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Tubbo’s name is Tubbo.
He is six years old, his Papa’s name is Papa, and he is sitting in the back of their home and leaning out the window, the wind in his hair and tears bubbling hot in his eyes as he squints them against the wind as they ride down the highway. It’s late at night. Tubbo likes the nighttime more than the daytime, even if it’s dark and scary sometimes. He likes to watch as the streetlamps pass, yellow glow coming and going and illuminating the backseat of their home in flashes of light like the movies they watch in motels, he likes the night because this the time of day when Papa’s face is softened by the shadows and he holds Tubbo to sleep and the highways are empty and they can go fast.
His eyes burn. The streetlamps light their way like they’re coming home.
“Tubs,” says his papa, a hand reaching back and flapping. It hits him in the shoulder, gets his attention, and he pulls his head in from the window. “Stop leanin’ out so far.”
“I like the whoosh,” Tubbo says, because he does, and he clutches his bee plushie closer. Bee likes the whoosh too, but he doesn’t dare hold him out the window to feel it. Bee is soft and yellow and black, and had been a gift from Santa last Christmas when they’d still been living in the dirty house in Peacock Street. Tubbo can still remember the address if he tries very hard.
His name is Tubbo (really it’s Toby, but he likes Tubbo better), he is six years old, he lives (lived?) at 562 Peacock Street Apartment C, and his Papa’s name is Papa. His birthday is December 23rd, and his favorite color is yellow. Tubbo likes everything really, even if it’s not so nice.
Which means he forgets about Papa’s warning two seconds later, tipping his head back out the window to feel the whoosh and watch the streetlights with wide eyes that tear up near instantly. The dark outside the streetlights is scary but the car is going so very fast, and Papa is right there, so Tubbo knows he’s safe.
“How we feelin’ about pizza?” Papa asks as the truck starts to slow down, wheels cah-lunking along the roadway as they trundle off the interstate and into the dim streets of some town. They passed green signs on the way but Tubbo doesn’t know his letters very well. Papa had taught him some of them but Tubbo had never seemed to grasp the concept very well, so it wasn’t a very long endeavor that they pursued.
Besides, Tubbo liked playing pretend much better than doing the work Papa asked him to. He found out that if Papa was in his loosey-goosey mood, Tubbo was much more likely to get out of doing it than when he wasn’t, so he always waited until then to pout and stick out his lower lip and let the tears well up. It always worked on Papa.
“Pizza!” He crows, kicking the seat in front of him and grinning as Papa laughs, loud and happy. “”Roni!”
“You want pepperoni, big man?” Papa asks, and the car slows down further as they pull into a dingy-looking motel parking lot. Tubbo likes the motels. The beds are better for jumping and sleeping on than the backseat of the truck, and they get to watch TV and movies. And Papa always got pizza when they stayed in hotels, got loosey-goosey, and sometimes they would dance even if it was late at night and Tubbo was ‘posed to be sleeping.
“Please,” Tubbo says, because Papa insists on manners. Then he kicks Papa’s seat again, because Papa had told him a secret once-- sometimes, manners were for losers.
“Sounds good, my guy,” Papa says, and then the truck is stopping and Tubbo is fumbling with the door handle in his rush to get out and look around. Papa’s quick to stop it, though, getting out of the car and leaning against the door so Tubbo isn’t able to open it against his weight. Tubbo pouts, and Papa makes a whirly symbol with his finger. “Roll up the window, budsy.”
Right! Tubbo scrabbles backwards, finger catching the window button and pressing it, watching as Papa smiles through the glass and taps on it as it gets allllll the way to the top. Only then does he get off the door and let Tubbo out, Tubbo clambering down the side of the truck with lightning-speed.
“Did you have your seatbelt on?” Papa asks, brows furrowed together. Tubbo immediately reaches up to slip his hand into Papa’s, smiling when his fingers close around Tubbo’s little ones. Even though the parking lot is dark, Tubbo is safe. He clutches Bee with his other hand, and slowly they make their way toward the shining bright light of the office.
“Mhm,” he says, because he did have it on for the first bit of the car ride. “Wanted to whoosh.”
