Chapter Text
Tommy’s parents hated him. It was true. Once a happy, inclusive family, now it was one that held nothing but secrets and lies. He knew, of course, about the cheating, the hatred, the eventual divorce. How could he not? The loud screams that echoed through the empty house during the early hours of the morning haunted his dreams and waking hours.
His father soon found himself a new girlfriend after the divorce, and Tommy liked her no more than he did his own mother. He saw the similarities in them both; they were a fan of hurting him, mentally and physically. Tommy had learned not to trust by that point, so he wasn’t at all shocked when she first slapped him, her long, jagged nails marking his cheeks for the next few days. He did end up missing his mother, and questioning where she had gone. At least she had made conversation with him, even if the main reason was ordering him around or belittling him. This new woman could barely stay in the same room as Tommy without being disgusted.
No-one noticed as the teenager slowly became trapped in his own mind, full of self-hate and loathing. Tommy was never one to ask for help, not because he thought himself to be independent, but because there was no-one willing to struggle through healing the trauma and wounds that the boy suffered. As a person who used to be full of life, he felt the harsh effects of loneliness as they crept into his ghastly way of living, all too well.
His mind was like a cell, trapping and constricting everything he did. His emotions almost seemed to not be his own, instead they were the monsters hiding in the closets, and the dark crevasses of his mind. Taking control of his thoughts felt impossible, and so he never tried. There was no point in creating more disappointment. It wasn’t worth the effort.
Tommy felt disgusted at the track he was walking on. He was headed on a straight line, right towards missed opportunities and wasted potential. With his parents reminding him of this during each interaction, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. He would never be the perfect son, never be good enough for them. He refused to lie to himself, though. He knew families were not supposed to be like this. Not with the bruised and broken bones that combated against the realisation that things would never be normal again.
If you didn’t know him before, it would be easy to believe that he was always like this. Tommy, himself, had long since forgotten the boy who got excited at birthday parties or holiday trips. The pictures, in decorated golden frames and shining with memories, once proudly standing upon the mantelpiece, were burned and discarded, never to be replaced. He knew he would never be the same, so he chose to forget.
Tommy knew the backstreets of London as well as he knew the endless night sky, glittering with stars that shone down, through the pollution and smog, on the people relentlessly. Sometimes it was hard to see them, but he knew they were there. The familiarity was comforting, even though he knew that all good times had to come to an end. Sometimes when the air in his room was clogged with the pollution, and the stuffiness became to much to handle, he would make his way out of the small apartment building, and stride down the long, cobbled paths.
The streets were usually bustling with the early risers of London, rushing to their next appointments. Tommy didn’t envy them. The dim lights, hanging eerily over the sidewalks, cast a gloomy glow before the sun rose in all its glory. The quietness was peaceful but sometimes overbearing, so when the occasional bird chirped, or long winged bat flapped overhead, Tommy would feel the sides of his lips rise in a slight smile.
It was this night, that took him to the musty tracks of the Jubilee line. Tommy didn’t dare inspect the fogged up signs that surrounded him. He had no particular desire to see when the next train was to arrive. It would be too tempting.
~~~
Wilbur was never a fan of London. Too much smog, pollution, over crowdedness, and just the overwhelming feeling that no-one cared for each other. It really wasn’t his scene, and he had plans to leave as soon as possible, even though his entire life was there.
He never had the best childhood, with his parents being quite neglectful, but it was bearable. He had moved out as soon as it was legal, choosing to rent an office. It was cosy, but the cigarette smoke from the streets always seemed to find a way to seep into the area, infecting it with the poisonous smell. Wilbur had few friends, but the ones he did have, he was close with. They lived in London as well, but had never expressed much discomfort at all. Maybe Wilbur was just different.
He didn’t have much of a job at this point in his life, just doing little things that got him enough money to stay alive. They were plenty of worse situations; he had seen for himself the results of poverty, and the homeless sitting just around every corner, begging for money, for food, for something that could save their lives. Wilbur always gave them as much as he had, knowing that it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
Wandering the streets was one of his favourite pastimes, despite his hatred for the city. The stars were sometimes visible, and they gave him great pleasure to look at. He never had a destination, choosing to go wherever his feet took him. It was often to the calming, quiet area that was called the train station. There was usually no-one there in the early hours of the morning, which Wilbur was grateful for.
