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The early mornings had grown on him.
Tommy crept out of bed quietly, trying not to disturb Tubbo—they had beds in separate rooms, but they usually ended up sleeping in the same one—and pulled on a cardigan. He walked outside and through the garden, digging his feet into the grass and accidentally trampling a few hydrangeas in the process. He grimaced, knowing Tubbo would be at his neck for that, before ambling on. He’d make it a point to give them extra water later.
Cattails brushed at his legs as he sat down at the edge of the riverbank. The sun had already begun to rise, and Tommy took the beat up pencil and little pad of paper out of his pocket. He leaned it on his knee, looking out at the river and sketching it absentmindedly. The light shimmering onto the water, leaves on the trees gently moving in the wind. He held up the pad to make a comparison, seeing all of the rough edges and uneven shading, the pencil smudges all over the paper. “Perfect,” he remarked, looking at it with pride.
Tubbo joined him after a little while, plopping himself down beside him. He pointed out the shapes he saw in the clouds in the sky, suggesting ideas for Tommy to sketch—ideas he accepted with feigned reluctance, chuckling when Tubbo only looked at him in amusement.
“I think I might head back inside,” Tubbo said eventually, brushing off his pants and standing up. “Do you think you’d be ready for some breakfast?”
Tommy glanced at him before taking another look out at the river. “Yeah,” he said, putting his paper and pencil away. He let out a breath, giving him a smile. “Yeah, I’d be ready.”
It had taken a while for Tommy to fully settle in to this, all of this. In a way, it wasn’t too different from what he had been used to. Vibrant sunsets and saltwater marshes, lush flowers and the twinkle of fireflies come nighttime. Even the mud that stuck to the soles of his shoes brought an odd sense of comfort and familiarity.
But it hadn’t been the same. He had woken up some days when he was still getting used to living here, the salty air and morning haze having him convinced for a fleeting moment that he was back in L’Manberg. He found himself mourning what could’ve been, what had been, before he left it behind. And it was mildly terrifying, just how easy it was to forget why he had left it all behind. He wouldn’t have lived a fulfilling life if he stayed there. He didn’t even know if he’d still have a life if he stayed there. It was strange, because he knew leaving was ultimately the best decision he could’ve made—but it didn’t stop him from missing parts of it, sometimes.
That feeling seemed to channel into his paintings—something he had taken up as a new hobby, and a job, somewhat, alongside the one he already had at that little shop at the end of the street. He hadn’t seen it as anything serious at first, just something to keep him occupied on the boring days at work. He’d nick one of those tiny paint kits from the back and grab the old notepad in the drawer of the counter, glancing over at the small square paintings sitting on the shelf across from him and seeing if he could recreate them. They were barely identifiable to the original thing, so Tommy wouldn’t call it outright copying. But once he got better at it, he wanted to start branching out a bit.
Sometimes the paintings were of memories he clung onto, weathered wood and dewy grass and fraying, familiar fabric in his fingers. Some were just splashes of color all over the canvas, everything from a brilliant yellow to a muted blue. Some were of people, although Tommy struggled with getting those right. He remembered attempting to paint Tubbo recently, both of them losing it with laughter once he showed him the final product.
“Eh, I can always make another one,” Tommy had said afterwards, setting the canvas down in his lap. “I’ll scrap it.”
“No, no!” Tubbo said. “Why throw all that away?”
Tommy stared at him. “Because it looks like utter shit,” he deadpanned, and Tubbo chuckled.
“Well, yeah. But you spent most of the day working on it. Sweating away in the sun when you could’ve been in the water—”
“The grind never stops, what can I say?”
“And it’ll be a waste if you didn’t get anything out of it,” Tubbo said, and Tommy sighed.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. He scrunched up his nose. “But you’re being awfully dramatic about it, y’know that?”
Tubbo raised an eyebrow. “What, you’re saying you aren’t sweating?”
“No,” Tommy said, wiping at his forehead. Tubbo snorted.
“Whatever you say. I was going to go back into the water before we go, though—d’you want to come this time?” Tubbo asked.
Tommy placed the painting at the end of his chair, pretending to consider it. “Race you there,” he said suddenly, jumping up and dashing past Tubbo with a wild grin. He heard him laughing as he chased after him, both of their footsteps muffled by the sand.
The water was cold, but it was a wonderful contrast to the heat of the sun Tommy had been sitting in for hours. Tubbo literally tackled him, the two falling in with a splash and laughing hysterically.
While other things had taken more time for him to get accustomed to, Cape Cod’s beaches were not one of them. They were everywhere; Tommy chose to consider it his own kind of exposure therapy, since his memories of spending time on the beach weren’t—fond, to put it lightly. From deserted parties to rainy goodbyes, dark waves crashing all over the pale shores. He had dreaded being reminded of it after already spending so much time stuck in that same cycle. Wallowing in it, then shutting it out.
And, of course, he had ended up being pleasantly surprised. The beaches here were something out of a postcard, picturesque and perfect. The ocean sparkled in the sun, the sand was soft and sprinkled with shells—it was so beautiful it almost made him angry.
His hair was plastered to his face when he lifted his head up from the waves, sloshing water onto Tubbo as the two of them giggled like little kids again. It was on days like that when he wondered when he’d finally stop being surprised that things could, in fact, just be good for once. No ulterior motive, no fingers crossed behind anybody’s back, no strings attached in any way. Something just good for the sake of being good.
“That just feels impossible, doesn’t it?” Tommy muttered to himself, huffing out a halfhearted laugh.
Tubbo gave him a glance, standing beside him at the railing of the ferry. “Did you say something?”
Tommy shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. His friend hummed, both turning to watch the gentle waves of the Nantucket Sound. The breeze was cool on their faces.
They were on their way to the island for the day, something for Tubbo’s construction job. Landscape construction, Tommy could hear Tubbo’s voice correcting him in his head, and he held back a chuckle. He never minded giving Nantucket a visit; maybe it was the cobblestone streets or the quaint atmosphere of it all that gave him a warm sense of nostalgia. Nonetheless, he wanted to tag along, so the two hopped in the car the moment they finished their breakfast and drove down to the harbor in Harwich.
Tommy felt Tubbo leaning his head on his shoulder. He looked at him before looking back out at the water. “Thanks for letting me come with you, Tubbs.”
“Of course,” Tubbo replied. “Although you did just sort of invite yourself, but I never minded it at all.”
Tommy snorted. “Way to ruin a nice moment.”
“I didn’t ruin shit!” Tubbo exclaimed, indignant, pulling away from Tommy as the blond snickered. He slung an arm around him, bringing him in so that their shoulders were squashed together.
Tubbo chuckled lightly, shifting his gaze to look up at Tommy. “You know I’ll always appreciate the company.”
Tommy smiled at him. “I know,” he said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
Something just good for the sake of being good. Maybe it was too soon to say, just yet—but he had a feeling that this could be it.