“If you fall out, I’m not comin’ back for you,” Papa says teasingly as they push open the door to the office together. Papa goes up to the counter and the bored-looking man behind it, while Tubbo lets go of his hand and teeders over to a rack of magazines and papers. He traces one hand over the glossy finish-- a pretty lady is on the front, wearing a dress and words crawl up the sides and across the top of the paper. It’s a pretty picture. He glances over to where the man and Papa are talking, where Papa is digging in his pockets, and then sneaks the magazine out of the rack and flips it open. There are even more glossy pictures on the inside, and he stares for a minute.
“You good, little guy?” Papa asks, startling Tubbo and nearly making him drop the magazine. He swoops down, picking it up and turning it over. “Vogue. I didn’t take you for the fashion type.”
“Those’re fifty cents,” says the man behind the counter, and Tubbo looks up at Papa, who sighs, and pulls out two coins from his pocket. Tubbo grins, taking them from his fingers and jumping over to the counter where he slams them down.
“What do you say?” Papa asks, and Tubbo makes his way back over to him and holds a hand out. Papa puts the magazine in it, and Tubbo stares again at the shiny front page.
“‘Anks,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t really care about being polite, and once they’re both outside again Papa starts complaining about the man so he figures it’s alright.
“Fifty cents,” Papa says, rolling his eyes and herding Tubbo towards one of the dark motel rooms. “Fifty cents for a fuckin’ free mag, we could’ve just stopped at a gas station and taken one. You shoulda started crying, I bet he would’ve given us it for free. And he was definitely overchargin’ on the room, jesus fuckin’ christ. We might have to get cheese pizza, Tubster.”
“Cheese?” That catches Tubbo’s attention the most out of Papa’s words, and he snaps his head up to look. He frowns. That’s not fair. Cheese pizza was plain and boring. “I want ‘roni.”
“Pepperoni. Say the full word, you little twat.”
“Pepper-oni.”
“Good. We’ll see how much I got left once we’re inside.” Papa fumbles with a card and then the door to their room is open, Tubbo wandering inside aimlessly as Papa huffs and tugs his boots off and shuts the door behind him. The magazine ends up sitting on the bed with Bee as Tubbo peers into the garbage basket, opens every drawer, pokes his head inside the closet and bathroom, and finally ends up jumping on the bed to make sure it’s bouncy enough.
“Woah woah woah,” Papa says, catching him mid-jump. “Your shoes are still on. You know the rules.”
“Bounce!” Tubbo shouts, because he wants to BOUNCE and Papa is making him sit down and take his shoes off and that is simply unfair. But he lets it happen, Papa kneeling on the side of the bed and slipping Tubbo’s ratty green sneakers off before tickling the bottom of his feet and making Tubbo giggle.
“Alright, you’re good now,” Papa says. “You sure you want pepperoni?”
Tubbo’s stomach growls lightly. He holds a hand to it, then nods.
Bouncing on the bed is fun fun fun, and Tubbo does it for what feels like ages as Papa flits around the room, uses the bathroom, and calls a number on his celly-phone and orders them dinner. At some point, the TV turns on, and Papa flicks through the channels until there’s an old black-and-white movie on the screen. That’s when Tubbo stops bouncing, instead grabbing Bee and his magazine and crawling to the end of the bed, staring at the TV and watching as the lady in the dress moves around and talks loud.
He likes the TV. But they’ve been driving all day and Tubbo is sleepy and hungry and when Papa ruffles his hair, it makes him scrunch up his nose and push his hand away. He’s tired.
“Save your fire, little guy,” Papa says. “Audrey Hepburn not enough for you? She’s pretty hot.”
“Hungry,” Tubbo tells him, crawling up the bed and ending up right next to him. He sets Bee in Papa’s lap where Bee will be safe, and then opens the magazine. “Pepper-oni.”
“It’s on it’s way. Hang in there.”
Tubbo hangs in there, and his patience is rewarded in the form of steaming hot pepperoni pizza, delivered to their door. He digs in right away, and they both sit on the bed and eat-- Tubbo, greasy fingers flipping magazine pages as he stares at the colors and shapes, and Papa, staring at the TV as he sips a drink and munches on pizza.
