Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Your portraits must be done by next Friday for the showcase! remember, If you choose not to participate, please talk to me. It will cost 10% of your grade!”

Wilbur checked the date on his phone- Friday, 4:24 pm. He had been sitting at his desk for 2 hours, an empty sketchbook in front of him.

Wilbur hated art. It wasn’t his fault that no one told him he had to take a general art class for his fine arts degree! He was majoring in music, not ‘portrait painting.’

He tapped the pencil against the book as he rested his head on his palm. He had one week to plan, paint, and showcase a portrait of ‘someone he had never met before.’

Sure, Professor Kristin had an excellent plan to showcase each student’s creativity when given a broad topic to paint- but Wilbur wasn’t creative, and it was a really broad topic.

He groaned and slammed his head on his desk. No amount of drawing tutorials could save him & his $2 sketchpad he found under his bed. 

Someone he had never met before- the prompt almost made him laugh. Each simple face he tried to sketch ended up looking too familiar- one reminded him of his father, another of the cafe owner in his music theory class named Niki, and some ended up looking like distorted versions of himself.

He sat up and grabbed his phone, a final attempt at finding a video to help him. Instead of tutorials on face proportions or body anatomy, he scrolled through youtube for a way to ‘inspire him’- or whatever bullshit had been drilled into his head from his professor.

None of the videos was quite what Wilbur was looking for. Many of them were for mediation, or ways to realign energies to enhance creativity- yeah, all bullshit to Wilbur. 

There was one video that finally caught his eye. With only 948 views & zero comments, ‘How to Bring Someone to Life’ was a captivating enough title for Wilbur to eagerly click on it and rest his phone against the wall to watch.

He pushed back his hair, grabbed his pencil, and listened to the deep voice explaining how the process worked. He was to imagine a personality opposite of his and list it on a piece of paper, describe how they might look, then give their person a name.

Wilbur didn’t listen to the rest as the man went on about how his mind would “conjure this person from ‘the beyond’ based on intuition”, and did not question why he had to rub rosemary sprigs on the page. He had one week to paint the portrait- otherwise, he’d fail the class. How embarrassing.

He laughed at his own sarcasm and quickly began writing his make-believe person. He decided the opposite of himself was a loud, eccentric teen (around 16/17 years old), who found easy ways to be optimistic & actually enjoyed art. It would be a boy, maybe blonde with blue eyes- and he’d be tall, but not as tall as Wilbur.

He’d love dogs because Wilbur liked cats. He’d have siblings, maybe some loving parents, and a happy home life, and his favorite color would be red.

Tommy, Wilbur thought. Tommy was a good name- it was youthful and bright, just like Wilbur described Tommy to be. 

He reached the bottom of the page & sat back to admire his work. Under the smears of rosemary he happened to find in his spice cabinet, he had paragraphs describing Tommy's personality, down to his looks, and ended on two simple sketches of his face- a front & side view.

Wilbur stood & stretched, checking the time on his phone once more. It was close to 5:30, and Wilbur hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He trotted into his kitchen and searched his fridge for something to eat.

He settled for a simple ham sandwich, wrapped it in a napkin, then grabbed a bag of chips from his cabinet and headed back into his room. 

He had to clean off his desk, opting to put his closed sketchbook on his bed and replace its spot with his laptop. He pulled up youtube once more and found a funny commentary video on some social media star, clicking on it as he opened the chips. 

It wasn’t long into the video when Wilbur heard rattling from beside him. He sat in silence, waiting for the rattling to continue, but it did not. Must be the wind , he thought and clicked the spacebar of his keyboard. 

A couple of seconds pass and the rattling started again, but Wilbur was quick enough to pause & turn to his bed, where the sketchbook had reopened to his most recent page. 

He remembered closing it when he moved it- he did, right? His breath quickened as he stood and shut the book, eyes glued to it in case it moved again. 

He waited, but it stayed still. “This is stupid,” he muttered, turning back to his chair & grabbing his sandwich. Right as he sat down, however, the sketchbook moved again- this time flying off of the bed and into the floor.

Wilbur screamed and fell as well, still holding onto the napkin as the sketchbook began shaking violently against the floor. Flickers of light emitted from the paper, and bits of rosemary swirled together in a spiral.

“What the fuck,” he yelled, and the sketchbook abruptly stopped. Wilbur stared in pure shock, and he swore his heart was going to rip through his chest from the force. 

Suddenly, the small bits of light turned into a bright flash, momentarily blinding Wilbur as he tried to cover his eyes with his arm. 

He didn’t know how long it took for him to move, but when he did, he met face-to-face with a boy- a tall, blonde boy with blue eyes. 

“Are you gonna finish that sandwich?”

Wilbur screamed again and stumbled to his feet, running out of his room and slamming the door shut. He held tightly to the doorknob as the boy knocked.

“Let me out! I’ll eat your sandwich if you leave me in here!”

Did a kid just break into my house? Wilbur thought. The kid shook at the doorknob, but Wilbur kept his grip. What the fuck is happening?

The knocking got louder, and so did the boy’s voice. “It’s not my fault I appeared from a book! Shit drawing, by the way!”

Oh. Oh . Wilbur remembered the video he watched, and tried to recall what the man had said. “this….conjure…from….on intuition. this….conjures a….from beyond…”

“This spell conjures a person from ‘beyond’ based on intuition,” he whispered in realization, eyes widening as he let go of the doorknob.

The door was thrown open by the boy with a laugh of victory, but when he noticed the blank expression on Wilbur's face, he cocked his head to the side and stared back.

“Can I have your sandwich or not?”

“Tommy,” Wilbur spoke quietly, but the other did not respond, instead looking at him confused. Did he know his own name? 

“Your name is Tommy,” Wilbur spoke again, this time a bit louder. it finally clicked with the boy, and Wilbur fondly noticed how his eyes brightened. He was finally able to get a good look at him- he wore a red & white shirt with khaki pants, and his golden hair was wild & wavy. 

“And you’re the dumbass who drew me- now answer my question, can I have-“

Why did he have to make him so loud? “Yes! Yes just take it.” Wilbur followed Tommy into his room and watched as he grabbed the sandwich from the floor and took a large bite. He hummed in satisfaction and plopped himself on the bed as Wilbur cringed at the thought of taking food off the floor and continuing to eat it . 

He picked up his sketchbook and threw it on the desk, sitting down in his chair while Tommy finished & wiped his hands on the napkin.

They sat in silence observing each other until Tommy finally spoke. “Where am I going to sleep?”

Wilbur burst into a laugh, “You assume I’m going to let you stay?“

“Well, you can’t just throw me to the streets,” the blonde responded with his arms crossed.

“Why, because you’re a child?”

Tommy took offense, “no! because you were the one who brought me here, I’m your responsibility!”