Strangely, he had the urge to leave, to go home, to hide under the covers of his comforter like a young child, to pretend he didn’t live like this, but that wasn’t an option. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t leave. As he walked down the dirt coated stairs, his light steps filling the train station with sound, he was thankful that he decided to come here.
There was a young teen – he could tell, even from the side view, that the boy was an adolescent – staring at the tracks with a certain longing in his glistening eyes, one that could only result in dangerous situations, and undesirable results.
~~~
Wilbur could see the unsureness in the boy’s eyes, and knew in that moment that he wasn’t going to jump tonight. The teen was wearing a dirty white baseball tee that had red sleeves, and some skinny jeans that were torn and ragged at the knees. His beaten up sneakers weren’t even a distinguishable colour, but that wasn’t important.
His arms were bright red, and wet, in the darkness of the morning, cuts lining up perfectly, blood dripping in slow motion to the floor. It’s characteristic smell of metal filled the train station; putrid yet beautiful. His arms were both symmetrical in terms of the injuries, with the random bruise mixed in to change things up. A few cuts had begun to clot, forming a deep red line as his skin futilely attempted to protect the tissue underneath from the bacteria of London. The rest were fresh, several minutes old at most, covering the previous scars, tainting his young skin further.
It was almost triggering to Wilbur, who had been the victim of the deadly cuts only last year. He could remember the satisfying feeling of stinging pain, and the mesmerising image of blood seeping out of the incision. He had managed to break the habit, if only for the sake off his friends, but this boy seemed to have no-one, and no point to stop. So Wilbur put it out of his mind, not mentioning it as he approached the teen quietly, his sneakers barely making a noise on the smooth tarmac floor.
“What are you doing here this early?” Wilbur asked, despite knowing the answer.
The teen jumped, backwards thankfully, whipping his head around to take in the sight of Wilbur. He looked to have been too engaged in his own thoughts to have noticed the man enter the train station. Likely not expecting company this early anyways.
The teen gulped. “Just a walk.”
Wilbur nodded distractedly, seeing the obvious lie. They both knew that wasn’t the reason, but it remained unspoken in the darkness. Wilbur slid his hands silently into his jacket pockets, soaking up the slight warmth. The boy must be freezing, what with the cold temperatures, and he was shaking, goosebumps already having sprung up on those red arms. Wilbur glanced once at the boy, before resuming his observation of the Waterloo train station ceiling.
It was nothing special, but certainly a bit of a statement for a train station. He had seen the same poles, same materials, same cobwebs each time he came, which was surprisingly often. Not really interesting, he thought to himself. Not nearly as much as the teen standing next to him.
“Come sit down.” Wilbur stated, not giving him an option.
The teen didn’t need much convincing, as he moved back past the barriers, and joined the man. They took a seat on one of the steel chairs that lined the back wall, coated in frost. The boy sat as far away from Wilbur as he could, understandably, as he was a stranger still. Wilbur was surprisingly disappointed; wanting to know the teen better. The silence in the train station was so thick it could be sliced with a knife. It was rather comforting, though, and they basked in each other’s company for several minutes, never making a sound. Wilbur sat still, his back straight and not daring to come into contact with the chair, his feet placed strongly on the floor. In comparison, the boy was slouched and leaning back, knees brought up to his thin chest in an attempt to conserve what little warmth his body had.
“You can call me Wil.” Wilbur said, his voice steady and inviting.
“Tom.”
Wil hummed in recognition, leaving the conversation there. Neither of them looked at each other, instead choosing to avert their gazes to different sections of the station. Wil never stopped searching, not for anything in particular, just in interest. The station was nicer in the early morning than it was during the day. Wil wasn’t a people person, more of a silent observer. The world was remarkable if you took the time to introduce yourself there. The people he was usually around spoke enough for him. He would listen intently, rarely putting his own opinion out. However, Tom couldn’t bear to pull his sight away from the rails, debating the consequences. It was an easy way out.
