Work Text:
Tubbo isn't sure when he stopped caring that Tommy smoked.
The first time he caught his friend with one of Wilbur's old cigarettes between his teeth he called him out, and Tommy insisted he would only smoke one--in the memory of Wilbur or some other bullshit. Tubbo hadn't believed him, of course. He has a drawer full of half empty liquor bottles to prove that just one turns into two and then three and then far too many to bother counting.
Maybe he stops caring when he starts drowning in paperwork and problems and diplomacy (and whiskey when work proves to be a poor distraction). At that point he doesn't see much of Tommy all, and if he does catch his friend lingering on the outskirts of L'manburg painted in the almost imperceptible glow of the roll between his lips then it seems too hypocritical to bother asking him to stop.
It's that hardwon apathy that allows him to finally step outside of his mess of an office and join Tommy one night, the air sharp with the end of fall and the first nip of winter. He doesn't care about the smoking anymore, let Tommy burn himself to ash for all Tubbo minds. They're all fucked in the end anyway, Tubbo doesn't have room to judge how you want to do it.
But he does care about Tommy.
He misses the nights they spent together, the two of them against the world.
There's never been anyone in the world like Tommyinnit, and Tubbo has a terrible feeling he won't get to bask in that sunlight for much longer. So, he goes outside.
He doesn't say a word as he pads up to Tommy and takes a seat beside him on the stilted pathway, a faint clink of the ice in his glass announcing his presence. He drinks the scotch, and Tommy smokes.
"I didn't know you drank," Tommy says at last, when his cigarette is almost gone, and Tubbo's already had to refill his glass once.
"I wasn't hiding it. You just didn't bother looking," Tubbo says, and it's not cruel, just true.
Tommy flicks the end of the cigarette away and watches as it sizzles on the shore of the pond to their left. He pulls the pack out of his pocket and taps it until a cigarette peaks out. He offers it to Tubbo wordlessly who shakes his head.
"I never want more than a few breaths," He says quietly, "It would be wasted on me."
Tommy shrugs and lights it for himself, closing his eyes and humming as he takes the first few drags. Tubbo pours his third glass, and they sit in silence again.
"Do you still want them?" Tommy asks halfway through the cigarette, and Tubbo blinks.
"Those few breaths," Tommy clarifies, and Tubbo shrugs.
"Wouldn't mind."
He holds out his hand, expecting Tommy to press the cigarette between his fingers. Instead, he hears Tommy take a long, slow breath of smoke, and then turn his head to the side. Tommy puts just enough pressure on Tubbos jaw to make him drop it open, and it doesn't take him long to catch on after that.
He breathes in as Tommy breathes out, breaking away from the moment of intimacy to cough a few times. Tommy laughs and pats his back, but when he asks if Tubbo wants to stop he just shakes his head and lets his lips part a few inches from Tommy.
Tommy's eyes darken, and Tubbo is reminded of a time when he and Tommy would touch every five seconds. Times when neither of them had scars that still ached with phantom deaths, and the best thing in the world was each other. He wonders if they would have fallen in love had they not fallen into war instead.
Another deep breath later Tubbo is inhaling the smoke and blinking away the gentle sting in his eyes as he blows it right back into Tommy's face.
Tommy bats it away with faux annoyance, Tubbo smiles, and they both pause. It feels like there should be a boundary here, a line that neither of them should cross, but there isn't. Turns out Tommy pressing a hand to Tubbo's jaw, connecting their lips, and feeding him poison in a bit of smoke is about as normal as anything else they've done. Which, to be fair, isn't saying much.
It only lasts long enough for Tubbo to draw Tommy's vice into his lungs where he holds it for a few moments as if the gentle, dizzy burn is something precious. By the time he lets it go, the look in Tommy's eyes has changed, and this time when he presses his lips to Tubbo's there is no smoke.
The clumsy yet somehow addicting movement of Tommy's lips against his makes Tubbo set down his glass and bring his hands to Tommy's chest instead, slowly curling his fingers around the fabric until he's clinging to the younger boy with the same desperation Tommy is pouring into their kisses.
They break apart for a moment, and Tubbo swings his leg over Tommy, straddling him and letting himself be pulled back into a conversation told only with gripping hands and bitten lips (Schlatt taught him that too, along with the drinking. Tubbo wonders if Tommy has the same story. He feels Tommy's breath catch and decides it's not worth asking).
"Fuck, Tubbo," Tommy breathes, and part of Tubbo feels victorious because at last things are as they should be once again--just him and Tommy saying everything to each other and fuck all to the rest of the world.
"Is that what we're doing?" Tubbo quips back with a grin, and Tommy stutters.
"I-I don't--"
Tubbo silences him with another kiss, "It's okay, Tommy. We don't have to do anything else if you don't want to. Just this is fine."
Tension drains out of Tommy's shoulders, and Tubbo thinks that maybe he doesn't have to ask who taught Tommy this if that was any indication.
Without preamble, Tommy gets back to chasing Tubbo's touch like he's starved for it. Given the last few months, hell the last year , Tubbo can't blame him. It's nice to feel like you're not alone. It's nice to feel wanted.
Tommy grips his hips and Tubbo grinds down and oh.
That's nice, too.
Tubbo wishes he would fuck him, even if it's messy and short and rough, it would be enough to make Tubbo forget what it's like to be a president and remember what it's like to be a teenager. But he meant what he said, and it's clear Tommy isn't ready for that just yet.
Yet. Tubbo thinks and wonders when he decided they would be doing this again.
For now he'll settle for the way Tommy explores his mouth, with enthusiasm and gusto and all the things that make Tommy Tommy --a taste of how Tommy will explore other things in the future.
"Tommy," Tubbo says when Tommy seems to be tiring, lathering Tubbo's neck in lazy kisses.
"Mhm?"
"I think I'd like to smoke with you again."
Tommy laughs into Tubbo's neck and scrapes his teeth ever so gently against his pulse point, and Tubbo closes his eyes and cuts off the instinct to beg Tommy to sink his teeth in and be done with it.
"Okay, Tubbo," Tommy says with a smile, and Tubbo kisses him again and slides off his lap before finishing his scotch.
It's not perfect, but for now, it's all they have. Tommy falls asleep with his face smashed into Tubbo's lap, and Tubbo lets the buzz carry him until morning when the ache of being sober rises with the sun.
Not perfect, he thinks, but good enough.