Things That Need To Pass (passerine!Technoblade x OC) {COMPLETED}

...And New Beginnings. (2)

(3rd person POV)

"You've stopped again."

Wilbur slowly lowered his bow, looking around the tower with a growing sense of unease. He did not remember learning the song he'd been playing for his mother. Did he write it himself? Was it a ballad from some long-dead composer? 

Still thinking about the unfamiliar tune, Wilbur walked silently towards the table in the corner, where the silk-lined case for his violin stood open and waiting. He placed the instrument gently inside and snapped the case shut. For a moment, his fingers lingered on the gold clasps.

I don't even play the violin.

He turned towards his mother, who continued painting as if nothing had happened, lost in her colors.

"Mother?" Wilbur called. "Mama?"

She paused, then gestured him over. "Come look at this, Wil."

Wilbur made his way over to her, stopping just behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders as he leaned in to look at her work.

There was a painting hanging in the hallway downstairs that Wilbur walked under at least a dozen times a day: it was the official family portrait, done by their court painter, when Tommy was just a toddler and slept soundly through everything. 

Wilbur had always hated it. They'd all looked so stiff and serious in it, and Wilbur could still remember the horrid pins and needles he acquired from sitting on the floor for hours on end.

And his mother, in response, had made it beautiful.

She'd used brighter colors, softer colors, turning the dark, somber shades into something that felt more alive. Everything was the same, and yet everything was different. Still seated on a simple throne was Mother herself, but with more gray in her pinned-up hair. 

Behind her, a hand on her shoulder, was Father. He stood with his blue eyes lit up with pride, the only signs of his age in the laugh lines forming at his temples as he smiled back at Wilbur from the canvas. 

And then, drawing all attention inevitably to him, there was Tommy, leaning against the arm of Mother's chair.

He was older, too, with longer hair, curling over his ears and shoulders. But the traces of his childhood remained in the wolfish grin and the cocky quirk of his eyebrow. Before Wilbur could think better of himself, he reached out to run his fingers along the painted lines of his brother's face.

 Fortunately, the paint had already dried, and Wilbur was free to trace the gentle curls of Tommy's hair.

Then, slowly, Wilbur's hand drifted towards the floor, where he had been sitting in the original painting. He wondered how Mother made him beautiful, if that was at all possible in the first place. He wondered how the years had made their mark on him.

But instead of paint, there were only pencil marks where Wilbur was supposed to be. Vaguely in the shape of a person. A sketch.

He looked down at his Mother, and she turned in her seat to look at him with a sad smile. "You're not done yet," she whispered, raising her hand to cup his cheek and gently wipe away the single tear that had escaped without his notice.

"I ruined it," he sobbed. "I'm sorry—"

"No, darling, that's not what I meant at all." She got up from her seat and wrapped her arms around Wilbur. Wilbur had to duck his head to bury his face into her shoulder, trembling with a grief he could not name. 

His mother held him like he was a child again, seeking comfort from nightmares. "You have ruined nothing. You are the greatest gift of my life, Wilbur. But I do not want you here."