“You know, the jumpers never consider the train drivers.” Tom spoke, his voice shaky and quiet. “It effects them more than you would assume.”
Wil considered that idea thoughtfully. It was true. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the idea of watching someone die, knowing that you were to late to save them. Thinking about jumping was enough stress, but actually doing it and affecting innocent lives was a terrible consequence.
“I suppose you’re right.” He replied.
Tom had read articles about the results, the effects on the drivers. The first time you witnessed a death was said to be horrific, heart-stopping, graphic. People would say ‘it happened, get over it’, but they never seemed to. Apparently all the drivers could do was pull the brakes, and wait. Wait for the moment that you knew they had been hit or not. He wondered if the people driving the trains, the ones responsible for saving those lives, ever considered themselves as murderers. Many ended in therapy and months of work leave, the people never coming back quite the same. Watching the last few seconds of someone’s life took quite a toll on your mental health, to the point that you would be asking yourself each morning ‘will there be another today?’. Tom had seen the statistics; 50 a year at the Waterloo Station, equating to about once a week. And that was only the successful attempts.
“Do you ever feel lonely?” Wil asked, more for his own sake than the teens.
It didn’t even seem to be a question for Tom. “Yes. The feeling never goes away.”
“Jumping would make a mess. Not worth the effort.” Wil wiped his frozen, blue fingers on his trousers.
Tom scoffed, barely loud enough for the man to hear. “Relatively painless way to go, though. Compared to all the others.”
A rumble came from a distance down the track, indicating the arrival of a train. It echoed through the area, disturbing the atmosphere. Wil stood, inspecting the signs. There was no place worth going, no place better than where they already were, but it would be a change. They could easily make it back by dawn, before all the people began piling in, even though Wil had no events the following day, and he doubted that Tom did either.
“Shall we go on a ride?” Wil glanced back at the boy, still cuddled up on the freezing seat, his nose going purple.
Tom stood, joining Wil at the signs, not bothering to read them though, and stretched his sore legs. “Why not?”
The two acquaintances stood at the old train door, patiently waiting for it to slide open. It took several seconds, but finally opened revealing the empty train. It only took Wil a moment to glance around and confirm that they were alone. It wasn’t that surprising considering the time, but he was grateful anyways. Unnecessary noise from absolute strangers would have been the breaking point for Wil that morning, and he probably would have flung himself in front of the train, instead of walking through the doors. No. He shouldn’t joke about that, even his head, with Tom standing right next to him, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There was always the possibility that he would have taken the opportunity and jumped if Wil hadn’t been there.
The man took a middle seat, leaving the corner one for Tom. The teen seemed to find comfort and safety in corners and smaller spaces. Just like Wil thought, Tom crawled into that seat, legs bunched up in front of his chest, arms wrapped around himself. He was still trembling, violent shivers wracking his body. The jeans and baseball tee were nowhere near enough protection from the vicious winds and temperatures of London, but he doubted that the boy had anything more to wear. Not like it would have mattered anyways, if he had jumped. Wil mentally slapped himself, trying to stop thinking of that. It wasn’t a nice mental image, and wouldn’t help anyone.
Wil debated handing his coat to the teen for a while, until the train started moving again; no-one else having been there to board. Tom would surely need the warmth more than him, and it wasn’t like Wil was at risk of dying from the cold. He knew that giving it over meant the sleeves being stained forever with dark blood, no way of washing it off. May as well just let the younger keep it. He slid the long coat he was wearing off his shoulders, shocked by how fast the coldness wrapped around his bare arms. Offering it to Tom with outstretched arms, he let out a low whistle.
The hesitation was clear in Tom’s eyes, but so was the longing to accept the offer. His fingers danced around his arms nervously, picking at the cuts, causing the blood to flow more. His eyes darted around, looking from the coat to his chest, to the floor, but never making their way up to Wil’s face. He didn’t want to see the unreasonable pity that was sure to cover the man’s expression, the look that everyone held when they saw him, but no-one else had ever helped before, or offered anything. People often only wanted something from him, so seeing Wil give him something by choice, was shocking, and a new occurrence. Not sure how to respond, he slowly reached out, fingers locking in the soft, warm fabricate of the light brown coat. Expecting Wil to withdraw his offer, Tom clung to the sleeve like it was the only thing saving his life. It may as well have been, what with the hyperthermia he was likely to get.
