Chapter Text
Mondays suck.
Anyone who's ever experienced a Monday will tell you the same thing. No one likes Mondays. Except maybe street vendors, but that's understandable because most street vendors suck too. Tommy hates Mondays.
As a quote-unquote 'homeless person', there isn't much to do on Mondays except work, which Tommy’s never too fond of. Carrying around massive piles of newspapers to sell to random rich people is not his idea of fun. It is, however, his and his friend's only source of honest income; for that, he has to respect it, however much pain it caused him. Utilise the Grindset , Tommy'd remind himself. The Grindset, of course, is the mindset in which you believe that you can get good at anything if you work hard enough. And Tommy had gotten really fucking good at hauling papers. He was still a bit weedy despite this, though he was sure his muscles should have begun to erupt by now. Oh well. It's certainly not because he's a child, (by his standards, he is a very, very big man), he's just a late bloomer. Just the same as the next kid. And the next. And the next.
Orphanages are not Tommy's speed. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, never going back. They’re not Tubbo's either, nor Ranboo's, so there’s a sort of unspoken agreement that they will find their own way in the world as a group. Best friends. Amigos. Hombres. Buddies. Degenerates. Whatever the word, it could probably be used to describe the trio. And yes, this is the same trio that had most definitely not been living in an abandoned apartment complex for the past eight months. In their defence, it was pretty much fully furnished when they found it, even if the items were dingy and dusty, and it had running water. Tomaeto, tomato. Home, maggot-ridden free real estate. You really can't tell the difference!
This brings us to present day, where at sixteen years of age, Tommy Innit is about to get done for theft. (Not for the first time in his life!)
---
"Hey! Stop that kid!"
It’s always the same story. 'Come back here!', 'Hey, that kid's got my purse!'. When were these people gonna figure out that Tommy was fast for a reason? He's had six years of practice running from the fray, they aren't gonna catch him. And besides, why is it always just 'Stop that kid'? Why can't it be 'Stop that kid and ask him how his day's been'? Which, of course, it was probably fine, but they don't know that.
As these thoughts run through his head, he realises that he isn't exactly paying attention to where he was going. Of course, like any other Tommy Moment™, he notices this a second too late and as he rams his way through the crowd, someone catches his wrist.
Oh fuck.
Tommy whips around to meet a ridiculously tall man with brown curls falling over his eyes. He wears a sweater of yellow wool with small red insignia plastered all over it, two on the sleeves and one across his chest. They look like little hearts but are bumpy and pixelated, with two brown slashes curling around the inside. There is a burgundy beanie pulled over his ears and round, silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looks no different from any of the other rich pricks.
"What's your name?" The man asks urgently, looking in the direction that Tommy's just came from as if he was expecting to see something of note. Dumb fuck.
"As if I'm telling you, " Tommy spits, attempting to wrench his hand free of the tall man's slender fingers. Those fingers have a death grip around him; Tommy just can not get free .
"Let the fuck go of me! " He growls, thrashing wildly in an attempt to pry the man's hand off of his arm.
"I'm trying to help you here, would you please calm down?" The man hisses, easily matching Tommy's energy and even shoving a little more on top.
Tommy'd never had anyone help him before. Therefore, he makes the worst decision he could possibly have made.
He stops fighting.
"Listen here you little minx- oh," The shopkeeper, who has only just caught up with them, snarls. Only then does he notice the tall man glaring daggers at him.
"You two know each other?" He asks the tall man, skeptically eyeing Tommy in his periphery.
"He's my brother, why?" The tall man lies, voice smoother than honey and equally as sweet.
"Little shit just stole a loaf of bread from me!"
"Is this true, Bob?" The tall man asked, turning to Tommy with a look of faux disappointment. It takes him a second to register that they're talking to him.
That prick.
"Yeah, sorry... Bartholomew," Tommy says solemnly, hanging his head; half to add his usual acting flair, half to hide the smile on his face. If this asshole was gonna give him a stupid name, Tommy'd just have to show him that two can play at that game. Concealing his glee becomes increasingly harder as he hears the tall man choke a little.
"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to the man," 'Bartholomew’ chides as he recovers his composure, digging an elbow into Tommy's side. Tommy looks up at the shopkeeper, only after ensuring all remnants of laughter have been banished from his lips.
"Sorry, sir," he drones, biting back the urge to roll his eyes. The man nods approvingly.
"So long as it gets paid for, I won't call the sheriff," the shopkeeper says begrudgingly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Of course. How much?" the man asks, pulling out a fancy-looking leather wallet and carding through the many notes inside. Rich bitch.
