Chapter Text
Art class was the only time Theseus Innit Watson felt alive.
The days of the week were measured by which he had art and which days his life was completely devoid of any fancy paint or paper. The fresh smell of freedom filled Tommy’s nose as soon as he entered the classroom. A sweet tingling that started in his throat and ended in his lungs.
“Tommy stop snorting the fucking paint!” Tubbo once again broke the one moment of peace Tommy got during the unbearable school day. “You’re gonna get lung damage if you inhale any more toxic fumes!” But between the sea of kids in the hallways and endless assignments, the familiar smell felt more like air— like life.
Tommy looked over at his best friend with a frown before squeezing out paint onto the cheap pallet he grabbed,
“Don’t look at me like that.” Tubbo deadpanned even if the others' eyes were covered by his obnoxious haircut.
“You’re a hypocrite.” Tommy tried to peel the hardened paint off the top of the container he grabbed for, “The only thing you do in this class is use the glue gun on your hands to peel it.”
“It feels nice.” Tubbo said as he tried to grab a stick full of glue to refill the old glue gun, the blonde cringed,
“You’re burning and peeling your skin off.” Ranboo almost screamed as they secured the last of the glue filling. The brunette mumbled something about the gun barley heating up anyway before getting up to grab supplies.
Tommy looked over at the assignment, it was one of those annoying prompts, Change .
He huffed before grabbing a few more oil pastels and charcoal. School had this annoying rule about showing your progress, Tommy had been the kind of artist to jump into whatever his mind was thinking at that moment.
“You okay there?” Ranboo suddenly snapped Tommy back into reality, realizing he was staring at the abused art table for a good five minutes. He decided that it could be his spirit animal. The colours felt like his mind, too much at once too used and yet not ready to throw away even when the wood was begging for it.
Tommy met their eyes hesitantly before looking down onto the cool S that was drawn next to a penis. The peak of High schoolers.
“I just hate those broad topics.” The blonde said as he absent-mindedly began sketching a few rough compositions in his sketchbook, “I never know what to draw, what to choose.” When they met eyes Ranboo had a look of understanding before a malicious glint replaced it;
“Tubbo said that he was gonna re-draw our old South Park OC ship art to show his ‘ change and growth in art .” Ranboo proudly said as they both shuddered at the thought,
“If I hear you talking shit about my art I will start sobbing.” Tubbo said as he too returned to their table, hands full of oil paint.
“Tubs I respect you but dear prime do you have the expensive oil paints for shit like that!?” Tommy yelled.
“Cesar A. Cruze once wrote-“ Tubbo began as Tommy felt his soul dying,
“No, do not even dare to disrespect poetry as a whole by associating those words with your work!” If he could cry he would, but Tommy would be lying if he claimed Tubbo was wrong, art class could be a joke but it could be serious too, if you wanted it to be. Not many teachers liked some of Tommy’s more disturbing work but nonetheless he’d never gotten anything lower than a 75% in art.
This didn’t stop him from trying to grab the oil paint away from his best friend. The teacher, Mr. Awesome — or Sam, which the man preferred due to too many jokes— gave Tommy a light flick on his head as he walked by their table, again going on about how Tubbo can choose to express himself however he wanted.
Tommy was content zoning the lecture out, starting his second row of ‘possible compositions’, he would be lying if he said that one of his thousand possible ideas didn’t stick out the moment he knew what the prompt was. Tommy just didn’t want to stick with that idea. Movement in the corner of his eye made him break the endless flow of ideas,
“So Mr. Watson, big ideas yet?” The teen cringed at the name “No pressure of course.” Sam added lazily, hiding a shit eating grin;
There was pressure, this was their final work. One that's gonna be shown in the art exhibition the school set up for their graduation students. To show the world that it was more than just a hobby, a dream, it was life. Sam had even offered him the biggest canvas he could find.
“Not any good ones.” He could feel his cheeks warm up at the edgy response,
Sam snickered and Tommy felt like maybe he wasn’t gonna be lying awake about the conversation for five years.
“I admit it’s a bit of an intimate topic, I’d thought you like it given your.. track record.” Sam looked at the crappy school Chromebook Ranboo opened to draw. “You got the whole term to work on this project, you can always ask me for help or if you need to talk.”
If there was anything worse than edginess it was pity from a teacher.