Wil watched as Tom grabbed onto the coat. He knew the boy was nervous, so the moment his fingers clasped onto the sleeve, he handed it over.
“Thanks,” Tom whispered, avoiding eye-contact at all costs.
Wil smiled. “Your welcome.”
Tom slipped the oversized coat over his bony shoulders, leaning into the warmth that was still on it from Wil. It was too big for him, the sleeves past his hands, the collar engulfing his neck. It was kind of pathetic, the way a coat meant this much to him. Thankfully, the blood from his arms didn’t immediately soak through, but Wil knew that the sleeves would likely be uncomfortable as they rubbed against his injured arms.
“How are you going at school?” Wil attempted at some conversation.
Tom’s face screwed up, frowning in thought. He wasn’t going great, not with the home issues and the bullies, but overall, could be going worse. His grades were usually a solid B, which he was proud of. Spending the majority of his free time studying sure was paying off after each exam and assignment. With the lack of resources due to money issues, his learning was limited, but he wanted to make the most of it. Just getting to school each day was a miracle.
Tom wasn’t sure how to explain all of this without boring the other, so he replied with a simple, “Alright.”
Wil chuckled, picking at his fingernails. “If you want to talk about it, I’d be more than willing to hear.”
“I enjoy technologies class the most. Ms Ramirez is nice. She gives me food sometimes.”
“That’s good.” The man smiled again, happy to have Tom opening up to him. “What do you like about technologies the most?”
Tom shrunk backwards more, if that was even possible, trying to make himself small. “Coding. Editing. I want to be a youtuber.”
“Oh, that’s a nice career choi-”
Tommy cut him off before he could say anything. “No, it’s stupid. I’ll never get anywhere doing that. What’s the point?”
Wil thought about how to respond to that before saying anything. How was he to convince the teen that anything enjoyable was worth doing? That kind of mindset only came with growing up, and maturity, he realised, but Tom had grown up far too fast. The train window vibrated as Wil leaned the back of his head onto it, sighing as he thought deeply. He was not very active on YouTube, but knew that some creative individuals got very successful from uploading videos. Surely it wasn’t too difficult to start, especially if you had good, entertaining ideas.
“Nothing is a bad idea. You should try, it’s better to start earlier than later.” Wil encouraged, nodding at the boy.
Tommy didn’t smile. “Maybe. If I make it that far. What do you like to do?”
Wil smiled softly, remembering the feeling of his guitar as he strummed, creating a melody from only imagination and memory, the quiet words he sung as the guitar picked up, the emotions he released through music. It gave a therapeutic sense, once the songs had concluded. He wouldn’t be able to get far, though, as there was no way to get attention, to get people to listen to his music, to support him. Tom’s idea was a much more successful career choice.
“I’d love to make music with my guitar. It’s a bit of a useless thought, but it would be such a dream.” Wil looked down at his lap, hiding a sad smile as he fiddled with his fingers.
“Oi,” Tommy reprimanded, a slight edge to his quiet voice. “You can’t tell me my idea is good, and then put your own down.”
Wil gave a half-supressed laugh. “Hypocritical, innit?”
“Yeah…” Tom replied, his voice drifting off into silence.
The train rumbled to a slow stop, the doors opening. The two men watched as no-one got on. It was still early in the morning, and Wil thanked whatever god he could that he could stay with Tom by himself, with no interruptions. The boy did appear fairly shy, so the seclusion was pleasant. Doors closing, Wil turned to Tom.
“I have a pack of cards. Shall we play a round?”
There wasn’t much else to do, as Wil had planned to get off at a later stop, which was still an hour down the line. It was an easy way to spend the time, and there was a small table next to the seats that they could place the cards on.
Tom repositioned himself so he could play easier. “Sure. Which game?”
