Archive of Our Own

Wilbur once pondered on the question of what is the definition of art. Well, Phil’s answer was something about communication, telling the world what you want them to feel. Techno, in his angsty teenage years, nonchalantly replied that it was spilling enemies’ blood over the white snow. Tubbo excitedly responded that art was something beautiful, like the golden bees that floated around Lmanberg.

While on the road, heading to a new place to call home, Wilbur noticed Tommy doodling over the edges of their maps. His sketches resembled the flora that lined their path, each tree and flower they passed by. At dusk, he asked Tommy how he defined art. Tommy immediately replied, with no hesitation and his gaze set on his drawings, “It’s an extension of yourself.”

That would have been Wilbur's answer too.

Apparently, Tommy’s artistic abilities were quite a surprise to everyone. Every day, he had a tiny sketchbook in one hand and an array of pens in his pocket. On the first day traveling, Tommy burned through numerous pages, catching glimpses of figures and gesturing them on the spot. Then, it became a certain number of pages until each inch of the sketchbook was covered in ink. Of course, Tommy showed his drawings to each person he drew with his puffed out chest and a grin stretching from ear to ear. Tubbo admired them immensely, Sam ruffled Tommy’s hair as a sign of appreciation, Callahan showed his love through sign language, and Niki placed them up in her bakery (if Tommy decided to rip them out of his book that is). What they all shared in common was their first reaction: “Wow, Tommy! I didn’t think that you could draw so well!”

Wilbur did not understand their confusion. Then again, it was most likely because he had watched Tommy draw so many times, Tommy without a pencil or paper would just simply not be Tommy. Being his older brother and an artist too, he had a biased perspective.  

Unlike Tommy, his art centered around auditory imagery. When he saw that acoustic guitar in the window of that instrument shop, he knew that he could not separate himself from music. It grabbed him by his soul and demanded that he should make symphonies. So, he constantly carried his guitar around in his black leather case. It permanently created a case shape on his back with his spine curving over to accommodate the weight. But, he would not mind getting a hunchback if it meant that he and his guitar were together.

Seeing Tommy’s hands consistently stained in ink, he bet that Tommy felt the same way too.

Wilbur sighed and sat underneath an oak tree, located off to the corner of Lmanberg, the roots softly poking his legs. He positioned the guitar in his hands and started touching the strings absentmindedly. An incoherent song echoed through the silent forest, occasionally bouncing off the walls of the new country. Everyone was getting ready to sleep, and Wilbur volunteered to take the first watch. Coincidentally, there were no recent disputes between them and Dream’s company. But, his body was conditioned to be a soldier, and soldiers never rest. 

“Hey dickhead!”

Wilbur’s hands instantly froze as an aggressive shudder traveled from the top of his spine down to his toes. His head turned around so violently, a headache permeated through his skull. 

“What do you want?” he questioned, a little bitter in his delivery.

Tommy seemed surprised at his tone too. “Oh, you’re back to your old ‘oh I write sad songs because it makes me look cool’ angst,” he mocked with air quotes and a playful smile. “What, have another ex-girlfriend to write about?”

Wilbur sighed as one of his hands rubbed part of his skull in hopes to relieve his headache. “Did you need me for something or are you just here to annoy me?” he inquired. “I’m busy here.”

Tommy blinked, staring down at his guitar. “Uh…you don’t look too busy to me,” he said with one eyebrow raised.

Wilbur groaned. “I’m trying to have some alone time, Tommy!” he informed him, his delivery accidentally a little loud. “Can you just piss off?”

Tommy took a step back. “Um…okay,” he mumbled, his voice suddenly mellowed out. 

Wilbur frowned deeply, his eyebrows forming jagged crease lines against his skin. Sure, being a soldier meant to face the world’s horrible dangers, thus becoming cynical as well. Yet, it was not a soldier’s job to go against a comrade. When he realized he needed to apologize, Tommy spoke up first. 

“Well, um…there was something I wanted to show you,” Tommy admitted quietly. “...since you were talking about it the other day…I'll just show you it another time.”

With that, Tommy briskly walked away.

Wilbur decided to no longer play the guitar that night. 

Next morning, Wilbur arrived at Tommy’s house. A sigh escaped out of his chapped lips as his hand reluctantly knocked on the wooden door. It was not like him to lose his composure the other day, especially not around his brother. Now, his stomach churned with guilt. 

“Tommy?” Wilbur called. “I would like to talk to you.” He grimaced after that. Why was he acting so formal, especially around Tommy out of all people? Maybe he went too far this time if his body naturally acted like they were acquaintances.

“Tommy?” Wilbur called again. 

Tommy was never a silent person. There would always be sounds bouncing off the edges of the Earth with him around. ‘His art is like that too,’ he thought longingly. Bright, bold colors splattered across the canvas with messy, chaotic lines. A beautiful mess, Phil eloquently stated when he was actually home so he could finally appreciate what his son was doing. 

So, for nothing to respond back, Wilbur felt his shoulders tense and his right hand slightly tremble. 

“I’m coming in,” Wilbur exclaimed before opening the door. 

Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. Not as surprisingly but surprising nonetheless, Tommy was not there. Eyes narrowed with concern, Wilbur slowly took a step inside and scanned his surroundings. “Tommy?” he called one more time, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. Right when he was about to draw his weapon, he caught something in the corner of his eye.

There, he spotted a flag. The flag was hurriedly stuffed into one of the chests, the corners peeking out of the slit. Curiosity screamed at his mind, begging to touch with his hands shaking with the same level of animosity. With no one watching, he quietly walked up to the chest and pulled out the flag. 

It was decorated in beautiful, primary colors. The gold yellow highlighted from the sunshine pouring from outside. Additionally, the vibrant red contrasted well with the dark, calm blue. All the primaries resembled such a sharp design with ‘x’ signs over the flag. 

There, he recalled the conversation he had with Tommy about a flag design. If they desired to make Lmanberg a legitimate country, they needed a flag to represent their people. During their brainstorming and sketching, Wilbur described to Tommy what he imagined Lmanberg to look like: a strong-willed nation united. 

The flag resembled his vision of Lmanberg so perfectly, he forgot how to breathe in that moment. 

“Wilbur?” a voice gently asked behind him.

Wilbur immediately turned around and locked eyes with Tommy. “Did you make this?” he questioned immediately, gesturing to the flag that his hands gently grasped.

Tommy’s eyes seemed to dance around, a weird glint of hesitation stirred in his sapphire eyes. Eventually, he smirked. “What? Would you believe me if I said yeah?” he asked him as his arms crossed over his chest protectively. “I mean, it’s in my fucking house after all, dickhead.”

Wilbur glanced down at the flag again before making eye contact again. “Tommy I…this is beautiful.”

Tommy’s smile dropped instantly. 

“Tommy, can I…” Wilbur swallowed before continuing in a soft voice. “Can I use this for Lmanberg?” 

Tommy gulped as his eyes averted, a little too quickly Wilbur observed. “If you want, I don’t fucking care,” he responded defensively. “Do whatever you want with it, man.”