Ah - he got him there. Wilbur’s apartment wasn’t large, he could barely afford it himself. He had one bedroom, one bathroom, and a small living area connected to an even smaller kitchen.

“You’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Aw,” Tommy pouted and stood to point at Wilbur's bed. “There’s so much room, though! I’m a growing man! That’s my blanket!” A red & black plaid throw was folded near the end of the bed, and Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

He didn’t remember where it came from- must’ve been a gift- but either way, Tommy couldn’t claim blankets.

“Yeah, well, you can grow on the couch.” Wilbur flinched as a bunched-up napkin hit him right on his face, crumbs flying on his shirt and to the floor. Tommy was clearly amused as he wheezed in laughter & clutched his stomach.

“The weatherman said it’s supposed to be a nice night tonight-“

“No! No, I’m sorry!” Tommy quickly straightened up and grabbed the napkin from the floor to toss it in the nearby bin. Wilbur shook his head- hoping to, but failing at hiding his smile.

He had one week to finish this painting, and maybe, just one week of living with Tommy. 

———

“That’s the second canvas you’ve stabbed, Wilbur,” Tommy pointed out as-a-matter-of-fact-ly. “It’s been one day.” 

Wilbur groaned, pulling his arm back from the paintbrush sticking out from the middle of the canvas. He hated painting. He hated art. 

“I hate art,” Wilbur bitterly echoed. He chose to ignore Tommy’s chuckle and ‘yeah, I can see that’ which he mumbled. He stood, taking the canvas with him to the kitchen and setting it on top of the trashcan with the other ripped canvas.

He grabbed his keys and wallet from the bowl on his dining table, and Tommy ran up to follow him. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, watching as Wilbur grabbed his jacket from the rack beside his door. 

“I’m out of canvases.”

“Can I come?” Tommy reached out for one of the other coats, but Wilbur shook his head.

“It’s just a quick trip,” he responded and turned to the blonde. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, feel free to turn on the TV or something.”

“Aw, c’mon ,” Tommy whined, but Wilbur simply laughed and walked out the door. He opened his phone, typing in local art stores, hoping to find reasonably priced canvases- art supplies were expensive, and Wilbur was a college student majoring in music- he didn’t have much money to spare. 

He finally settled on a small, privately owned shop a short 3-minute walk from his apartment. It seemed nice, and even nicer when he arrived. 

The shop was decorated like a medieval castle with stone walls, hanging vines, and dark brown oak shelves & tables. Dark red velvet curtains framed the large front window with gold stickers spelling out ‘Clementine’s Art Supplies’ . 

That’s a pretty name. 

The door opened with the chime of a bell, and a low voice called from behind a counter. “Hello.” 

Wilbur waved to the man without a second look and quickly walked passed the shelves stocked with paints, across the display of pottery, and finally to the canvas section. 

There was a large variety, but he settled on three 20x17 inch frames. They were a pain to carry, but it was a quick & easy walk back, so he pushed the thought to the back of his head and placed them on the counter.

The man working was tall, probably the same height as Tommy, Wilbur thought, but much more muscular. He also had bright, long pink hair pulled up into a messy bun- but for someone working at an art shop, Wilbur didn’t find that surprising. 

I thought he wore a braid? Wilbur didn’t question for long- maybe he saw him walking down the street.

“Are you an artist?” The man asked, voice deep and monotonous. Wilbur laughed at the question and caused the other to push his thin-framed square glasses up his nose with a frown. 

“You’re buying multiple canvases from an art shop- don’t blame a man for assuming.” 

“No! It isn’t like that ,” Wilbur quickly responded as the other began to ring up his items. “I’m a fine arts student- but not in art.”

He caught the name on the man’s badge- Technoblade. “Then what’s so fine about your major?”

Wilbur laughed again, this time at the man’s blatant sarcasm. Technoblade was funny, he admitted in his head. 

“I’m a music major, but I have to take a general art class to graduate.”

The pink-ette hummed, “That’ll be $15.78”. 

Wilbur grabbed his card from his wallet and put it in the machine, waiting for it to be approved. “We have a showcase Friday, but I feel like I’m going to die every time I paint.”

It was Techno’s turn to laugh, “Can’t you just not do the showcase?”

“Nope,” Wilbur popped the ‘p’ as he pressed his pin into the keypad. “It’s 10% of my grade, and I’m already doing poorly.”

As Techno waited for the receipt to print, he turned around to the shelf behind him, scanning the line of books that stocked the case. Wilbur noticed a small decorative picture frame on the top shelf- messily covered in childish stickers of dogs & flowers. There were 5 people- a family- and for a moment, he thought he could recognize the faces.

But the photo was blurry, and Wilbur had never met the man in front of him before.

Technoblade pulled out a book with a red-colored spine, rotating it and showing Wilbur the front. 

“‘How to Paint? I know how to paint.”

Technoblade made a disapproving noise, “It’s not about painting in general, it has good techniques on shading, paint types, and even how to properly sketch for a painting,” he held it out for the other. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to take it.”

Wilbur grabbed it & examined the pages, flipping through them quickly. They were very detailed, and he appreciated the pictured examples, as well. “How much is it?”

“Eh- take it for free.” The brunette shot up, and Techno nodded as a silent confirmation. 

“Just promise you’ll update me on the painting!” Wilbur smiled brightly and gathered his items, walking out the door with another chime and jogging to his apartment.

“Tommy!” He called out as he opened the door, and he saw a flash of blonde stand from the couch and make his way to the kitchen.

Before he could speak, he stared at the sweater the other wore. It was dark green with white detailing & it was way too big for him-“You’re wearing my sweater.” 

Tommy’s hands fell into the pockets of some black shorts that Wilbur swore were also his. “I got cold,” he responded. 

Wilbur smiled fondly and ruffled his wild hair, which Tommy simply shrugged off. “What did you get?“

Wilbur turned back to the pile of items he sat on the counter. “Canvases!” He proudly exclaimed.

“What’s that?” Tommy pointed at the book next to the frames. Wilbur handed it to Tommy & watched as the boy beamed in excitement.

“A painting book! Finally, no more mental breakdowns!” Wilbur laughed at the sarcastic quip and continued watching the other flip through the pages. He noticed the way Tommy would find a page he liked and mark it with his own finger or the way he focused his attention on the photos rather than the paragraphs. 

Tommy looked up to meet Wilbur’s smile and shut the book, handing it back to the other. “I really like art,” he admitted.

“Oh?” Wilbur raised his eyebrow.

“Yeah, while you were gone I grabbed your sketchbook- I hope you don’t mind.” He lead them into the living room where Wilbur’s sketchbook laid flat & open.

