Chapter 2: Home for the Rivalries
Squidward has made the decision to change. What that change looks like is still uncertain, but one thing is for sure—he's determined to turn things around. Now, the question is whether a certain wise and kind-hearted woman, along with a snobby old rival, will be enough to guide the reluctant squid toward a better path.
Chapter 2: Home for the Rivalries
-Pearl Bay-
The skies above weren't their usual ocean blue but instead bathed in shades of pink and purple, as the clams happily chirped. The day was shaping up to be another perfect one, that much was certain in the familiar Moai home. However, unlike any other, this one had feminine curls on top that belonged to Mrs. Mary Wilma Tentacles.
Mary, a woman in her early sixties, could easily pass for someone much younger, her skin flawless, with no sign of wrinkles. Her turquoise skin gleamed under the light, while her gray hair was neatly tied in a bun atop her head. She wore an orange dress with a darker orange stripe, light purple eyeshadow, pink lipstick, long eyelashes, and dark purple glasses that framed her face elegantly.
Inside the home, the air was filled with the warm, inviting aromas of breakfast being prepared. On the table, an assortment of pancakes, scrambled eggs, muffins, tea, and juice awaited. Mary stood by the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal while humming a soft, wistful tune.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps came from the stairs, and she looked up with a smile. "Good morning, honey. I trust you had a restful night," she said warmly to her son, who was slowly making his way over to the table, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"No worries, mother. I slept well," Squidward replied.
"Well, good," she said as she set two bowls of oatmeal on the table, one topped with blueberries and the other with strawberries and cinnamon. "I'd hate for you to start your day off in a bad mood."
He then noticed his mother making breakfast, "Mother, you don't have to tire yourself out so early," Squidward complained, not wanting his mother to overexert herself. "I could've made breakfast for us."
"Oh hush, child," Mary retorted, giving him a stern look. "I am perfectly capable of making breakfast for the both of us. Besides, you've already volunteered to make us lunch and dinner. Honestly, Squidward, at this rate, you'll stop me from working at my bakery!"
Squidward sighed and sat down at the table. "Well…"
"Squidward!" she scolded.
"I'm joking, Mum. I wouldn't dream of you giving up your baking," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Good," Mary replied firmly, returning to her breakfast. "Because I'll retire when Neptune himself dies, not before."
Squidward couldn't help but chuckle. It had been a month and a half since he'd moved away from Bikini Bottom to Pearl Bay, a city hours away. He had left Bikini Bottom in the wake of some unsettling events and sought solace with his mother. At first, he resisted the idea of moving back in with her, but now he realized it was what he needed. His mother suggested he work at her bakery, which had always been successful enough to support them both. Mary was known as the best baker in town, and everyone in Pearl Bay knew her famous chocolate chip cookies.
Squidward couldn't help but smile as he recalled the fond memories of baking with his mother when he was younger. If he wasn't helping her in the kitchen, he would practice his painting or music with his father.
"Let me guess," Mary said, breaking his reverie, a sad smile on her face. "You're thinking about him, aren't you?"
Squidward was caught off guard by her question but decided not to lie. "Yeah, Mum. I'm still thinking about Dad."
She nodded, her smile tinged with sadness. "Not surprising. You two were so close. Practically the same," she added softly.
"Oh, come on, Mum," Squidward replied, shaking his head. "We were close, but I'm just as close to you. You taught me everything I know about cooking and baking."
Mary chuckled softly. "Don't worry, sweetie. I know. But you've always been more in tune with the arts than the culinary world. That's why you followed in your father's footsteps," she continued before he could protest. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing. Goodness knows I love how you two bonded over your shared passion. And I know your father would be proud of you. He'd definitely agree with me."
"Yeah, 'proud,'" Squidward muttered under his breath. "Not sure I see that now." Before Mary could respond, he cut in. "Anyway, Mum, I'm going to run out and do some grocery shopping. It won't take too long, and I'll be back soon."
Mary's face brightened. "Oh, really? Great! I'll give you a list of what to look for at the stores or markets. And make sure those vendors don't swindle you. They always try to play games with the customers," she warned, her tone playful yet serious.