“Ever heard of ‘Speed’?” The man opened the pack of cards, shuffling them.
“Yeah,” Tom shrugged. “The one were you try to run out of cards the first?”
“That’s the one.” Wil said.
It was the game Tom always played with his mother before she turned to alcohol. They would play into the long hours of the night, often with a nice hot mug of hot chocolate by their sides. They had stopped before he even turned eight years old.
Wil dealt five cards to himself then Tom, and placed fifteen facedown, and adjacent to each. He continued setting up, with another pile of five on either side of the cards. It was a rather difficult game, and he wouldn’t have suggested it unless Tom knew how to play.
“And, go!” Wil announced, and they simultaneously slapped a card down.
They barely even noticed the time passing by, as they concentrated, pulling out cards, dropping them down, and replacing. In true tournament style, it was a best of three, so when Tom managed to win the first game, Wil dealt out more cards, resuming the game. It was exciting, fast-paced, so engaging that they forgot their real life troubles for the train ride. The older man conquered the second game, leaving it up to the last and final round to find the winner. It was close, proving both their skills to be evenly matched. As the train doors opened at their stop, the game came to a conclusion. It was good timing.
“Speed!” Tom shouted out, though he made sure to keep his voice at a somewhat reasonable volume.
Wil chucked the rest of his cards on the shaky table, flinging his arms up in defeat. “Phew. Good job.”
“Thanks.” Tom replied, gathering the cards, and stuffing them back into the paper container.
They made their way off of the train, not stopping to watch it leave. This end of the track was the same as the other, except brighter due to the sun beginning to rise. There wasn’t much in sight, as they left the station, and most of the shops were closed at this time. Walking along the streets, Wil pointed out a small 7/11.
“I’ll buy us some food.”
Tom pulled his coat around his shoulders. “I have money, i- I’ll pay.”
Wil chuckled. “I’m the adult here, Tom. It’s my responsibility.”
Not waiting for a reply, he guided the teen towards the warm shop. The lights contrasted with the darkness of the city outside, inviting them in. The door jingled as they entered, indicating their arrival to the worker. It was a slouched man standing at the counter, easily in his early 20’s, squinting at his bright phone screen, a game flashing there. Not really what he was meant to be doing, but there was no other customers, and no-one to tell him off. He raised a hand to Wil and Tom, not bothering to glance up. Wil took no notice, instead pressing lightly on Tom’s shoulder, steering him to the snacks isle.
“What would you like?” Wil asked, searching the overwhelmingly full shelves.
“I don’t mind.”
Wil turned. “Just pick something. You don’t have to eat it now, but it’ll be a good few hours ‘til we make it back to Waterloo Station.”
Tom reluctantly grabbed a bag of salt and vinegar chips, clutching them close to his chest. Wil smiled reassuringly at him, grabbing some bandages, and heading to the check out. He didn’t notice, however, that the teen had lagged behind, staring in interest at the keychain souvenirs that littered the shelves. His hand slowly fiddled with some of the ones that were close to the edge, the chains jingling and clacking together. It was the noise that finally alerted Wil to the boy having stayed behind. He turned, interested in what Tom was delaying for. Wil could tell that they were overpriced junk; stuff for foreigners, but Tom was so innocently fascinated in them, that he couldn’t help but grin.
“You want one?” Wil offered, already pulling his wallet out of his pocket.
Tom pulled a guitar one off of the shelf, reaching into his own pocket, pulling a few stray dollars out. “I’m getting this one for you.”
Wil almost burst into tears right then. Sniffling, he went to inspect the other keychains, looking for one for Tom. He doubted that the teen would be pleased with the silly ones; burgers, teddy bears, calculators – really, who would want them? -, trains. Not sure what he would actually want, Wil decided to speak up.
“I’ll get you one too. What would you like?”
Tom seemed to not even glance at the surrounding key chains, just grabbing a coke-can one, and shoving it in Wil’s hands. The older flipped it over in his palm, rubbing a finger on the shiny metal. It was a good choice, just not the one he would have assumed. Taking it to the counter, he dropped it on the bench, motioning for Tom to put his food up as well. At the last moment, Wil grabbed a chocolate bar, and some gum, handing it to the clerk.
