Butterfly Reign

15. Deep Down From Your Soul (Wilbur's Interlude (Part 1)

“Sap,” Techno immediately chimed in. 

“You’re the one holding my hand.” Wilbur said the last part grinning; Techno rolled his eyes but his fingers stayed tightly wrapped around his twin’s. He perked up, first to hear the commotion brewing nearby and notice the flash of blue Imperial uniforms. 

“Uh oh,” Techno said. “I think we just got found.”

Wilbur threw a look over his shoulder and met eyes with Captain Sparklez across the street. Techno almost dropped his hat when Wilbur yanked him to the side, “ Shit, run!”

***

It seems as though it's the core of twins' existence to be opposite halves fitting perfectly at the edges.

There were more than enough spacious chambers in the northern wing, so it was by Wilbur and Techno’s whim alone that they occupied the same room. As children, the twins couldn't fall asleep without feeling each other's presence, through intertwined fingers, through foreheads pressed to each other, as if their very souls demanded the other to be close by.

Their fates were sealed together long before they were born, Wilbur and Techno grew up into two parallel strings of the same instrument. One sonant and the other quiet, one boisterous and the other tempered, unpredictable and reserved, bass and soprano – the strings were never meant to cross, and never meant to be separated. Unless one of them snapped, that is.

It all started when Phil started showing preference towards Techno, Wilbur thinks. He was always smarter and more observant than other children of his age, and very early on he noticed the open preference that Father showed towards Techno. Betrayal, resentment, jealousy; Wilbur didn’t know the names of the emotions he felt. They were odd, they were confusing, and more than anything he simply wanted them to go away. In the mornings, Wilbur used to carefully braid colored beads into Techno’s hair; they would climb out of the bed wrestling, with screams and yelps, and chase one another to the door. And now more often than not, Wilbur woke up in an empty room alone. 

“...Tech?”

No answer followed, and Wilbur curled up into himself under the blankets and sheets – too many for him alone, too cold without his twin. For his whole life, Techno was Wilbur’s only friend and company, and his heart couldn’t decide on whether it was Techno who stole Father from him or the other way round.

At six years old, Wilbur had a strong craving for attention. He sought kind gazes, compliments and praise, scarfing them like a starved dog. He would always be present at every tea party, ball and banquet at the palace. And while the courtiers were ready to chuckle and flatter the young clever prince when he joined adult conversations or said something particularly witty, Wilbur had a sour aftertaste of knowing that he wasn’t seen as anything more than his title. He swallowed it all and painted a new stroke on his mask – a delicate piece of charm and lies. There is no player limitation for the game of pretend, after all. The courtiers pretended that their smiles were genuine, and Wilbur pretended that their attention was enough to make up for what their parents could not give them.

Wilbur was on cloud nine when he was chosen as the crown prince and first in line for the throne of the Antarctic empire, until Father had told him that it was a formality, one that brought a whole ton of new study subjects for Wilbur to master. A few he shared with Techno – most he didn’t. While Wilbur was busy memorizing the noble house names and court manners under the surveillance of strict teachers, just behind the windows, Father play-sparred with Techno.

A bitter chuckle would escape Wilbur’s lips whenever he remembered that in the future, but at the time he genuinely believed that Father preferred Techno over him because he was slacking in his physical training. Each time they spared, Wilbur would inevitably end up with his back pressed to the floor and a training sword at his throat, smug Techno looming over him. Face puffed and red from anger, Wilbur would slap the wooden blade away, leap to his feet and shout that he doesn’t want to train anymore.