Chapter Text
In the letters home to his parents, Tubbo could write about the sprawling city that was New L’Manberg; about the fishmongers who barked their wares from the docks, and how he could almost hear them in the mornings from his apartment; about the city center built hundreds of years before even his grandparents had been born, standing on legs carved with names that no one alive could recall; about how the streets were lined with lanterns that burned like tiny suns against even the darkest of nights, against the rain and the snow and the fog that always seemed to drape itself over the canals. Tubbo could write about the locals he had met, and how the people born to the city seemed to hum with an energy all their own, electric and exciting and new.
He was here for school, and nothing more. The University of New L’Manberg offered one of the most prestigious law degrees in the country — in the world, even. It was an honor for Tubbo to attend, let alone on such a generous scholarship. The more he told himself this, the more truth there seemed to be. He was lucky, yes, and grateful for the school’s altruism, but there felt like there was something more to his arrival. New L’Manberg spoke to Tubbo like no place ever had, as if he shared a kinship with the very grounds upon which he walked.
It was a place that rewarded curiosity and determination, and it offered plenty of opportunities for Tubbo to prove himself. So much of the city’s history had been lost to time, and much more of it had simply never been documented. Even the smallest discoveries felt monumental to him. Each mystery he came across melted like tangled thread in his fingers, revealing a secret for every knot he managed to untie. He had yet to figure out whether any of his findings would ever connect, or if the picture he had been painting was less of a cohesive image and more of a collage, or even if he hadn’t wet his brush at all. Despite the unknowing, Tubbo found himself chasing the thrill of exploration endlessly.
In running his hand along a stone wall in the Central District of the city, Tubbo found his fingers skipping over worn carvings of sheep in an open field. Later in the week, ducking out of a bookstore into the rain, the back of the shop’s sign had caught his eye. He had squinted through the downpour and could just make out a faded advertisement for a roller coaster that called attention to the attraction with words he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of.
And maybe they weren’t groundbreaking historical discoveries — the gold-plated penny he had found lodged under a cabinet, the box of marbles in a curio shop inscribed with a name in Enderspeak, the bronze memorial to a long-dead ambassador to a place Tubbo didn’t recognize — but they were important to him. It was like he was being welcomed into New L’Manberg by the city itself, as if it was guiding him by the hand and showing him the story of its youth. Each day presented him a new opportunity to solve something, to connect the dots scattered throughout each district until they formed a picture that made sense to him. And it almost felt, sometimes, like Tubbo could feel the city’s hand in his own, its breath on his cheek. He could hear the secrets he uncovered one by one as if they echoed his own realizations.
Every once in a while, Tubbo would find himself exploring something that he couldn’t rationalize. It was as if his own thoughts were the echo, in close pursuit of something outside of himself, jarringly antecedent. The piano over there, it would murmur, and Tubbo would find his fingers tracing fingerprints worn into the ivory. Best musician in town. He played a c chord, and the voice fell silent, unspoken praise hanging in the air between reality and personification.
The more time he spent in New L’Manberg, the more Tubbo heard that voice. It followed him on his walks to class, peered over his shoulder at his textbooks, and offered commentary over his mug of hot cocoa in the mornings. He came to know the voice as less of an extension of himself and more of a thing all its own. It was a companion, sitting across from him at the dinner table where he otherwise would have had no one to eat with. It was comforting, in a way, if he didn’t think about it too much. Tubbo was almost embarrassed by how much he found himself relying on his voice, and the more he heard it, the more it felt like something normal. It had blended so effortlessly into his day-to-day that he hardly had enough time to register how strange it was to understand the inner workings of a place he had only known for a handful of weeks.
It was useful, too, when he needed it to be. His voice seemed to know more about New L’Manberg than anyone, noting to him the pattern woven by the market stalls and the habits of fishing boats as they drifted slowly back to the harbor. Creaky floorboard, it would tell him sagely, and he would hear the whine before he even placed his foot down.
In the small pieces of information that he could understand (and not all of it was something he was able to make sense of), Tubbo’s voice was fond of explaining the significance of the old buildings and plots of land that they passed by. His apartment, for one, had been built on what the voice only referred to in a hushed tone as sacred land.
Important building, it stated solemnly, a heavy presence behind Tubbo as he smeared a dollop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush.
“If it’s so important, you’d think they’d have at least tried to make it look nice.”
Looks better now.