"Two copper ingots," the shopkeeper states, holding his hand out expectantly. Bit rude, Tommy thinks to himself. Before he can say anything, he silently reminds himself that he is in no position to comment on the shopkeeper’s mannerisms right now. Tall Man hands over what would have been a day's work for Tommy like it's nothing, a friendly smile following it. The shopkeeper huffs, not bothering to return the gesture. He turns on his heel and storms off in the direction of his market stall, promptly deciding that he's had enough of pleasant conversation with thieves and their brothers.
"You didn't have to do that, you know," Tommy tells him, dulled anger blazing behind his eyes. He knows he has no right to be annoyed - that guy just saved his ass from being beaten. However, Tommy does not take kindly to charity, never has, and he’s decided that Tall Man is no exception.
"I know, but no one else was going to," the man replies, letting go of Tommy's hand. "See you around, kid."
As he turns to leave, light bounces off of Tall Man's glasses, temporarily blocking his eyes from view. It's only for a millisecond, though, and then there is warm chocolate brown gazing down at him almost longingly, like Tall Man wishes he could stay. Despite this, with a wave and an accompanying smile, Tall Man disappears, swallowed by the crowd.
Tommy stares at the space that Tall Man had occupied a couple of seconds earlier, wondering if any of that actually happened. If so, Tommy has to properly thank him, right? I mean, two ingots is a lot of money! But Tubbo and Ranboo are probably waiting for him back at home, and he's sure that it would really disappoint Bartholomew if they didn't utilise the bread he so generously paid for.
So Tommy goes home.
---
"I still cannot believe how lucky you are," Tubbo says again, ripping out another piece of bread in mild awe. "A whole loaf!"
"We would have got the bread anyway," Tommy reminds him. "I just happened to make a friend of it."
"A friend, huh?" Ranboo asks, looking up from his makeshift plate. "How long did you spend talking to this guy again? Five minutes?"
"That's it. Bartholomew is my only friend now," Tommy says, indignation on his tongue. "Except for Tubbo."
Tubbo beams.
"I'll find him tomorrow and pay him back," Tommy tells them, joking moment over.
"Why bother? He probably doesn't expect you to," Tubbo reasons. What can he say? He likes free money. Not charity, never charity, but money is nice.
"That's the point. Mans gotta repay the universe for all the shit he's stolen somehow," Tommy shrugs, shovelling the last of his food into his mouth. "Also, I'm pretty sure I didn't say thank you..."
"You what? "
"Oh, Tommy."
"...Wot?"
"Don’t talk with your mouth full," Tubbo says disgustedly, brushing Tommy's crumbs off of his shirt, "and that’s so bad, man."
"I know, Tubbo."
"Do you not remember what happened last time you forgot to thank someone for something?" Tubbo asks, eyebrows raised.
"Okay, that guy did not need to stab me over an iron ingot," Tommy says defensively. "It was totally uncalled for and rude and just a dick move-"
"You stabbed him back!"
"Yeah, well. He started it, so..."
"I don't think that's Tubbo's point, Tommy," Ranboo interjects.
"Whatever, bitch."
Ranboo takes what he can get. "Just make sure you don't tempt fate too much," he sniffs. "If you keep stealing stuff in the hopes of running into… Bartholomew, one day, you'll get caught for real."
"'Course not," Tommy rolls his eyes. “I don’t steal for fun, Ranboo. ”
"Just be careful, man."
"Boob boy, the worry-wart," Tommy says, watching amusedly as Ranboo's face shifts from indifferent to confused to irritated.
"Tommy, would you please stop calling him that? You know it sets him off. If you're not careful, he'll cry," Tubbo warns, taking what remains of his food over to the worn couch that they had definitely not found on the side of the road.
"But it's funny."
"No, it's not!"
"Whatever, Ranboob."
---
Finding Bartholomew is easier than Tommy thought it would be. All it takes is hanging around the same general area they'd found each other in the day before.
Twenty minutes of standing awkwardly in the square later, a "Hey, Bob!" rings out above the crowded marketplace.
"And Bartholomew," Tommy says flatly, doing a rather brilliant job at hiding the excitement he feels in seeing the man again as he pushes his way through market-goers.
He laughs. "Try Wilbur."
"Wilbur," Tommy repeats, rolling his tongue around the word. "Pretentious name for a pretentious prick."
“Ever heard of manners ?" Wilbur chastises.