The next day, Wilbur immediately pitched the design idea to everyone. In less than 24 hours, the flag was approved and hung up. If Tommy seemed more bright than usual, grinning open from ear to ear, WIlbur kept it to himself.

As a poet, Wilbur picked up a habit of observing and putting visuals into words. Rhymes weaved together in seconds. His mind supplied any way to add consonance, assonance, alliteration, any poetic method he could grasp automatically. Seeing Tommy desperately flicking arrows with his bow, his mind began messily creating a tragic poem based on a pyrrhic meter. 

He thought Tommy was too arrogant, too brash to suggest a duel in the first place with Dream. Yet, surprisingly, Dream accepted his offer, and a new opportunity to become a legalized country appeared. Wilbur’s heart thumped in his chest, hands fidgeting in his coat pockets. Maybe, as he watched the two of them fight with arrows, maybe Tommy would save Lmanberg...

In a flash, an arrow pierced Tommy’s chest.

Tommy wobbled on the platform before losing his balance.

He fell into the lake underneath.

Suddenly, Wilbur thought about the times that Tommy would try watercolor. In true Tommy fashion, he would groan and sigh loudly to disturb every single neighbor nearby. "This shit takes too long to fucking dry," he complained with an agitated grimace. Tommy informed Wilbur once that with watercolor, you needed time and patience, and Tommy, oh chaotic mess Tommy, had neither. Every watercolor painting attempt resulted in Tommy aggressively tearing up the painting with his hands.

Wilbur wanted to say that they were his favorite paintings because they resembled something that was unlike Tommy.

Gentle. Tranquil. Serene.

Qualities that no one would associate with the loud, annoying gremlin who would yell at your ear at the brink of dawn and holler until the stars demanded silence. 

Yet, the water slowly turning dark red from Tommy’s paint felt neither gentle, tranquil, or serene.

“TOMMY!”

Before anyone could stop him, Wilbur dived head first into the lake. 

His body instinctively shivered from the cold temperature, and his coat began heavily weighing him down. But, all he could think about was Tommy, Tommy, oh my god, Tommy -

Swimming downwards, he could barely make up a silhouette of the wounded soldier. If this was a poem, he would describe how Tommy was Icarus, with his golden hair resembling Icarus’s waxed wings. A fallen hero, a brazen fool, a drowning child…

A younger brother.

Wilbur grabbed Tommy’s hand and pulled him up to the surface quickly. 

…Tommy managed to survive after getting treated with multiple salves and medicines. 

Dream barely missed a vital spot right near his heart.

Wilbur strummed his guitar so much that his fingernails chipped and his fingertips bruised… 

Tommy began walking a few days after the duel. He mainly leaned on Tubbo who would guide him outside around Lmanberg. Wilbur would watch them two carefully in between his breaks while wrapping his damaged hands with bandages. The two brothers barely had any time for each other, one busy recovering and one too wrapped up on figuring out the consequences of war. Unfortunately, Wilbur had been constantly awake rebuilding huts and shelters after Lmanberg had been utterly decimated. He bet that his eyebags appeared as if Tommy painted his eyes with burgundy acrylic.

On a regular Wednesday morning, partly cloudy sky, Tommy confronted Wilbur with a weird glint in his cobalt eyes. Before Wilbur could comment that the blond should not be walking on his own, Tommy opened his mouth. “I would like to visit Dream, but I want you to come with me,” he informed him, with no room for jokes nor refusal. 

Wilbur cocked one of his eyebrows. His brain screamed at the mention of Dream, already figuring out how many insults he could pack into one spiteful song. Yet, he reminded himself to remain calm and tried to understand Tommy’s request instead. “Why are you asking me and not Tubbo?” he questioned genuinely. 

Tommy sighed heavily as he averted his eyes to the left. Wilbur did not need to turn his head to know that Tommy was glancing where Tubbo was temporarily staying. “Tubbo would definitely say no,” he stated with a small shrug. “He’d convince me it’s a shitty idea and…knowing me, I’d believe him…” Tommy paused before glancing back up at Wilbur. “But, I need to do this though. Please.”

A small chill touched Wilbur’s skin, leaving behind goosebumps. Tommy’s expression reminded him of a faint Sunday where he crafted thumbnails upon thumbnails on his sketchbook. With a pen scribbling furiously, Tommy stared at the book with such fever, Wilbur refused to let any nearby sound interrupt him. "It’s like making a plan," Tommy once elaborated when he noticed Wilbur was staring at his work from afar. "You need to set up everything before you paint."

Once he reached a conclusion, Wilbur finally nodded his head. “Fine, sure, I can come with you,” he replied.

Tommy smiled faintly. Wilbur could not help but remark silently that it might have been one of the most honest smiles he had received lately from Tommy.  “Thanks Wil,” Tommy responded. A few seconds later, his lips curved downwards. He paused for a moment before he resumed talking, fingers slightly twitching. “Um, can you also let Dream and I talk privately too? Honestly, I just want you there for reassurance.”

Wilbur nodded his head again, albeit very reluctantly. “Sure…” he mumbled, gnawing on his lip. “But, if that man does anything to you, even fucking breathes the wrong way…” He placed his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “...you yell for me, got it?”

Tommy nodded his head instantly, his previous smile returning back. “Of course, big man.”

To be frank, Wilbur had no idea why Tommy wanted to speak with Dream, especially after the duel. Or maybe, he had an inkling, but his sleep deprived mind could barely calculate or analyze. So, he stood off to the sides, watching the clouds steadily soar through the atmosphere.

Suddenly, he thought of a father, barely at home and almost always adventuring through the sky. He recalled the suitcase making a permanent spot next to the door, ready to flee in a certain man’s grip. Sometimes, there would be a drawing placed on top of the suitcase. Yet, each art piece would meet its fate of collecting dirt on the floorboards, no father claiming it.

Tommy was thirteen when he jokingly told Wilbur that they should pack their belongings and start an adventure together. It was Saturday in summer, with the two boys sweating raindrops and laying on the living room floor. “It’s boring staying in one place, innit?” he continued. “I mean, Phil and Techno can’t stay still for one fucking day.” In hindsight, Wilbur forgot when he last heard Tommy call his father ‘dad.’ 

Tommy was fourteen when he began researching geography. He would come home with mountains of books, pages replicating each city’s culture in text. With his steps skipping high off of floorboards, he shared his knowledge with Wilbur through art. “This what I’d imagine Kinoko Kingdom look like!” he stated, gesturing to his new acrylic painting. The landscape was adorned with a warm, sunset palette, portraying cotton candy clouds and soft architecture. “Say, would you live in a place like this, or…I’d reckon it needs more testosterone to fit your angsty vibe, yeah?”

Tommy was fifteen when he convinced Wilbur that they should move. The rain plummeted outside, violently thrashing against the window panes. Tommy stared at him with such intensity, Wilbur instinctively glanced away. “There’s nothing left for us,” he explained. “I’m tired of fucking around, not doing anything, and no one to care about.” Wilbur wanted to interject, explain to Tommy that he cared. But, the blond boy continued, dark blue eyes resembling a storm at sea. “We should head for Esempi.”