Squidward gave a nasally chuckle. "Don't worry, I won't fall for their little ruses this time. I'll have to hurry and get there before all the good stuff is gone," he said, preparing to leave the table.
"Uh-uh. Sit down, mister. No son of mine is leaving without a full belly of a hearty breakfast," she insisted, crossing her arms and giving him a firm look.
Squidward sighed but complied, knowing better than to argue. His mother had always taught him not to leave the table before finishing his meal.
"Home sweet home, huh?" Squidward mused to himself, glancing around the room.
Mary gave him a soft, wistful smile over her tea. "Oh, Squidward," she murmured quietly.
Squidward trudged down the cobblestone pathway, the weight of the groceries in his arms pulling at him as he passed through the vibrant streets of Pearl Bay. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and freshly bloomed sea flowers, the scent mixing with the subtle hum of marine life just beneath the waves. Above him, the sky swirled in shades of pink and lavender, a perpetual dusk settling over the city, giving it an otherworldly glow. The coral structures that adorned the bay were alive with color, their intricate designs stretching out like the hands of sea creatures reaching for the surface, while schools of fish danced gracefully through the crystal-clear water.
Squidward paused for a moment, the sight of it all pulling him from his thoughts. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, salty air, and let it out in a soft sigh. The sound of the ocean lapping against the distant shores made him feel a bittersweet ache in his chest. He'd been living here for two weeks now, and while the quiet, peaceful life was a welcome change from the chaos of Bikini Bottom, it didn't take away the loneliness that crept up on him when he wasn't expecting it.
He looked at the lush, soft sand beneath his feet and couldn't help but think back to the time before. Before things fell apart. Before he had to leave everything behind.
He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Sure, Squidward. Just keep telling yourself it's for the best," he muttered under his breath. "Bikini Bottom, Pearl Bay—what's the difference? At least this place has a nicer view."
As he continued walking, a familiar face appeared in front of him, his beady eyes blinking in recognition. "Ah, Squidward! Just getting your groceries, eh?" The older octopus, Mr. Clarnet, gave him a toothy smile, his glasses perched at the end of his nose.
"Yep," Squidward replied flatly, nodding toward the sack of groceries. "I'll be getting a full meal in soon. Just needed to stock up."
Mr. Clarnet chuckled. "You know, I saw a lovely painting in the market the other day, something that reminded me of you. A bit of that 'squiggly' art style, you know? I still remember when you painted those murals by the bakery."
Squidward's lips twitched into a faint smile, but it was fleeting. "Yeah, that was a lifetime ago." With a quick wave, Squidward turned and kept walking.
As he passed by an art store, the sight of different tools and musical instruments caught his attention, but he didn't stop. He had made a promise to himself: Pearl Bay was supposed to be a new start. Yet, with every corner he turned, every familiar face he saw, it felt like he was just walking through memories, not escaping them.
His eyes cast out across the bay again, lost in thought. 'What now?' he asked himself. 'What am I supposed to do here? I'm not cut out for this small-town, quiet life. My dream... it doesn't seem possible anymore. Not in Bikini Bottom and not here, not now.' He sighed again, shaking the feeling away as he neared his mother's house. Just then, he spotted something unusual.
A sleek, polished boating car parked by the edge of the yard, right next to the wooden fence that bordered their property. Squidward stopped in his tracks, squinting his eyes at the car. 'Strange. Mum never told me she was expecting company,' he thought to himself. But the curiosity nagged at him, and as he walked closer, a strange feeling stirred in his gut.
The boating car's smooth, polished surface gleamed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Something about it seemed oddly familiar, but Squidward couldn't quite place it. Shrugging, he muttered, "Probably just some salesmen," and carried on, walking past the fence and toward the front door.
As he turned the knob and stepped inside, the first thing that hit him was the sound of quiet voices, muffled but unmistakable. Squidward froze. He could make out the words from his mother's voice, but there was another, deeper voice he didn't recognize. "Quite lovely to be here, Auntie," the unfamiliar voice said, dripping with an overly polite tone. Squidward's eyes went wide, his stomach twisting. His mind raced, and then—it clicked.
Squidward's voice rang out, loud and unmistakable. "OH, HECK NO!" he shouted, striding into the living room without a second thought.
