeves had stained through the bandages. He already wanted to cut again, but he knew he shouldn’t. His room was right next to the bathroom, and he could hear someone moving around in it. Maybe it was Phil, finding the scale he replaced after Phil had asked for it on movie night.
Techno had suggested checking the bathroom again over the family Discord. Phil had replied something smart assy, but now he had found it right where Techno said it would be. Oh, he was so going to shove it in Phil’s face.
Right now, Wilbur was lying on his floor, his limbs spread like a starfish. If anyone looked at him, they would no doubt judge him for stupid he looked. He was stupid. And useless, and foolish, and ugly, and fat, and...
But he was also remembering. Remembering memories that had seemed happy at the time, but had now been poisoned by his own thoughts, turning them sour.
When Techno has dyed his hair soft pink. Wilbur had thought it was so cool, ignoring when Techno said it was so people could tell them apart. Of course Techno wouldn’t want to be confused with his stupid twin. Why would he?
When Tommy had gotten an excellent on his history essay after bombing his assignments. Phil's genuine smile as he hold him he was proud of him. Wilbur had been proud and was still proud, but now, all he could think of was the numerous assignments, incomplete or marked with zeroes or notes to see the professor, shoved in his backpack.
When Phil was proudly talking about Techno, or clapping at his fencing tournmanets or scholastic pentathalons or such, when Wilbur was at home, lonely, sad, and forgotten. At first he knew it wasn't on purpose. After all, he would reason, Phil loves us all equally.
When Techno was having a Bad Day, and Phil would push to know what was happening, then comforting him like the good dad he was. When Wilbur was also having a Bad Day, but one offhand 'I'm fine' would assuage all their fears. When Tommy talked about his brother. Not brothers, just brother. He didn't even have to listen to the conversation; he knew that Tommy would be talking about Techno, because why wouldn't he be?
His phone rang. It took 4 rings for him to muster up the energy to grab his phone. It was Eret. He cleared his throat and answered, pulling it close to his ear. "Yeah, Ere?" There was shuffling at the other end and muted voices, as well as an obnoxiously loud SHHHHHHHHHHH! "What the hell?"
"I'm in your house."
"...what?"
"Come downstairs and check." They hang up. That motherfucker, hanging up on me, what the hell, Wilbur thought, shoving himself upright and storming downstairs. He paused at the base of the stairs, feeling his wrists to make sure the bandages were tight. Exhaustion hit him quick and hard, but he ignored it, taking a breath and stepping into the living room.
Eret, true to their word, was sitting on his counter with- was that a grilled cheese?! Wilbur could only make a couple noises before shutting his mouth, snatching the sandwich, and throwing it away, never breaking eye contact with Eret. "Wil! Ugh, whatever, I'm staying for dinner anyway," Eret pouted.
"What?" Wilbur asked, staring at Eret, eyes wide. Eret laughed, dragging Wilbur by the elbow to the kitchen with his family and table full of pasta, and it looked like a normal family dinner. How many calories were in that, oh no oh no oh no, I can't do this I can't do this, oh God, oh no.
"It's family dinner," Eret laughed again, shoving Wilbur into a seat. Wilbur's hands curled up tightly, and he could feel blood dripping down from the half moon cuts, but he couldn't stop. His brain started whirring, and he just couldn't do this because... because of everything. If he didn't name it, it wasn't real, he reminded himself, though that was a pretty useless philosophy when you hadn't eaten properly in days. "I'm family," Eret continued, Wilbur smiling and trying to pretend that his small world wasn't crashing down around him.
He watched silently as his family started eating, laughing and smiling. Wilbur just stared at them, and then down at his food. His body craved some form of fuel, something to keep him from withering away, but his mind told him that he couldn't. That it was too much, even though there was barely anything on his plate. He glanced up and saw Tommy's eyes, worried and helpless, staring at him. Wilbur's heart panged and he looked down, before cautiously twirling some pasta around his fork.
He regretted telling Phil that he hated pasta and butter, because that would be less than what Phil had made. It look good, but that didn't matter; to Wilbur, any kind of food triggered his fight or flight. He looked up again to see Tommy's blue eyes still staring at him, but now they held something of a demand: eat the damn food and like it, bitch.
Wilbur dropped the fork, producing a loud clanging noise that echoed through the dining room. It took him a while to notice, but everyone else stopped talking and was now staring at him. Sorry, he wanted to say, I just couldn't hear you over the voices in my head. That would be a great way to be checked into a mental hospital. "Son?" Oh right, he couldn't be making jokes at his inner turmoil, he had to focus on the fact that he and fucked up in front of everyone- including Eret!
Tommy slammed his hand against the table, making Wilbur jump back. "Something's wrong," Tommy deduced, staring at Wilbur intently. He scanned the table, then paused and said, "Wil- is that blood?" He pointed at Wil's fork and sure enough, it was coated in blood. He had forgotten that his hands were still bleeding. It was weird, being half dead to the world. It was like he had slipped underwater, and everything, including his thoughts, were muted. It was a nice feeling, not having to be alone with his thoughts. In his experience, that was a terrible place to be.