But, did Tommy know that he would have to suffer more when he wanted to leave a house that already caused so much suffering? 

He momentarily flinched when someone tapped on his shoulder. Wilbur snapped out of his daydream, seeing the hill of golden locks and the familiar bright shade of red in front of him. Before Wilbur could ask what happened with Dream or if everything was okay, Tommy stated with a grin, “Let’s go home, Wil.”

Wilbur blinked. Home. Had he heard Tommy ever call Lmanberg that? Or, worse, when was even the last time he heard Tommy call a place ‘home?’ He could remember how many times he heard Tommy sob alone at night, gut-wrenching cries echoing through a silent house. How many times had he listened instead of comforting his brother…because the person meant to embrace Tommy had embraced his work instead. Yet, the comments of praise diminished, and the paintings on the wall dwindled consequently. ‘Did Tommy ever feel alone?’ his mind questioned, suddenly panicked. ‘Is that why he wanted to leave so badly? Should I have done something differently? Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I was meant to create songs not comfort. No one taught me how to do this, how can I do anything? How can I be the one to help Tommy when I can barely help myself? How-’

“Wilbur? Wil?” Tommy called hesitantly.

With a shudder, Wilbur brought himself back to consciousness and stared at Tommy. He may not understand Tommy’s sincere passion for painting, yet right at this moment, all he could think was the canvas in front of him. The far mountains framed his body, the blue sky blended in with his vibrant eyes, and the chartreuse grass reached to caress his bandages. Wilbur pondered distinctly that he wished he could commit this to memory, so Tommy could paint this same image and know the kind of man Wilbur saw: an artist too colorful for this dull earth.

Wilbur smiled, eyes wet. “L-Let’s just go home, Tommy.”

The next day, Dream made a huge announcement and demanded everyone to listen. At first, Wilbur tensed and grabbed the nearest weapon, body itching to stand in position and guard. Yet, he was rendered speechless when he heard Dream’s proclamation. 

“As of today, I will recognize Lmanberg as an official nation that coincides with Esempi!” Dream declared, voice cheerful and arms spread open. There was more to his speech, but Wilbur could only stand there, eyes wide. All the noises drowned and murmured, leaving himself in his shock void. His mind attempted to spew logic, find something coherent about Dream’s statement, yet he could not find any satisfying conclusion. They literally lost the war; why would Dream ever grant their independence?

That was when Wilbur’s gaze moved and spotted an item in Dream’s hand. It took him less than a second to realize that one of Tommy’s disks was with Dream. A poem from his stained poetry books began displaying behind his eyes. “ From the hard stone of death, you smile ,” he whispered underneath his breath. He turned his head to find his brother, only to spot Tubbo embracing Tommy tightly with Tommy joking about getting no oxygen. “ They used to write epics about moments like this .” 

If he was a historian writing history books, Wilbur would write how a teenage boy risked his whole life for one nation, one measly van…one brother. But, he was a musician, so he instead started writing the Lmanberg anthem with extreme vigor, pencil never leaving his notebook. Hopefully, he thought fondly one evening, this does Tommy’s sacrifice justice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Wilbur repeatedly mumbled as he took long, panicked strides to Tommy’s house. “Shit, fuck, Tommy!” His worn out boots kicked the dirt, scattering peebles and blades of grass. Once he got to his destination, his fist slammed against the door. He flinched at how loud it sounded, hoping he did not scare Tommy. Wilbur pinched his nose and tried to inhale and exhale deeply. Yet, his poor attempt at calming down only burned the fires of his gut brighter. “Fuck, Tommy-”

Right on cue, the door opened, revealing Tommy with some colored ink stained on his cheeks. “Wilbur?” he asked in a soft voice.

Wilbur prepared to holler, to scream, to become a dragon and breathed out the flames that licked his insides, like the old fairy tales he faintly recalled back in his childhood. He knew that his emotions controlled him more than he could control himself, an antagonist he wrote himself. But, seeing how concerned and gentle Tommy appeared in the doorway, he took a deep breath to deliver the unfortunate news.
“Quackity knows.”

Tommy widened his eyes as he unconsciously swallowed. “Shit, that’s not good,” he remarked under his breath.

“Tell me something that I don't know!” Wilbur snapped instinctively. Seeing how violently Tommy shuddered, he let out a long sigh in hopes to calm down his nerves. “Look, we need a new plan,” he continued in a quieter voice. “W-We need to make sure our campaign is way better than that…slimey, stupid, low level-”

“Wil!” Tommy called. Two, warm weights landed on Wilbur’s shoulders. “Calm down, big man,” the blond told him with a determined gaze. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Wilbur stared at his brother’s face, mesmerizing each sun spot that adorned his peach complexion as a way to ground himself. Multiple deep breaths later, he regained a small sense of composure. During the silent moment between them, Wilbur curiously noted the stains on Tommy’s skin.

Wilbur peered over his shoulder and finally found the source of those stains. “You’re already making our campaign poster?” he guessed. 

Tommy followed his gaze and straightened his posture automatically. “Yeah! I mean, uh, we could always change it,” he informed him, unease settling in his unusually quiet voice. “We don’t have to do our original idea.”

With a few curious steps, Wilbur observed the campaign poster more. Hand perched under his chin, he stared and stared until it was nothing but a blur of shapes. Would it actually be enough to defeat Quackity? Quackity did warn him that he would go all out for the election. A prickle of self-doubt evaded his mind.

“This won’t work,” Wilbur stated bluntly with a shake of his head. “We have to go bolder.”

Tommy blinked before nodding quickly. “Uh yeah! We sure-”

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” Wilbur hissed instinctively. 

Tommy’s lips parted, but no words passed as he silently nodded his head.

That whole night, Wilbur planned and planned and planned for how their presidential campaign would run. He continuously brainstormed with Tommy furiously taking down notes until they finally reached a full length stratagem. 

They would not fuck this up, not if Wilbur could control it. 

Wilbur always berated writers for suddenly adding a twist in a story. There was no build up, no anticipation, no reward; it was simply in your face for shock value. 

It was safe to say that he despised Quackity.

When preparing the first incoming presidential debate, he mentally crafted lyrics to metaphorically sing to people. He could imagine himself standing at the podium, arms reaching out to figuratively touch people. A golden light from a window pane would shine at his figure, illuminating him and his diction. Everyone would gleam and stare while Quackity and his no-good, shitty ass campaign sneer in disdain. 

Lmanberg deemed him ‘The Man of Words’ based on his leadership and his meticulously planned out speeches. Eret once stated that his speeches were like siren’s songs; they would captivate you, reach out and embrace your soul, and suddenly you were gone in the ocean. 

Wilbur winced at the reminder of Eret before shoving that thought down.

Yet, like the harsh tidal waves, his emotions crashed down, and his raspy voice was stained with salty insults and urchin like stabs. 

It just so happened that Tommy frequented the shore.

Wilbur sometimes wished Tommy would stop getting so close to him.

You can drown at sea.

“What the hell is this?” Wilbur asked with one eyebrow raised, gesturing to the paper that Tommy just handed to him. 

