Chapter Text
“Why? What do you like if not golden hour?” Wilbur asked then.
Tommy watched as the orange and pink tones washed out from the sky, but the light still remained, not quite leaving them in a dark night. He raised his gaze to look at the Moon dancing above them in the endless blue sky.
“This,” Tommy said. He looked out at the city below them, everything much darker than it was while the Sun was still visible in the sky. The evening drowned everything in shades of blue, making it seem more moody, more calming for Tommy.
“You just like nighttime?” Wilbur asked, unsure.
“No. People call this blue hour.”
Tommy liked to watch Wilbur, he always had. The man always seemed so calm, it washed through Tommy like a wave from the ocean and cooled him off as well. Like water to fire, except Wilbur wasn’t killing him, he was just calming him. His favourite activity was watching Wilbur work, because he could become so focused on something he’d often zone the whole world out and only pay attention to what he’s working on.
Tommy admired Wilbur. His patience and his motivation, the way he just knew so much about art. Tommy was never an artsy person, he knew fuckall about art. But Wilbur explained it so beautifully it was hard not to fall in love with it.
“Think through history, there’s only one thing that connects us all,” Wilbur said as the two of them walked through the Louvre, their pinkies subtly linked together in a way to stay connected without bringing too much attention to themselves. “From the dawn of man with the cave paintings, to right now. My songs, for example.” Tommy frowned, trying to understand what was the invisible link between those two he couldn’t quite get. “There’s one thing humans have in common, all of us. And it’s that we all try to explain our experiences to each other. Even if it’s a painting, a statue, a song or a movie. It’s all about the same thing. Humans have an innate need to show people things that they’ve experienced. That’s what art is for, it’s trying to show you what the artist went through.”
They stood in front of the small painting with a sea of other people, and Tommy looked straight at the Mona Lisa. His eyes caught the lady’s dark eyes, and he just stared for a while. He took a deep breath and stopped to really think about what Wilbur had said, implementing it into this piece in front of him.
“How does it make you feel? Do you think she’s happy? Sad?” Wilbur prompted. An answer made itself clear in Tommy’s head, but he hesitated to say it, not wanting to make a fool of himself. “There’s no wrong answers. You can interpret art in any way you’d like. What you think is yours, don’t let other people tell you how art is supposed to make you feel. Just say what you think.”
Tommy nodded and pursed his lips for a second before they opened. “She’s smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes. She doesn’t seem happy. Not truly happy. It’s a bit unsettling, the way she’s staring into the distance, like she’s looking at something we can’t see.” He turned from the painting to look up at Wilbur, who was smiling at him so softly it made Tommy blush. “Maybe someone is pointing a gun at her to smile,” he joked, which made Wilbur bark out a laugh loud enough to alert security. They fled from the Mona Lisa as quickly and quietly as they could to avoid confrontation.
Ever since then, Tommy looked differently at art. He looked differently at WIlbur’s songs, too, and that’s why he loved watching him make his music. The long document of song lyrics open on his laptop in front of him, next to a little notebook and pencil that he used to write down all the tabs for the melodies he was writing, His guitar gently cradled in his lap, his hands strumming away on the metal strings.
Tommy sat a bit further away from him on the floor, watching the frown on his face sometimes disappear and then reappear. Wilbur worked slowly but surely, like the sea that could move mountains little by little. The sea could carve and shape boulders into new forms, like how Wilbur had shaped Tommy into a better version of himself.
But just like the sea, Wilbur wasn’t always calm. He was sometimes angry, upset, sad or anxious. Tommy often had to sit with Wilbur, cuddle in his bed as the man clutched onto his shirt and held him for dear life as he cried on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m so fucked up,” he often said, and it made Tommy’s heart ache, because WIlbur truly believed that. “I’m sorry you got caught up in my mess, I’m so sorry I can’t be a better person.”
“You are a better person,” Tommy explained to Wilbur. “You’re better than most people I know. And you’re better than you were yesterday. Or a week ago. Or a year ago. Remember when we first met? Look at how long you’ve come.”
Wilbur was moody. And sometimes a little intense. But those weren’t bad things, Tommy loved Wilbur so much, with everything that came with him. And he loved that he could always count on Wilbur. When Tommy needed him for anything, he was there.
“Let’s get out of town,” Tommy suggested on a whim, and Wilbur was already packing his bag. “I want to stay inside today,” Tommy said, and Wilbur was ordering takeaway and putting on a movie. “Let’s go dancing.” “We should just cuddle all day.” “I’m sick.” “I just can’t stop crying, can you come over?” No matter what Tommy wanted, Wilbur was always there. Reliable. Attentive. The thing he loved most about his boyfriend.
When Tommy was burning up, Wilbur was there to wash over him in a cooling tidal wave, swallow him up and make him feel ten times lighter. Being in love with Wilbur was easy.
As Tommy watched Wilbur work on his song, he realised there’s nothing in the world he would rather be doing other than being there, by the side of his boyfriend. He scooted closer to Wilbur on the floor, and leaned his head onto the man’s shoulder.
“I love you,” he said.
Wilbur pressed a kiss to his head. “I love you too.”