Tubbo scoffed at that. “The plumbing has seen better days.”
Blue hair.
“Well now you’re just mocking me–”
A knock, hesitant and quiet, came at the door. There was a beat of silence between all three of them before it came again, this time more confident, as if the person behind it had made up their mind.
Answer .
“Good idea,” Tubbo muttered under his breath, crossing the distance between his bathroom and the entryway. In the time it took, the knocking had grown louder, almost bold in its insistence.
He swung it open forcefully, glaring up at the gangly teenager standing in the doorway. The first thing that struck Tubbo was the fact that he was soaked to the bone, standing in a puddle that was slowly spreading out on the doormat. He was tall, dressed casually in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt (both of which were darkened by an intriguing selection of stains), face framed by messy blonde hair. There was a dark smear of mud on his cheek, and his fist, still raised as if he hadn’t yet registered that Tubbo had answered, looked like it was freshly bloodied by shallow scratches across his knuckles and palms.
“Have you seen my dog?”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Tubbo slid his hand off the doorknob, folding his arms across his chest idly. The stranger at least had the sense to flash him an apologetic smile, but it quickly fell away as he leaned forward, ignoring Tubbo entirely to peer through the doorway.
“Yeah, he’s kinda shaggy, and he’s brown. He’s big, too. His name’s Henry but he doesn’t come when you call because he’s a bitch. Hard to miss ‘im if you’re looking around.” The stranger seemed to take Tubbo’s momentary hospitality as an invite, ducking under the doorframe and passing Tubbo to stand in the center of the room.
Tubbo hardly had time to react before his new houseguest was on his hands and knees, peering under the bed and whistling through his teeth. “Any fugitives under here? Maybe if you cleaned once in a while…” He trailed off, flicking at an empty cardboard box with his index finger.
“Tommy, what are you doing?” Tubbo sputtered, slamming the door shut behind him — Prime forbid any more unsupervised children come traipsing into his room — and scrambling to stand between the stranger and his bed. “I haven’t seen your dog!”
Slowly, the stranger lifted his head from the carpeted floor, eyes narrowed as he turned to Tubbo. “I didn’t give you my name,” he stated, as if that was the strangest part of this encounter.
And of course he would ask that. Because they had never met, and Tubbo had to remind himself that people didn’t usually know each other’s names before ever speaking. Biting back a curse, Tubbo stuttered out, “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? You’re friends with… uh…” He laughed nervously. “You live next door, don’t you? Across the street in that little grey house.” When Tommy didn’t seem impressed by his explanation, he added, “I”m Tubbo,” with a squeak that hung in the air for a second too long.
“Right.” Tommy stood slowly, rising from the floor with a levelness that made Tubbo nervous, its calculation evident. “I don’t think you’re from here.” It was a statement, not a question. Tommy didn’t expect an answer, and yet Tubbo found himself giving one anyways, nodding as embarrassment bloomed in his chest and sitting down carefully on the bed.
“So I take it you haven’t seen Henry.” Tubbo shook his head. “Will you help me find him, then?”
Not for the first time that night, Tubbo gave Tommy a once-over. He couldn’t have been much younger than Tubbo himself, but there was a softness to his features that betrayed his experience. He guessed that Tommy was probably freshly out of high school, a child in his own right. There was an eagerness about him like a kid on Christmas, something so raw that it almost made Tubbo uncomfortable. He was so… he didn’t have a way to describe it. Something like hindsight suggested that it was that spark he saw in all of the people from this place — New L’Manberg’s own personal charm, if you will. It was difficult to turn down something that had become so innately part of him. “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice, do I?”
Tommy smiled brightly, letting out a jubilant laugh as he replied, “Not anymore, you don’t!” He held out his hand, still very much bloodied, and, against all of his better judgement, Tubbo took it. Tommy pulled Tubbo from his seated position, dragging him out into the hallway before he even had a chance to grab his jacket from the closet.
Tommy leaped headfirst into the night, completely unaffected by the cold. Tubbo was not so similarly immune to the November air; it left him gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come as his lungs struggled to function around the ice in his throat. Tommy’s hand was still on his wrist, though, and he quickly found himself sloshing through shallow puddles that had sunken into the cobbled streets.
Above them, lampposts stood sentry over the quiet neighborhood, dampened by the mist that hung in the air. The moon was barely visible beyond them, a faded flashlight beam that lit the tops of the trees with faint silver halos. It was late, Tubbo realized with a jolt. The lights in most of the houses lining the street had gone dark, save for a few candles that he could just make out, perched carefully on bedroom window sills like quiet cats.
