Work Text:
Tommy sees his cousin when he’s fourteen, the last summer he’d spent in a rickety timeshare beach house with a few too many drunk aunts and unsupervised cousins, and then he blinks, and he sees his cousin again now, at the last bus stop on the route.
It’s a blink — closes his eyes, skips over three years that could’ve basically not happened, and just like that: blink, now he’s here again. Framing device, or whatever, for the shitty teen coming of age film that is his life.
Techno’s waiting for him at the bus stop, and nobody else is. It’s a stark contrast to the town Tommy usually sees. Gone are the hordes of tourists, towel-draped and sunscreen-smeared, no more clunky suitcases running over his toes or bright-patterned clothing and signs every which way, salmon-turquoise-marigold, beachy.
Today, it is remarkably empty. It’s remarkably grey.
Techno waits alone, shoulder against a pillar, phone in one hand that he’s scrolling absentmindedly. Squinting down at it through glasses that are thicker than Tommy remembers him wearing; hair pinker than Tommy remembers it being. There’s an inch of roots grown out the mousey brown that’s closer to memory.
“Hey,” Tommy says. He adjusts the grip on his own suitcase, rolls it over bumpy wooden floorboard slats. “Earth to Technoblade.”
There’s a brief moment – Techno looks up, squints, and almost looks like he’s experiencing an emotion before it settles back into a default resting-Techno-face. Tommy’s gonna play a guessing game for the next week to figure out which emotion that was. Maybe fear. “Oh, sorry, I was–Hi.”
“Too busy on your damn phone,” Tommy says, adopting his best world-weary boomer voice. “These woke liberals and they internet addiction, ‘s a real problem these days. Teenagers glued to screens.”
“Tell me about it,” Techno says. Phone in his hoodie pocket. “Can’t get Phil off his laptop for anything these days, it’s a shame.”
Without asking, he holds a hand out towards Tommy’s luggage. He doesn’t really think about it before he’s handing over the suitcase, and Techno collapses the handle and swings it up in his hand, off the ground like it weighs nothing. Like every material possession Tommy owns, his whole life packed up into one easily transportable bag, is nothing in Techno’s hands.
Tommy grips tighter on the straps of his backpack.
“That Philza Minecraft,” he says, still holding onto the joke. Shrugging off anything else and affecting a disdainful tone. “What a shame, what a shame. Too addicted to his computer, screentime counts off the charts with all that pornography.”
“Worse,” Techno deadpans. “He’s playing League of Legends.”
Techno doesn’t welcome him. Doesn’t ask how the travel was, doesn’t really catch him up on the Harbor happenings in the last couple years since Tommy’d visited, and he definitely doesn’t ask how Tommy’s doing. Which is–
Which is fine, honestly? Which is pretty good. It’s like an ice has settled over the surface tension of their conversation, and both of them are skating on it just fine without punching through to the cold water beneath it. Tommy learned about this thing, that water in lakes iced over sits at exactly freezing – exactly zero degrees, cold enough to give you hypothermia in seconds but just warm enough to stay liquid. Just warm enough to still kill you if the barrier layer cracks.
So he and Techno are on the ice, and it’s drier and warmer there, and Techno doesn’t ask him any questions except, “You want lunch? It’s the last weekend that Freddy’s is open, I kinda want to grab their fries before they’re gone for the winter.”
And Tommy does want chips.
And Tommy doesn’t mind sitting in a booth across from Techno in an empty diner eating too-salty chips while Tommy’s life is backed into the boot of Techno’s car, and they both pretend like this is normal.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Tommy sleeps in the room that he knows used to be Phil’s office, because he’s slept in here once before when he was thirteen and they overfilled the timeshare to the point they had run out of beds and couches, so Techno had shuttled a couple kids back to his own house and found some blankets and an air mattress. Tommy’d slept with his back against Phil’s desk and his arm around Tubbo.
