Chapter Text
The fall of 1932 was when William Wilson was sat down and given a needle. Sat down by the window in his living room, his keen-eyed mother brought a squeaky-hinged sewing kit by her hip and a blue thin paper back that was weathering by the spine: “A Complete Manual to Stitching.” William had just turned eight years old.
The running stitch was the first pattern he learned the name of, but the last she bothered to teach him. “It’ll get your fingers used to the poking in n’ out,” she said, rolling a piece of thread through the needle eye. “Y’got that?” But she found her son splitting his string into three as he tried to shove it in the eye.
“Aa- Aaa-!” Her cold, thin fingers swiped it from his grasp before he could unravel it through and through. “Good grief, William…” Awkwardly, the boy placed his palms out when told to. Then stared down at red thin loops in his hands, piercing through the silver slit.
He’ll get this, William told himself. He will, and his mother will be mighty proud of him for that.
—
That was one of the first memories Will regained in Nevermore, which definitely explained the small wooden box of thread, fabric samples, and the saddest little pin cushion to date left in his suitcase.
His needles must’ve pricked his finger a million times when he was living.. The scar on his middle finger proves it as he gazes down on his fork, picking at a piece of egg. It’s strange though. He only really thinks about sewing at all when there’s something that needs to be fixed and that spot on his finger starts to itch.
Ten minutes ago? That heel bit on his left sock, huddled up by the bare sole of his boot. Even in the afterlife he couldn’t have a new pair of socks.
Right now?
The rip on Monty’s blazer sleeve. Which he noticed as he jumped up to reel the blond from jumping on that stranger again. That nasty thing was maybe from wrist to forearm, flashing Monty’s white dress shirt underneath.
“Oh what the Hell, Will! Let me at that addle-headed fucknut!” Montresor hollered through bared teeth. He nearly bucks Will off his balance and the smaller man yelps, winding his arms even tighter around his friend’s.
“E- Easy there-!” Will stammers out in a flurry, “Eheh.! Don’t wanna cause a scene for the deans, do you?”
Across from the spilled and broken bowl of oats was the ginger Monty managed to piss off. On Annabelle’s order, Prospero was the one pulling him back. “Ey’ let go of me already! That wise guy bettah’ say sorry!” The man snaps. “You all saw that fuckin’ yokel trip me up earlier! I know ya did!”
Will clears his throat in bystander. “Not intentionally-“
“I wasn’t talkin’ to youz, chooch!” To that, Will quickly shriveled down and shut up. There was enough animosity passing around anyway, why stir the pot? Why be *that* guy? Suddenly, there was a harsh grunt and a sudden yank that makes him stumble. His arms grasp at nothing.
“Ey’! You keep your fuckn’ eyes on me, pal!” Monty snaps, before stomping his way to the redhead. The downward lines on his mouth twist into a sharp, malevolent grin just as he grabs the ginger’s shirt again. Yet Will watches for a moment. How could he not when Monty seemed to.. stand up for him?
However, another, louder voice of reason cuts through his head. “Will! Do you mind?” Prospero chides and Will snaps out of his delusion. Before Montresor could raise his fist, Will’s arms clasp around the lithe shape of his torso and hauled back with all his might. There’s a warmth. Monty tenses in place. Will feels he does.
Then there was the sharp whip of his hair as Montresor peers over his shoulder. “The fuck d’you think you’re doing, Will?” He curses through gritted teeth; just seconds before a grand— dare he say ‘flashy’ tower of thick black smoke arises from the floorboards.
—
Monty and the ginger received twenty-five demerits each for disruptions. But Monty got an extra five for sending him to Ms. Dolly. It was nothing bad, really, just a bloody nose, but boy, was he a bleeder.
He rubs that lick of red off his knuckles onto his slacks before fishing out a toothpick from his inner jacket. That’s when the sight of his sleeve finally comes to notice.
“Awh shit,” he curses to himself as he raises up his arm. It looks even more disheveled than Will remembered. The fabric itself was already fraying into slate black wefts by there the part was severed and the tear had shredded further along his elbow at the seams, making the whole appendage stick out like corn cobs would to their husks. There must’ve been a cue card out of sight, because Ada swoops around the table.
“Oh wow.. Aren’t you in trouble?” Her voice feels more mocking than the bat in her lashes, “Better hope our next lesson won’t be outside. A poor thing like you would freeze to death.”
Monty snaps his head around, his toothpick stiff, “Watch it, sugar. Unless you’re fixin’ for a sewing project.”
Sewing project, huh? Will’s brows perk a little higher. He’s surprised that Monty was actually looking for help, but a giddy little zing went through his shoulders. Ada rolls her eyes in turn and crosses her arms. “Like a lady like me would even touch a rag like that. Serves you right for picking a fight with the hothead.”
Great she turned him down, now all Will has to do is-
“Hmmm.. I’m afraid she has you there, Montresor.” The soft elegance of Annabel’s voice kills the words Will had in mind mid-transfer. He didn’t know if he feared or admired her kind of authority. “That disruption you’ve created was your choice. Helping you is ours. You’ll have to find someplace elsewhere to mend your blazer.”
It didn’t fail anyone’s notice when her voice felt a little colder than usual. Must’ve been especially annoying when she was the first to intervene in the incident, only to have her warnings snuffed by the sounds of shouting and landing blows. Still.. Will felt like it wasn’t completely Monty to blame. And he shouldn’t have to look for someone else to help! He was right here!
“Tch.. whatever you say, Queenie..” Monty grumbles, casting his attention away from Annabel Lee. For a moment, Will felt his spine stack a little straighter when he thought those dark pupil-less eyes were narrowed his way. His throat tightened and funneled in his thoughts again, ready to be known, and Will finally opens his mouth to- oh. Will instantly follows his gaze to Miss Morella on his left. Gosh darn it.
It wasn’t long before Monty spun his toothpick around his fingers and flashed a prize-winning smile, like the sleazeball kind of salesman readying a pitch. While Morella seemed to actually be willing to pitch in and help, luck was suddenly on Will’s side when Annabelle and Ada dissuaded her with ease.
In the corner of his eye, Will watches Monty scoff, grit around his toothpick, and reluctantly hide his sleeve away from view. As of now, the other man could only bite his tongue and grip his seat. Later, he thinks to himself. He’ll ask later.