The drawings were beautiful , Wilbur thought. The page was littered with realistic sketches of some flowers, a couple of anatomy studies on hands, and even a silly doodle of a dog. Maybe it was because Tommy was made from literal art, or maybe the kid was just naturally talented. 

“ Wow , Tommy,” Wilbur grinned proudly as the other stood embarrassed. “I should have you paint for me!”

The blonde laughed, “That would be cheating, you disingenuous bastard!”

“That’s a big word for a small man,” he teased back, poking at Tommy’s face. 

“I am not a small man!” Tommy responded in a fake posh accent, swatting the other’s hand away. 

“No, you’re not,” Wilbur admitted, planting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “But you are an amazing artist.”

“Really?” His eyes lightened in pride as Wilbur nodded. “Does this mean I get to help you paint?”

Wilbur stood back and checked the time on his watch. It was near dinner time, “No, not tonight. We can start painting Monday, yeah?”

It was Saturday night, and Wilbur didn’t feel like painting on a Sunday. Thankfully, Tommy agreed, and they spent their Sunday watching- and to Wilbur’s demise- heavily commentating on shitty horror films. 

He liked living with Tommy, it was a familiar warmth. (But he still hated art.)

———

“Stand still!” Wilbur yelled as Tommy cackled. He sat on a kitchen stool that they dragged into the living room as Wilbur leaned over from his spot on the couch. His easel & canvas stood on the coffee table in front of him, with Tommy’s chair behind it.

The blonde struggled to keep his posture straight. “My back hurts, Wilbur,” he groaned and rubbed his shoulder. “Can’t we take a break?”

Wilbur’s pencil sketched quickly, and Tommy joked he could smell smoke from the friction. “I’m almost done,” the brunette mumbled, bottom lip sticking out in concentration. 

Finally , Tommy thought as Wilbur flipped the canvas around, showcasing the faint sketch. It was mostly a full-body drawing, just cutting off at Tommy’s ankles, but it perfectly captured his posture & stance, the way his legs curled around the chairs, and even each wrinkle in his clothing- which was the shirt & pants he first appeared in. 

“ See , I even got your annoying face,” Wilbur pointed proudly at his drawing. 

“Did you mean to draw me so uncomfortable? At least make me look sophisticated !”

Wilbur laughed and flip the canvas back to himself and placed it on to easel once more. “I’m supposed to showcase your personality.”

Tommy stood and made his way to the couch, sitting beside Wilbur to look at the sketch once more. “It’s really good, Wilbur,” and he meant it. Wilbur turned to him and smiled back before reaching into his pocket to grab his phone & snap a photo. 

“Documenting my progress,” he responded to no one. “Will you go grab my paintbrushes, Toms?” 

Tommy looked delighted at the nickname and jumped back up, heading his way into Wilbur’s room. A few moments passed, and Wilbur could hear rustling coming from behind the walls. But when Tommy appeared, he was empty-handed. 

“You don’t have any paintbrushes,” he paused and glanced into the room, then back at Wilbur. “Or paint in general.”

“ Shit ,” Wilbur cursed, and Tommy laughed.

“How are you supposed to be a painter but not have any paint?” The younger threw his head back.

Wilbur rolled his eyes and typed into his phone- checking to see if the art shop was open. 

When he determined it was, he made his way to the door. “I’m going to go buy my obvious supplies, want to come?”

Tommy shook his head and leaned against the doorframe. “Not this time, Big Dubs.”

Wilbur glared fondly before checking to make sure he had his wallet & keys and made his way to the shop.

———

He had to have been staring at the selection of paints for nearly 5 minutes, he thought, but the various amounts of colors and brands and types all overwhelmed him. 

“You seem lost,” a voice called and Wilbur jumped. Techno laughed from behind him before standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He mimicked Wilbur’s confused stare with a chuckle.

“What do all of these mean ?” His voice was slightly frantic as he picked up a random tube of green paint. “What’s the difference between oil and acrylic?”

“ Wow ,” Technoblade took the paint and set it back on the display. “You really don’t know how to paint.”

“I hate art, we’ve established that,” Wilbur blatantly responded. Techno laughed again before pointing to a certain set on a tall shelf. 

“If you want to go for a more realistic piece, I recommend these,” the box was a fancy slick black with silver detailing. Inside were 10 large tubes- red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, black, white, brown, and beige. 

“It’s a bit harder medium to use, but the outcome is much nicer than your basic acrylic, and the canvases you bought aren’t compatible with watercolor.”

Wilbur nodded- not in understanding since he barely processed what the other said- but as an agreement to trust the other’s choice in paints. He held onto the box as he sauntered to the paint brushes & grabbed a simple pack with a variety of sizes, carrying them all to the counter.

“How did you get into art? You really know your stuff,” he watched as Techno stiffened slightly, hands frozen as he processed the question. Wilbur also noticed how he methodically chose his answer before returning to his work. 

He picked up the pack of brushes to scan them. “My little brother was an artist- so is my mom.” 

“Was?” It was rude to interrogate, Wilbur immediately realized. But before he could apologize, Techno responded.

“He’s dead.” 

The mood suddenly shifted, and Wilbur’s feet moved with it awkwardly. “I’m sorry-“

The other’s pink hair flew as he shook his head. “No, no don’t be, it’s okay,” He turned to the sign on the door. “I named this shop after him.”

“ Clementine’s ?” Wilbur repeated the name written in golden decals. 

Technoblade nodded and placed the items in a bag. Wilbur didn’t need to be told the price, he placed his card into the reader & let Techno continue speaking.

“He loved art- was incredibly talented, too. He gets it from our mom- she’s a professor at your college,” he looked up at him with a smile. “She talks about you, too.”

Techno laughed at the worry quickly washing over Wilbur’s face. “What does she say?” He stammered.

“Your art is bad,” he bluntly answered. “I’m kidding - she says you have the potential, but can tell how much you hate art.”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” Wilbur mumbled.

“Kristin knows a lot of things.”

They stood in silence, Wilbur waiting to hear more. He shouldn’t prod- he knew, but Techno could tell what he was waiting for. 

“I hated art, too. But when he died ,” Wilbur noticed the slight cringe in the other’s eyes at the mention- it was a fresh wound, he could tell. “I felt like I had to love it. So, I learned everything there is to know about painting- all the types of paint, the different brush strokes best for each style- anything I didn’t know, I would learn, because he knew.”

“You said you named this after him- was his name Clementine?”

Techno gave out a small amused huff with a shake of his head. “No, but he really liked the name. Every insect, animal, or inanimate object that could be named, would be- to Clementine. He got the name from our other brother.”

Wilbur didn’t bother questioning who the other was- if Techno wanted to say his name, he would. 

“That’s very sweet,” Wilbur cooed, and Techno made a noise of agreement. 

“He was a sweet kid.”

“How old was he?” Stop asking questions, Wilbur silently cursed himself. 