Together, they demolish it, and Tubbo’s belly is warm and full and he kicks off his socks at some point and then he’s under the covers and the lights are off and his magazine is gone, but Bee is in its place. Papa’s breath stinks as he tells Tubbo’s goodnight, and Tubbo doesn’t remember saying it back but he must because Papa laughing is the last thing he remembers.
Morning comes with sun in his eyes and sleep crusting his mouth, bad stinky breath that he blows into Papa in order to get him to wake up. Papa groans, sighing as Tubbo bounces on the bed and shakes the covers and giggles wildly. The TV is still on, aimless static, and Papa shoves his head under a pillow.
“Can you get me some water, Tubs?” He asks, and Tubbo sings to himself as he goes into the bathroom, taking one of Papa’s bottles from the night before. He fills it all the way up with water and brings it back, setting it on the nightstand and watching as Papa sits up and chugs the whole thing.
“Head hurt?” Tubbo asks, because this isn’t the first time this has happened. Papa nods, and Tubbo crawls over and sinks against his side. A splash of water hits him on the nose and he wrinkles it, Papa’s hand damp from where Tubbo had splashed water on the outside of the bottle when he’d stood on his toes to fill it.
“You know me so well,” Papa says, but it’s not… happy. He sounds sad.
And that simply can’t do.
“Car ride?” Tubbo asks, spinning around and bouncing on his knees. Car rides always cheered him up, and they’d been on a big ride for a while now, driving from place to place. They’d seen the ocean last week. “Car ride, car ride, car ride--”
“Give me a few minutes,” Papa complains, throwing the sheets off and feet finding the floor. They’d both slept in their clothes last night, and Tubbo’s shirt is soft enough that he doesn’t care.
He sits on the bed and plays quietly with Bee for a little while as Papa shuffles around the room, tossing stuff around and flipping through a book he’d found in the nightstand. The faucet goes on and off a couple times, and when Papa finally comes out of the bathroom his cheeks are red and so are his eyes and his face is wet. Tubbo frowns as he comes over to the bed, reaching up and wiping at the droplets hanging onto his face, his eyelashes, the hair on his chin.
“Sad?” He asks, and Papa smiles-- it feels forced.
“No, buddy,” he says, taking Tubbo’s hand in his own. “Just washing off all the grime. You should too, come on.”
And so Tubbo follows, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as Papa uses a cloth and wipes at his face, combs fingers through his hair, rubs his teeth with the edge of the cloth and makes him gargle some water. Tubbo doesn’t necessarily like it, but he does feel a little less sleepy when it’s done with and Papa doesn’t look as sad, so he goes along with it. He even wipes Bee’s face a little bit with the damp cloth, and Tubbo giggles and he tugs Bee away. Bee doesn’t like water, silly, and he makes sure to inform Papa of this and they both giggle about it for a little bit.
Then it’s back on the road, time for the truck. They leave behind the pizza box and bottles and messy bed, Papa putting Tubbo in the car and then returning the room key before driving off. Tubbo’s got his new magazine and that keeps him entertained for a bit, but then he gets bored of staring at the pictures and instead goes back to the window and watches the world roll by.
“How about some tunes?” Papa asks a couple minutes after Tubbo puts the magazine away, and his heart jumps.
“Yes!” He says, leaning forward and kicking Papa’s seat by accident in his enthusiasm. He wants the music-- he likes Papa’s music, the crooning tones of what Papa calls “oldies” and the upbeat songs that come on the radio whenever they tune into it. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Alright, alright,” Papa says, laughing, and flicks on the radio. It’s static for a little bit, but then Papa fumbles for a second with some tapes and slides one in. “How do The Doobie Brothers sound?”
“Doobie!” Tubbo crows, because it’s a funny word and almost sounds like a bad one. He giggles, and Papa turns up the radio and then there’s guitars and drums and a tambourine. Tubbo sways his head as the lyrics come in, giggling as Papa grins back at him in the mirror up above the windshield.