There, sitting at the tea table, perfectly at ease, was none other than Squilliam Fancyson, the smug, self-important octopus who had been a thorn in Squidward's side for years. He was dressed in his usual snappy attire, sipping tea from a delicate cup with the kind of elegance that made Squidward's blood boil.
Squidward couldn't believe his eyes. "Mum!" he cried, his voice rising. "What the heck is he doing here?"
Mary looked up from the teapot she was carefully pouring from, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Squidward! Don't be so dramatic. It's just Squilliam. I asked him to come by for a little visit."
Squilliam, his grin never faltering, leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the drama. "Oh yes, a lovely visit," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "I couldn't resist coming by after your mother mentioned how your art career didn't quite cut it in a backwater town like Bikini Bottom." He chuckled to himself, clearly amused by Squidward's obvious discomfort.
Squidward's face turned an angry shade of purple, his tentacles twitching. "You did what? Mum, why in Neptune's name didn't you tell me you invited this pompous blowhard into our house? I mean, him?" he sputtered, gesturing dramatically at Squilliam.
Mary raised an eyebrow but didn't back down. "Squidward, calm down. We're just having a little tea. It's fine." She placed the teapot down and gave her son a gentle but firm look. "You'll have to make nice, dear." Squilliam smirked, not the least bit phased by Squidward's outburst. "Oh, I'm not surprised, you know," he said with a sneer, his gaze lingering on Squidward like he was something distasteful. "I was always the better squid when it came to arts, music, painting—name it. I could do it better than you any day."
Squidward's blood boiled. He took a step forward, his voice low but seething. "Oh, yeah? I seem to remember a few memorable times where my talent bested you, you snooty self-absorbed show-off," Squidward retorted with a smirk. "Did you forget about that time at the art exhibition when my piece was actually praised, while your overblown nonsense got nothing but awkward silence?"
Squilliam's eyes narrowed, a growl slipping from his throat. "Just because you managed to get some semblance of applause doesn't mean you're not still a talentless hack, Squidward!" he spat, his tone sharp.
Squidward's fists clenched at his sides. He took a step closer, ready to erupt. "Oh yeah, you pompous blowhard, I oughta—"
Before Squidward could finish his retort, Mary slammed her hand down on the table, causing the teacups to rattle. "BOYS! Enough of this!" she bellowed, her voice full of authority. Both Squidward and Squilliam immediately fell silent, the sudden interruption catching them off guard.
"I know I didn't raise Squidward to act like this, and Squilliam," she turned to him, "I know your mother, my sister, didn't raise you to be this rude and crass, did she?"
Yes, it was true, Squidward and Squilliam were/are actually related, with both mothers being sisters who married in to different families. Both squids deflated under the weight of her words. Squilliam looked down at his teacup, murmuring, "No, Auntie," with a small grimace. Squidward, though still fuming, mumbled through gritted teeth, "Yes, Mum."
Mary gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Now, Squidward," she continued firmly, "You put away the groceries and come join us for a discussion when you're done. And no more fuss." Squidward was about to protest but held back when he saw the look on his mother's face. He grumbled under his breath, still seething but knowing there was no point in arguing. "Fine," he muttered.
As he made his way toward the kitchen, he couldn't help himself—he turned just as he passed Squilliam and stomped on the other squid's foot as hard as he could. "GAAAH!" Squilliam let out a yelp of pain, causing Squidward to stifle a chuckle. He walked into the kitchen, shaking his head as he dropped the groceries on the counter.
Mary's eyes lingered on the scene, a weary sigh escaping her lips as she watched Squidward's retreating back. "I just hope I'm doing the right thing," she murmured quietly to herself, her gaze falling on Squilliam, who was still wincing in pain from the "accident," that occurred.
(-)
After properly putting away the groceries, Squidward returned to the living room, and sat back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes fixed on the ground as if he could somehow avoid the conversation by staring at the floor. The room felt unusually quiet, save for the sound of his mother's occasional sighs and Squilliam munching on yet another cookie, the crumbs scattering with each smug bite. It was hard for Squidward to even look at Squilliam. The sight of his arch-nemesis—no, his cousin—sitting so comfortably in his own mother's house made Squidward's skin crawl.