Tubbo, who he also hasn’t seen in three years, somewhere in this town where the rest of his childhood memories live. Probably. If he hasn’t moved away since then, for Tommy to never hear from again and go down the road of childhood friends he remembers his whole life and doesn’t ever know the last name of.
Family holidays are, historically, not a good time for Tommy. He’s never liked them, because it forced his parents to actually be in one another’s company, which forced him to be in their company while they were hating each other’s company, and then not one of the three of them had a good time. It’s probably what started the end of it all, honestly. They just had one beach trip too many and then the line making them good parents snapped, and they gave up on it entirely.
Tommy rolls over and pulls the blanket with him. Bundles himself. Flips the pillow over to the other side, cool linen on his cheek.
The house feels too quiet.
It is despite how evil these beach holidays are that Tommy loves this place so much. Because the drive here was always horrible, and the way home was always worse, but while he was here?
While Tommy’s in Harbor, he’s free.
Shoes off, sand and rocks under his feet. Waves around his ankles, Tubbo’s hand in his own, and he can run and laugh and talk about whatever he wants down-wind from his mum. He gets to be a totally different person, for a week or two every summer.
He wonders if Tubbo knows that. If the Tommy he always met was so different from the real one. He wonders if he likes that Tommy better.
He falls asleep to waves still crashing around his ankles.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The morning brings him stumbling out of Phil’s office into the kitchen, socked feet cold against icy linoleum, god he’s not used to this place being cold, to find both of them in the kitchen. Both of them being his cousin, blood related on his dad’s side, and his cousin’s roommate of ten years who is not related to any of them at all but has been at family gatherings near as long as Tommy can remember anyway. Techno’s washing dishes; Phil’s lacing up his shoes with one foot propped up on the dining chair.
“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” Techno says over his shoulder from the sink. “Trip took it out of you, huh?”
Tommy squints blearily at the time above the stove. After eleven. “I did not mean to sleep that long.”
“Eh, you’re a growing boy,” Phil says. “Teenagers aren’t supposed to be up before noon if you don’t make ‘em. I think.” He sets both feet squarely back on the ground, shoes laced double-knotted bunny ears.
“He thinks,” Techno says. Rinses off a plate; dries his hands. “Doesn’t know any teenagers to verify this, of course, because he never goes outside to speak to anyone.”
“Always on his damn screen,” Tommy agrees, sagely. He climbs onto a chair and leans forward on his elbows at the table. “Shame.”
Phil squawks a laugh, eyes confused. “What? There’s a teenager in front of me right now.”
“And he’s up before noon,” Techno says. “Come on, old man. Get it together. First you won’t eat my cookin’, now you’re insulting Tommy–”
“I’ll eat your cooking,” Tommy says, at the same time Phil says, “I told you, Kristin wants to do brunch–”
Techno swings open the fridge door; lifts out a plate, pulls the saran wrap from it. Microwave beeps punctuate his words. “Look at this guy, Tommy. He’s got a date this morning.”
Tommy gasps, loud and encouraging. “A date? With a real live woman? Philza Minecraft, look at you, getting out into the world. I’m so proud.”
Phil laughs again. “Why–You’ve been here one day, why is this immediately the bit?”
“Because,” Tommy says, and then does not elaborate when Techno sets down a freshly microwaved plate of breakfast sausage and pancakes. “Fuck yeah. Because you’d better get used to me real quick, Phil.”
“Happy to have you here? Sure. Used to you?” Phil makes an unsure noise, but he grins anyway. “I’m off. Might be back by dinner, might not, we’ll see where the winds take us.”
“Have fun on your brunch date with your beautiful woman,” Tommy says, and Techno adds, “Bye, Phil.”
And then it’s just the two of them. The two of them now being Tommy, drowning his pancakes and sausage both in copious amounts of maple syrup, and his cousin, who has finished washing all of the dishes and just stands awkwardly by the sink instead.