“That’s my amazing, badass vice president speech!” Tommy answered, oblivious to the inner turmoil saturating, disintegrating Wilbur’s gut. “You know, the one we are going to present before the next debate!”

Wilbur stared at Tommy with disbelief, his mind frantically searching for any source of comedy. Honestly, if Tommy was performing satire right now, he would be damn impressed as even a writer like himself was incredibly fooled. Yet, Tommy never suggested that his unprofessional speech was anything close to satirical, and his satisfied grin seemed too…genuine.  

Wilbur’s hands itched to slap that wicked, smug expression adorned on Tommy’s face. 

…wait, slap?

Before he could analyze the cruel nature in his thinking, he distracted himself by forcing himself to focus on Tommy’s crude handwriting once again.  

“You are not going to say ‘poggers’ in a presidential speech, Tommy,” Wilbur criticized in a low voice. 

“But, ‘poggers’ captures our whole campaign, Wil!” Tommy explained. “You can’t get any more pog than that.”

Wilbur took a long sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to be this immature when we are presenting our campaign?” he asked.

Tommy seemed to freeze in place. In the back of his mind, Wilbur noted that sometimes, Tommy would lose his cheerful spark and instead speak so softly, even the wind would overpower him. It would consequently be when Wilbur’s bitterness surrounded him. Yet, that did not halt the cruel words from escaping out of his lips. 

“I didn’t realize that you would be so bad at writing,” Wilbur commented with a shake of his head. “It’s fine, I’ll revise them. You might as well have me write all of them if all your speeches are gonna be shit.”

“No, I-I can rewrite it if you want,” Tommy rebutted. 

“Leave it, Tommy,” Wilbur said, gripping the edges of the paper. A slight tear echoed. “I can’t have you ruining our campaign. Go focus on something else instead of being a disappointment.”

The next day, when Wilbur was gathering papers together, the door slammed open. Before he let out a startled breath, a stinging sensation burst on his cheek. 

“What the fuck did you say to Tommy?” a voice demanded.

Wilbur covered his burning cheek first before turning his head and meeting Tubbo. The small teenager had hands clenched into ghost white fists. His thick eyebrows creased, and his lips moved into a snarl. “What the hell are you talking about?” Wilbur asked genuinely, fingers instinctively massaging his complexion. Damn, he could taste traces of iron in his mouth. He forgot how strong Tubbo became, especially after the war.

“Tommy came to my house last night! He looked like he’s about to cry!” he stated with animated gestures. “Kept repeating about needing to work harder.” His glare deepened, eyes razor sharp. “You fucking told him that, didn’t you?”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes as his arms crossed over his chest unconsciously. Something cold and ugly crawled at the bottom of his stomach. “No, I didn’t say anything like-”

“Bullshit!” Tubbo yelled. In a blink, he stepped forward and tugged a fistful of Wilbur’s shirt. Wilbur almost tripped over his own boots, trying to regain balance. “I know that Tommy cares about what you think!” Tubbo continued, spit flying from his mouth. “If anyone else were to insult him, he’d have brushed them off! It’s only you that Tommy would drop his entire self for. Get that through your thick fucking skull, prick!”

Wilbur attempted to debate back and pull out a counterargument. Attempted was the keyword. Even when it came to Tommy's favorite thing, no one managed to effectively offend him. Every time Dream taunted with some insult about his art, Tommy constantly shrugged it off with a self assured smirk. There was a time where Tommy ‘accidentally’ poured paint on Dream as revenge. When George and Sapnap mocked his drawings, Tommy flipped them off and called them ‘fuckheads.’ Even that one day when Quackity joked about his artwork, Tommy laughed at him and proceeded to make a silly caricature of him to show everyone. Quackity never joked about Tommy’s art again.

‘Do I matter that much to Tommy?’ a voice sounding suspiciously like himself whispered in the back of his mind. 

Eventually, Tubbo let go of Wilbur’s shirt. “Let me tell you something, Wilbur,” Tubbo informed him in a calmer voice. Somehow, this new tone uneased Wilbur. “Tommy has been working his ass off for this campaign. You know, I used to ask him stuff to draw. But now, he told me he can’t anymore. He told me he’s too busy for you, for Lmanberg. Give him some fucking credit, or I swear to Prime, I will grab your ass and dig you 6 feet under.”

With that, Tubbo spun around and headed for the door. Before he exited, he stopped at the door frame and lingered for a second. Soon, he spoke up. “It took me a fat minute to make sure he’s okay,” Tubbo informed him, hand resting on the doorknob. “You better thank me for the damage control.”

The door slammed shut.

‘I wish Tommy stopped caring about me,’ the same voice muttered.

Wilbur could not bring himself to deny that statement. 

The next time the two brothers shared a conversation, when they met at their usual writing post, Tommy apologized first.

“Y’know, I’m sorry for disappointing you, Wilbur,” Tommy informed him tensely. “Didn’t mean to joke about our plans.”

Wilbur lost the feeling in his hands as his head throbbed. Why was Tommy apologizing to him? Clearly, to any outsider, he had been an asshole when Tommy just tried to lighten the situation. He gulped down the bitter saliva forming in his mouth. “No, I…it was wrong of me to do that…I know writing isn’t your strong suit,” he told him, his dominant hand reaching out and grabbing his left arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you the other day. I was…stressed.”

Tommy did not deserve that half-hearted excuse. Everyone was equally stressed over the thick turmoil happening in current politics. That should not condone his actions, yet the blond boy seemed to beam at that reply. “Thank you, Wilbur,” he replied. Wilbur wished that Tommy reacted differently so he did not have to feel hands grabbing his chest tightly in guilt. 

Consequently, Tommy stayed in courthouses, presidential podiums, and in any place involving politics way longer than usual. The lack of art associated with the boy began to grate Wilbur’s mind. He should not complain that his Vice President has been active in their campaign, yet…

As they continued revising their next debate till the indigo night, Wilbur watched Tommy glare at the paper while his hand furiously scribbled words. He wondered why this sight looked so unnatural until he recognized that there were no sketches of landscapes, people, nor buildings underneath Tommy’s pen. Just diction decorating the sheet, and Wilbur could not help but think something must be wrong.  

His mouth spoke before his brain reacted. “Tubbo asks you for drawings?”

Tommy stopped writing the moment his friend was mentioned. “Well yeah, sometimes,” he answered nonchalantly, eyes racing around the sentences on the paper. “He keeps asking for the same fucking things though.” He stretched his limbs out, the sound of bones cracking occurred whenever he moved. “Prime, if Tubs asks for another bee study, I’m gonna punch the fuck out of him.”

Wilbur chuckled underneath his breath, imagining that scenario. From what he witnessed from Tubbo, he highly doubted that Tommy could defeat him in a test of strength. 

A beat passed. 

“He must’ve said something to you, yeah?” Tommy said, a statement rather than an inquiry.

Wilbur blinked. “You can say something like that,” he replied carefully.

Silence enveloped throughout the room. Tommy resumed writing, and Wilbur copied him instead of asking more about it.

Once they wrapped up their writing session, Tommy bit his lip. Wilbur caught him staring and waited for the blond boy to speak up.