“When he died? 17.” Oh, that’s the same age as Tommy. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the brunette finally stopped his interrogation, even if Techno didn’t seem to mind. 

He gathered his bags, but Techno stopped him. “I’m not going to spill my vulnerabilities for you to walk away.”

Wilbur laughed, “What? You want me to share mine?”

“How did you get into music?” When he saw the completely serious stare Techno dawned, he gave in.

Wilbur thought back to his childhood- the cold, long nights he spent plucking at his guitar strings until the tips of his fingers became raw & bloody. He thought of his father’s words, you don’t have to be a musician. He thought of the stares his mother gave him- she wanted him to be happy.

He remembered how he would silently cry when the sheet music was too hard for him to play. He remembered the pure joy he felt when he finally mastered the piece- and he remembered the pure disappointment he felt when his parents weren’t there to see him receive a scholarship for his work- they were always busy.

“You did it out of spite?” Technoblade asked. Wilbur didn’t realize he’d been talking aloud, but he answered with a nod.

“Music was everything to me- an escape, a hobby, a talent, and hopefully a career.” The bags rested unmoving as his arms stuck to his sides. 

Techno looked Wilbur up and down, taking note of the sadness pricking at his brown eyes. “Was?” It was his turn to interrogate.

Wilbur simply shrugged, “Everyone feels like they're missing something, even when they are passionate about it.”

“That’s when I found art.” He scoffed at Techno’s comment, who rolled his eyes.

“I don’t like art,” Wilbur responded. “I don’t think I’ll end up liking it, either.”

As Wilbur began walking away, Techno called out to him, “Maybe you’ll end up liking it more than you realize.” He stopped in his tracks for a split second, then walked out the door with a small wave. 

Yeah, right . 

———

When Wilbur returned home, he opened the door to Tommy caring a measuring cup worth of water, and slowly poured it into a very dehydrated cactus that sat by the windowsill of his living room.

“Cacti aren’t hard to take care of- but somehow you managed to dry this poor guy out.”

Wilbur put his bags on the counter, “Do you have to constantly complain about my lifestyle?”

When he finished pouring the water into the cactus’s pot, Tommy put the cup into the sink and turned to Wilbur with a smirk. “Well, I’m sorry that Clementine was begging for a drink!”

Wilbur stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the younger. “Clementine?”

“Yep!” Tommy popped the ‘p’ proudly & crossed his arms as he puffed out his chest. “I’m kind of a hero, you could say!”

He pondered for a moment as he moved the paint & brushes to his makeshift art studio in his living room. Clementine . “Where did you get that name, Tommy?”

“Oh,” The blonde followed him. “Just thought of it. Clementine is a nice name, isn’t it?”

“It is!” Wilbur agreed as he sat down in front of the canvas which still sat on the table at the fore of the couch. “Pretty unique of a name, you know?”

Tommy’s eyes squinted in the form of a question. “Are you saying my naming isn’t basic enough? I’m a creative man, Wilby!” 

“Did you just call me Wilby ?” Wilbur turned to the other with a toothy grin. Tommy stuttered as he quickly shook his head.

“No! I would never call you a brotherly nickname! Why would I? You aren’t my brother!” The two shared a long laugh, both knowing he didn’t mean it. Wilbur didn’t mind- he only had a few days left to finish his painting. 

As he began to paint, his mind slowed in the peaceful aura of the room. Tommy quietly watched a movie as he sat beside his pseudo-brother, as he’d say until Wilbur would tell him to stop because ‘I might cry’. He doesn’t know why it made him sad. 

The sun had started to set & the golden rays casted a yellow tint to the apartment, and Wilbur knew if he hadn’t been painting- he’d be taking a very peaceful nap. 

But as his mind wandered against the soft voices emitting from the TV, he kept repeating the name Clementine. Odd coincidence, he thought, that Tommy liked the name to the degree of Techno’s late brother. 

He didn’t know a lot about Tommy, Wilbur realized. “What do you like?” He decided to ask as he mixed together paints on a palette to create a muted navy for the background. 

Tommy murmured in confusion, so he asked again, “What do you like? Colors, animals, you know-“

“I like dogs- you wrote that yourself,” blue eyes turned to meet his. “And my favorite color is apparently red.”

Wilbur’s brushing stopped and he hesitantly pushed the brush away from him to advert his attention, “Is that all?”

There was a glaze in Tommy’s eyes that Wilbur couldn’t discern. “That’s all you wrote.”

“No, it isn’t,” He argued. “I wrote that you have a family!”

“Seems like you ignore every time I call you my brother,” though Tommy laughed, there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “You have a family.”

Wilbur thanked himself for being able to read tone switches quickly, “Are you upset?”

The other shook his head slowly, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “No, but,” Tommy paused to think as his eyes scanned the room to everything but Wilbur. “That’s all I am, aren’t I? I’m just a drawing?”

Wilbur’s hand inched to grasp onto Tommy’s shoulder softly. He nodded his head as an indication for Tommy to continue.

“I feel human, I can eat & hold onto things,” he took a deep breath, shaking as he exhaled. “But I’m not, aren’t I?”

The sun had reached the horizon, the yellow tint fading into a darker blue hue. Wilbur’s head started to hurt and his mind swirled, confusing his own thoughts. 

“You aren’t human,” Wilbur realized the choice of words was not as reassuring as he planned- quickly shaking his head. The blue hue flickered.

“You aren’t human because you are art .” He watched Tommy’s eyebrows raise, not in shock, but a tell that he was listening. “You are a talent that many devote their life to mastering, but can’t . You are what people wish to understand on levels humans fail to comprehend. You are art, Tommy.”  

He grabbed his larger paintbrush and dipped it into the navy mixture he made earlier, turning back to the canvas and filling in the background. The yellow gaze slowly broke through the window once more & the pounding in his head faded along with the darkness.

Silence engulfed the two, but that silence was torture.

“You hate art,” Tommy whispered, and Wilbur thought if the TV was one notch louder, he wouldn’t have heard- but he did. 

“I don’t hate you,” he remained focused on the painting. “You’re my brother.” Wilbur didn’t remember having siblings growing up, he didn’t know exactly what a sibling should be, a good one, at that. But he hoped, though he could never ask, if he was a good brother to Tommy. 

He didn’t have to. “You’re a good brother,” Tommy answered for him, and it was enough to turn the silence into comfort as the two went back to where they began. 

By the end of the movie, Wilbur was content with the background for the night, and Tommy seemed content with where he was- since he had fallen asleep on Wilbur’s shoulder minutes prior. 

It was Monday night, he’d paint more in the morning. 

———

Tuesday came & went as it was spent mostly by Wilbur hunched over a canvas until Tommy had to drag him into the kitchen to eat. Mainly because Tommy was the hungry one, but his constant nagging was enough of a convincer for the other.