The man didn’t look at them, just putting his phone down – screen face down, what was he doing? – and scanning the barcodes.
“£11.75 please.”
Tom evidently hesitated when the amount was said, not wanting Wil to pay it all. He watched the money carefully as it was handed over the counter, disappearing into the draws underneath the desk.
“Anything else?” the man said in a bored voice.
Tom slid the guitar keychain onto the counter, staring at it, even after it left his hand. Handing the money over, he snatched the keychain back. Wil thanked the clerk, and lead Tom out of the shop, back into the coldness of the morning. There was a few more people out and about by that point, rushing to their appointments, or just exercising.
Wordlessly, Tom pressed the guitar chain into Wil’s hands, causing the man to hand over the coke-can chain. It would be something to remember each other by, because no-one knew whether they would meet again or not. The man snacked on his food, taking notice that Tom didn’t dare open his chip bag. He didn’t want to overstep his boundaries, and chose not to bring it up or force him to do anything. He did, however, grab the cheap bandages that he had purchased, and unwrapped them, intending to cover the teen’s cuts.
“Roll up your sleeves.” Wil commanded, not willing to take no for an answer.
The teen’s eyes widened, and he glanced quickly between the man’s face, and his coat sleeves. He shook his head furiously, clutching the coat tighter around his small frame, backing away slightly.
Wil sighed sadly. “I’m going to bandage your arms. I don’t want to risk them getting infected.”
“Why?” Tom asked simply, but his tone was full of meaning.
Why help, why bother, why did Wil - specifically him - care? The man knew the answer to the first two questions; he couldn’t just let anyone go away injured if he had the opportunity to help. It wouldn’t be right. But the third question, however? Harder to answer. There was some… connection that he felt to the teen, maybe because they were somewhat similar or because they both ended up at the train station for the same reason. Wil had never felt like he had any parental figures in his life, and barely anyone to trust, and he would bet anything that Tom felt the same way.
“I care.” He replied. “You deserve more than what you have, and the least I can do is help you out a bit.”
The corners of Tom’s lips raised a bit, but not into a full smile. It was progress, though, and Wil was happy with it. Wrapping the boy’s arms wasn’t too difficult, however Wil could see the blood stains covering the inside of the coat. It had to be uncomfortable, yet Tom hadn’t complained. The warmth was probably worth the discomfort. His thin arms shook as Wil tightened the bandages, but didn’t jerk away thankfully.
They sat there in silence for a while longer, before Wil came to the conclusion that it would be best to head back to the train. It was well and truly morning, and the city was awake. Luckily, they made it back to the train station moments before the next train arrived, greeting the station with its familiar rumbling.
They got countless judging looks, specifically Wil as he brought a bloodied teen onto the train. He choose to ignore them, helping Tom to a secluded seat, off in the corner of the carriage. By the time they sat, the boy was drifting off, head nodding down onto Wil’s shoulder.
“Sleep. It’ll do you some good, and I’ll wake you up when we arrive.” Wil whispered into his ear.
He draped an arm over the younger’s shoulder, gradually bringing him into a closer embrace. Tom evidently tensed, but never tried to pull away, beginning to trust the man. It warmed Wil’s heart to an indescribable extent.
The train ride was quiet, and peaceful, the conversations of other people drifting over Wil’s ears. When the time came to get off, he nudged the teen in the side, watching as he darted awake, eyes frantically searching the train. He calmed a little when he saw Wil trying to stand and lead him to the train doors. After walking off, the doors slid shut, the train exiting the station, and leaving into the distance. He stared at it forlornly for a moment, before moving out of the way of the other passengers.
Clutching the guitar keychain tightly, Wil voiced his thoughts. “Shall we meet again next year?”
Tom considered his answer, staring off into the distance, eyes watering over. “4th September, 2018. Be there.”
Then the teen stumbled over to the stairs, leaving the station and not looking back, into the morning light.
“I’ll be there, and I hope you will too.” Wil whispered, watching the boy leave.