“Look, uh, Wil, can I be able to do gestures on the side?” Tommy asked. “Y’know, those quick sketches I do? I swear I’ll work harder.” 

That ultimately broke Wilbur. Why would Tommy ever ask him permission to do something? Was that why Tommy acted so heartbroken the other day? Or, was that why Tommy had been rejecting even Tubbo? In his state of shock, he nodded slowly as a response. Tommy smiled faintly, a tiny curve barely expressed on his lips. Wilbur could not tell if that smile shredded his heart more or mended some of the pieces together.

Since then, Tommy had begun gesturing in his tiny sketchbook that he kept in his coat pocket.  He only drew gestures of people, mainly their faces and expressions, before resuming his work. Honestly, it calmed down some of Wilbur’s nerves, made him less restless each night. 

A week or so before the election, Wilbur visited the courthouse to clear his mind when he found out that Tommy accidentally left his sketchbook there. He did not mean to pry, but Tommy also unintentionally had the book open. At first, he was going to jokingly reprimand Tommy for being careless (“Quackity might try going through your book to find any of our plans”); however, Wilbur saw the quick sketches of himself in Tommy’s sketchbook. He froze, observing the contorted, malicious expressions he wore in the ink. 

He remembered the first few days in Esempi where Tommy continuously tugged on his sweater sleeve, exasperatedly begging to explore every corner of the country. They kept traveling through villages, educating themselves in the people’s dialects and delicious dishes. Wilbur glanced down at his page and noticed the multitude of figures inside. Each drawing resembled the villagers in such expressive, brush work. He ended up staring at them, fascinated at the lineart.  

“Oi, they’re my gestures,” Tommy explained when Wilbur mentioned it to him. “You can stop staring at them, shithead.”

Wilbur ignored the friendly insult. “Gestures?” he repeated, a little perplexed.

Tommy finally glanced up at him and nodded his head. “Gestures are like less than a minute sketches,” he answered seriously. He must have realized how sincere Wilbur’s question was. “Really handy when people are walking by.”

“How can you be able to draw all of someone in one minute?” Wilbur asked curiously.

Tommy smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling softly. “You draw emotions instead of what you see,” he explained. “Gesturing means…” He started rubbing his cleft chin. A mischievous grin began to form. “Hm, how do I put this so a dickhead like you can understand?”

“Oh shut it, Tommy,” Wilbur joked back as he playfully shoved his shoulder against Tommy’s. That caused the blond teenager to cackle for a few moments before slowly composing himself.

“Well, gestures are…you put your feelings down on paper quickly,” Tommy eventually answered. “Basically, you’re drawing what you feel.”

‘Is this how you think of me?’ he thought sullenly, clutching the sketchbook with trembling hands in the midst of the courtroom. ‘Am I a villain to you?’ Yet, he never once confronted Tommy about them. If he did, he knew that no songs produced on his guitar would ever fill the void in his already soot colored heart.

If Tommy ever saw a random tear stain in his sketchbook, he never mentioned it. 

An exasperated sigh heaved out of Wilbur’s lungs. Somehow, he had this intuitive feeling that something was going to go very wrong today. Logically, it could be because he left his guitar back home since he wanted to appear professional; a politician and a musician cannot mix together. Yet, Wilbur stood in front of an audience with stones settling at the bottom of his stomach. For some odd, unknown reason, he wondered if there was some foreshadowing or some dramatic irony that everyone knew besides himself.

He could feel Tommy’s eyes linger on him. Wilbur did not look back.

But, in his peripheral vision, he could sense Tommy’s hands fidgeting and itching. It seemed like he was not the only one that left his passion at home. 

At that moment, Tubbo’s words began ringing through his brain. ‘It’s only you that Tommy would drop his entire self for.’ Biting his lip, he glanced down at his hands and thought about what it would mean to not play the guitar anymore. He wanted to pull Tommy in, wrap his arms around, and tell him that he should continue drawing more. Not because Tommy was a horrible politician, but he was a better craftsman than anyone else. 

However, he refrained and instead prepared for his incoming speech. Though, mentally, he promised himself that once they won back Lmanberg, he would fix his faults.

Wilbur slowly stepped up to the podium to review the election results.

That would be a huge mistake, the audience mused; dramatic irony has always been a bastard. 

This was not real. 

His heart thumped aggressively against his ribcage, ready to shatter each marrow. 

This was not happening.

His legs demanded for a break, muscles crying in agony. 

Why? Why now?

His lungs hacked and coughed, barely operating with low oxygen.

How wrong was he?

Despite everything, Wilbur continued sprinting as his mind spiraled. 

How much did he royally fuck up?

“Wilbur!”

A tug on his arm brought him back out of his trance. Wilbur abruptly came to a halt, close to tripping himself and falling over. Luckily, Tommy’s weight kept him somewhat balanced.

“I need to get my things!” Tommy reasoned, his head beckoning to his old home.

It took a couple seconds for Wilbur’s deoxygenated brain to realize that Tommy meant his art supplies. Maybe, if the exhaustion was not pulling down his limbs like heavy gravity, or if his ears could no longer pick up the chaotic sounds of Lma- Manberg citizens chasing them, he would agree and let Tommy get back his passion.

However, their situation became utterly dire, and Wilbur refused to let them die now.

“Forget about them!” Wilbur shouted. “We need to leave right now!”

“But-”

“Tommy, do as I say!” he hollered. “We need to go. NOW!”

If he could not get his guitar back, the dark part of Wilbur’s brain thought pettishly, then Tommy could not get his art tools. 

Tommy took one last glance at his house before following Wilbur and resuming their endless run.

Staying hidden in the ravine meant having no access to any art supplies. So, Wilbur began noticing dust sketches or rock sculptures. He could distinctly remember all the times Tommy would jokingly place cobblestone towers, claiming that cobblestone was his favorite. “Never had this back at home,” he once claimed when they were hanging out next to the hot dog van. His peers would laugh at him, sometimes mentioning how uncreative the blond kid seemed. Now that Wilbur thought about it, maybe there was a reason behind it. 

Either way, he got angry seeing the sketching on the cave walls. They were banished, abandoned, hungry, and tired. They had nothing in their disposal. They had no one to help them. 

Wilbur sent a letter quickly to Techno about the scenario, hoping that his other brother would come down to aid them. But, as he helplessly watched the moon descend down and the cracks of dawn shining through, he wondered if Techno would actually go out of his way to meet him. After all, he cannot recall a time his older brother acted like one. 

So, of course, it was not a surprise that Wilbur snapped at Tommy.

“What the fuck are you doing, Tommy?” he asked him. 

Tommy looked up, his hands dirtied from the dust. “I’m-”

“Clearly not figuring out how the hell we are getting back Lmanberg,” Wilbur cynically finished. 

Tommy frowned deeply. “C’mon, Wilbur…we can’t do anything right now,” he replied weakly.

“And that’s why we have to figure out what to do!” Wilbur shouted. “Because we have fucking nothing! Because someone, a certain someone , decided to take what was ours and fucking exile us like we…like we were tiny cockroaches!”