“Like it?” He asks, and Tubbo nods, grinning. The window rolls down with a hiss and Papa turns up the music as he rolls them all down from the front. The wind whooshed through his hair and into his eyes and around him and carries the music along as Papa sings with.
“Listen to the music,” he sings along, mumbling a bit and then carrying on the tune. “When I know, hm hmmm, you know better--”
“LA LA LA,” Tubbo sings along with the tambourine, slamming his hands onto his legs and swaying from side to side. Papa laughs, picking the words back up and meeting Tubbo’s gaze in the backseat.
“We’ll be happy,” he says, still with that big grin split over his face, baseball hat tugged over his eyes as the sun pokes it’s rays through the windows and the road lies before them, stretched out for ages and pale. “Dance the blues away.”
Dance! Tubbo can dance, and dance he does, wiggling in his seat from side to side and holding his arms up, shaking them from side to side. The music wiggles with him, and he laughs as Papa does too, grabbing Bee with one hand and wiggling Bee in the air to dance too. Everybody loves to dance-- Papa swaying his head in the front, Tubbo in the back, and the people in the cars around them dancing too. The cans in the bottom of the truck clink together in time with the music, adding to the rhythm, the truck’s engine pounding alongside it, and Papa turns up the radio even more as they both sing their hearts out. The wind whooshes in Tubbo’s ears and he giggles, leaning his head against the seat in front of him and tapping his fingers. The song, gently coming to a close, and the wheels carrying them far.
“You like that song?” Papa asks, and Tubbo nods, picking his head back up to really nod furiously, and Papa snickers again. “You’ve got good taste then.”
“Taste,” Tubbo says sagely, still nodding his head even though the music’s changed and he’s pulled into it, the sound of guitar strings. Papa whistles, turning it up and patting the wheel as the beat comes in.
The world is full of music and light for a while.
Eventually, the music settles down and Tubbo is tired and he finds his eyes drifting shut, lulled to sleep through the croons of Billy Joel and the sound of the truck meandering it’s way across the asphalt. He shuts his eyes and then when he opens them, the sky is dim and Papa is rubbing his eyes and they’re pulling off the highway once again. Tubbo’s stomach grumbles, and wordlessly, Papa pulls into a gas station and hands him a five-dollar-bill.
“Go get what you can,” he says, “and don’t go with any strangers.”
“I yell,” Tubbo says to remind himself of what to do if someone tries to take him, rubbing the rest of the sleep from his eyes and stumbling out of the truck. He makes sure to look both ways, earning a thumbs-up from Papa as he puts gas in the truck, and Tubbo wanders the aisles of the gas station for a little bit before finding a bag of chips with a brightly-colored label. He takes it down off the shelf and then, after a second-- slips a granola bar in his pocket. Right down low, where no one could see, just like Papa had shown him one time.
He pays for the chips, putting down the five-dollar-bill on the counter, oblivious to the cashier’s odd looks as she hands him back a few coins and a dollar. He makes his way outside, where Papa’s got the truck windows open and a cigarette in hand.
“Chips,” Tubbo says, holding out the bag to show him, and then pulling out the granola bar. “Snack.”
Papa glances over, and there’s a flash of something across his face, but then he taps the cigarette out against the side of the window and blows out the bad-smelling smoke into the air of the gas station.
“Good job, buddy,” he says, but his tone makes Tubbo think maybe he hadn’t done something good after all.
“Mad?” He asks, crawling into the front seat from where he’d first gotten into the back. Papa rips open the chips, popping one into his mouth, then raising the cigarette to his lips again.
“Not mad at you, bud,” Papa says gently. “Never could be. Go ahead and eat the chips.”
Tubbo eats the chips. He leaves a few for Papa, even if he’s still hungry, and snacks on the granola bar instead.
They get back on the road, and Tubbo is quiet. He plays with Bee, he entertains himself-- he’s used to playing in his head, making up friends and places and stories, and the magazine is there too, and a few books from his backpack (green, sat on the floor of the truck). The music still goes, even if neither of them are singing anymore, and Tubbo ends up drifting off again. When he wakes, the truck is still, and Papa is outside, leaning against the hood and staring at the sky. He’s got another cigarette and bottle in hand, and Tubbo just sits and stares for a little while at the dark shape of his papa as sleep messes with his drowsy mind.