“You know,” Techno says. He clears his throat again, and Tommy’s stomach sinks in apprehension. Oh, no. He’s trying to talk to him. Tommy’s still got syrup on his fingers and pancake in his mouth. “Uh. I’m happy to have you here, by the way. You are welcome to stay as long as you need to, and I mean it.”
“Thanks,” Tommy says. He’s not sure if he should keep eating and let Techno ramble this out, or set his fork down and try to participate. He really doesn’t want to participate.
“And Phil says–This is all his idea, by the way. This conversation. Blame him.” Techno fidgets with a strand of his hair, loose from the braid it’s usually kept in. “Make sure you know, y’know, you’re welcome here. And if you need somebody to talk to about all this, you can come to me, because it’s a lot to process. The whole, uh, parents breaking up situation.”
Tommy really wishes they were back to yesterday’s just-don’t-talk-about-it silent agreement. “Okay. Thanks, big man. Good job on the Feelings Talk.”
“Yup,” Techno says. “Any time. Hey, does anybody else suddenly feel the need to run from the room screamin’?”
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Even the beaches look different in November.
Tommy walks down to the rocky one behind Techno’s house, the shoreline that’s more pebbles than sand, unlike the tourist-y sand and blue waters on the other side of the cape. It’s always quieter on this side, but today, it’s empty. The waves are a murky grey color, frigid, and the sky is icy and cloudy. There’s enough of a wind to send salt spray stinging into Tommy’s eyes if he walks too close to water, so he keeps his distance and walks on the rocks instead.
There are no tourists, not beach-home-owners on their brightly colored chairs and floppy hats. Nobody’s out in the sun reading or napping, because there’s barely a sun to speak of, and Tommy’s cold enough to need a jumper.
It’s eerie. It’s almost liminal, for Tommy, who’s only ever been here in Julys and Augusts.
He finds a place to sit, amid the pebbles and rocks, and he listens to the waves crash, the distant roar.
Objectively, Tommy knows that this place still exists the rest of the year when he is not here to look at it. He’s got some concept of object permanence, even if it’s not his strongest skill. But he guesses, in his head, he imagines it the way he knows it – sunny, populated, colorful – and forgets that winters everywhere are, generally, dreary.
He’s contemplating this, lost in November thoughts, when he’s jolted out of them by the sound of his own name.
“Oh my god, Tommy? Is that actually you?”
He looks up, startled, one hand behind him for balance. Making his way across the beach is a figure that Tommy almost doesn’t recognize with all the time between them. His voice is lower; his hair is shorter. He’s not wearing the baggy tees and half-buttoned shirts that Tommy remembers so vividly; just a maroon hoodie and black jeans.
But it is him. In the way his eyes crinkle up, and his grin, and the shape of his nose, Tommy recognizes him.
“I saw you from the window,” Tubbo says, reaching a hand down to help Tommy to his feet. He takes it. “Thought maybe I was hallucinating, because it is definitely not summer. Holy shit, you got tall.”
“Surprise,” Tommy says. He’s towering over Tubbo, which–that’s weird. They were right about the same height last they saw each other. “It’s been so long, man, how are you? How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know.” Tubbo laughs a little, waves his hand, noncommittal. “Wow. What on earth are you doing here? Does your family know it’s almost winter? And we’re getting a storm this weekend.”
“It’s just me,” Tommy says. “My, uh, my family’s not here. I’m just staying with Techno for a bit.”
Tubbo blinks. “What, really? For how long?”
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Kind of an extended holiday, I guess. Except I still have to go to school, so not really holiday at all.”
Tubbo says, “You gonna go to school here?”
“Yeah. I’m starting on Monday.”
“Damn,” Tubbo says. “That’s really crazy.”
“I know,” Tommy agrees. “It’s so weird being here in the winter.”
“Yeah.” Tubbo says again, “Wow. That’s so crazy.”
“Yep,” Tommy says. And then he’s not sure what else to say, like he’s run out of all the words in the world, which is not how Tommy usually feels about things. And Tubbo’s just looking at him, this curious look on his face like he doesn’t know what to say either, and it’s never been this awkward for them before.