“Track record?” He deflected, ignoring whatever Sam could be hinting towards. Sam gave him a raised eyebrow. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Tommy scoffed.
You turn in one “weird” artwork which Tommy considered a masterpiece and immediately get sent to the school counselor where you have to explain the symbolism of a kid crying over a dead deer, ( “I don’t see how this could be described as ‘the loss of gentleness’ but I want to remind you your prompt was growing up, not gore.” Sam had still given him a 70 if not only because he badly faked his record of the ‘making of’ process.)
“Don’t patronize people Mr. Awsomesauce .” Tubbo cut in. If God could choose to punch anyone, it would be Tubbo. Sam looked disappointed, mumbling something about the state of this generation and Tubbo interjected by saying that his dad could get him fired.
“As long as I don’t get complaints from parents before, during, or after the exhibition, you can make your work as crazy as you want.” The green-haired man was his favorite teacher for a reason, finding common ground, and common ground was important when it came to something Tommy could describe as his life. Art.
“A lot of the great artists were ‘crazy’ y'know—“ Crazy in heavy air quotes but the older man turned to Ranboo before he could see the emphasis Tommy wanted to convey, instead giving all his attention to his split-dyed-haired best friend who was trying to draw Hatsune Miku on chrome canvas.
Crazy was the wrong word for it anyway, artist weren’t crazy they just devoted their life to a story, a narrative of their own life and emotions, a need to scream to the edge of the universe what you want so desperately to be heard.
The poster of last year's exhibition stared at Tommy as he tried to sketch anything other than his first initial idea, but he kept coming back to a woman with black hair. She had been haunting him, the edges of his thoughts were devoted to her.
He flipped the page, if he was gonna do this, create this, he would do it right.
The way home was his favorite part of the day. Crisp air filled his lungs as Tommy and his friends walked through their town toward the nearest bus stop, Tubbo trying to “parkour” with Ranboo trying to catch him.
It was moments like this where life finally felt right again, the blonde often felt envious in the silent moments he and his friends shared as they collectively waited for the bus to arrive. It was like nothing bad happened— all the pain of life was forgotten during bad jokes and whispered stories on the bus, they were just there. Existing. Alive .
Alive in a sense that home could never achieve. Not again, only maintained in memories and nostalgia that turned into a sea of melancholy Tommy would drown in each time he spent another holiday alone. Since the twins left everything seemed to dull, even if Tommy sometimes truly despised his brothers, they took the warmth with them.
Home felt cold, Tommy stared at the white walls while he was boiling water to cook pasta, he never liked white, Why boring when every surface could be enamored with the emotion— the passion of colour? Home would have felt warmer, nicer, Tommy knew that it wouldn’t make up for the empty spaces left behind but he knew a home was warm, he knew this because that’s how past holidays with his family felt, or more recently how hanging out with his friends felt.
As Tommy broke some of the pasta to make it fit in the pan (he’d gotten death threats for that, but a man had to eat.) he heard the front door slam shut, causing the entire house to vibrate. Was Phil home already? Staring at the clock that was burning itself into Tommy’s eyes. He usually got home past eight on a ‘good’ day. Not at seven.
“Hey, mate.” His father mumbled as he entered the kitchen, slamming his computer bag a bit too hard on the dining table. Phil looked tired. He always had looked tired but since that day the tiredness slowly crept itself into the older man’s skin seeping into his soul when Techno and Will grew up.
“You’re home early.” Tommy commented, peeling open the packet of tomato sauce.
“‘S there enough for both or should I warm up a pizza?” Phil commented on his current culinary skills clearly ignoring his son’s question. Mumbling a No sorry Tommy raised an eyebrow begging his father for an explanation.
“I need to get up early tomorrow.” The man finally elaborated and Tommy didn’t question his father further, it wasn’t uncommon for him to pick up extra shifts. Phil continued anyway; “Your brothers are coming home, exciting innit?”.
Just for a moment, all the air was sucked out of the room and Tommy was floating. For a moment Tommy was pulled back into his imagination, a ghost of a women haunting him as he could come up with a hundred paintings of the betrayal he felt: The great backstabbing of Tommy innit.
“Sorry?” Disbelief filled Tommy’s mind, did he mention this? Last semester just started. His jaw clenched as his grip tightened.