"Yeah, well,” Tommy cocks his head with a half-hearted eye roll. "I'm not exactly big on pleasantries."
"’Course not,” Wilbur smiles lightly, putting his hand in his jeans pocket. "What's your name, gremlin?"
"I'm not a gremlin, and it's Tom."
"Tom," Wilbur mimics. "And you say my name's pretentious."
"For your in-for-mation, I normally go by Tommy, but only big men get to call me that, and you are possibly the smallest man I've ever met."
"And here I was thinking size didn't matter," Wilbur remarks, one corner of his mouth upturned. Tommy would be lying if he said he didn’t find that just a little bit funny.
"It definitely does, king," he says smartly, not quite catching the chagrin that washed over Wilbur's face at the nickname. Gone as quickly as it came, the man jumps right back into banter.
"Sucks to be you, then… king," Wilbur teases, grinning. The barrage of spluttered swear words and hands flying that followed would be too much for anyone else, but Wilbur just laughs it off, returning it just as much as it's dealt.
"Alright, alright," Wilbur chuckles, stopping Tommy's hands in their tracks with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Now, Tommy’s not a weak child by any means, so this is no simple feat. Maybe Wilbur is some sort of freak of nature or something - it’s the only reasonable explanation, seeing as though Tommy is The Biggest Man To Ever Live™.
"I've not seen you around here before. You new in town?" Tommy asks, reigning himself in.
"What's it to you? You don’t work for the Housing Council, do you?" Wilbur asks sarcastically, tilting his head to one side with a cocky smile. Tommy laughs, audibly fake, because Wilbur's joke game needs some fucking work . Wilbur's smile expands at that, so either this guy just doesn't understand jokes or he actually thinks he's funny. Dumb fuck.
"Nah, mate. I just like to know everyone in this town," says Tommy, looking around the market square for examples. "See her, over there? That's Clementine, the loveliest woman ever. And him, working the butchers? That's Mars, he's really nice to my friends. Seems to hate me, though, God knows why. And that redhead girl over there? That's Sally."
"Sally," Wilbur breathes, staring at the woman at the fish stall.
"Yeah, she- What are you doing?" Tommy asks, frowning as he watches the man wander unconsciously towards the fishmonger. He is given no reply, Wilbur seeming not to hear him as he gravitates toward Sally. He moves unconsciously, like a moth to a flame. Tommy can’t see his eyes, but he's sure that if he looked, he'd find something in them. Probably love, or adoration, or even... lust. Gross.
"Woman," Wilbur says, offering no more as he goes for the fish stall.
Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, Wilbur stops in his tracks, turns back to Tommy and restarts the conversation.
"Sorry, I lost myself a little bit there... Uh, those look heavy," he says, glancing pointedly at Tommy's ever-growing pile of papers, held together by the same string that, over the years, has made his fingers callus beyond reprieve.
"Oh yeah?" Tommy asks, a snide smile creeping onto his face. "Why don't you take them for a minute, then?"
Wilbur doesn't respond, just reaches for the pile. This is gonna be great .
The second Tommy's hand leaves the string to give Wilbur its weight, he falls. Flat on his face. A small 'oof' leaves his lips as he hits the floor, the thick stack of paper doing nothing to break his fall. Tommy bursts out laughing, genuinely this time.
"How the fuck do you carry these?!" The man, who is currently sprawled on the floor, asks incredulously. Drama queen , Tommy thinks.
"I've been doing it twenty-odd years, mate," Tommy tells him (albeit without thinking).
"Yeah fucking right," Wilbur scoffs, pulling himself off the wet pavement. "How old are you?"
Tommy scrambles for an answer. "...Twenty-four."
"So you've been carrying these massive sacks of paper around since you were four? And you expect me to believe that?"
"'S the truth, innit?" Tommy shrugs, definitely not avoiding eye contact.
"You look like a twelve-year-old."
"Excuse me, I'll have you know that I'm seventeen," Tommy relents. If there's one thing he can't stand, it's being called a child.
"A-ha!" Wilbur cries, pointing a jovial finger at Tommy. “A reveal!”
"Fuck you."
"Aww, don't be like that," Wilbur teases. "I just didn't expect to feel so old talking to you! Especially since you're, what, twenty-four? "
"I am not talking to you anymore."
"Aww, I'm sorry, Mr Big-Man," Wilbur mocks with a grin, tousling Tommy's hair.
"I am walking away."
"No, don't. I'll stop," Wilbur promises, though the smile in his eyes told Tommy otherwise.