He mutely brought his hands out from under the table, watching the tiny streams of blood flow freely down his hands. He distantly registered everyone else's gasps of horror. To Wilbur, this was nothing. He remembered the first time he had cut and panicked, cutting too deep for his first time. The blood had coated his wrist. He had thanked God that he was the only one in the house, and that Phil didn't look at their search history. Just to be safe, Wilbur had deleted his searches of 'what to do if someone is bleeding a lot', 'first aid tutorials', and 'how to bandage deep cuts' from his history.
His hands were moving on their own, pulling up his sleeves. He hadn't realized how damp his bandages had gotten, but now, they were soaked through with blood. The dark fabric from before had hid it, but now, his arms were out in the open. Not quite in the open, yet, though. But gasps and horrified murmurs pierce through his underwater bliss, and he screwed his eyes shut. Stop it, stop it, just let me be and let me go, no, please...
He feels his cuts begin to sting and he realized that oh shit, they were taking off the bandages. It takes a coupler seconds for his mind to process this, and by that time he knows that they've gotten all of them off and they're seeing everything and the scars and he was bleeding quite a lot and why was he crying? and oh, he was tired. He just wanted to slip into oblivion and not wake up, to leave everything behind and to not have to face another morning.
So he let the blackness take him, praying that he wouldn't have to wake up and inflict himself on anyone else ever again.
(...)
When Tommy sees the cuts, he wants to- he doesn't know what. He wants to shake Wilbur because WHY?! But he also wants to shake himself, because how could he not have noticed that Wilbur was doing this. Had been doing this, based on the amount of scars that lined his wrists, that marked him a survivor of his tortuous mind. Tommy wanted to scream, because Wilbur was hurting, and he hadn't noticed. Nobody had noticed.
Then Wilbur's eyes had widened, and they had hazed over and the worst part was, while Wilbur had looked so out of it, he looked the most peaceful he had in months. Months. Had this been going on for months? Had Tommy been stupidly oblivious for months? When Wilbur had played music for him on the floor of his room, when he was acting weird and Tommy had brushed it aside, had Wilbur been hurting himself in the other side of that door? Had Tommy just not seen the signs?
Wilbur fell, Eret's quickly catching him. The look on their face wasn't a good one. "He's so light," Eret mumbled, easily scooping Wilbur up. Wilbur was over 6 foot, Eret shouldn't be able to pick him up like he was a sack of potatoes. But that was what they had done and were doing, carefully carrying him to the couch.
Tommy couldn't move as everything moved around him. Phil was grabbing a first aid kit, Techno was pacing and muttering, and Eret was doing some doctor shit, mumbling about malnutrition and sleep deprivation. Tommy? Tommy's mind couldn't comprehend that this had actually happened. That Wilbur, loud, cheerful, singing Wilbur, had done this. All of this. He scanned through his memories searching for some sign that this wasn't right.
Wilbur watching Clue with them, sandwiched between Techno and Tommy. Tommy had thought he was imagining feeling Wilbur's ribs through his sweater. He had chosen not to say anything about the bandage he had seen when Wilbur was keeping the remote away from him. He hadn't known why Wilbur would look so tense about a scale, but he hadn't called him out. Maybe he should have.
Wilbur when he was playing music for them both, when Wilbur hadn't let him in his room. That was strange, wasn't it? And hadn't there been a red spot on the carpet of what could have been blood? Why hadn't he spoken up? And Wilbur not singing so loud Techno had to yell to shut him up, singing so loud, like he was playing for the sun and the sky, singing so loud that you just couldn't help but smile, all of that wasn't normal. Wilbur had sung like he wasn't sure if anyone would want to hear. Wilbur had sung like he didn't want to ruin someone's day by opening his mouth. Wilbur had sung like he was shy, and that wasn't Wilbur.
Memories flashed and flickered like an old film reel and with every one, Wilbur seemed less and less like the smiling older brother and more and more like the Wilbur he was now; broken and quiet and suffering in silence. Tommy was aware of the three older men filing into the kitchen, looking relieved and sad and in each of their faces, he could see some semblance of Wilbur.
Techno's red eyes matched the look in Wilbur's brown ones, the hopeless look of someone who was seeing a broken world and didn't know how to put the pieces together.
The fading tears on Phil's face mirrored the ones that had stained Wilbur's face before he collapsed.
Eret's frown containing layers of sadness Tommy could only see, see but not assuage, was identical to Wilbur's when he had noticed Tommy looking at him worriedly over dinner.
And Tommy broke.
While he was crying and while he could hear them comforting him, he made a silent vow. I'm helping Wilbur. And maybe it was just him, or maybe it as God realizing that he had messed with the wrong fucking family, but the world seemed a little bit brighter, and things seemed a little bit better. And at this point? A little bit was enough.