“Papa,” he eventually says, whispering out the back window and watching as Papa’s face whips around, steps loosey-goosey as he makes his way around the truck.
“What is it?” Papa asks, and his words are quiet and messy. Tubbo hits the plastic of the window, gently. The night air is cold, even though it’s summer, and windows are all still down.
“Cold,” he says, and Papa sighs, heavy.
“Right,” he mutters, shuffling away and opening the front seat. The truck roars to life for a brief moment as Papa rolls all the windows down, then quiets again once they’re up. Tubbo tugs Bee close, watching with sleepy eyes as Papa takes loosey-goosey steps into the front seat, wobbling. Once he’s in, he heaves a breath, settling his can aside. “I’m sorry, bubs.”
Tubbo’s not sure what Papa’s apologizing for, but he’s sleepy, and Papa is sad, so after a second Tubbo crawls up a bit and reaches out, putting one hand on Papa’s cheek.
“Okay,” he says quietly, voice tired and eyes heavy. “Love you.”
Papa’s voice is all crumbly when he responds. Tubbo is too sleepy to really hear it. “Love you most, little man.”
The next day is not like the last.
Tubbo wakes up to Papa still acting loosey-goosey, but not in the good way. His eyes are red and they stay that way as Papa tosses a bunch of things in the garbage, as Papa puts Tubbo’s backpack on the seat beside him and rubs Tubbo’s face with a thumb sticky with spit. Papa smells like bottles and smoke, and there’s no music as they drive this time.
Tubbo sticks his head out the window to feel the whoosh, Bee close to his chest.
They go on the highway for a little bit, but eventually they get off and start going slow, instead. Tubbo pulls his head inside and just watches now, as the streets around them get more and more crowded and twisty. There are houses now-- beige, pale blue, yellow, green, brown. He likes the green ones best, but the yellow comes in a good second. There’s soccer balls in the front yards, bushes and trees, and cars in driveways. Tubbo hasn’t really seen a neighborhood like this before-- he’s nervous.
They pull over. Papa gets out, slamming the truck door shut behind him, and opens Tubbo’s. Tubbo sits there as Papa puts Tubbo’s backpack on, hands clumsy, and then lifts him out and onto the ground. Tubbo clutches Bee on his chest.
He’s confused.
They walk up a brick-lined path, the house in front of them beige and pale blue. There’s perfectly green grass, a well-trimmed lawn, flowers lining the sides. Tubbo spots a real bee, but before he can point it out to Papa, he’s being shuffled away and further up the path. They come to a front door-- maroon, a fancy window, and Tubbo feels nervous and out of place. He holds Bee, hides behind Papa, and flinches when a sharp knocking sound comes as Papa bangs on the door.
There’s muffled noise inside, and then the door swings open. Tubbo hides his face behind Papa’s legs again, shutting his eyes. Bee is so soft. Papa is shaking-- Tubbo can feel it from here.“Phil,” Papa says after a long moment. He’s got his Adult Voice on, the one that means Tubbo should stay very far away until whatever bad thing is going on is over and done with and Papa will come get him and explain. “I need a favor.”
“What the hell,” says a voice, not unlike Papa’s, but very different as well. “Schlatt, what’s going on?”
Schlatt is Papa’s real name. Tubbo knows this, but he doesn’t care. It’s always going to be Papa to him.
“I need a favor,” Papa repeats, shuffling a bit. Tubbo hears the other person inhale sharply. He hides his face.
“Did you drive here like this?” The man in the doorway is tall and blond when Tubbo summons enough courage and peers around from behind Papa’s legs. His stomach feels all gross and sick as he takes in the surroundings. It’s a huge neighborhood, big houses to either side, and big green lawns. Nothing like the apartment back on Peacock Street, or the motels and car parks they’d stayed in the past few nights. It’s bright. It’s loud. Tubbo feels scared, and after glancing up at the blond man once more he hides his head in the back of Papa’s legs again.