“I know what happened, Wilbur!” Tommy responded, hands clenched into fists. “But, there’s only so much we can do.”

A pause. This was where he should back down, forget what he said and move on. A bitter taste laid on his tongue, a sudden sense of deja vu hanging in the air. But, he was Wilbur, and Wilbur loved to talk until he won. “Are you not taking this as seriously as I am?” Wilbur accused with a malicious chuckle.

The expression of shock on Tommy’s face momentarily hurt him. But, he was too furious to feel sorry. “What?” Tommy breathed. “Of course I’m fucking serious-”

“Then fucking act like it!” Wilbur exclaimed, fist colliding against the cave wall. Tommy flinched at the booming sound. “Because all you’re doing is being a pathetic shithead and drawing all over the fucking walls as if we can even afford to relax for a fucking second! We have a whole ass country out to get us, Tommy!”

Tommy bit his bottom lip. “N-Not everyone is out to get us,” he murmured, head lowered.

Wilbur rolled his eyes as his other hand dragged down his facial features dramatically. “Oh my god, you still believe that Tubbo will help us? Even though we have been fucking exiled?” Wilbur demanded. “Tubbo has never been here! I told you this so many times: Tubbo is not going to take our side! No one wants to be on the losing side!”

Tommy shook his head rapidly. “He will be on our side!” he argued. “By now, Techno should have gotten that letter. And if Techno knows, Phil will know too!”

Wilbur gritted his teeth. “Those are hypotheticals!” he yelled. “They are not facts! You know what is a fact? We are absolutely fucked, and you aren’t doing anything useful this entire time!”

Ultimately, his anger gnawed on his already deteriorating brain for too long. So, he did not process until after that he kicked dust over Tommy’s new drawing, ruining the gesture lines. “If you want to actually fucking man up and get Lmanberg with me, don’t waste my fucking time with these stupid ass drawings.”

Tommy’s eyes still lingered on the ruined drawing. Wilbur turned around quickly and fled the scene. Had he stayed a moment longer, he would have started sobbing for destroying Tommy’s artwork like that.

After that night, there were no more drawings. It seemed like Tommy erased them all. Wilbur forgot how much he secretly anticipated for a new drawing until there were none left.

Days passed on with Tommy avoiding him with a passion. Of course, they talked here and there; there was only so much they could do in a ravine. They greeted each other only in the morning, remained silent while gathering materials, and ate meals with a couple of exchanged words. Wilbur did not even know where he should apologize. So, he never did.

Wilbur contemplated another sleepless night, memorizing the constellations through the cracks. The cold breeze poked through the holes of his chocolate coat, curving over his goosebumps. Next time they were out of that hellhole, Wilbur faintly promised himself that he would finally repair his tattered coat. But, for now, he endeared the frost licked air as his body shivered. 

Then, his ears picked up a sound from a distance. Typically, nights passed by with silence, the world too busy to pay attention to his demise. Yet, a repeating series of hiccups resonated. Wilbur recognized that the sound felt familiar, yet the answer lied at the tip of his tongue. Steadily getting on top of his feet, he decided to investigate the noise as a way to pass time. With each careful step, he explored the ravine silently until he abruptly stopped. 

If he were to categorize how his heart felt at this moment, it would be a tragedy in theater. 

It had been a while since he last heard Tommy cry himself to sleep.

With his feet glued to the ground, he was back at the old house, torturing himself by listening to the melancholic symphonies coming from the other side of the door. His hands clenched together tightly, ready to fracture his phalanges. 

Wilbur created this bad ending for himself. He wrote this tragedy, and now he must finish the play despite the ache in his chest.

He abruptly turned around and walked away.

‘If I am already destroying what I love,’ he thought, ‘I might as well destroy everything else.’ 

The stars burned in the sea of navy, the moonlight illuminating the rims of Dream’s mask. Wilbur smirked as he began to elaborate his soliloquy, his best music piece in the midst of war. There, it would be a crescendo of explosions, and no one could turn away from its thunderous sound.

“Dream, please let me be your vessel,” Wilbur demanded, one knee touching the ground.

A guitar with broken strings cannot play the same songs; the corpse will have to be something else. 

Breaking more strings could not hurt. 

Tommy donned a full set of armor, all his limbs protected in the best metal Techno could find. He cleaned his sword, sharpened it with a rock, and positioned it in his scabbard. Due to staying in the ravine with no opportunity for a haircut, Tommy gathered some of his curly, golden locks into a small ponytail. “I’m ready to kick Schlatt’s hideous ass,” he commented while tying his hair with a spare hair tie Techno graciously gave him. “He’s gonna regret what he did to Lmanberg!”

Distantly, Wilbur thought how much an apron stained in acrylic suited his stature more than his current outfit.

To his surprise, Techno arrived at the ravine with Wilbur’s letter in his tight grasp. Even more surprising, more Lmanberg citizens have been joining their cause to overthrow Schatt’s cruel dictatorship. While the support and the abundance of resources helped, the images of the explosives rigged flashed behind his eyes.

It was currently the 16th, everyone was ready to confront Schlatt, to claim Lmanberg back, and Wilbur wondered for a split second if destroying everything, including himself, was worth it. 

“Wilbur?”

He shook his head as he hastily grabbed his weapon, mentally solidifying his decision. “Yeah, me too,” he agreed. With a sharp turn, he attempted to strut away from the awkward tension in the air. “Let’s get going.” 

Right when he was about to step outside, a sudden weight grabbed his shoulder. Wilbur froze instantly before he steadily turned around to meet the armored boy. “Tommy?” he asked softly. 

“Wilbur…” Tommy started, gaze set at their feet. A few seconds later, he sighed and looked up. “I know we have our differences…but, I just want to let you know that I’m on your side,” he informed him. “So don’t fuck it up. I…I can’t bear it if I lost you.”

It would be an understatement to say that Wilbur was stunned. 

So many sentences formed in his head.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please protect yourself.’

‘When did you last draw something?’ 

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘I love you so much.’

He eventually settled for a nod and a small, yet genuine smile. “Yeah, same goes to you too, Tommy,” he responded, hesitantly reaching out and patting his shoulder. The flinch from Tommy did not go unnoticed. 

Maybe, just maybe, it was going to be okay once it was all over.

“Kill me, Phil, please kill me Phil,” Wilbur implored repeatedly. 

His ears were ringing from the recent explosion. Soot decorated his face, covering up each centimeter of his peach skin. He could feel his heart pump violently, blood vessels shaking from adrenaline. 

This was it: the final piece.

Poets always romanticized death; Wilbur would be one of them.

Phil shook his head frantically. “Y-You are my son!” he exclaimed, taking a few steps back. Wilbur instantly got closer.

He was ready for this. 

“Wilbur!” he heard a voice shout from the sidelines.

“Stay the fuck out of this!” he screamed back, too crazed to recognize whose voice it belonged to. Wilbur turned back to Phil, body trembling in agony. “Stab me right now!” he shouted, gesturing to his torso. “Please Phil! Come on! Everyone’s fucking waiting for this!”