Wednesday was similar- except Wilbur did much less painting. Instead, he opted to take Tommy to the park by his house and let him see all the dogs. He wasn’t a big fan of crowds, and neither was Wilbur. 

Tommy never knew he could feel so happy in such a short amount of time. All the dogs loved him! Plus, their owners never took a mind to him playing with them. Wilbur laughed each time Tommy stumbled, which resulted in a stick being thrown, admittedly badly , towards Wilbur’s face. Despite that, it was peaceful, and Wilbur basked in the warmth as long as he could.

But as Thursday night rolled around, it became much more apparent that his showcase was right around the corner. 

“Do you have to make those dots on my face?” Tommy’s voice called from behind the couch. Wilbur took his thinnest brush and placed another pink dot right on the tip of the chin. 

“It’s called detailing, Toms.”

“It’s called making me ugly, Wilbur,” the younger mocked, drawing a laugh from the brunette. 

The painting was incredibly detailed, and Wilbur couldn’t help but take pride in how much effort he’d put into it. It’s not like he had a choice, however, he had to do well so he’d graduate. 

He leaned back and groaned at the pain shooting into his shoulder, dropping his paintbrush onto a paper towel and grinning at what he saw.

He didn’t like art- but he could at least look at his own. The art I had to do , he reminded himself. 

The painting only lacked in the final touches- painting on a nose & eyes, as well as adding proper shading to the hair. 

It was almost finished- and he had yet to show Technoblade.

He stood abruptly, causing Tommy to flinch, and grabbed the canvas. He made sure not to touch the wet paint as he made his way to put on a pair of shoes.

“Where are you going?” Tommy asked & followed closely behind.

“I’m going to show a friend my painting!” Wilbur exclaimed. “Do you want to come?”

“Not today! I have to take care of Clementine,” Wilbur chuckled as the blonde trotted to the cactus & grabbed a measuring cup from the cabinet.

He made his way out the door, handling the canvas as if it was delicate porcelain. (To him, it was.) 

The lights were off, except for one, as he approached Clementine’s. He looked in the window, only to be stared back by a pair of insouciant eyes holding onto a sign. Technoblade pointed at the Closed written in bright red letters with a smirk.

‘Please’ , Wilbur mouthed through the window, and with a roll of his eyes, Techno unlocked the door to let Wilbur in. 

“I was about to close, Wilbur,” Techno said as he walked to the counter to reorganize the displays. 

“Yes, I know, but ,” He excitedly flipped the canvas around and shoved it towards the other. “I’m almost finished!”

He peeked behind the frame, worried by the lack of response from the man in front of him. He waited, and slowly brought the canvas back towards himself. 

He couldn’t make out what Technoblade was thinking- his face was blank, emotionless , stuck staring at the portrait. 

“I know it’s probably not the best-“

“This is really good , Wilbur.” Techno interrupted. His hand held onto the bottom corner of the frame, and his eyes never left the body in the center. 

His voice was smooth and quiet, but Wilbur could feel the waves of melancholy off of his tongue. His bottom lip trembled as he sucked in a deep breath. Why is he sad?  

“The showcase is early tomorrow afternoon, I plan to finish it in the morning,” Wilbur said, but Technoblade only hummed as his stare continued.

“Are you okay?” The question seemed to break Techno out of whatever trance he fell into as he dropped the corner he had held and met Wilbur’s eyes. 

He straightened his shoulders and erased any poignant look he showed on his face. He’s good at that, Wilbur noted. “I’m okay,” he responded and returned carefully to the counter’s displays. If Wilbur had not noticed the short-lived episode, he’d believe him. 

“Okay,” he drawled and dropped the painting to his side. “Are you going to go?” 

Technoblade nodded, hair bouncing up & down with him. “Mom’s making me- apparently everyone’s families were invited.” He looked up at Wilbur, “Is your family going?”

The other let out a sharp laugh at the thought of his parents supporting him, he didn’t know where they were, “No, probably not.” He thought about Tommy- about how thrilled he may be to see so many paintings in one place, despite the crowd of people he knew would be there. “I’d have to ask.” 

———

A wave- no - a tsunami of relief washed over Wilbur as he fell back onto the couch, tossing his brush absentmindedly onto the coffee table, not caring if paint touched the wood.

The painting was finished , and he hated to admit it, but he really liked how it looked. He added lines of yellow light to cast shadows & bring out Tommy’s bright blue eyes. The clothes were shaded perfectly, mapping out each wrinkle in the boy’s simple t-shirt and pants. 

His favorite part, however, was the large, toothy smile painted onto Tommy’s face. Wilbur used a photo of him mid-laugh to perfectly set the mouth, and it truly brightened the piece. It made sense to add it, Tommy had brightened up his life, after all. 

Tommy walked around to stand beside Wilbur, rubbing his chin as if he was examining the panting. “Well, I’m sure your model would have liked a bit more muscle- maybe a handsome beard, as well,” he said in his worse posh accent, pushing imaginary glasses up his nose in a similar way Technoblade had done before. 

Wilbur laughed before pulling Tommy into a tight hug. It took the other a second to process but he quickly wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you,” Wilbur mumbled through his shoulder.

“What did I do?” Tommy asked as they pulled apart.

Wilbur smiled proudly. “You have been the best inspiration an artist could ask for.”

He turned around and grabbed the canvas, straightening out his coat jacket in the process. Wilbur was dressed professionally in a light brown button-up shirt & black dress pants with a matching coat. He noticed, however, the lack of professionalism from Tommy. 

“Are you coming?” He asked, but Tommy shook his head.

“There’s going to be a crowd, plus I don’t want to be bored.”

Wilbur frowned slightly, “I thought you liked art?“

“I do!” Tommy responded while he watched from the living room as Wilbur gathered his bag & slipped into his shoes. “There’s just going to be a crowd constantly moving- and there’s only so much there to see.”

He made a good point , Wilbur agreed wordlessly. In the end, he was right, there was a large crowd of people in the venue, and only so much art to look at. 

He scanned the room to look at the other student’s portraits. They were nice, he admitted, though his disliking of art made it difficult to describe them more than that. 

He finally made it back towards his canvas, the small info card being taped to the back of the frame instead of the front. Wilbur read it, over and over again, each time with a growing smile.

‘We can’t always choose what projects we are given- sometimes they are easy to finish, and others may be so demotivating that we lose ourselves in the making. However, we can choose who we collaborate with throughout the process. We can choose how we paint- who our inspiration is. Sometimes that inspiration comes from beyond.

In this portrait, I painted the opposite of myself. An eccentric teen who happens to love dogs & the color red- who smiles as bright as the sun and loves a specific cactus named Clementine.