"Fine," Tommy rolls his eyes, returning to his new friend. Then, with the sweetest smile he can muster, he asks, "Will you at least pick up my papers for me?"
"You little shit," Wilbur hisses, though he bends to retrieve the burden without genuine complaint. With the initial shock of the weight gone, Wilbur deposits the bundle into Tommy's waiting arms with little difficulty. Tommy smiles broadly as he does, his bravado returning and his walls slowly being put back up. He’s drawing back, just as he always does when approached by people who sincerely seem to give a shit. Wilbur’s losing him, and quickly.
"So, uh, yeah. I only came because I forgot to thank you for what you did yesterday," he says, awkwardly wringing his hands. "You seriously didn't have to, and my friends kicked my ass when I got back. Money's a hard thing to come by these days, so thanks for sparing some of yours for me." Tommy can’t decide whether he's genuinely thanking Wilbur or just spitting bullshit. Probably bullshit, but there's a lick of genuine gratitude in his words that even he can’t fully undermine.
"It's cool," Wilbur shrugs. "It's not enough to bother about."
"Alright," Tommy says mechanically, debating the easiest way to get out of the conversation. "I s'pose that's that, then."
"Yeah," Wilbur agrees, sensing Tommy's sudden discomfort. It seems to upset him that the boy is leaving so soon, but Tommy has other things on his mind. "I guess I should get going, anyway. My brother's home alone, he wants cranberry juice and I've still got to find that for him. He doesn't like going outside."
"Yeah?" Tommy says, pretending to be listening to whatever else Wilbur has to say while wracking his brain for a stall in the market that would possibly sell cranberry juice. He came up empty. As far as Tommy knows, (and he knows a lot ), Wilbur would have to travel into the next township for that specific flavour. He points this out to Wilbur, who looks at the floor like he wants to murder it. He murmurs something vaguely resembling "He knows how much I hate Snowchester, that bastard."
Tommy takes this as his cue to dip before Wilbur got aggressive (as ridiculous as it sounds, he's been beaten for less). He adds a quick, "Yeah, well, see ya!" before wandering off, fighting the urge to look back at Wilbur as he hears him call out for him to wait.
---
For a reason he cannot place, Ranboo is cold.
It’s not that he is cold, (he's sure that he isn't), but he feels like someone's shoved him into a refrigerator unit. He can't suppress the shivers that fly down his spine no matter how hard he tries. The thin blanket that they have for their bed is doing no justice to the cool air that seems to surround him. He'd known this was coming - he'd felt it slowly infiltrating his body but hadn’t thought much of it until boom, it hits him like a truck. Ranboo, as ill as he feels to admit it, is probably in need of just a teeny-tiny bit of help.
Who is there to help him? No one, really, if you don't count his friends. Ranboo can feel that this isn’t the usual flu that came with the onset of winter; it feels different, somehow. They can’t afford to get a healer and having enough money for the medicine that came with it would be nothing short of a miracle. All Ranboo can think to do is struggle out into the main lounge area of their apartment and find a seat next to Tubbo, clutching the last strands of consciousness he can get ahold of before his body decides 'nope, not anymore.
He wakes to Tubbo's voice and gentle hands shaking his shoulders.
"You good, bossman?" He asks, and even though Tubbo's tone is soft, it’s like lightning through Ranboo's veins. He winces, burying his face deeper in Tubbo's sweater. It’s his favourite, the one with bees on it. Mmm, bees. And yellow, yellow is nice too, but it sort of hurt his eyes right about then... what was the question?
"Mmmm. Yes. Maybe. No," Ranboo tries to piece together a comprehensible sentence and failed miserably, decidedly too out of it to lie. He settles for the truth; "I don't feel so hot."
"You don't look too good," Tubbo agrees, concern clouding his face. Or maybe that’s just Ranboo’s eyes playing tricks on him. At this point, he doesn't even know what day it is. "Do you need the bucket? "
"I don't know, maybe?"
"Okay, just... Go to bed, Boo. I'll be there in a second."
"M'kay," Ranboo says quietly, not really able to muster anything more. He drags himself back into the bedroom, each limb feeling like it weighs a ton. Somehow, the bundle of lanky legs and arms manages to make its way into the room, only bothering to go as far as to not fall on the floor as it face-plants onto the mattress. Tubbo wanders in holding a little tin monstrosity, sweater paws covering his nose and mouth as he tries not to breathe in the bucket 's fumes.