Here was how Wilbur imagined his stage, the climatic end to his masterpiece. He was the conductor, controlling the orchestra with a flick of his palm. The instruments followed his every instruction, releasing beautiful music notes to fill the crater that used to be Lmanberg.

No one should change his ending.

Phil looked outside before glancing down at the sword, a worried grimace reflected in his tired wrinkles. 

“DO IT!” Wilbur hollered.

Everything happened all at once yet in slow motion at the same time. 

Tommy found them.

Phil closed his eyes.

Tommy appeared next to him.

Phil wielded the sword.

Wilbur widened his eyes.

Wilbur tried pushing Tommy away.

Phil moved and lunged out his sword.

Tommy began collapsing.

Sometimes, Wilbur thought maybe Tommy would have been a painter had he not roped him into politics. At first, his intentions were purely innocent; a simple hot dog van in the midst of a forest. But of course, with Wilbur, he had the tendency to galvanize. Suddenly, the van became an organization of rebels which then became a whole nation. 

He did not notice the dwindle in Tommy’s paintings, nor how his art supplies began wearing dust. All his mind could think about was he had so much, and his self destructive mind wondered how much he could lose too. 

Maybe, as he saw Tommy impaled on his sword, he should have told Tommy that he should still paint. Because looking at Tommy covering the canvas in his own vermillion was the worst art he had ever witnessed. It was not because Tommy painted it; Tommy would never make an art piece hideous or unthoughtful. But, it was because Wilbur knew at that moment that he tarnished Tommy’s passion for his own, greedily placing him in the frontlines instead of watching him paint from the sidelines. This real life painting solidified for him how much of a depreciating monster he had to be to take away something so beautiful. 

It was just like his own thoughts: he had so much, and he could lose so much too. 

If he knew blowing up Lmanberg meant that there would not be enough supplies to build Tommy’s funeral, he would not have pressed that button as hastily as he did. A measly grave stood near Tommy’s old house, right next to the bench he used to sit at with Tubbo. A charcoal self portrait erected over the memorial. Wilbur barely looked at it. He had no right to admire Tommy’s art, not ever again.

Tubbo led the small ceremony, bandage wrapped body shaking in sobs. “Y-Y’know, Tommy’s an amazing guy,” Tubbo stated with a sniffle. “I-I used to visit his house and ask for a doodle. He listened to each idea I had…even if they were stupid…I-I thought of an idea the other day…b-but, when I tried…going to his house-” He never finished his thought as he resumed crying. It would have been more heartbreaking if Tubbo continued. 

No one else volunteered to speak at the funeral. Then again, if they did, Wilbur honestly thought that Tubbo would object as a way to protect Tommy. He recalled how much Tubbo tried to steer Tommy away from Phil, spatting out how an absent father had no right to be a dad.

During the eulogy, there were moments where Tubbo glared immensely right at Wilbur, a despicable gleam in his wet irises. Suddenly, he was back to the ruined cave, watching Tubbo clutch Tommy tightly, teardrops landing on Tommy’s pale skin. With his best friend in his arms, Tubbo kept pointing accusing fingers right at Wilbur, hollering at him with such high intensity, he emotionally gained third degree burns. 

Wilbur lost his right to be a brother long ago. This funeral cemented the idea for him. 

“If you were torn from me,” Wilbur whispered once everyone left the funeral service, choking up on his tears. “I could not bear what the earth had to offer.”

With Lmanberg buried under the bottomless pit of the world, Tubbo declared that he would rebuild a new nation on top of the crater. He wiped his old tears, donned a new suit, and sauntered to a new tomorrow while carrying his ‘President’ title as a badge of honor. Wilbur envied his stubborn yet determined conviction. 

After the funeral, Tubbo confronted Wilbur, shoulders squared with his hand curling around the hilt of his weapon. “Once the reparations end,” Tubbo stated with his chin upwards, “you will be sentenced for your war crimes.” What that sentence would be, the new President never elaborated. If the malice in Tubbo’s worn expression meant anything, Wilbur guessed that this said trial would officially finish his life story. 

Consequently, Wilbur had been placed on house arrest, courtesy of Tubbo’s new cabinet. Of course, the one small, community prison and the one, measly courthouse they owned had both been torn asunder. So, the best option was locking him inside one of the remaining Lmanberg homes. Honestly, Wilbur would have isolated himself anyway, house arrest or not. Bile raised in his throat at the idea of interacting with anyone in Esempi. 

First day of his house arrest, he refused to eat any of his remaining rations from the war. All he could think about was Phil and Techno disappearing in thin air, leaving him behind to deal with the consequences like usual. Where was his father and his brother when he needed them? Was he ever considered family to begin with? He desired to bellow at Tubbo, screech and scream about why he could not arrest Phil for actually murdering Tommy. But, he slowly reasoned that even though Phil may have technically killed Tommy, Wilbur killed Tommy’s self and his whole country. Besides, logically, it was better to keep an eye out for a terrorist than to search for a father that loved to leave. 

On the second day, he thought about people that angered him, which then proceeded to wrap into people who hurt Tommy. His hands formed into fists when Dream popped into his head. He imagined that once he got out of house arrest, he would confront Dream and punch him. Images of himself smiling maniacally when his knuckles collided against Dream’s face twirled around his brain. However, he stopped fantasizing that moment when he remembered his groveling, openly asking Dream for TNT in disguised poetic arrogance. With disgust churning in his gut, he kept washing his hands in a makeshift sink until his skin was peeling and bleeding. The soot from the TNT still seemed to cling onto him.

Third day, he decided that he would not take out his anger on anyone besides himself. Each day therefore blurred with each other. 

For the first time ever since he grabbed that guitar as a kid, Wilbur refused to touch it. His fingers shook, tiny tremors dancing on his hands. Every note sounded like a disgruntled shriek. Not to mention, every single time he attempted to write lyrics, the ink splotches reminded him of pools of dark blood, thick like the acrylic a certain blond boy would use in his paintings. Without fail, he crossed out each lyric with multiple, jagged scribbles. 

At his seventeenth attempt, he stared down at the crumpled paper and gulped. 

If he can’t do anything right now, he might as well do something that he should have done a long time ago.

When dawn woke up with the sun peeking out from the horizon’s edge on a Tuesday morning, Wilbur snuck out of the home he resided in. To his luck, no one stayed near his home right now, most likely too busy with reconstruction or sleeping in. With a quick stride, he hurried out of New Lmanberg. Once the crater was out of his peripheral, he changed his grueling pace to a trudge. Rope weighed heavily in his pocket, but he knew he had to finish what he started. 

Eventually, Wilbur reached Tommy’s house and approached the small grave.

“Hey Tommy,” he whispered, bending down to his knees to be on level with the grave. “I, uh, dunno if you can hear me. But, I, uh, wanted to visit you one last time…” His hands reached into the pockets and found the envelope next to the rope. He pulled it out and placed the envelope down on the cobblestone. “This is um, a new song I was writing when uh, we were in the middle of making our presidential campaign...well, the one w-we were making before Quackity learned about our plans. Sadly, it’s still unfinished, but...I uh, know you are-” His throat tightened. “- were excited to hear my music. So, I hope you like it.”