He isn’t afraid to let his opinions be heard, and despite our opposition, I could know him to be my brother. A bright light, a familiar face, and a warmth I can’t understand.

‘Tommy’ Painted by Wilbur .’

“Wilbur,” he turned around quickly at the voice, dawning a delighted smile as Technoblade approached him. He was also dressed nicely- with a white button-up and brown pants.

“Techno! I’m glad you made it!” Wilbur clapped the other on his shoulder, knowing well he was forced to come to support his mother, before leading the other to the front of his painting. “I finished it!”

Techno’s face shifted the same as it did the night prior in the store. This time, however, it was less sad and more bittersweet , as if warm memories clouded his mind.

“It looks amazing,” he said quietly with a small smile. He turned to look at Wilbur, then across the room. “I’ll grab Mom.”

Before he could protest, Wilbur was left to stand awkwardly as he waited. Soon enough, Professor Kristin appeared, wearing a flowing black dress with her long, dark hair pinned up in a golden clip. 

“Wilbur, I am very happy to see you here,” she said softly. Behind her was a man with blonde hair, the same shade as Tommy’s, that reached just below his ears, and a faint beard on his chin. He was shorter than Techno, but had a similar physique- he assumed it to be his father- and he nodded towards him as a silent hello. The man grabbed his hand, however, and shook it as his own greeting.

Wilbur took a step to the side, offering the three of them to view his painting. But as they each laid eyes on it, he quickly turned anxious, afraid that he messed up by their reactions.

Phil covered his mouth with a faint gasp, and Wilbur could see the shadow of tears welling up in his eyes. 

Kristin’s reaction was more apparent- her shocked voice turned into a sob, and she did not hide the tears that fell down her face. Wilbur held out his arm, about to desperately ask if he had done something wrong- but Kristin interrupted him. 

“ Tommy ,” her voice broke as she stepped closer to the canvas, brushing her hand faintly over the dry paint. 

Wilbur’s arm slowly returned to his side. He never told her the name of his painting- the info card was hidden from her line of sight, too. How did she know?

He turned to Techno, whose hand was planted on his father’s shoulder. He had a knowing gaze in his eyes, but Wilbur responded in a confused twitch of his brow.

Kristin turned to him once more and reached out her soft hand to grasp Wilbur’s cheek. She gave him a loving smile, and drug him into a tight hug. 

He pulled back after a moment, letting her hand remain on his shoulder. “How did you know the name of my painting?”

“Is it not Tommy?” Her voice turned frantic, afraid she had misinterpreted his work. 

Wilbur quickly shook his head. “It is , I didn’t think anyone knew.”

She removed her arm and stepped back in front of the canvas. “ Knew him? ” She let out a quick, sad laugh. “He was my son.”

It didn’t make sense - Wilbur drew Tommy only a week ago- what was he missing?

He could feel the LED lights flicker from above him, the buzzing rattling in his ears. 

“Look at his smile, Philza,” She turned to her husband and offered her hand, motioning him over. The hand moved away from his mouth as he took hers, revealing a small smile. His eyes were still tear-filled, though, and his voice was shaky. 

“It’s lovely,” he said, loud enough for Wilbur to hear. He turned to the brunette and nodded, and he took it as a thank you.

Kristin reached out to touch Tommy’s painted face once more, “He was such a wonderful boy,” her face turned painful as more tears were shed. “He loved art- he was so bright and funny- we always reminded him that he was brighter than the sun.” 

Her hand moved across the canvas and towards Wilbur’s, wrapping her fingers around his palm. “Tommy would have loved this, Wilbur. To think you hated art- I am so proud of you .”

He felt an uncomfortable heat rise to his face and to his eyes, not daring to mention his feelings toward art- and he didn’t notice his urge to cry until he felt a warm tear reach his lip. 

“How did you know him?” Kristin asked, at least he thought. He didn’t quite catch her exact words.

Wilbur was so confused . “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, not hiding the slight stutter in his voice.

The room was so overwhelmingly dark.

All three stared back at him- but unlike Kristin and Technoblade’s more perplexed looks, Phil’s was more intense. 

“This is a wonderful painting, Wilbur,” the man spoke, then turned to his wife. “Go ahead and look at the other works, I’ll catch up.” He let his hand fall to her back with a reassuring smile, and she nodded, taking Technoblade with her. 

“What was your inspiration?” 

Wilbur turned to stare at the painting himself, letting his legs readjust his point of view. “I don’t want to sound crazy.”

Phil shook his head with a huff, “You won’t.”

With a deep sigh, he spoke, “I watched a video that said it would help me find inspiration- I didn’t think - I didn’t know it would be so similar to your son’s.” 

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur turned to Phil, who returned his obviously guilty expression with a smile. 

“You have no reason to be. May I see the video?”

Wilbur was taken aback but hesitantly agreed, pulling out his phone and finding his most recently watched Youtube videos. 

He handed the phone to Philza, who watched the video intently. He tapped the screen, likely to skip through certain parts, then finally handed the phone back.

“So, you used a spell to conjure my dead son’s ghost as inspiration for your art project?” His voice was incredibly nonchalant, and Wilbur was stunned by his calmness.

“Yes?” He hesitated- he didn’t really remember.

His shoulders were hunched up as they tensed but slowly dropped when Philza laughed. He laughed. 

“That’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard,” he admitted, and Wilbur shot him a questionable look.

“Techno thought you could read his mind when you first showed him the painting- said he told you about Tommy, but not his appearance,”Wilbur let out a relieved chuckle. “Seems like it came to you pretty easy.”

Phil pondered for a moment while Wilbur looked towards Technoblade as he maneuvered through the various arrays of art. 

Finally, he spoke again. “Can you see him?”

“What?”

Phil turned to look at Wilbur. “Can you see Tommy?”

“Well, yes,” he replied. “I thought I made him from a sketch- I didn’t know he was dead. He’s been living with me.”

The older man smiled contently, “Can we see him?”

Wilbur thought to himself- if he could see Tommy, and if Tommy could hold onto objects & interact with the dogs at the park- then it made sense that others could, too.  

“Yes, I think so,” Wilbur answered. 

Philza hummed and turned back to the portrait. It acted like a magnet attracting everyone’s eyes into a locked stare. “Kristin wanted to paint a portrait of Tommy right after he passed.”

“Why didn’t she?” 

“They say one of the first things you forget when someone’s gone is how they look,” Phil continued. “She had many photos of him, but she couldn’t do it. It tore her apart,” he sighed heavily.

”She swore she could see Tommy, but we all knew she couldn’t.”

Wilbur didn’t hear the soft whisper, instead he watched Phil pull out his phone, quickly typing what looked to be a text, then turning back to Wilbur. 