“‘M fine,” Papa says, his loosey-goosey voice slurring a bit. Tubbo presses his forehead harder into the rough fabric of his shorts. “Please, Phil. For the week. Take him.”
“Schlatt, you’re drunk--” The man uses Papa’s real name, and Tubbo wonders how they know each other. There's a shout from inside the house, and the man sighs. “One second, Wil! Look, Schlatt, I can’t, I have my own boys--”
“Phil.” Papa’s voice cracks. Tubbo fights back tears and fails, and then all of the sudden he’s being shuffled around and Papa’s pushing him gently onto the front steps and out in the open. He clutches Bee, holds him tight as Papa’s hands stay gentle on his shoulders. “Please. Tubbo, say hi to Phil.”
Tubbo does not say hi to the strange blond man in the big bright house. He turns, trying desperately to slam his face into Papa’s stomach and clutching fiercely. He’s torn from the fabric, Papa’s hands hard and no longer soft and Tubbo’s crying all the way now, a sick, sick feeling rising in his stomach as he rubs his nose into Papa’s shirt and tries his best to disappear.
“I’m just gonna leave him here, Phil,” Papa says, and his voice is cold and sharp and Tubbo is flooded with memories of Papa when he’s angry, Papa sitting at the table, asleep at the table, the stinking cans and stale bottles sat in the bottom of the truck. “Right on the fuckin’ doorstep. Take him.”
“No!” Tubbo speaks up then, because they might be talking and might be adults but Tubbo doesn’t care. “I don’t wanna!”
“Tubbo--”
“Little guy--”
“No no no no!” Tubbo stomps his foot, stands on the cold concrete of this shining house, and can’t see through the blurry tears in his eyes. Papa’s leaving him.
Papa’s leaving him.
“You be good for Phil,” Papa’s saying, words leaning into each other and slipping against the floor like it’s ice as they go. Loosey-goosey. “I won’t be gone forever.”
“You come back,” Tubbo demands, and Papa’s fingers wipe at his face. His hands are warm.
“I’ll come back,” he says gently. Tubbo blinks his eyes and there’s Papa’s face, his beard, his hair, long and hanging over his eyes. His eyes are red, and Tubbo gently reaches out. Papa’s crying, he realizes, and after a second he reaches out and wipes away his tears identical to how Papa had just wiped away his. The motion seems to make Papa choke harder, forcing something down his throat that’s heavy and big. Papa’s sad, he realizes. He doesn’t wanna go either.
And Tubbo doesn’t get it. He just wants to stay . Why can’t they both stay?
“Hey, Tubbo.” There’s a voice from behind him, and it’s the blond man from before. He’s kneeling now, down on Tubbo’s level, and Tubbo’s hands fall from Papa’s face as he turns to look. The man has a kind face, even if he is a bit scary overall. Tubbo frowns, shutting his mouth and refusing to say anything. “My name’s Phil. You’re gonna stay with me for a little bit. I live here, with my other three sons. One’s about your age. Do you think that might be nice?”
Tubbo says nothing. He refuses. Phil’s eyes flicker over to his head to where his Papa had been standing, and Tubbo stares aimlessly at a pale beige corner of concrete. He wants to stay with his Papa, and he will not let anything drag them apart.
A car door slams.
Tubbo whirls around. His stomach flip-flops. Is this what being loosey-goosey feels like? His feet won’t listen to him as he tears down the front walk, bricks nearly tripping him up. He’s lost Bee-- fallen back on the stairs and concrete. His backpack hits his back in even thumps as he runs, and then Tubbo’s sent sprawling and crying on the pavement as a brick trips him up for good. The whoosh of air in his ears is gone.
There’s no hand out the window, waving goodbye. There’s no music coming from the speakers, no voice singing the lyrics loud and out-of-tune, or soft and special for him. There’s just the cough of an engine and the screech of wheels as Papa disappears around the corner. Tubbo’s knee is red and he is sad and upset and frightened and all he can do is let the scary blond man pick him up, bring him inside that bright pale-blue house.
Papa never comes back.
Tubbo never forgets.