He was angry, hurt, confused. And, more than anything, he felt betrayed.
Mary's voice broke the silence again, soft but firm. "Look, boys," she began, her tone now more serious. "There is a reason why I had this meeting, and it would benefit the both of you. I know things haven't been easy, Squidward," she glanced at him with gentle eyes, "but this is about getting you back on your feet. And Squilliam—well, he's here to help you. Whether you like it or not."
Squidward's eyes snapped up to her, his voice tight. "Mum, I don't understand. Why would you even call him in?" His words came out like a hiss, filled with frustration and disbelief.
Squilliam, without even sparing Squidward a glance, nonchalantly popped another cookie into his mouth and rolled his eyes. He had clearly tuned out, much like he always did when Squidward had anything to say.
Mary sighed heavily, her eyes filled with concern. "Squidward," she said, her voice softer this time, "for the past month since you've been here and working with me, I've noticed that you're losing your spark. You've been here, in this peaceful little town, and I thought it would help you regain some balance, but…" She paused, her gaze flickering with hesitation. "But I can see it in you. You're still stuck. That fire you once had—your passion, your drive—it's fading."
Squidward's brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't realized his mother had been watching him so closely. "What do you mean, Mum? I'm fine."
Squilliam, ever the interruption, couldn't help but chime in. "She's saying that whatever semblance of 'artistic know-how' you had is gone, you knitwit," he said with a sarcastic grin, biting off another piece of cookie.
Mary immediately swung her hand to give Squilliam a sharp whack on the back of his head with a rolled-up magazine. The noise echoed through the room.
"OW!" Squilliam yelped, his hand instinctively going to the top of his head, rubbing it in pain. He shot an offended look at Mary, but she was already giving him a look that silenced him before he could say anything more.
"Knock it off, Squilliam," she scolded, lowering the magazine. "And don't make me use this again."
Squilliam groaned but said nothing, his eyes shifting away from her glare.
Mary then turned her attention to her son, her expression softening as she took in Squidward's defeated look. He was slouched in the chair, a far cry from the confident, albeit arrogant, squid he used to be. "Squidward," she said quietly, her voice filled with a tenderness that made Squidward's heart tighten, "I know it's hard for you to see it, but I think what happened in Bikini Bottom really took a toll on your confidence. You've been running from your roots, and I'm worried that you're losing who you are."
Squidward's eyes widened slightly. "Is that really what you think, Mum?" he asked in a hushed, almost broken voice. It hurt to hear her say it aloud, and it hurt even more to hear himself ask the question. The Squidward who had been so proud of his art, of his talent, now sounded like a shell of himself.
Mary's expression softened with sorrow. She looked at him with such love that it made Squidward's heart ache. "Yes," she said gently, her hand resting on the arm of his chair. "It's like you're trying so hard to run from everything, but you're losing yourself in the process. That's why I made the decision when you called, when you finally asked for help, that I was going to bring you back to your roots. I thought it might help you find your way again. But, Squidward… I see that you're still getting so comfortable here. You're not pushing yourself. And that's why I decided to call Squilliam in. He can help. Even if it seems impossible."
Squidward's mouth went dry, and he could feel the sting of betrayal in his chest. His mind raced, trying to process the sudden shift. "But Mum, I don't understand…Why bring in him? Of all people, why Squilliam? My arch-nemesis!"
Mary raised an eyebrow and sighed deeply. "Squidward, I know you two don't talk like you used to when you were younger. But don't you think calling him your arch-nemesis is a little silly at this point?"
"No!" they both shouted in unison, their voices ringing through the room. Neither squid could look at the other without a mix of disdain and rivalry. After a brief pause, they both turned their heads away from each other, a mutual huff escaping them as they sat in silence.
Mary sighed again, her eyes tired. "Okay, regardless of what's between you two, I called Squilliam to help you out. And he has graciously agreed."
Squidward let out a humorless laugh, his arms crossed tighter. "Squilliam? Help me? Ha! That's a good one, Mum. I've seen more impossible things happen living next to that SpongeBob idiot."