“Your brothers—“ His father tried to repeat but was cut off as a splatter of tomato sauce covered the wall. Tommy winced. Phil sighed. “Dramatic much?” It was meant to be a joke but neither of them could find the energy to laugh.
“Here- You.. You can finish dinner I need to go for a walk.” He had to leave, Tommy needed to find the air again before he would suffocate. Reaching for his coat that he had hastily thrown on a chair the second he’d gotten home in his desperate search for food, a hunger that had long disappeared since Phil had gotten home.
The boy was thrown out of his thoughts that now seemed to spiral with emotion by a hand on his shoulder,
“Mate, I get that you’ve become used- To being an only child I guess..“ – Only child in heavy air quotes Tommy wanted to scoff, it’s not like Phil paid much attention to him anyway – ”But it isn’t a big deal. Trust me. It’ll be like old times.” The words were floating in the air and Tommy wanted to rip them apart, the moment was gone, the words were said and lost to time the second his father's mouth closed, forced into a memory Tommy couldn’t prove to anyone.
‘It isn’t a big deal’ It was like those words attached themself to his brain the second they broke the air. It was a big deal. At least it was to Tommy.
Phil didn’t know that though, his youngest son just pulled away from the contact, Tommy’s mind was fast, too fast, a million thoughts came to mind dripped with betrayal. Sadness? Confusion? Meanwhile, another part wanted to disappear into his imaginary museum of forgotten ideas.
He left the house with the door slamming shut, leaving the other in a now-stained kitchen.
It wasn’t fair. His brothers had left so easily, ripping their family further apart with it, and decidedly coming back in the middle of the school year wasn’t normal, at least wait for him to get out of here, out of the house, out of town, out of the country.
In a town like L’manberg, there weren’t many places to get away from the world, to hide from the prying eyes of your neighbor who just so happened to run into your father in the grocery store and suddenly your whole family knows you stole a piece of candy from the store.
Tommy, with enough luck, found the Jackpot. A place hidden away in the depths of a now abandoned skate park and hidden under a plethora of bushes. The edge.
The edge was a wall separating the harbor of a river from the said skate park. Preventing many kids from plunging to their death with their skates, as well as providing a hidden ledge between the wall and the water, no broader than the pavement. Tubbo wanted to build a bench on it, Tommy often spray-painted the walls, and Ranboo never had the guts to even go near any of it.
It was perfect to hide away from the world.
The water wasn’t moving as Tommy sat down on the ground, feet dangling off into what looked like an abyss at this hour. Techno and Wilbur. Phil’s favorites, the golden children who could not do any harm, no matter how often Wilbur punched him or Techno stole the youngest one’s drawings. They were the reason why Phil took on more shifts. They were the reason why he was seen as an outcast the second he entered high school, just because your older brother beat up some popular kid? They would never be looked down upon by their teachers who are expecting way too much just because they shared the same last name.
Phil always seemed so much more present with them, his eyes cleared of the stress he bore, he flowed through the motions of life fluidly like it was a dance instead of daily chores, and he cooked meals better than a sixteen-year-old could on his own. Tommy hated the man who was no longer his dad and maybe never was, maybe his dad was an image of nostalgia replaced by the shell of a person.
Yet Tommy selfishly hoped Phil would stay tired when his brothers came back if it meant that he wasn’t the reason for it.
“Tommy?” The blonde flinched so violently at the sudden voice that he almost fell into the water.
“What the fuck man!” Tommy hoisted himself away from the edge of the water, “Quackity?” The other looked menacing, the streetlights barely reached this corner of this town leaving the edge only illuminated in moonlight reflected off the rivers.
“What are you doing out here so late man! It’s way past your bedtime.” The man did a frantic gesture obviously teasing like they often do but Tommy just stared into the water, not bothering to even cuss the other out.
Quackity knew something was off. Tommy wasn’t like this, he was bright, you could feel him walk into a room and brighten up anything close to him. He matched the others' energy perfectly.
“You good?” He silently questioned as he lowered himself to the ground, both of them dangling off into void giving a soft shove to the other.
“Family shit.”
“Is that why you didn’t come by the community center today?” Tommy always seemed eager to go to the community center, meet up with their group to laugh and draw, help set up the exhibit, and not shut up about it the day Sam said something about the fact that his work could’ve had a chance to be shown to the world, which made dragging benches and plastered boards a lot more bearable.
