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There was once a Poet and a Fool.
The Poet wrote verses about love.
He loved a great many things. Ideas and places and feelings. He loved so deeply, his passion so great, that his pen would tear through the page, leaving tears in his most beloved pieces of work.
But he always left his works unfinished, unsatisfied. His poems were never told, his ballads never sung. His symphonies never played.
Then there was the Fool, who wanted nothing to do with love.
He condemned kindness and blanched at adoration. They always ended in him getting hurt.
He was kind in the end anyway, because foolish people don’t know any better.
***
The canyon that extended beneath the bridge seemed to stretch wide. The flag that extended upwards from the wreckage danced in the wind, blue, red, black, and white, the yellow symbols like peaks of sunlight. Wilbur’s gaze followed the way vines and flowers had overtaken buildings and debris. It was beautiful.
He made his way over the bridge, and spotted a golden head of hair a ways away in a stretch of grass by the canyon’s edge. chasing a blue sheep. Loud shouts and laughter could be heard. Wilbur walked in that direction.
When he reached the field, the boy was resting against the sheep’s side, cheek pressed against wool. He sat on top of a cardigan, woven from the same dark blue of the sheep. Tommy spoke in a hushed voice, tone rising up and down as he spoke perhaps of a story or thought that came to his mind.
Tommy’s knees were scratched up, bruised, perhaps from all the galavanting. There were weeds in the field that were rougher, and shrubs with thorns growing wildly all around the canyon. His legs were lined with scars, and so were his arms. Those were older. And he looked tired. Very tired.
The sheep was curled up, eyes blinking slowly in contentment. The sun was pleasantly warm today. A nametag could barely be seen between the blue fluff around his collar, which was in desperate need of a good shearing.
Tommy saw Wilbur, and a small smile stretched over his face. He got up, stretching.
“Ay yup, Wilbur. You look like death.”
“Hello, Tommy. You don’t look much better.”
“Ah, well,” Tommy shrugged. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”
The sheep uncurled, and slowly got to his feet, and padded his way over to them. His head butted gently against Tommy’s leg. Tommy reached down to stroke the creature’s head. The sheep licked his hand. Wilbur’s eyes twitched.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to Friend too?” Tommy asked, raising his brows expectantly.
“Oh. Hello,” Wilbur said, disdain lacing his drawl. He took off his glasses and blew hot air on them, fogging the lenses.
“Pet him,” Tommy demanded.
“I don’t want to.” He wiped the lenses with his sweater.
“C'monnn,” he pleaded. “Pet the sheeeep, Will. Don’t be a prat about it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Wilbur put his glasses back on. They were still smudged, Tommy noticed. “It’s rather insipid, is it not? I’d rather not touch a dirty animal who wades around in mud and thicket all day.”
Tommy frowned. “He didn’t mean that,” he said to Friend, who was now munching on grass. Tommy harrumphed. “See? You made him sad because you refused to pet the soft, cute sheep.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry . I didn’t realize it was sooo invested in my passing desires.”
Something flashed in Tommy’s eyes, something close to sorrow, but it was gone in a breath. He exaggerated a pout, clasping his hands together, eyes bluer than the sky. “Please please pleaseee?”
Friend looked up expectedly.
Wilbur narrowed his eyes at Tommy’s puppy eyes. “Ugh. Fine.”
Wilbur took a step towards Friend, and extended a stiff hand. He patted the tufts, surprised at how unnaturally fluffy the wool was. Almost as unnatural as the blue coat.
“Awe,” Tommy said, delighted.
“It's…soft,” Wilbur noted.
“ Bleeeeeat ,” Friend said.
Wilbur laughed. “Oh, this one is silly.” He finally gave a small, that slow one that tugged at his thin lips, and crinkled his bark eyes.
Tommy shifted and looked uncomfortable.
Wilbur noticed. “What?”
“Sorry…” Tommy trailed off. “You just remind me of…” He looked down. “Ghostbur,” he whispered.
The smile slipped from Wilbur’s face. “He’s nothing like me. At all.” His voice was hard.
Tommy frowned. “Why do you hate Ghostbur so much? You’re more alike than you think.”
Wilbur raised a brow. “How so?”
“Err… you two… well…”
His brow raised higher.
“Ghostbur liked books,” Tommy said. “He liked writing. And drugs. Hah.” Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Well, invisibility potions. He was sort of all mischief. He liked fishing. And he carried a sort of sadness. One he tried to pretend like it wasn’t there.
That made Wilbur pause. “What causes this sadness?”
Tommy looked away. “I don't know. For Ghostbur, maybe it was grief. Guilt.”
“And what about me?"
“...The fact that you’re a prick makes you sad?”
Wilbur barked out laughter. Then his laughter turned quiet and angry. He scoffed. “No. I'm not like him. He's a mere reflection, a facade. I hate him because he is the most pitiful version of myself. A crybaby. Idiotic. Weak. Naive. Foolish.”
