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Contrary to popular belief, Lampwick isn’t a particularly stupid boy.
Sure, he might not always be the smartest in the bunch, but that’s because for most of his life the bunch has included kids whose participation in school tended to be just a little higher than his own. Words all jumble together when he tries to read, and he knows his numbers only insofar as they count down the stuff that can get him to the end of the day, but that doesn’t mean the inside of his head is all cobwebs and grime – if anything, one should worry about the heads of some of his former classmates, likely full to the brim with dusty books and tomes.
Point is, he’s smart enough to get by. He survives. It might not look like much, but Lampwick’s spent enough time hitting the streets to know that sometimes surviving is all that one can do. He knows how to keep his belly somewhat full, and where to best stash himself away for the night, and that’s nothing to scoff at, he thinks, even if it’ll never get him a degree or something of the like.
Mostly, he hears things. He’s got his ear pressed to the underbelly of every town he wanders into, and that lets him listen to all its bubbling and churning, disgusting as it might be – he gets wind of stuff before it happens, and though often it’s nothing he can make any use of, there are exception to that rule, too, just like every other rule Lampwick has had to swallow in his life.
It’s how he found out about Pleasure Island in the first place, after all – but he doesn’t like to think about the island very much, really, now that he’s finally managed to break out of it. On the good days, if he focuses very, very hard, he can almost pretend that it was all a bad dream, that he never strayed that far away from home and that he doesn’t feel his fingers thickening into hooves when he tries to sleep at night.
Almost.
The wedding of the Beast with his beloved Beauty shouldn’t bring any reminder of his time with the Coachman, either, but the more rumors Lampwick catches, the more uneasy he gets, dread clinging to his back like- like- like a packsaddle, yeah. The beautiful, world-renowned royal couple, all but radiant with goodness, has a different kind of island in mind, but the concept is not so dissimilar from what he remembers – a place of reclusion, a giant, floating prison if one wants to be nitpicky, wrapped in magic thick enough not to let anyone out and to only let in kingly-sanctioned traders.
The slums are in a frenzy over it, and the news, though not yet confirmed and barely more than hearsay in truth, fly from mouth to mouth in a panicked rush, causing even more of a ruckus; and yet, Lampwick feels curiously deaf to it all, the noise dimmed down and drowned by the ringing in his ears. It’s as though someone had turned down the volume without asking first, leaving him stunned and speechless in his silent little bubble. He’s glad, for once, that he’s not close enough to anyone for them to notice his muted reaction, otherwise he’d probably be taken for a loon.
It's not that he’s a de facto villain, alright. At least, he doesn’t think he counts as one – the lines have gotten a lot more blurred than they used to, the older folks say, and that means nothing good unless you’re firmly settled on the, well, good side. He’s done some stuff that wasn’t particularly nice, but the worst mistakes he’s committed when he was just a kid. He still is a kid, technically, so none of that should weigh anything when compared to the likes of Maleficent or that tentacled sea witch, right?
Right?
However, while he may not be a proper villain, he’s nowhere close to a respectable member of society either, and if the rumors prove themselves true – if they’re all to be dragged to a dinky place lost at sea without so much as a by-your-leave, then Lampwick thinks some worrying is warranted, given how clumsy all these princelings seem to be with their justice. Which is not to say he’s not scared shitless, because he is, but he can’t afford that, he realizes once he breaks out of his stupor. He needs to act, and he needs to act immediately.
He can’t get dragged kicking and screaming to another stupid island, at the mercy of men much bigger and nastier than he currently is, tall for his age though he might be. He can’t. He won’t. He’ll throw himself off a cliff before he allows anyone to do that to him again.
Still, the cliff is supposed to only be a Plan B. Plan C, even, unless he’s feeling particularly desperate. If there’s anything that might fit him neatly into a list of villains, it’s the fact that he can find a way out of most of his trouble, and that not always the cleanest way, or the fairest. He might as well use it to his advantage, for once, considering it’s been lorded over his head for years now. Reckless boy. Naughty boy. Lazy, stupid donkey boy, who leads other children astray and pays the price for it ten times over.
Well, he’s no one’s beast of burden anymore. He’ll go where he damn well pleases, sure as the night is dark, or he would, except- except Lampwick doesn’t know exactly where that is, yet.
