Work Text:
Vienna, Austria
Wilbur was fluent enough in German that he'd had no problems getting around the city, paying vendors in the street markets and getting directions to cheap restaurants and a good hostel for the night. Fundy was not fluent in German but helped with figuring out landmarks and things so they didn't get lost.
Everyone was kind there. Even when his messy accent (British originally but influenced by so many languages it didn't really have a form anymore) slipped through, no one made fun of the mispronounced words and stumbled-over syllables, and he was happy for that.
The hostel was clean enough and didn't outright smell like vomit or sweat like some tend to do. Wilbur and Fundy got a bunk bed, with Fundy above and Wilbur below like they always did. Wilbur shoved his backpack and guitar case under the bed and immediately left Fundy, again like they always did. Hours spent together took a toll, and even though Wilbur loved Fundy to death and couldn't imagine traveling with anyone else, sometimes he needed a breather.
There was a bar connected to the hostel, made specifically for the guests. It had a couple of pool tables, lots of seats, and a gaggle of exhausted travelers from all walks of life. Wilbur found himself at the bar, waiting for the bartender to make him some sort of drink he's never heard of.
"Brighton, right?" A man sitting next to where he's standing turned to him, peering over his glasses at Wilbur.
"Yeah, actually." Wilbur was thankful to finally have a conversation with someone (other than Fundy) in English.
"Not what I expected to find tonight." The man smiled before extending a hand. "George. I'm from London officially but I spent a lot of time in Brighton."
"Wilbur," Wilbur replied, taking George's hand. It was soft and strong and warm, which was no surprise to Wilbur, who had shaken a lot of hands during his travels.
"Well, Wilbur, have you ever played pool?" George asked, gentle smile still dancing across his lips. His hand held a glass of what looked like whiskey, long fingers curled around the crystal that made it look like he was a rich man rather than just a traveler.
"I haven't really," Wilbur said, knowing where this was going. It was what being a traveler meant: meeting new people, doing new things, playing new games, everything new and different and ever-changing. He was the kind that wanted to get swept away, not fight the current but rather let it take him to anywhere he needed to be.
"Might I teach you, then?" George's eyes were honest and open, holding no sign of bad intention. Wilbur knew he wouldn't go anywhere else with George (you're not getting him to no secondary location if you catch my drift), and so what could it hurt?
Wilbur nodded, let George lead him to an empty pool table and explain the rules. How to hold the cue, which balls to hit, where each of the pockets are, how the fuzzy green of the table affects the balls.
It's Wilbur's favorite thing to meet new people and get them talking about something they enjoy. It was obvious George had played a lot of this game, blatant as he held the cue in such a way that he looked completely natural, like it was his true state to play pool.
"This is just making me think of that scene in "The Music Man"," Wilbur joked after a while.
George smiled. "There's trouble right here in River City. Or, trouble in Vienna, I suppose."
"Precisely."
"You're holding the cue wrong."
"I am?" Wilbur had felt he was holding correctly, but apparently not.
"You are. Here, can I move you?" George asked, putting down his own cue on the table and moving around so he stood next to Wilbur.
"Yeah, yeah."
George carefully put his hands on Wilbur's, guiding them along the smooth wood of the cue so they're in the right spots. Wilbur watched George, looked at all the patches on his dark green bomber jacket, looked at the tired skin under his eyes and the freckles from hours in the sun. It was a pretty sight, though Wilbur stopped himself from thinking any more than that.
"There, that's better." George stepped back, picking up his cue once again. "Let's make a game out of this. Every time one of us pockets a ball, they answer a question from the other."
George pocketed many more than Wilbur, which meant Wilbur talked a lot more. He told George how he had left Brighton when he was 18, planning on traveling for a year but that soon turned into 5 and now there he was. He told him about meeting Fundy in the Netherlands and exploring the continent with him. He told him about places he'd been, how they had come from Berlin and were planning on getting to Bucharest in the next two months.
With the two balls Wilbur was able to pocket, he learned George was traveling with his two best friends (as the third wheel, mind you) and he had come from Milan.
Between the game, they drank their respective liquor and exchanged quips and stories about places they'd both traveled. France had good wine, Greece was pretty, Austria was underrated, Italy was too warm unless you found the right place. George pointed out patches on his jacket as they mentioned cities, saying that the Belarus patch was his favorite.
Wilbur almost wanted a jacket like George had. His old khaki one was worn and ancient, but George's seemed fresh and well taken care of, just like the rest of George is. Wilbur still doesn't let himself think like that.
"George!" A voice eventually yelled behind them, and Wilbur was met with two very drunk strangers leaning against each other and looking very excited.
"Wilbur, these are my companions, Dream," George pointed to the tall blond man in the green sweatshirt, "and Sapnap," then pointed to the shorter dark-haired man with a black jacket and a beer can in his hand.
"Georgie," the blond, Dream, slurred, "there's a hot dog place next door, I'm hungry."
George sighed, glancing at Wilbur with a sympathetic look. "I should go with them."
"It was fun," Wilbur smiled.
And so they parted ways, barely more than strangers than hours before but infinitely closer. Wilbur expected to not see George ever again, though he would like to. He had a good time, but that's what it meant to be a traveler: seeing everything, knowing nothing.
Wilbur had to push thoughts of George out of his mind, let the memory of their night together smolder out like a fire, burn its way through every piece of kindling until there was no more desire to see the stranger again. It never worked, and on cold and lonely nights, Wilbur let himself imagine where the man could be, if he ever thought about that night as well.
He did gain a companion that night. Fundy met a nice man, Eret, and with some convincing, he joined them in their travels. They saw Bucharest and Prague and Madrid and Helsinki and Glasgow and Brussels, and Wilbur played his guitar in front of statues and landmarks and the most beautiful buildings in the world, wrote songs about unrequited love and a life without structure, and he fell in love even more with travel.
Then, exactly 60 weeks after they met, he found George again.
It was in a hotel in Venice, once again in the bar. Wilbur was once again alone, drinking some bottle of local beer and jotting down song lyrics in his battered journal. His shoulders were covered in a forest green jacket rather than the old khaki one he had lost in Glasgow, and he was wiser, more versed in the ways of the world. In a way, Wilbur was more at peace than before.
"Hey stranger," a voice finally said from behind him.
And Wilbur turned to see a familiar face, one he hadn't seen in 60 weeks.
"George."
"New jacket."
"New patches."
And they fell into step like old friends, like their night in Vienna picked up where right where it had left off.