Chapter Text
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The unrelenting progress of time.
William sighed with his cheek pressed against the desk, blinking away the sleepiness clinging to him.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The murrumr of his coworkers was a distant hum. He could hear them chatting, talking about their day over a cup of coffee. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but he could make out their tones.
Loud baritones talked in a low hush and a soprano broke out into a burst of laughter.
It was so loud .
A migraine spiked in one of his temples.
He couldn’t be so careless. He had work to do.
Right. His work.
He pushed himself up with a yawn. Black dots danced in his vision and his body was pulling him back down. But he has been through this enough times to know exactly what to do. He closed his eyes, steadied his hands and took a deep breath.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
When he opened his eyes, the dots were gone. The lights of his office were a little too bright. He blinked and looked up.
The pendulum of his wall clock was swinging, further demonstrating the eternal progress of time.
It was a Phil The Angel clock. An ugly thing really. The pendulum were the character’s legs, swinging from side to side, making it seem animated. Making it seem alive. The clock part had two black wings by its sides and funky, and stupid really, looking arms that swinged with the pendulum. As if Phil was going somewhere.
William snorted.
But the absolutely ugliest thing about that shitty clock was what was above it. The Phil head on the top was just the peak of terrible design. The face was too uneven, eyes too close. But what stuck out like a sore thumb was the smile.
Wil couldn’t really put his finger on it. But something about it was just wrong . Was it too high or too low? Too small or too big? The longer he looked at it, the more uncomfortable he was. He couldn’t understand how anyone would buy that thing.
A waste of money really.
He stretched his arms and let out another yawn. He leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.
It was time to go back to work.
He looked at his desk. Scrapped papers, documents, notebooks and music sheets were thrown all over the place with seemingly no system whatsoever.
Wil smiled. But that exactly was his system. A little mayhem in a sea of boring tidiness. Chaos simply let his creativity surge.
Oh, and did it surge now.
He pulled out one of the unfinished music sheets and imagined the scribbled down melody in his head. It was good. But he couldn’t help but feel it was missing something. Something vital.
It wasn’t like the audience wouldn’t like it, the viewers can swallow any garbage you throw their way and call it a feast. But this song was meant to be better than that. Not just another good song. William would never be satisfied with that. This song was meant to be marvelous, jaw dropping even.
It was meant to be Wilbur the Siren song. And William couldn’t let himself not make it the best of the best.
The song deserved it. Wilbur deserved it.
An old, well cared for poster was hanging on the wall in front of him. He traced his fingers along the yellow-ish paper. Wilbur’s playful smile of sharp teeth was looking down at him and William felt warmth spread through his chest.
Maybe this job didn’t pay as well as he would be paid elsewhere. The equipment also didn’t scream of novelty. But it gave William an opportunity he wouldn’t get anywhere else.
He was thirteen or fourteen when a new show started airing on the TV. It was nothing like he’d seen before. A small animated series about four simple drawn characters.
The Sleepy Boys.
Phil the Angel, a nice father-like character who fought for justice and was beloved by children.
Technoblade the Pig, a taller quiet guy who would throw a quip the moment you expect it the least.
Kristen the Dragon, a villain of most of the episodes. A woman in a long black dress that could switch between a human form and a form of a small dragon.
But they were only a background noise for William. What he really cared about was the last character.
Wilbur the Siren. And Wilbur was- Wilbur was amazing .
Even thinking about him brought a smile onto his lips.
It must have looked silly. Now an adult, clinging to his favorite character from his childhood. But he just couldn’t help it. It was nearly like Wilbur was a part of him by now.
And if it wasn’t for the silly siren, William doubted he would have become who he was now.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
William stood up and grabbed his guitar from where it was leaned against the wall. A Wilbur plushie sat next to it on the ground.
The man brought the guitar into his lap and started strumming. The notes on the sheet turned into a melody that easily weaved its way through the studio. It carried his emotions, his fears, his aspirations.
It was like he was standing on a beach at sunset, the salty waves cold against his bare feet. He dug his toes into the sand, his eyes closed as the sound of crashing waves guided his fingers.
His soul sang. All his worries were washed away. It was only him, the music and a faint image of Wilbur smiling at him proudly and humming along.
The lyrics came just as easily. As if a divine muse whispered into his ears, the tickling of her breath made his heart flutter.
He had been to the ocean only once, as a small child on a vacation with his parents. Back when they had not been so buried in their work, back when it all wasn’t so-
“Soot!”
A rough upset voice dragged him out of his zone. The sudden sound nearly made him fall off his chair. William put down the guitar and fixed his glasses. Then he turned around to meet a painfully familiar face.
“What do you need, Jared?” he asked, with a not well hidden sigh.
The other man cracked a small smile. “Is my song done?”
William looked away. “You know- I am still doing some changes. The second verse just didn’t feel right and the chorus is still missing something .”