Tommy chin jutted. “I don't think that's why. I think you hate him because he's everything you wish you could be.
Wilbur made a sound of incredulousness. His tone shifted to condescending amusement. “What could a dead man have that I might envy?”
“...Softness. Kindness."
“Softness won't get you anywhere in life. And kindness? Well, kindness is something earned, Tommy. That is why I do not give it. nor will I ever receive it.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “You really are the biggest twat I’ve ever known.”
Wilbur laughed. He clasped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. It did not go unnoticed to him how Tommy flinched. Wilbur let his hand fall with ease, as if it never happened, as if the hurt that flared in his chest did not exist.
Tommy sunk to the ground, crisscrossed. Friend took the opportunity to snuggle into his side, closing his eyes. Tommy gently scratched the sheep’s head.
Wilbur followed suit, grunting as his joints complained.
Tommy held back a smirk. “Are you getting old?”
“Aging is not such a bad thing,” Wilbur said, leaning his hands back. “Maybe when you get to my age, you’ll have half a brain to understand. I doubt it, though.”
“Piss off.”
They sat in comfortable silence, Tommy staring at white flowered weeds around his shoes, or at the singular cloud drifting through the sky. Wilbur hummed a simple tune. Wilbur’s hands itched for a guitar. It made his mind go quiet, like time stopped, and only memories remained (He was a kid, he was an adult, he was singing to his lover, to his family. He was making mistakes, he was crying, he was making others cry).
“I’m bored,” Tommy started abruptly. “Tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“A story.”
“I don’t have any stories to tell.”
“You always have stories. You used to tell me one every night when I was a kid.”
“...You wouldn’t like my stories anymore,” Wilbur corrected carefully.
“You’re right,” Tommy agreed. “They would bore me even more because you’re such an offensively awful storyteller.” Tommy had never been a very good liar, Wilbur thought absentmindedly. (Warm summer nights. Tommy’s blue eyes, bluer than the sea, lighting up, and then they would flutter close as he would try to evade sleep to keep listening to Wilbur’s narration. Wilbur talked of sailing the ocean, of stars, of distant nations, of monsters and heroes. Of villains. Of possibilities).
“I could sing you a song?”
“I don’t want to listen to your horrid singing. Makes me want to cut my ears off.”
Wilbur sighed. “What do you want, Tommy?”
“I’m b-o-r-e-d,” Tommy articulated each syllable painstakingly slowly. “Cure my boredom. Now.”
“Why don’t you tell me something, since you can’t seem to stand silence.”
“No,” Tommy said childishly. “Since you’re no fun, maybe Friend can tell us a story instead.”
“Friend is a sheep .”
“You are close-minded. You need to listen to nature more, dear Wilbur. It has lots to say! Go outside, see the great big world—”
“Tommy–”
“— Oh! Just listen to the sheep, to the cows, to the birds! Maybe then you’d be less of an arse. I doubt it, thou—.”
“Tommy .” Wilbur’s face was dark. Tommy’s smile fell. It was clear their empty conversation was over. “You have something to say, so say it. Go on.”
Tommy was quiet for a long while. Too long. He picked at the grass that scratched at his ankles, refusing to meet Wilbur’s eyes. They sat so close, yet there was a distance. The unsaid things stretched between them. That history. The memories. Tommy knew it, Wilbur knew it. Wilbur didn’t want Tommy to say it, to make it true. But he always waited, just to see if Tommy would do something– if he would scream, or leave him. Tommy never did.
It was pitiful.
It was, well, Tommy.
He took a deep breath. “You know, you were shown kindness, Will. You were loved.”
Wilbur leaned back, not expecting this. “I know.”
Tommy’s voice is faint and sad. “Did you ever love?”
“I’ve loved, yes. A great many things.”
“But did you even care? Like, really care?”
Wilbur was unnerved. “What kind of a question–? of course I cared–”
“What about now? Do you care about me?”
He took too long to answer. “...I–”
Tommy’s entire body twisting away, like Wilbur was physically hurting him. “Ghostbur cared about me.”
That was it. Wilbur was sick of these constant comparisons to a spectral of himself. As though Tommy missed that version more than the real person. His next words were through gritted teeth. “Why do you keep bringing up him? I told you: He. Is. Nothing. Like. Me. So stop looking at me and expecting to see something that isn’t there.”
Tommy curled into himself. “I’m not– that’s not what I meant.”
“Well that’s what it sounds like,” he snapped back. Wilbur was better than Ghostbur in every way. He wasn’t naive. He didn’t prance about like he hadn’t done horrible things. He didn’t pretend to be happy. The rain didn’t hurt him. He wasn’t attached to a stupid sheep. He didn’t pretend that he had friends. He didn’t pretend he had a son who loved him. He wasn’t envious of the way Tommy looked at ease around Ghostbur. Happy. Not afraid. He wasn’t jealous that Tommy would never flinch if Ghostbur tried to touch him, to hold him, because Ghosbur did not have a wrinkled lip, and was not a cold command. No, Wilbur wasn’t envious, because there was nothing to envy. Not envious at all. “You’re holding onto a past that doesn’t matter–”
Tommy whipped back, nostrils flaring. “Doesn’t matter?” His voice cracked.
