Chapter Text
Wilbur dips the toe of his boot in the water, testing it's trustworthiness. He deems it safe, pulling off his beanie and letting his unruly brown curls spill into his eyes. Dipping his hands in the cool liquid he brings it up to his face. Hoping to clear the stresses away with a single splash of water. It doesn't erase his feelings completely, but he finds that his mind is more understandable and he can see better. He pats his damp face with his sleeve, pulling at the cotton of his jumper and leaving it wet stained. He walks a couple steps away from the lake side, slumping at the foot of a large tree.
He comes here often, usually with a guitar in tow or heavy thoughts to spill into words written on paper. Today it's just him. Tommy's loud voice, Techno's quietude and Phil's ever patience had been rubbing Wil the wrong way this morning. Tubbo, of course, always an angel. He had had to evacuate quicker than usual, not even able to grab his old coat with the notebooks in its pockets. The morning chill descends on Wil's shoulders. His fingers were cold from their brief trip in the water. His knees to his chest, he rests his chin on his elbows. Rocking back and forth gently, matching the beat of nature. The tree creaks, the water laps, the bird chirps.
It's not long before he starts to cry. Soft, beautiful salt tears that drip down his face in great globules before hanging off his chin, then falling to his lap. He sniffs. Pulling at his sleeve again, wiping at his eyes. He drops his head on his knees, looking at his lap, then letting his eyes close. The tears squeeze past his locked eyes. He breathes like that for a moment then looks up sharply with a sniff. And smiles.
He has no paper to write on, no cassette to record on but oftentimes Wil finds he writes best when it's only in his head.
If I were but a fish, he thinks.
Life would be so simple.
I'd flap my fins,
Eat my dins and find love oh so simple.
To live the life of a fish.
It's weak, Wil knows. But he smiles at the thought. He knows no fish swim this close to the shore, the shallow depths make little place to hide. But he can imagine their small silver bodies shimmering in the sunlight.
Phil had taught them all how to hunt fish. He remembers Tommy's squeals of disgust as Techno had pulled one out of the stream, it's head already removed and bloodied. Techno had this big grin, and he had looked to Phil as if for approval. Even though he'd been doing it for years. Decades even. And Phil had smiled at him and said, "Look Wil, do as Techno does." And Wil's small, young hands had fumbled for the slippery creatures, unable to catch one.
He thinks if he had caught one, he wouldn't have killed it. Only looked at it proudly and said, "Aren't you lucky." And set it free.
Wil wipes his eyes again, he's not quite sure when he started crying again but he laughs at himself. Crying over fish? Now that is weak.
He leans back on his elbows, spreading his legs out in front of him. His trousers are too short again, he'll have to un-hem them when he gets home. He thinks this absentmindedly, knowing that he probably won't get round to it until Phil points it out at least a couple of times. He sighs, supposing he should go home. It is his Tommy's birthday after all. And, like with any day, he must be given the utmost attention from everyone. Especially Wil, who he looks up to so very much.
And so he stands. Brushes his trousers of dirt, saluting the water goodbye before laughing to himself. Nobody's watching, but still he must play the part. With that he waves, see you next time.
---
Love is something complicated for Wil. He sees how easy it is for Phil to think of Her fondly, how quickly Tommy runs into Wil's arms and even how lovingly Techno looks after the dogs (which seem to be growing vastly in numbers). As for himself, he is unsure. He's almost certain he loves Tommy, although he'd never tell him. He gives him his unwanted food scraps, picks him up to pet the cows, lets him cover Wil in stickers. But is that what love is? He feels they should be related by blood, as all others that Love are. Phil reminds him that Love is found, through his love for Techno, Tommy, Tubbo... Found centuries ago, in a twisted tree, in a box. But he's not sure he believes it. Wil supposes he has to love Phil, he is his own flesh and blood after all; however much they disagree or he doesn't pay attention.
Wil is at the water side again. This time the stars are out. He has remembered his notepad and pencil, his overly large coat. Battered guitar on the grass beside him, ready to be picked up at any moment.
He is contemplating love. Love with a capitalised L. He made sure to underline it. He had written that word, Love, and then come away with nothing. He had started on the guitar, testing out new strings.
I think I've lost my mind
Blurring the fact and the fictions
While simultaneously fixing
Myself up with a girl.
There he had stopped. Will he ever have Love like that? Fast thoughts, risky mouths, heated breaths. Unable to think of anything but Her. Be utterly in love.
For Wil doesn't know how Love feels. Not this kind of love. He knows the given, obvious love of a family. But he wants something else.
He decides to write about that. Setting off from his original path of current Love, and scribbling his hopes of future Love. The unknown kind.
I thought I couldn't love anymore
Turns out I can't
Not for the same reasons as before
I use everyone I ever meet
I can't find the perfect match
Abuse those I love
While I ostracise the ones who love me back
Wilbur reads this over and over. It doesn't seem quite right. This stanza he has written rings untrue in parts. Or an over exaggeration. And it isn't what he set out to write at all. This is dark and unwanted. Not hopeful.
He supposes that's what creativity is. What is music but not an over exaggeration of one's soul? Every thought and feeling laid out bare, to be prod at and hung up in frames under a spotlight.
The night had grown dimmer, clouds having covered the moon. He takes out a lighter from his pocket, produces a small candle from another and sets it in the ground next to him. Flicking the flame alive, he lights it.
It dances for a moment before settling, steadily bobbing from side to side.
Wil sighs. Scribbling at a few ideas, underlining, crossing out.
It was no good. He wasn't feeling it tonight. He puts the notebook aside, wrapping his arms around his middle and pulling his legs up to meet his chest. He is lonely.
His notebook is scratty and thin. Many pages have been torn out in fits of disgust, or to be pinned to his wall under his bed so he can look at his proudest words at night.
He's sent many pages alight by that same candle. Watching them burn pinched between his fingers, before letting go, embers blowing away with the wind.
Those rituals are only reserved for the worst of ideas. The others he knew he had to let go were sent down stream in the form of paper boats or cranes. Wil was a firm believer that if an idea wasn't right, it should be sent away before it ruins the ideas that come after it.
He rocks gently from side to side, mimicking the flickering flame. It's late. Phil will be worried.
But Wil finds he doesn't care all too much. The man could use a good scare to get his adrenaline going. To Wils knowledge, he's not been up to much except cooking, looking after Tommy, Tubbo and feeding the animals in their farm. As soon as he thinks about him, a well of guilt seems to form in his stomach. With no one there to see him sulk and moan, it doesn't seem at all worth it. Love, love, love. He really is a mopey mess.
He sighs, folding his legs into a basket and picking up his notebook. He tears out the page he had been working on. He folds, pressing the edges neatly; as Techno had shown him. Until a small boat forms. He looks at it fondly, then stands. Bending to place it gently on the rippling water. Standing up straight and saluting as it sails down stream.
He picks up his guitar, slinging it over his shoulder and begins the trek home.