At the mere mention of SpongeBob's name, both Squidward and Squilliam shuddered in unison. They didn't need to say anything more to acknowledge the painful memories that came with that name.
Squilliam quickly regained his composure, his usual smug demeanor creeping back. "Believe it, Squidy," he said with a mocking smile. "I didn't want to help a no-talent hack like you—" Squilliam cleared his throat nervously as Mary shot him a warning look and patted the rolled-up magazine in her lap. "B-but dear Auntie persuaded me to help," he added, his voice faltering slightly. He smiled nervously, hoping to pacify her.
"You think he can do that?" Squidward scoffed, his brow furrowing. "The only thing Squilliam's good at is making me feel worse about myself. I don't need his help, Mum."
Squilliam, who had been enjoying a cookie with a smug smile, rolled his eyes and wiped a crumb from his suit. "Oh, poor Squiddy, always the martyr," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look, I didn't want to come here anymore than you wanted me to. But Auntie made me, so now you've got to deal with it. I'm only here because I have to be."
"Just admit it," Squidward retorted, his voice growing louder. "You're doing this just to rub it in, aren't you? So you can stand over me like you always have."
Before Squilliam could respond, Mary raised her hand in a commanding gesture. "Enough! Both of you." Her voice, though gentle, held an authority that silenced them both. She gave Squidward a soft but firm look, then turned her gaze to Squilliam, who squirmed slightly under her stare.
"I know this isn't easy for either of you. I know what's been happening between you two for years, but this is bigger than your petty rivalry. This is about Squidward's future," she said, her voice softening as she turned to her son. "You've been stuck, Squidward. And I know it's hard to admit, but I want you to try. Just try."
Squidward's fists clenched, his mind still racing with emotions. He couldn't bring himself to look directly at either of them. "I'm trying, Mum," he muttered, his voice small and defeated. "But it's like… I don't even know who I am anymore."
Mary's expression softened, and she stood up, crossing the room to place a hand gently on Squidward's shoulder. "I know you're struggling, sweetie. I can see it. That's why I called Squilliam in. To push you. To remind you of the talent you've buried under all that frustration. I want you to see that you still have it. That you're still you."
Squidward shook his head, his breath catching in his throat. "I don't know if I can," he whispered. "Not after everything that happened in Bikini Bottom. Not after I lost…"
Squilliam, surprisingly, seemed to soften for a moment. He put his cookie down and cleared his throat. "Look, I get it. You're angry. You're hurt. But you're not the only one who's ever had things go wrong." His voice was low, surprisingly free of the usual venom. "I didn't want to come here, but Auntie's right. You've got potential, Squidward. Whether you like it or not, I can see it. You just need to stop sulking long enough to get it back."
Squidward shot him a look that could have burned a hole in the wall. "You really think you can help me? You, Squilliam? After everything?"
Squilliam shrugged, his usual cocky demeanor returning. "I'm not saying I'm going to be your best friend, Squidward. But you need to face the truth: you're stuck, and I can give you a shove in the right direction. So you can keep moping around, or you can let me help you get back on track. Your call."
Squidward, despite himself, felt a spark of something—a mixture of frustration and a flicker of hope. He took a deep breath and looked up at his mother. She was watching him with those kind eyes, her face full of concern but also a determination that Squidward had always admired.
"I don't know about this, Mum," Squidward said quietly, his voice still raw. "But… I'll try. For you."
Mary smiled, a soft, relieved smile. "That's all I ask, Squidward. Just try."
Squilliam looked between the two of them, clearly disinterested in any emotional bonding. "Fine, but don't expect miracles, Auntie. You're asking a lot from me."
"Oh, trust me, Squilliam. I know exactly what I'm asking," Mary said with a small smirk, her voice returning to its usual firmness. She then turned to Squidward. "Now, what do you say we go out for a walk? Maybe clear your head a little?"
Squidward hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Maybe I could use that."
As Squidward stood, the weight of his mother's words, along with the strange possibility of actually getting back to something resembling his old self, began to sink in. He wasn't sure about this arrangement with Squilliam, but for the first time in a long while, he wasn't as sure that everything was completely lost.
"Well then," Squilliam said, finishing his cookie and standing up as well. "Let's see what happens, shall we?"
