Pulsarwing & Starwing une fanfiction the boys

Thomas got up from the table, his plate still half full. He walked to the window, his gaze lost in the garden. The leaves of the trees quivered in the wind, drawing moving shadows on the lawn. He felt like those leaves, tossed by the winds of life, unable to change anything. He had always been the smallest, the weakest. Even the pets seemed to prefer his brother's company.

He remembered his last birthday. They had celebrated it with family, but the atmosphere had been icy. No cake, no presents, just a few words thrown in passing. His brother, on the other hand, had been treated to a big party, with his friends and a state-of-the-art games console.

He sighed and rolled up his drawing. He would slip it into a drawer, with all the others. Beautiful drawings, vibrant paintings, all reduced to a rough draft. He no longer wanted to be noticed, to endure his brother's mockery.

He remembered a time when he had shown one of his drawings to his mother. She had looked at it with a distracted air, before letting out a "It's nice, Thomas". But in her voice, there had been neither enthusiasm nor admiration. She had then glanced at Étienne's drawing, a simple scribble, and exclaimed: "Look how talented your brother is!".

Since that day, Thomas had decided to stop making an effort. He was content to do the bare minimum at school, to draw quick and soulless sketches. He wanted to become invisible, insignificant. He wanted his family to finally forget him.

He lay down on his bed, the drawing clutched in his hands. He closed his eyes and imagined a world where he was recognized, appreciated. A world where his talents were celebrated. But that vision quickly faded, replaced by the harsh reality of his life. He remembered his childhood, those times when he had tried to get noticed. He had built a cabin in the garden, but his brother had destroyed it. He had written a play, but no one had wanted to perform it. With each failure, he had sunk a little deeper into solitude. He got up and went to his window. He looked at the sky, dotted with stars. He wondered if up there, someone saw him, someone admired him. He smiled bitterly. He knew it was absurd.

He returned to his desk and took out all his drawings. He spread them out on the floor, creating a veritable exhibition of his works. He admired them one last time, then lit them one by one. He watched the flames dance on the paper, devouring his creations. It was as if a part of himself disappeared in smoke.

When the last drawing was reduced to ashes, Thomas got up and went to the window. He opened it wide and leaned into the void. The wind whipped his face. He closed his eyes still resisted, death did not want to take him, not because he had not suffered enough, but the pain, he knew that from the second floors, he would not die immediately but would suffer, he did not want to suffer anymore. Suddenly he felt himself being pushed forward, the last words he heard were, if you want help, just ask. his brother was looking at him on the ground with a monstrous smile, he thought then that his brother looked like homelander, someone who owns the world and lives only for excess