"There you go, just in case," he says, placing it a little way to the left of Ranboo; close enough that he'd be able to use it if necessary, yet far enough away that the stench wouldn't kill him. Ranboo hums his thanks, not quite trusting his body enough to open his mouth. He reaches out a hand for Tubbo, which the brunette takes, a warm smile on his face.
"I'll just be in the other room, king," he promises, letting go of Ranboo's hand with one final, comforting squeeze. Ranboo tries to protest, but once again feels that he cannot trust his mouth to be open for fear of what may leave it. So he lies there in what would have been silence if not for his own mournful whimpers, furiously manifesting Tubbo’s ears to work in his favour. He hears the front door open, signalling Tommy's return home. He silently prays that he would come in and say hi- say anything. Just so that Ranboo doesn't feel so hopelessly alone. Alas, he hears the shower click on and, in doing so, stamps on any shred of hope he has left. Ranboo takes a breath through his teeth, trying to ground himself enough to drift off. One of them will come to check on him soon enough - he just has to wait.
---
Tommy lets the door audibly click shut, which would prove to be his first mistake of the evening.
"Well?" Tubbo doesn't even spare a look up from the paper that he's reading as he speaks, accusation tracing every letter.
"Yes, Tubbo, I said thank you. Get off my back," Tommy snaps, rolling his eyes. "Where's boob boy?"
"Call him that again and I will beat you up on his behalf," Tubbo says flatly. "He's in the bedroom. He's not feeling well, so don't you dare go bothering him."
"Is he okay?" Tommy asks, brow creasing in worry. Not too much worry, of course. He has a reputation to uphold.
"Dunno," Tubbo sniffs, closing the paper. "He looks pretty pale, though, so I'd say no."
"Does he have the bucket? " Tommy asks in a whisper, shivering as he thinks of the heinous object. The bucket , of course, is the filthy copper pail that they'd throw up if they ever fell ill, which is frequently when you live in an unheated, moist, asbestos-filled apartment that no one else has touched in decades. They have no easy way of cleaning it so it fucking stinks, and the stench of it alone often made the afflicted user worse before they got better .
"Yes," Tubbo whispers. "I had to bring it in there for him. Torturous."
He seems equally as disgusted by even the mention of the dreaded object, and he was the one to have to touch it. Tommy imagines Tubbo holding the bucket at arm's length, pinching his nose as he tries not to throw up himself - call Tommy a sadist but the vision makes him smile just a little.
"Nasty," Tommy agrees, sparing a glance at the bedroom door, trying not to hear the soft groans coming from inside.
"I gave him the mattress, so you and I are on the couch," Tubbo tells him, sending him a glare that practically dares Tommy to protest. He doesn't, (he isn't heartless ), ending the conversation by telling Tubbo that he's going for a shower and if Ranboo threw up, give him the bucket. He'd take one for the team and try his best to clean it out. Cringing at even the thought, Tommy leaves, missing the grateful look Tubbo gives his back.
---
The next day, Wilbur waits in the plaza for hours, just standing there. He's had to move on multiple occasions, shopkeepers snapping at him for lingering in their storefronts and 'driving away customers'. Wilbur doesn't mind too much; besides, Techno would murder him if he left now. He has to speak with Tommy again, or both of his family members would lose their minds, and one of them already pretty much has. For a guy who hasn't been mentally stable since he was seventeen and often holds fully-fledged conversations with himself, Technoblade is one incredibly scary fellow.
Really, it was Phil who first developed the interest in Tommy; you certainly see a lot when you have the height advantage. He'd seen a skinny kid sitting on a mound of newspapers under a veranda while it rained cats and dogs and thought, 'MINE' . The minute he'd gotten home, he'd sent Wilbur out to find him in quite the flap (literally). He pointed out the kid he wanted to Wilbur, picking him out of the crowd like a really fucked-up orphanage. So, as per his father's request, Wilbur set about befriending him.
Wilbur, a week later, still hasn't had much luck with the boy and Phil is getting antsy. It's by a stroke of pure luck that the kid had been chased through the plaza, and nothing short of a miracle that Wilbur had thought fast enough to catch him. Even more so when the kid returned the next day. Techno too had taken it upon himself to observe Tommy from a distance and was pleasantly surprised by some of his personality traits. The boy is stubborn (painfully so), determined and crafty. The kid knew how to talk his way out of trouble, that was for certain.
Unfortunately for Wilbur, it doesn't look like Tommy's going to show up today; he probably has other stuff going on, which isn't a problem for Wilbur, just the people he lived with. It's fine - he'd just take his punishment as he returned, hands empty of Tommy.
Phil's so gonna bite him when he gets home.