As the three of them walked out into the soft evening light, Squidward couldn't help but feel that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something different. Something he could still shape. Even if he didn't know exactly what that would look like.
-Squilliam's Tower-
It had been two weeks since Squidward had reluctantly agreed to let Squilliam help him with his art and music. Squilliam, ever the arrogant and pretentious cousin, had been more than eager to step into the role of a mentor, though not without his usual mocking tone. The first few days were torturous for Squidward. Every morning, he trudged through Squilliam's extravagant home—where he would be staying at for the time being—a towering mansion that reeked of wealth and pretension, and wondered just how he'd gotten to this point. How had he gone from the proud, confident artist to a struggling mess who needed him; Squilliam, his childhood rival, for help?
Yet, despite the bitterness, the resentment, and the discomfort, there was one thing Squidward couldn't deny: there was still a small spark inside him. Somewhere deep down, he still wanted to create.
The mornings began to blur together, each one more grueling than the last. Squidward had always thought he was an artist, confident in his craft, convinced his talents were unmatched in Bikini Bottom. But now, in the imposing presence of Squilliam, every ounce of that certainty seemed to be slipping away. Squilliam's mansion was a constant reminder of everything Squidward hadn't accomplished—its pristine marble floors and towering walls adorned with overpriced paintings mocked him in their perfection. He felt as if he were a guest in a world that wasn't his own, one where his efforts were inadequate and his skills lacking.
But no matter how painful it was, Squidward couldn't bring himself to give up. The spark was still there. Some days, it flickered weakly, but other days it burned just enough to drive him to pick up his brush or his clarinet and try again. The idea of giving up entirely, of admitting defeat, was more unbearable than the stinging critique Squilliam delivered with each passing day.
Squidward had spent countless hours in that studio, trying to recreate the magic that seemed so effortless for studio was quiet except for the soft scratch of Squilliam's brush against the canvas. Squidward stood across from him, staring at his own canvas, which was a chaotic mix of colors that didn't seem to blend together in any meaningful way. He had tried to paint a seascape—an idea he thought was safe and simple—but it had ended up looking more like a smear of unidentifiable shapes.
Squilliam, however, was in his element. His canvas was a perfect fusion of sharp lines and smooth curves, an abstract masterpiece that blended hues in ways Squidward could never hope to replicate. He hadn't even glanced up when Squidward started his painting. But now, he slowly set his brush down and turned to face his cousin.
"Squidward," Squilliam said with a smirk, his tone dripping with condescension. "What is this? A sea of chaos? A swirling mess of... nothingness?" He took a step closer, inspecting Squidward's work with exaggerated scrutiny. "You know, if you want to call yourself an artist, you have to actually create something."
Squidward's temper flared. "I am creating something!" he snapped, his voice rising. "It's just... it's harder than I thought. And you know what, Squilliam? Not all art has to be this... perfect, pristine nonsense that you paint. Sometimes, it's about expression. It's about freedom!"
Squilliam raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Freedom?" he repeated, leaning back in his chair. "You call this 'freedom'? It's a mess. You're not expressing anything. You're avoiding it. You're too afraid to feel anything real."
Squidward's breath hitched. He wanted to yell. To throw something. But deep down, he knew Squilliam wasn't entirely wrong. He had been avoiding his feelings for so long. The failures, the disappointments—he had bottled them up and painted over them. What was the point of all this? If he couldn't even finish a simple seascape without making a disaster, how could he ever hope to return to his artistic roots?
Squilliam, sensing the hesitation, continued. "You'll never grow if you keep hiding behind these excuses, Squidward. I get it—you want to rebel, to make some statement, but all you're doing is wasting your potential." His voice softened, though only slightly. "You want to make something meaningful? Then work for it. Push yourself. Push your boundaries."
Squidward clenched his fists. He hated how right Squilliam was. How could he stand there, his smug face so unbothered, as though he had all the answers? But the reality was, Squilliam was right. And that truth cut deeper than any insult Squilliam could throw at him.
(-)
A week passed, and the tension between the two grew. Squilliam continued to set high expectations for Squidward's art, constantly challenging him to paint in different styles. One day, he asked Squidward to try his hand at an abstract piece, completely abandoning traditional forms. Another day, he demanded Squidward paint an pointillism landscape, using a broad, loose technique.