“How long have you been out here?” Tubbo asked, and his question clung to his breath, pale and colorless, before it drifted onward in the direction they were headed.
“A while,” came Tommy’s curt reply. “Got lots of neighbors to check up on. To ask questions to.”
Tubbo’s mouth formed an oh that he didn’t voice, choosing instead to rub his hands up and down his arms in an admittedly artful evasion of the subject. “Well, have you checked the park?” He tipped his head to the right, where he knew a set of stairs would take them down to a stretch of grass reserved for swing sets and flower beds.
“Not yet. I was sort of hoping that someone else would be able to do my work for me.”
“Well, here I am.” Tubbo quickened his pace, leaving Tommy snickering behind him as he descended the stairs. They were slick with condensation, but the bricks were worn enough to give his shoes some grip as he sidled along the railing.
The park spread out before them in a clumsy semicircle, running along the length of the hill until it met Salmon Creek and the forest thinned into suburbs. Tubbo was familiar with this place — the ducks were friendly and the late afternoon sunlight warmed the grass until it was almost tolerable for studying — but the night had warped his surroundings until they were unrecognizable. He would have been disoriented if not for the railing clutched tightly in his left hand, rooting him to the stairs.
Tubbo turned to ask Tommy where he wanted to look first, but he had already started to wander off, shaking the low-hanging branches of each tree he came across and whistling brightly. Tubbo sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and set off in the opposite direction.
It took them almost a full hour to finally find Henry, wet, dirty, and just as slobbery as Tommy had said that he would be. By that point, Tubbo was sure that they didn’t look much better. His hair was plastered to his face, matted and crusted with mud in what he imagined was the world’s worst cowlick. Tommy’s own hair had gone limp, and he sported a fresh cut on his lip that he had attributed to some particularly nasty briars.
Tubbo didn’t feel the exhaustion that he knew he should have felt. He knew he was cold, but his face felt flushed with excitement. He had never been one for adventure, and his brief diversion had left him nearly breathless, fingers shaking in the pockets of his jeans. He had half a mind to come up with an excuse that would keep him and Tommy out for longer.
But Tommy cursed, suddenly, and held his wrist up to his face, squinting past the layer of grime that had coated the clock face. “Dad is going to kill me,” he muttered darkly. He looked up, meeting Tubbo’s concern with a grimace of his own. “I have to go now before they start auctioning off my things to the neighbors.”
“Can’t have that,” Tubbo agreed solemnly, pushing down the disappointment that threatened to spill over.
“Thanks for everything,” Tommy said, suddenly serious in a way Tubbo hadn’t yet seen him. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found Henry.” As Tommy spoke, he reached down to scratch the big dog between his ears. Despite his best efforts, Henry failed to look remorseful.
“It was no problem, big man.”
“Big man,” Tommy repeated incredulously. “That’s good. I like that. I’m gonna start using that one.” He laughed, and then turned, grabbing Henry’s collar loosely in one hand. “I’ll see you around!” Tommy called over his shoulder. He practically flew up the stairs, long legs taking him in bounding strides until both he and Henry had disappeared over the ridge.
Tubbo waited for a moment at the base of the hill, eyes locked onto the space where Tommy had been a moment ago. He took a long time to himself.
When he finally pushed himself into motion, the pain from his cuts and bruises had nearly doubled. It seared through him, building with each slow, careful step he took towards his apartment.
By the time he reached the front door (unlocked, he noted flatly), Tubbo was hardly conscious, kept standing by the stiffness in his joints. It was as if he had just spent the last hour in a dead sprint. He rationalized that he hadn’t had that much excitement since he had been a kid, and definitely not since he had left home.
As he slid himself into bed, though, there was a hum of activity behind his eyelids. He had hardly noticed the dormancy of his voice until it started up again, and welcomed its familiarity as his thoughts began to drift. Tubbo could just barely make out the words, and it took all his willpower to not simply roll over and ignore it. Instead, he let it wash over him, muffled and warm, and sank deeper into his pillows. Caked in dirt and soaking wet, Tubbo slept. In his dreams, he fell, and fought, and burned, and swam, and flew. The warmth was smoke in his lungs and the setting sun on his face. It was music swelling in his chest.
Tommy.