𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 ༄

six

"As long as you're happy, I don't care!" Wilbur Soot screamed into the crowd of a couple hundred, his voice raising them on their feet in avid applause.

"Thank you everybody, and goodnight!" He saluted, grinning, and stumbled off the stage. Another set, another night successful. He was finally doing it, finally growing his band and the community that wanted to listen.

But it wasn't always like this.

Wilbur was six years old when he found out people liked to listen to him talk. His teacher was making him stay inside while the other kids got to play all because he had told her to shove it when she made him do math. He had sat there, fuming, pulling at the carpet as she scolded him about manners, of all things. She had ranted on for what seemed like hours, and soon a ringing had replaced the sound of her voice. In a furious rage, Wilbur had exploded, shouting at her to shut her mouth. And she had. He didn't know why she couldn't speak anymore, but as long as she didn't stop him from going outside, he didn't care.

Wilbur had long since forgotten about that incident, until it was his ten year old birthday and he sat in the back of an ambulance watching as doctors tried to save his parents lives. They had just gotten into a car crash, drunk driver. Wilbur was unhurt, but shaking, seeing the scene of his mother's head hitting the windshield replay in his mind. Meanwhile, his mother clung to life via a breathing bag, and his father, well his father already looked to be dead. The nurse reached over to check his mother's vitals, and something snapped in Wilbur. "Don't touch her!" he had screamed. The nurse was frozen in place, watching helplessly as Wilbur's mother began to lose consciousness.

Both of his parents were proclaimed dead in the morning.

It was then that Wilbur knew he had a curse. Some might call it that, anyway. He called it a gift. People would do anything he wanted them to.

All it took was a silky sweet lilt to his voice, or a flash of anger, and he commanded their attention. He controlled them. And he loved it.

Wilbur picked up a guitar at the orphanage where he stayed one day, and that changed his life. In a couple of weeks he had mastered the instrumentals to every song on the Crywank album, and was slowly learning the vocals. Wilbur soon learned that his musical talent was far more persuasive than just speaking. He could command entire crowds of kids at the orphanage with just one verse. It was brilliant, he never got bullied, he always got the leftover food, and he never had to follow any rules. Wilbur Soot became a name everyone whispered in awe.

On his thirteenth birthday he decided he had matured enough and he snuck out of the orphanage. Wilbur was cunning, and not afraid to do something sly to get what he wanted. He snuck his way through the market, sending a chain of whispers through the workers letting everyone know who he was and what he wanted. Within a day Wilbur had acquired all the food he could possibly need, as well as a place to stay in the local inn. He befriended the inn's daughter, at first to use as a pawn, but he quickly grew to like her. She became one of the only people he didn't use his voice on.

He didn't know what to call it. He didn't know why he, of all people, was given it. But it was a gift, and he was determined to not let it go to waste.

At just thirteen, Wilbur had become incredibly powerful in his town, and was able to survive on his own easily. But he hungered for power, so he took to joining the early market crowd to serenade them, disguised as a poor beggar.

The people loved Wilbur. They practically threw their money on top of him, begging and screaming for more songs. He didn't even want them to do anything for him, he didn't even need to make them listen. Wilbur sang, and they were there. Mothers with crying babies sought him out to hum melodies to stop the tears. Squabbling friends pulled him aside and got him to settle the fights. Wilbur was an asset to people, and he willingly helped out, for a price.

At first he just asked for simple favors- a warm jacket, a loaf of bread, a box of matches. But word spread about his little secret, and people became willing to pay him. Wilbur Soot, thirteen year old singer, was rich in a matter of months.

And yet he kept his humble place at the market inn. Every morning he spent serenading the girls on the street while the inn's daughter clapped along. He spent lunch playing the elderly at chess (and winning). He took to the park with children and dogs in the afternoon, teaching them to play guitar. And evening brought warm skies accompanied with his warm voice in the breeze.

As the echo faded from his microphone, the crowd took up the chant of his song. Wilbur found himself with a grin that couldn't seem to leave his face as he hugged his bandmates backstage. He had done it, he had reached his dream. He knew his thirteen year old self was beaming inside of him.

Wilbur slung the guitar Phil gave him around his neck and bid his friends good night before stepping out into the cold air. He cocked his head towards the sky, taking a breath. Crows flitted high above, perching on the electrical wires that connected the little misshapen buildings that made up the town he grew up in. Everything had come full circle for Wilbur, from when Phil found him to the day Wilbur told his dad he wanted to start a band. Something warm settled in his chest, like a puzzle falling into place. Phil was the one that gave him everything. A home, a loving family. Phil was the one that told him he was a siren, or at least partly, and that his gift was called charmspeak.

He started walking home, passing by the pastry shop he used to steal from, and then the corner store with the horrid owner, and then the creepy foster home. He reached the edge of the woods, but instead of entering, he headed left, towards the trickle of light.

A cabin was revealed through the darkness, smoke swirling from the chimney, warm lights illuminating the snow. Wilbur smiled, knowing he was home.

He pushed the dark wooden door open, immediately feeling waves of nostalgia roll over him. The faint smell of copper (probably Techno) accompanied with cooking food (definitely Phil) entered his nose.

"Hello?" his voice echoed. He followed the dim hallway down to the kitchen, expecting to see Techno with a book and Phil rambling about the trials of cooking with wings.

Instead, Wilbur was greeted with surprised, worried looks, and one more person than usual.

"Wil! I didn't know you were coming!" Phil embraced him in a hug. "I would've filled another plate."

Wilbur stared at the third boy in the room, shock clearly written on his face. "What's this then? A new brother?"

Techno barked out a laugh. "I'll let you handle this Phil. Good to see you brother," and with that he was gone out the door.

Phil sighed, running a greasy hand through his hair. "Will... Tech found him half-dead in the shed outside. We couldn't leave him there. Besides, I think.... I think he is one of us."

Wilbur peered closely at the sleeping boy in bedraggled clothes with unruly hair. He reminded Wilbur of himself, in a weird way. Wilbur thought about what Phil said, about him being one of them, and his curiosity was sparked.

He wondered if the kid would have a special ability like he did, or be fucking crazy like Techno.

Wilbur and Phil watched the boy sleep as comfortable silence settled between them and the wax of the candlelight waned.

Their tall shadows cast over the couch, blocking the moonlight from illuminating the boy's face, causing him to stir. Wilbur watched as one blue eye cracked open and locked on him, widening in mixed surprise and fear. Phil stepped in front, his feathers shielding the boy. He seemed to relax in the presence of the wings, Wilbur noticed.

Phil helped the boy into a seated position, and he coughed fitfully.

"Hey mate, sorry you passed out again."

He had passed out more than once? Some monster, Wilbur thought.

The boy shook the sleep from his features, avoiding eye contact with Wilbur. Wilbur couldn't be surprised, he knew his own eyes startled some people. They were an incredible shade of ice blue, paler than Phil's, but they had a ring of gold around his pupils. It always shone brighter when he used his charmspeak.

The boy peered around Phil's large metal wings to catch Wilbur's gaze once again. Without prompt, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Hey, I'm Tommy."