But Squidward was no fool. He resisted at every turn. "This isn't me, Squilliam," he complained. "Why should I paint in a style I don't even like? I want to paint my way, my vision!"
"You have no vision," Squilliam shot back. "You're too stuck in the past. The world's changed, Squidward. I've seen the stuff you've done and quite frankly, I'm more than unimpressed," he said. "You need to change, and you need to adapt. You can't keep painting the same thing over and over again and expect anything to happen. Art is about growth, not about getting stuck in one place."
But despite the harsh criticism, Squidward couldn't help but feel a flicker of something—something akin to hope. Maybe Squilliam was right. Maybe he had been hiding behind his old art style for too long. Maybe it was time to stop running from change.
"FINE…" Squidward hissed out, trying not lose his temper on the guy. Squilliam just smirked, "That's better. Now, get on with it, kelp for brains!"
(-)
One day, Squilliam, ever the perfectionist, offered to help Squidward improve his music. "I've been watching you struggle with that clarinet, Squidward," Squilliam said, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. "It's clear you have the basics down, but there's no finesse. No real passion in your playing. You've got the talent, but it's buried under all that doubt. Let me help you push past it."
Squidward, despite himself, was intrigued. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew that his playing had plateaued. His performances lacked that spark—the kind of fire that could only come from a deep connection with his instrument. The idea of Squilliam's structured guidance, though irritating, seemed like it might actually be what he needed to break through.
The first of these "lessons" was more like a drill session. Squilliam had no patience for Squidward's hesitation, immediately barking out instructions and demanding discipline. The mansion's expansive music room became their battleground, the sound of the clarinet filling the air with every breath Squidward took.
"Posture, Squidward!" Squilliam snapped. "You're slouching like a sea sponge who's been flattened by a rock. Sit up straight, shoulders back—feel the air move through your diaphragm, not your chest!"
Squidward adjusted, but his mind was already racing with irritation. "I know how to breathe, Squilliam," he muttered under his breath, but his cousin had already moved on, demonstrating advanced finger placement for a more complex scale.
Squidward followed along, trying to ignore the sting of Squilliam's critical gaze as he played through the exercises. Each note sounded a little sharper, a little more refined. He was improving, but it wasn't easy. Squilliam had a way of pushing him beyond his comfort zone, but it wasn't just his technical skill that was being tested—it was his very approach to playing.
"Don't just play the notes, Squidward," Squilliam continued, his tone less harsh and more instructive. "Feel them. Think about what you want to express. You're not just producing sound—you're telling a story with every breath. That's what real musicians do."
Squidward blinked, surprised by the sincerity behind Squilliam's words. For a moment, he actually considered the idea: playing not just for the sake of it, but with intention, with emotion. Could he really do that? Could he move beyond his usual sterile, mechanical approach?
"Try it again," Squilliam said, his arms crossed as he stared at Squidward. "But this time, leave your perfectionism at the door. You'll never be great if you're afraid of making mistakes."
Squidward hesitated, but this time, he tried. He let go of his usual restraint, letting the notes flow more freely. The clarinet's deep, rich tones rang out in the room, and for a brief moment, Squidward felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: a sense of connection. He wasn't just playing the notes. He was playing the music.
Author's Notes:
Hello, everyone! I just wanted to drop a quick note to let you know that I'll be wrapping up this little story with the next chapter. I know some of you were surprised by the way I handled the family dynamic here, but I felt it was important to give these characters a solid reason for their animosity toward each other. This will be explored further in the next chapter.
For me, Squidward is a character who has lost his love and passion for both life and art. I completely understand where he's coming from. While I don't always agree with his bad attitude, I think we can all relate to the idea that when life doesn't understand you, you tend to lash out at those who seem to have it easier.
I also really love Squidward's mother—she's incredibly wise, and I think her decision to give him a much-needed wake-up call was exactly what he needed.
Success won't come easily for Squidward, but that's the journey I'm setting him on, and I'm hopeful he'll get there.
Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favorited this little story. I appreciate all your support! Until next time!