“Homework.” Right. Sometimes Quackity forgot that the other was in high school, he seemed so independent, or when you looked closer; abandoned. Tommy didn’t elaborate into a crazy story and Quackity had to hold back a shiver from the uncanny person the kid turned into. No one in the art group knew Tommy’s family, he’d never mention them, the kid didn’t have a curfew, he cooked far beyond the average 16-year-old and his dad rarely was home from what he heard from Tubbo.
“Did your dad ask about your grades again?” They managed to uncover the only part of Tommy’s life, whenever Tommy was grounded due to his rapport cards: "Because if he complains about one more “bad grade” I’ll make his life hell.”
“Why’re you here?” The teenager mumbled, Quackity in response pulled a can of spray paint from his bag and shook it loudly
“Wanted to finish the mural.” For the first time that night, he heard the blond come close to a laugh, followed by the most obvious statement of the century
“You can’t see shit here at night.”
“We got phones for a reason, right?” Quackity pointed his phone torch toward the river, the water was still endless even when illuminated by light.
“I like it here more at night, to be honest.” Tommy silently admitted, the other silently turned off the light at that statement letting the other continue,
“Is that so?” Quackity couldn’t keep the interest out of his voice even if he knew Tommy hated vulnerable moments like these. The distant sound of a train passing rang throughout the entire skate park and Quackity wondered if the teenager came here at night more often, and he too wondered why he felt his gut turn at the thought.
“The water looks like the edge of the universe,” Tommy stated, the teen always had the craziest ideas for paintings, intertwining reality and fiction into surrealistic paintings that almost always made you feel either dread or adoration at the idea of them. “Makes my problems feel… Less bad .” He added as he cringed the moment the words left his mouth.
Quackity stared at the water, it looked like the earth had a hole ripped into it and it would never recover and somewhere he saw the bittersweet tragedy of something so brutal and mesmerizing, the thought made him shiver.
“I get that.” The black haired man admitted, and Tommy was shocked for a moment. Quackity never shared much about real problems with friends, he had a therapist or whatever that meant. Tommy wanted to stick with avoiding his guidance counselor for now. “So are you gonna paint something like this for your final?”
Tommy didn’t know he’d been holding his breath since the other began speaking. “No, our prompt is change . Whatever that is.” He huffed before doing a fake gag,
“Ayyye, I hate those broad prompts!” Quackity shoved him again before getting up, and digging around in his backpack. The younger boy watched silently, “Look I- I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I’m happy to listen anytime.” He added a hum at the end,
“Yeah. Thanks big Q.” Tommy looked at the other as Qauckity shone his torch light onto each can making sure he grabbed the right colour. “Need help?”
Quackity looked confused before he understood, he threw a paint can at Tommy who thankfully caught it. “I have the sketch on my phone, you know how to use a doodle grid right?”
“‘Course.” He puffed out his chest for good measure. “What’re you making exactly?” Tommy half mumbled, maybe he should’ve slept instead of pulling an all nighter for the history test.
“A mural, right, of this city I dreamt about. it’s like this big fucking city, and it’s very important to add casino shit into it, maybe some slime.” He poorly explained it as he pulled up the sketch on his phone, it was a street in the city, Casino in center with a big tower in the distance.
“Why is everything covered in slime!” Tommy yelled throwing the green spray can back into the bag like it was hurting him.
“Stop being a pussy!” Quackity laughed, getting started on the grid. The air was filled with a light sizzling and Quackity’s soft humming while Tommy harshly hummed a Modern Baseball song over whatever the other was humming just to annoy him. It smelt like paint and sewer water, the paint made him dizzy but for the first time Tommy found himself not caring if he could fall and drown into the abyss of the universe below them.
He would admit to himself that whatever was gonna happen in the next few weeks was gonna suck; the thought of Wilbur and Techno coming home made Tommy want to rip out his soul out of his chest and stomp onto it until he didn’t feel anything, but right now his friend is humming along with him to ‘… and beyond’ with sticky paint covered fingers,
Right now their painting a distant dream while Quackity tells him the story of Las Nevadas or whatever he could remember from the dream, Tommy adding details to make the story more interesting,
Right now everything is okay and Tommy for the first time since his family shattered into a million pieces doesn’t feel the urge to throw himself into the stars, and everytime he gets close to the edge of the universe this painted world would stare back at him created in a bittersweet memory, and Tommy goes home to reconsider.