A chilling breeze flew by with a few dead leaves. No voice came from the grave, no greeting nor deafening yet endearing laughter. Wilbur coughed to fill the silent atmosphere. 

“Tommy, I may be ‘The Man of Words,’ but I still don’t know how to apologize,” he admitted slowly, eyes set on the grass below him. “I’m sorry for being a shitty brother and an equally shitty general. I…I was so caught up in everything that I lost everything…including you. I know what it is like to not do what you love…and I must have…no, I am the biggest idiot in this entire fucking world for not seeing that I was doing that to you…I wished you said something to me…” Once the words left his chapped lips, he instantly shook his head. “Wait, no, the fault is all mine. You were too scared to speak up, I know…I should have realized sooner that I made you scared of me. I-I mean, I thought if I scared everyone, they would respect me. Well, you uh, you know from second hand that that didn’t happen. As you would so eloquently put it, I was…a ‘dumbass dickhead.’”

He forced his voice box to produce a laugh as a way to lighten up the situation. But, his throat delivered a croaked noise instead. 

“Tommy, I don’t know how to forgive myself when I don’t know if you would ever forgive me,” he confessed. “Actually um, I don’t think I want you to forgive me…because that would mean we could move on from it, and I don’t deserve that. I cannot move on from what I did. I just wanted to let you know…that I’m sorry.”

Wilbur entered Tommy’s house, frowning at the sullen mood surrounding the air. Before he finally disappeared and completed his own symphony, he decided to tidy Tommy’s house. It was a poor excuse; he knew that he just wanted his last memories to be thinking about his younger brother. ‘He will now always be younger than you,’ an intrusive thought appeared in his mind. ‘Tommy can’t surpass you in age when you didn’t die before him.’

Shaking his head, he willed himself to step forward. Miscellaneous items have been haphazardly scattered on the floor such as maps, writing utensils, and a few weapons. Wilbur lowered down and positioned his knees on top of the floor, picking items off the ground. A lot of them were coated with dust. It reminded him how Tommy desperately tried to get as many supplies as he could when they had been suddenly exiled.  

As he glanced around ground-leveled, he noticed that there were quite a few cluttered items underneath Tommy’s bed. Wilbur decided to get closer and investigate. His right arm reached out, touched the items, and brought them out. 

Under his bed, there were rushed drawings and scribbles. Wilbur instantly dropped them, for if he held them longer, he feared his wrongdoings would taint the paper. But, one drawing caught his eye.

It was a drawing of Wilbur with a guitar. Wilbur blinked as he further observed the piece. At first, he fondly smiled at the sketch, noticing the excruciating details Tommy added on his instrument. Then, he peered at the date written on the bottom corner of the paper. His eyes widened. “No way,” he breathed. The sketch was during the Lmanberg revolution where he would cope with his overwhelming stress by hosting a concert to himself. He thought he was alone during those nights, albeit the one time Tommy snuck up on him. Now, to see this drawing of him, perfectly candid and calm, Wilbur could feel his eyes water. How many times had Tommy been watching and drawing him without him noticing? 

Selfishly, he looked through Tommy’s papers, trying to find more drawings of himself. His brain shouted at him to stop, yet his heart pounded against his chest in determination. 

Then, he found a canvas. It was an unfinished painting, yet he could tell it was himself. The sketch was of him with mapmaking lines and compass marks. On the wooden pieces holding the canvas together, there was a sentence written in ink and in crude handwriting: "My brother, Atlas. I wish I could've taken some of the weight off your shoulders.”

Wilbur sniffled. “Y-You did, Tommy.” He wiped his eyes. “You did…”

There were multiple other art pieces he found. Of course, Tubbo was a frequent subject in his drawings. A lot of drawings depicted him either grinning brightly or staying content. His favorite had to be the drawing of him peacefully sleeping in his Lmanberg uniform by the music box. There were other drawings depicting Esempi citizens such as Fundy, Niki, Eret, and others, but definitely not as frequent. Yet, he could see the amount of detail Tommy focused on each profile sketch, making each drawing feel so tangible and authentic. Why did Wilbur only notice that now?

After he finished memorizing each art piece Tommy had stowed underneath his mattress, he spotted something in the corner of his eye. Squinting, he could see a faint shape of a box, hidden in the far shadows of Tommy’s bed. He reached out and grabbed the box.

Breathtaking was a massive understatement, yet Wilbur himself could find a better word in the whole English lexicon. 

It was a painting involving a collage of his old lyrics, each crumpled paper ironed out and plastered on the canvas. A sketch of Wilbur and his guitar laid in the middle as Wilbur's handwritten lyrics circled around, leading the eye around the painting. Only an underpainting donned the canvas, clearly unfinished. Along with the painting, there were more papers of his scraped lyrics resting in the box.

Wilbur always had been discarding things that meant no value to him anymore; sentimentality was a weakness he wished to crumple up and throw away. He recalled that time when he had been brainstorming an album of his, Tommy came into his room and caught him trashing old lyrics. 

“Why do you throw away your art?” Tommy asked him later that night.

“Because it means nothing to me,” Wilbur answered honestly. “Because I hate it.”

Though, he could remember his puzzlement when his basin was oddly empty for how many drafts he stuffed in there. 

Was Tommy always collecting them when he never wanted them? Was Tommy always caring about him when he thought no one did? Worrying his lip through his teeth, Wilbur looked around the box to see any possible answer to his rhetoric questions. 

There, he found a small note, at the bottom corner of the box. In Tommy's distinct, messy writing, it read, “Don’t throw yourself away, I love you and your art.”

Wilbur’s body promptly began wracking in sobs as he wept on the floor of Tommy’s home, absentmindedly making sure none of his teardrops stained his work.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry,” he kept chanting under his breath between sobs. 

Wilbur collapsed on the floor, burying himself in his pool of tears pathetically. How much he would have wished to see these art pieces completed. Maybe, Tommy would have presented them with that usual smug grin, said some random one-liner to make him laugh. Or, maybe, he would have wrapped it gently yet securely in a gift and left it alone in Wilbur’s home, for there was only one artist in the Esempi that could paint that. 

Wilbur realized then how much he wanted to continue treasuring Tommy’s art.

…Wait, continue?

He paused his crying as he glanced back at Tommy’s artwork. 

At that moment, Wilbur gained an epiphany. 

‘Atlas doesn’t run away from his responsibilities,’ he thought.

“Art is an extension of yourself,” he heard Tommy’s voice distantly. He was back in that forest, hands rubbing together to generate any ounce of heat. Tommy placed down his maps and stretched. “If you aren’t doing your art, you aren’t being yourself, ya know?”

“Don’t throw yourself away.”

“I don’t think I should go just yet,” Wilbur suddenly declared, standing up in his boots and tossing the rope down. The quick action caused the world to spin for a moment, but he paid it no mind. He exited Tommy’s house and looked upwards. 

The sun burned from the azure sky, rays tingling on his pale skin. At that moment, Wilbur found the spark inside of him, igniting and electrifying. 

It was about time that he replaced his guitar strings.