“If it isn’t a bother- could we have dinner tonight? We’d like to discuss possibly purchasing your painting,” he motioned towards his wife, who had her back turned as she talked to a fellow student. “Maybe meet Tommy?” The last part came out quiet and doubtful.

“We can provide dinner-“ Phil tried to add, but Wilbur had made his mind.

“Yes, you can come over to my place tonight,” he answered.

Philza eagerly nodded, “Does 5 work?” He handed Wilbur his phone opened on the ‘create new contact’ page. The brunette added his number and sent a text from Phil’s phone to his own.

He glanced at the time, it was 3:28- five would work fine.

After responding to Phil’s text with his address, he said his goodbyes to Technoblade & Kristin and made his way to his apartment, a million questions filling his mind.

———

He opened the door and gave no greeting as he stepped into the kitchen. Tommy sat on the counter as he held the cactus’s pot in one hand & a marker in the other, clearly writing.

He looked up to acknowledge Wilbur, then turned the pot around. In messy handwriting, the black pen spelled out Clementine. Tommy smiled joyfully, and Wilbur couldn’t help but smile back. 

He shut the door and continued to stand, waiting for the other to put the planter and pen down. “You look sad,” Tommy pointed out. “Did your art show go bad?”

He was sad , but not for the reason Tommy thought. Wilbur shook his head, not moving the rest of his body.

The blonde hopped down from where he sat & proudly presented the newly decorated planter on the counter. He threw the marker into the drawer he found it in and spun back around to Wilbur. “Are you okay?” 

Wilbur never noticed their height difference before- but he had a good 2-3 inches above the other. He didn’t realize how small it made Tommy seem, despite his bold attempts to prove he wasn’t.

“You never told me you were dead .” He ripped the bandaid off, not meaning for his tone to sound so sharp - but he was confused and worried. 

Tommy looked at him like he spoke gibberish.“Why didn’t you tell me you were dead ?” Wilbur repeated himself in a question. 

It didn’t seem to get through to Tommy, and Wilbur felt the frustration in him grow. He raised his voice, “ Tommy , why didn’t you tell me?”

The younger’s mouth fell agape, and his breath quickened as Wilbur noticed his body begin to shake. “ I’m dead? ” His voice squeaked.

“ Yes !” Wilbur yelled, and Tommy took a step back. “Couldn’t you tell? You have a whole family out there mourning you!”

“No,” Tommy protested and shook his head hysterically. “I don’t have a family, I don’t remember having a family.”

Wilbur crossed his arms and scowled- Tommy had to have been joking. “Then why are they coming over for dinner.”

“What?” Tommy’s eyes widened, and he continued shaking his head back & forth as if he was arguing with himself.

Wilbur stood stern, watching the boy mumble to himself. “ I’m dead, I’m dead? ” He repeated in a panicked gasp, and Wilbur finally realized that Tommy truly didn’t know- he quickly uncrossed his arms and reached out to Tommy- but the blonde flinched back hard with a sob. 

“I’m dead?” Tommy cried out. His legs buckled from beneath him, and Wilbur rushed over to hold him as he sobbed.

“How am I dead?” He continued to cry, but Wilbur brushed through his hair soothingly.

“I didn’t create you from art,” he lowered his voice in a softer tone. “I accidentally brought you back to life.” 

Thankfully, he wasn’t hit with anger or disappointment. “ Dumbass ,” Tommy laughed out, which then turned into a hiccup, but Wilbur let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Though Tommy continued to cry, he pulled out of Wilbur’s hug and sat against the cabinet, pulling his legs to his chest. “I don’t remember them,” he whimpered.

Wilbur decided it was best to give Tommy his space, so he replicated Tommy’s pose a few inches away from him against a separate cabinet. 

“I don’t remember dying - all I know is what you wrote,” he continued. 

“Apparently what I wrote is true, if that helps,” Wilbur proposed.

Tommy shrugged and wiped a line of tears off his face. He stood and offered his hand to Wilbur, who gladly took it to help him up to his feet. He stayed standing as Tommy made his way to the couch.

He patted the space beside him, and Wilbur went to sit down. “Do they remember me?” He weakly asked.

“ Obviously ,” Wilbur nodded. “Your brother & mom both told me how you were incredibly talented at art- they also said you loved nature & naming things Clementine.”

Tommy perked up, “I have a brother?” His voice sounded happy. 

“Remember the friend I told you about? Turns out he’s your brother- named an entire art shop after you- Clementine’s .” Tommy grinned as he looked at the TV, though it was turned off. He nodded along as Wilbur spoke, and a part of Wilbur thought the memories were slowly returning to him.

“When will they be here?”

Wilbur checked his watch, surprised that so much time had passed. “Soon,” he said, and as if on cue, a knock rang through the house. 

He stood and walked to the door, paying no attention to the sound of his bedroom door shutting behind him. He was greeted with warm smiles & another tight hug from Kristin, and he eagerly showed them into his home.

Techno carried a bag of take-out food and placed it on the dining room table. Phil followed suit, carrying a container of drinks, 5 of them, all marked in a pen of which is which. He smiled fondly at the styrofoam cupped marked ‘Wilbur’, and the one adjacent with ‘Tommy’.

He turned around to the couch, but Tommy was nowhere to be seen. “Oh,” he glanced down the hall and noticed a light emitting from under the shut door. “I’ll go grab Tommy,” Wilbur said, quickly making his way to his room. 

“Look,” Phil turned towards his son’s voice, who pointed at a cactus in a planter, marked in his handwriting. Phil walked towards it, brows furrowing almost concerning, yet laughed- it was Tommy’s handwriting?

“I can’t believe he kept it,” he replied. 

Tommy sat on Wilbur’s bed, kicking his feet up and down as he tried- but failed- to shake off his nerves. Wilbur shut the door quietly behind him and crouched down in front of the blonde.

He whispered, though no need to; “It’s going to be okay.” 

“What are they like?” Tommy asked, biting the skin off his bottom lip.

“ Well ,” he started. “Your father is very kind- he was the one with the idea to come see you. He is so strong, not just physically, I can tell he misses you so much. ”

Wilbur stood, taking ahold of Tommy’s hands & pulling him up with him. “Your mom is an art professor- my art professor. She sees everyone’s potential- even when they can’t see it themself. Kristin is the most gentle and caring person I think I have ever met,” he said. 

“Your brother is very smart, and don’t tell him this, but funny,” Wilbur continued, remembering the first time the two of them spoke. “He is very passionate about art- he said he made sure to learn everything he could because you knew.”

“They love you so much,” he placed his hand against Tommy’s cheek like Kristin had done to him earlier in the day. “You taught them how to love the simpler things in life- like nature, the color red, dogs, things named Clementine .” Tommy laughed against Wilbur’s hold.

“You even taught Techno how to love art,” with a smile, he paused and contemplated to himself. 