Jared’s face fell, his eyes not leaving William. “You said it will be done yesterday.”
William sighed. “I know. But it should be done tomorrow-”
A bit of anger flashed in Jared’s eyes. “Soot. You will finish it today .”
The musician looked at him in shock. It took him a moment to process those words. “But Jared, you can’t possibly think that I-”
Jared scoffed. “Soot. I don’t give a fuck about your reasoning. You are writing those songs for me , don’t forget that.”
The door slammed shut and the man was gone.
William was left staring at the door, wondering how the fuck is he supposed to finish the song today .
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The man sat in his office, strumming the chord with no progress at all. The song was nice , but not done, not yet. Something was still missing.
He took in a deep breath, imagining the beach again, the sand, the waves. But it felt like it was always slightly out of his reach. Something was weighing him down, holding him in this moment, in this stupid office.
William’s soul felt hushed and muted by the repetitive patterns on the walls and distant sounds of dozens of footsteps on the wooden creaky floors.
How was he supposed to create like this? He growled in frustration. William wrinkled his nose bridge. He knew he was probably overreacting, but really ?!
He loved his job, oh how much he was grateful for it. But sometimes- It made him feel like a voiceless slave of the factory line.
His songs used to make his heart jump and made him feel something . Something that just wasn’t there anymore.
William missed the time when he was just a kid. With no deadlines, with no pressure. He could create whatever he wanted, for however long he wanted, and it didn’t have to be perfect. Those songs were only for him, no one else. And he held them close to his heart.
But the page he was staring blankly at now didn’t make him feel any of that. It was only a note sheet with notes scribbled on it and a messy rushed handwriting.
People say that making your hobby your job is amazing. That he would love his job then, and do it with passion. And he felt passion. Some passion. But the longer he worked here, the more he felt those people might be wrong.
He couldn’t put what he thought into words, not yet. It was too soon and he rather desperately clung to the space in between, where he could pretend to be the same young lad full of aspirations that started working there.
The composer sighed. But such is life. Life moves on and you have to move on with it. Or else you’ll only be hurting.
William strummed his guitar to try to clear his mind. He couldn’t think about such burdening things now, he had work to do.
Yet he could feel something in his chest suddenly become heavier.
The man plucked at the strings and hummed an uneasy unfocused melody. It wasn’t a song. A song would have had a meaning, emotion, a voice. Those were just random tones escaping from a wooden instrument that felt as stale and repetitive as everything else here.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t hear the soft cracking just outside his office. Nor did he notice trails of ink slipping in though below the door.
He wished it was a little different. That he could be a child again, just making songs from his heart. Maybe he would be finally able to make a song he would be able to love.
A loud drip awoke him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes in a blank confusion. What made that sound?
He got the answer as soon as he turned around.
Black, liquid shadows were sliding in from under the door. They trickled slowly and ran in an unpredictable pattern.
Ink, he realized. A pipe must have burst somewhere in the hallway.
Suddenly, a loud metal sound came from outside of the door, followed by an ear piercing screech. William clapped hands over his ears. The ink was now running a lot faster.
Okay, now it burst.
Litres of ink were quickly flooding in. And were dirtying William’s nice office! Again!
The creaky uneven floorboards were eating all that dirt up. The aggressive flow of ink sprayed black droplets over William’s office. Nothing was safe, not even the many files on his desk.
A stray small river of ink was making its way towards where his guitar had been leaned. Towards the Wilbur the Siren plushie.
William’s eyes widened. No. Not the plushie!
The man desperately rushed to the rescue. He jumped over the little ink creeks and snatched up the plushie just in time. Seconds later, ink flooded that area and splashed against his shoes.
And ink is fucking hard to wash. He wasn’t even sure if you could actually manage to do that.
He hugged the plushie tight. It was safe now. That was all that mattered.
Fucking Gent and their untrustworthy pipes! How did Mr. Kraken even let them install those hideous things?
The composer glanced back at his desk and the music sheets scattered all over it. Guess he’ll have to finish that song at home.
William gathered the papers and threw them and the plushie into his bag. He slung a guitar over his shoulder and he was good to- Oh. He nearly forgot to take his pen! He snatched two pens from the desk in case the ones at home were already out of ink.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He bid his office adieu and made his way outside. Just as he expected, the pipe on the wall of the main corridor was bursting ink all over the floor and the opposite wall. A man with short dark hair and square glasses was desperately trying to fix it. His uniform was splashed with ink.
William watched him work for a while. There were many inky footsteps leading towards the stairs. It seems that most of his coworkers have already left. Guess he has to discuss the song with the musicians tomorrow.
“Are ya gonna just stare, or will ya say somethin’?” asked the Gent employee, bringing William out of his thoughts.
The composer ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, sorry. Just- Can you please fix the pipe right this time?”
“Heh?” the Gent guy asked, sounding confused.