“That’s right. You need to learn how to let go–”
“He doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. He was a good person. He cared about me–”
“You seem to care more about the dead than what’s around you.”
Tommy ignored that comment. “A-and I knew he cared about me because he never tried to hurt me. He was there for me when I needed him. God– I– And it’s my fault he’s gone because I'm so stupid and selfish–!” He choked up.
“You’re not selfish.”
Tommy started laughing. And laughing. “I’m just like you,” he said between laughs. “I’m just like you! Always looking out for myself. Hurting the people around me just to get what I want. And now I’m always sad, like you are. Aren’t we just the worst?”
Wilbur stared.
There was silence. They were like statues. Unchanging, crumbling. The grass rustled.
Wilbur came alive first. He gave a half-shrug. “Like I said, Toms. I don't deserve kindness.”
“But you get it anyway.”
“You're a fool to give it.” And I am a monster for letting you.
“Better to be a fool than whatever it is you are.”
Wilbur chuckled without mirth. “I've never claimed to be a saint, Tommy.”
The boy hugged his knees to his chest, blond curls shadowing his expression. It was moments like these, when Tommy was uncharacteristically quiet, maybe scared. Unsure. So unashamedly child-like. It frightened Wilbur.
Tommy’s mouth tightened. “All I wanted was to be happy with you, with everyone. But you ruined it all.”
“I know,” Wilbur said.
“I'm afraid of the dark because of you.”
“I know.”
“You left me.”
Wilbur instinctively reached out his spindly fingers to touch, to comfort, to hold. But he pulled his hand back.
Tommy sighed. “You know, when I first met Ghostbur, I wanted to hate him. I really did–”
“Because he looked like me.”
“Because he loved books and writing. Because he pretended everything was okay when it wasn’t. Because he smiled at me. Because you-you weren’t nice to me, and he was. As much as I wanted to hate him, I couldn't.”
“Why?” Wilbur’s voice was strained.
“Because he looked like you. And I could never hate you.” Tommy stared at his hands. “Isn’t that terrible?” Tommy smiled. “I hate myself.”
Wilbur hesitated. “…you shouldn't hate yourself for being kind, Tommy. For being soft.”
“I thought you said softness makes you weak.”
Wilbur’s gaze grew gentle. “There's a reason you're a better man than I.”
Tommy’s eyes filled with tears, like rainfall flooding a river, threatening to break through a haphazard dam, and he held his mouth to stop his lip from quivering.Trying to be strong. Still pretending, still trying to be brave for his older brother. He hugged his legs tighter. “You left me,” he repeated, barely a whisper.
Wilbur’s fists clenched the grass. “I won't leave you,” he promised. “Not this time.”
Tommy laughed, burying his face in his knees. “You're such a bad liar.”
Wilbur looks at Friend sleeping, looks at Tommy resting his head on his knees. I’m afraid of the dark because of you. They looked peaceful. Tommy, are we the bad guys? Wilbur should have felt peaceful.
I won’t leave you.
But all he could see was Tommy saying goodbye to him as he went to pursue music.
You’re such a liar.
Tommy watching as he lay dying in his father's arms. The wreckage of the city they built around them. Nothing besides remained.
“But I always believe you anyway,” Tommy murmured.
I know.
***
Tommy watched his boat grow smaller and smaller.
Tommy did not want to be kind.
He shook his fist at the notion, at the pain it had wrecked on his existence. (He tried to act brashly, laugh at people who tried to get close to him, try to mess everything up.)
But he was kind in the end anyway. He could not bear to live without love.
Did that make him a Fool? Or, perhaps Life has enslaved him in its court to laugh at his ludicrous afflictions. He was forever an unwilling jester, struggling to dance with heavy chains around his ankles, trying to please people who would never love him back.
***
Wilbur watched Tommy's figure receding on the island, the boat drifting out to the horizon, to home. If it was still home. If he even had a home.
His hands were so cold. Such lifeless things they were now. They could not put ink on paper without shaking. Could not compose a song. Mocking, taunting.
Wilbur wondered if the point of life was to love, then why did loving hurt so much?
Ah, perhaps they were all fools masquerading as the mighty. He, who ruled from a bastard(charlatan) throne, proclaiming for all to look upon his mighty works and despair. But it was he who was left incomplete, an aimless husk. Empty. Alone.
He, the most laughable of them all.
***
Wilbur was wrong about one thing. He said kindness had to be earned, but Tommy knew that couldn’t be the truth.
Because as much as Tommy gave, life never gave back.
Maybe the poets didn’t know anything about love after all.
In the end, all people are fools, even the poets. And everyone knows foolish people don’t know any better.