He thought of what the past week meant to him. 

Even with the unbelievable start, Wilbur was quick to grow attached to Tommy, and who could blame him? Tommy was the first person to show Wilbur how to properly take care of a cactus, and how to properly ignore a complaining child . He showed him the worst horror movies Wilbur swore were ever created, and he showed Wilbur what it was like to have a brother . 

He taught Wilbur how to love in general- but most importantly- he taught Wilbur how to love art . 

It wasn’t because of the process- making art was frustrating. It wasn’t because of the final product, either, no matter how good a painting could look. 

Wilbur loved art because of the story behind it. The portrait of Tommy wasn’t just a picture of a kid sitting in a chair- it was a picture of years-worth of laughs, a picture that the artist learned to live again through, a picture of his brother smiling at him as if he was the only one to smile at. 

He loved art because Tommy was art . 

“You taught me to love it as well,” he admitted, hoping Tommy would understand. He did , Wilbur could tell by the quick, yet loving hug Tommy wrapped him in.

“Let’s go meet them,” Wilbur pulled back and ruffled the wild blonde hair, drawing a groan from the shorter. “I wrote that they were loving, right?”

“Right,” Tommy responded as he followed behind through the hallway.

Philza, Kristin, and Technoblade seated themselves with the boxes of take-out spread around the table. One of them must’ve found the plates since 5 were placed in front of separate chairs.

While Techno remained seated, the other two stood as Wilbur walked in, looking behind him for a glance at Tommy. 

Wilbur turned to the other, whose eyes were glued in front of him, filled with nothing but admiration for the figures who stared back. He remembers them , Wilbur realized with a grin. He pushed lightly at Tommy’s back, urging him to take a step forward.

So, Tommy did and walked face-to-face with Phil. “Dad?” His voice was fragile and small, just barely reaching above a hush.

But Philza did not respond. “Dad,” Tommy spoke louder, yet the man’s gaze went over him to Wilbur’s side.

His eyes flashed quickly between his parents. He reached to hold onto his mom’s hand, but she didn’t react.

“Wilbur?” Kristin spoke, and Tommy turned his head toward him with a hopeless look. 

“He’s right there,” Wilbur responded, pointing to the blonde who was obviously standing between the two. Techno had stood, joining his mother’s side. 

Philza’s face drained of all color as he looked to the floor, his chest rising & falling rapidly. He shook his head, and Wilbur saw his shoulders jolt up as a cry escaped through his lips weakly.

“ He’s right there ,” Wilbur repeated frantically, but Techno turned to him with a pained expression. It was the most emotion he’d seen from the other- but Wilbur didn’t understand . Tommy was right there. 

“Wilbur,” Tommy began to cry again. No, please don’t cry, Tommy . His face turned pale- much paler than normal- and he walked towards the brunette.

“ Wilbur ,” Tommy repeated, forcing the taller to look down at him. “You said they loved me?”

“Can’t you see him?” Wilbur’s sudden yell startled the others, and his angry cry echoed through the room. “He’s right here! Your son is right here!”

None of them responded, and Wilbur looked back down at Tommy. His eyes flashed with fear, then sadness, and finally, he met brown eyes with an understanding stare.

“I’m a ghost, Wilbur.” It didn’t click, Tommy realized, so he raised his voice. “They can’t see me .”

“No!” Wilbur yelled again, shaking his head violently. “I can see you! You’re right here,” he grabbed Tommy’s shoulder and shook lightly. “ You’re right here!”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Kristin’s voice was broken. She couldn’t understand , he selfishly thought, knowing she knew all too well the pain he felt.

She gave a light squeeze to Technoblade’s hand, then walked up to Wilbur, whose eyes were fixated on the ghost in front of him. He didn’t hear Techno mutter, “He was doing so well.” He didn’t hear him- he wouldn’t listen. 

“Wilbur, honey,” her voice was too soft- he pulled away and walked backward. 

“No- no, stop it,” he begged. “I can see him- he’s-“ he choked out a sob, not realizing he’s joined Philza’s cries. It had yet to hit him that Tommy was actually dead. He wasn’t alive- he never would be again. Oh god, he died so young. 

The room grew dark again. 

He backed up against a wall and cringed at the pain of his shoulder knocking against it. Tommy followed his mom as she grabbed one of Wilbur’s hands- he grabbed the other. 

“We can’t see him,” she painfully admitted- but Wilbur refused to listen. They bought him a drink, he thought as he continued to shake his head, a flood of tears falling down his face, he has his own plate. 

“He’s right here,” he tightened his grip around his brother’s hand, raising his arm up in a final attempt for them to notice. His voice was weak & frail, and it reminded him of how he’d cry to his parents about how he wanted to be a musician.

He didn’t want to be an artist, he would never be an artist. He wanted to sing and dance and not feel guilty for it.

But they had to love art- they had to love him. Be upset, hate me, he wanted to scream until his throat ran dry. 

Phil made his way over, as well as Techno- both faces covered in tears, and they caught Wilbur as he slipped down against the wall. They let him cry, they let him scream in anger and confusion without an argument.

Wilbur reached out, and the three moved out of his way as he grabbed onto what seemed like thin air.

Wilbur clung to Tommy as his thin hands rubbed his back. He was there, he could feel him- he was holding him. 

“I’m right here,” Tommy whispered, and Wilbur knew. He continued to shake his head, ignoring the words Kristin & Phil said to him. 

“It’s okay,” one voice tried to call out.

“It’s not,” Wilbur cried. “He’s dead- He’s dead,” he repeated. It reminded him of the panic attack he had just calmed Tommy down from earlier- yet he wondered if that was even real.

“Was it real?” He asked no one in particular, but he didn’t listen to their response- his mind began racing with no’s.

“Wilbur,” Tommy said, but the other shook his head. “Wilbur,” he repeated in desperation, yet he didn’t respond.

You can’t hear him, he’s dead, Wilbur felt like he was slowly losing his sanity as reality flickered back into view. The world around him crumbled as he felt the soft yellow haze fade into a dark blue- he was fading. Tommy can’t leave me yet. 

Why couldn’t he stay? Wilbur was happy there- Tommy was there. 

He tried to ground himself with the soft whispers of Phil & Kristin- mom and dad - and their gentle touches. He offered his hand to hold onto his brother’s, his living brother, and Technoblade rubbed his coarse thumb over his knuckles. 

He was reminded of the prompt, of his hated for art. He hated that the room was too dark and he hated that he never saw Tommy. Tommy was dead. He’s dead.

He hated art.

He’s dead.

Wilbur sat there and let himself be held by the others- mom, dad, he had brothers, he remembers them- sobbing into his shoulder as he repeated to himself, he’s just a portrait, until the body in his grasp turned cold.

———