Every summer when Tommy gets here, he runs straight to Tubbo’s house and knocks on his door, and they go down to the beach and tell each other all about their year and what they want to do this summer. It starts off like that, and there’s never a moment of awkwardness between them. It’s like no time passes, and they pick up right where they left off the year before.
But they’ve never had to talk in November, he guesses.
“So,” he tries again. “You didn’t really answer me, dude. It’s been so long, how are you? How’s your family been?”
Tubbo laughs again, awkward this time. “Uh, you know. I think better this year?”
“Better?”
Tubbo pauses; blinks. He says, “Oh. Yeah. I guess you don’t know. My dad passed, uh, almost two years now.”
“Oh,” Tommy says. He feels like he’s back in Techno’s car, all too aware of the ice under his feet, and he’s trying not to break it but it’s creaking under so dangerously. Water waiting just under it, frozen and drowning. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. That sucks.”
That sucks? Never mind, he’s gonna pull out a hammer and start breaking this ice himself. Who says that?
Tubbo shrugs though. “Thanks. It’s just me and Quackity now, but we kept the house, so. S’not even the first full year on our own anymore, so we’re doing okay.”
“Jeez,” Tommy says. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“How about you?” Tubbo asks. Tries to smile again, slams an elbow into Tommy’s side. Tommy can’t tell if it feels familiar or forced. “What are you doing back here in November?”
“Like I said, just staying with Techno for a bit.” His story’s gonna sound lame as fuck following after Tubbo, who’s like, actually been through some shit. “My parents are going through a rough patch, and they–I mean, it’s rough for them, so I’m just gonna be out of their hair for a little while.”
“That sucks,” Tubbo echoes back, but it sounds like an appropriate response when Tubbo says it.
Tommy says, “Yeah. Probably gonna be better for them if they just split up. Less yelling in the house.”
“Hopefully so.”
“Yep,” Tommy says.
God, since when is it so awkward to talk to Tubbo? What else is he supposed to say?
There are no plans to make, no summer waiting ahead of them. No big house to run around in, no free time to fill with countless hours of childhood schemes. It’s just the two of them, and this ice under Tommy’s feet.
“Well,” Tubbo says. He rubs his hands; bitten red in the cold wind. “I’m gonna go back, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
“Do you think we can be friends?” Tommy asks. “At school.” And he hates how it makes him sound like he’s fourteen all over again. Like he’s that little kid, barefoot in the sand, asking, Do you want to be my friend? Please? Can you please be my friend, because I don’t know how to be a person without there being someone next to me?
“Rest of the year’s different from summer,” Tubbo warns. It’s not a yes, but Tommy can’t tell if it’s a no.
“No, I know. I’ve noticed.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “I’ll introduce you to some people.”
“Right,” Tommy says. “Thanks.”
“Yep. Okay. See you.”
Tommy waves as he goes. Watches him run back up the beach, back to the road and across to his own house. Stands there, alone, in the wind. Just for a few more minutes before he turns and starts walking back too.
Tommy walks along the beach, and then — damn it, all right? He pulls off one shoe, the other, and then he pulls his socks off too. The stones beneath his feet are surf-worn and smooth, hundreds and thousands and millions of years tossed around in these waters. They’ve lived here forever, and the ocean’s changed them and left them to sit right here on this beach.
Saltwater freezing against his ankles, but he walks in it anyway. Watches the sunset over the horizon, pink-salmon-orange, rippling on the waves and between the clouds. Listens to gulls scream all around him.
Tommy’s skating. The water is freezing liquid, waiting to drown him just below the ice, but he’s light on his feet. Lets the water run around his ankles, and keeps the surface from cracking. Light as a feather, thin as a blade. Careful in the wind.
(He makes his way back to Techno’s house with damp socks, but the ice is solid. He’s not drowning today.)