It’s not like he has a home to go back to, after all. His parents had given up on him long before he even plotted to leave, and none of the various holes in the underground he’s inhabited in recent times could be considered homely by anyone except perhaps a mole looking for a burrow, so they’re out of the question as well. And he’s got no people at his side who he would trust to help him – leaning onto other crooks is all well and good when it means smuggling in cigarettes despite King Beast’s clean-living edicts, but they would rat Lampwick out without a second thought the moment he turns his back on them, probably hoping to be rewarded for their services with a royal pardon.
He's alone, then. Surprise, surprise. He should have been expecting it right from the start, really – he’s not exactly the kind of fellow who attracts friends from all over the place, all in all. In fact, he thinks he hasn’t had a real friend, someone who’d never stab him in the back, since…
It’s when he reaches that since that Lampwick begins to suspect he might have truly lost his mind at long last, his thoughts screeching to a halt as he begins to consider that option in earnest. But- no, he can’t. No chance in hell. He hasn’t seen the guy in years. He might not want anything to do with his once-companion in troublemaking, or have forgotten about it all entirely, and that’s only if he, too, managed to escape his hooved fate and return home, which isn’t guaranteed at all.
But he must have returned, mustn’t he? His name is among those rattled out dismissively once the proper heroes are listed, the candid souls who are good enough to keep their spot by the fire, yeah, but not so famous or noble-blooded to stand by the new king and queen’s side in their hour of glory. Alive and well, but still not at the top of the ladder, and instead sitting on one of the lower shelves, like the discarded toy he is.
No, that’s a nasty joke. Too unkind, even for his crude tastes. Lampwick regrets it the second it worms its way to the forefront of his mind, but there’s nobody around to hear him say it aloud, and besides, better to feel guilty for something small and inconsequential than to beg for help from someone who has every reason to despise him. He’s not going down that route. End of the story.
But all the other routes begin to get barred around him, and that’s Lampwick’s prerogative – he survives. He keeps his head above the water, and that means letting instinct do its job, even when it forces him him to swallow his pride; and his instinct is what leads him down a fancy, picturesque cobblestone path to a little toy shop that looks like it’s a couple centuries out of date, all before his feet can get the better of him and run in the other direction.
He hesitates outside for a few minutes, the cowardly part of him hoping against hope that he might be too late and that they might have already gone to bed, but the lights are on inside the shop, and a lively chatter comes from the open windows, and Lampwick’s many things, but he’s not a damn coward, alright. It’ll take far more than a door to frighten him away, or so he insists – he steps closer and knocks onto it before he can prove himself wrong, and then waits, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his shirtsleeve, his eyes flitting left and right as though expecting someone to jump him from a nearby alley.
Which wouldn’t be that far-fetched a fear, in truth, given some of his past experiences.
There’s some rustling inside, and then the door opens, revealing a short, round-faced boy with a mop of dark hair and a quizzical look in his blue eyes. They flash with reconnaissance when he spots Lampwick, but the latter doesn’t give him much in the way of time to process, instead regaling the younger kid with what he hopes is a charming grin and leaning casually against the doorframe with one arm, praying fervently that his performance will be enough to hide his jittery nerves.
“Hello, Pinoke,” he says, dripping feigned nonchalance. “Did ya miss me?”
He expects many things, from this meeting. A rebuff, first and foremost – he expects Pinocchio to take one look at him, all patched clothes and tangled hair, and slam the door in his face without a warning, pulling the lock and telling his father there’s nothing good waiting outside. He expects the worst, honestly, to be left to fend for himself once and for all, prison island or not.
What he doesn’t expect is for the other boy to let out a shout of surprised delight and then throw himself at Lampwick, wrapping his arms around his old friend’s neck with a strength that almost makes the latter stagger on his feet, struggling to keep his balance.
“Lampwick!” Pinocchio exclaims, loud and joyous and not at all resentful. “Oh, Lampwick, you’re alive! I knew it!”
And Lampwick, the foolish, tired boy that he is, feels something crumble in his chest and get stuck on the way up his throat, forbidding him from breathing properly as he hesitantly returns his friend’s hug, hoping the ruckus will conceal how hard his hands are trembling. “Course I am,” he scoffs, his voice somewhat cutting even though it breaks halfway through the sentence. “You didn’t think you’d get rid of me so easily, uh?”
“No,” Pinocchio replies, with an almost ferocious conviction that would sound surprising to anyone that doesn’t know him that well. “No, never.”
“That’s- That’s great.” Lampwick clears his throat, refusing to admit how choked up he is.
“That’s great, okay, ‘cause- I need your help, Pinoke. I really, really need your help.”