The musician rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. That same pipe had burst three times this week. And every time some Gent guy comes in, promising it's fixed now, only for it to break in less than two days after.”
The glasses guy stays quiet for a moment.
“This is a troublesome pipe, then.” he mutters, pulling a wrench from his tool kit.
He checked around the pipe, muttering something too inaudible for William’s ears and sighed.
“It might be overpressured somehow. I’ll ask if there is a way to lower the pressure.” he concluded, watching as the ink stopped flowing, so he could replace the cracked part.
William fixed his glasses, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you think that will fix that for good?”
The Gent guy, once more, didn’t answer.
“I hope.”
---
William slammed the door of his apartment shut and plopped down on the couch. He felt tired. He wanted to take a nap.
But the song wasn’t finished yet. And Jared will tear him to pieces if he doesn’t finish that.
He sighed.
The man opened his bag and set up the pages on the living room table. He put his guitar into his lap and rested his head against the headrest.
The brunet strummed his guitar.
Notes were escaping it, but could not really focus on them. Jared wanted the song done that day. But Wilbur had to go home- Will Jared go back and look for him? What will he think if he doesn’t find him? Will he think William left of his own volition to avoid him, because the song is still not done? Will he then tell others? Will the brunet find another one of those stupid threats at his desk?
William sighed. These stupid internal affairs were making him feel sick. The Kraken’s Studio, as much beauty and happiness it brought to the world, redirected all that ugly despair into its own walls.
Tomorrow was going to be a minefield. With many wolves licking their lips at how they are going to tear him apart.
To them it didn’t matter if the song would be done. But the fact that William technically missed another deadline.
Fucking pipe. If it didn’t burst, he wouldn’t have so much anxiety now.
But just as the Gent guy said, he can only hope for it to get fixed.
With another sigh, he looked at the sheets. But he found himself unable to find anything to continue the song with.
Oh stars, did he get a block? Hopefully not. His work was literally about creation. If he got an art block, he was doomed!
He took a deep breath.
Calm. Maybe he's just not in the right mind space for that currently. He should rest a little, think about other stuff, then return to-
But what if he forgets? What if he doesn’t finish it in time? What if he won’t finish it in time either way? He is doomed! Jared will drag his name through dust and dirt!
His breathing was quick and heart slammed in his chest.
He was an artist, not a machine. All those deadlines were so short, yet needing so much attention and care- He didn’t want his work to be half-baked. He didn’t want to disappoint the audience.
The conductor grabbed a pen from his bag and hovered it above the note sheet.
Stars- what if he disappoints? What if it won't be good enough even if he finishes it?
His hand was shaking. Emotions boiled inside of him.
He took a deep breath.
And another. And one more just to be sure.
The man clenched the pen in his hand tighter.
Stars, if he'll think like that, he won't get anywhere.
William swallowed. He just wished stuff was different. Maybe he should have stayed that lonely talented kid who spent his days playing video games and making silly songs.
The pen in his hand was clenched so tight, something in it started snapping. Before William could react, the pen broke and spayed ink all over his face.
“Fuck!” he cursed.
His eyes were burning. William dropped the pen and took off his glasses. The man made his way to the bathroom. Half-seeing half-feeling he was able to find the sink. He turned on what felt like the faucet and heard the surge of water. Grabbing some into his palms, he splashed his face.
The ink wasn't going down easily. It kept clinging to his skin and making him feel all dirty and wrong.
After scrubbing his face for what felt like hours, he gave up and just let it be. The man sighed whilst pulling out a random rag from the under-sink cabinet. Then he wiped his face with it.
The mirror reflected his pale face. There were dark circles under his eyes, only more pronounced with how blood-shot his eyes were.
Sleep was pulling at him. He licked his lips and clapped his hands.
"Time for another coffee it seems!"
~Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.~
William sat down in the living room. His coffee was a boiling sugary mess. Turns out, his last carton of milk had gone out a week ago and he was too tired to go buy a new one.
Great. Just great.
But he had it coming, it wasn't like he had been spending much time in this flat anyway. Mister Kraken encouraged the workers to basically live in the studio. William had planned for a while to steal a mattress from the accomodation wing and put it in his office. That way, he could get more work done faster.
Still, did he really want to live in the studio? To limit his big and wonderous world to four walls, a ratty mattress and a desk covered in endless work? As much passion as he had, that just sounded like torture.
He lifted his guitar once more. The man sighed and started playing. His fingers slipped, notes didn't sound quite right. But as he continued playing, it got a little better.
Before he knew it, the song was finished. He wasn't the most proud of it, it was just little over avarage. But it was done.
It wasn't impossible that some more improvements and changes will be made when the band will actually play it.
At least, he wished.
He looked up to his wall clock. Noting its hands were passing eleven.
But what he didn't notice was a pesky ink stain, clinging to the front of his shirt. Nor the quiet whispers that almost reached his ears.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.