Chapter Text
London’s smog is nothing its inhabitants aren’t used to. Over the years, most stifle their coughs as they step over the cracks in the pavements, worn down by time and showing London’s growing population.
The grey sky dips into a deeper hue, smoke swirling in the air from chimneys— be it by the means of factories, bustling with people that most can recall the conditions of, or any other establishment. With the mere blink of an eye, they disappear in the mist. With another, more factories replace what once lied, leaving nothing but the memories provided in years of service. All jobs seem to do is go, leaving most hopelessly wandering to find work, only to be turned down once more. Slowly, people learn to survive with the little they have been blessed with. The days go by, people die, and life moves on.
The world spins, the hours and minutes go by, and life moves past all who do not get off the ground and dust themselves off, and it will continue to do so until its inevitable demise, far beyond anyone in its current state’s comprehension, and it will long outlive them all.
Shoes tap against the pavement, relatively in unison but with occasional outliers, making the streets lively and boisterous— a constant reminder of the human existence. Folks walk up and down streets, in the same and opposite directions, some to never cross paths again, and some being the first of many times. Shop bells jingle in the archway of doors, becoming an annoyance after one has heard it for the fifteenth time in one hour, but one carries on with each day.
Over the years, the city has… made changes, to say the least.
Strangers chat down the streets, some with friends and some making conversation with strangers, as the sun slowly begins to make its descent into the horizon, the colors shift once more, but remain painted with a hue of grey as the colors dance in the dusk of approaching night. Stars are covered by the smoke that engulfs the city, leaving lanterns and candles to be main light sources for the dim London streets.
As crowds of people scurry down the street, another door opens, feet clamoring into a small café located at the edge of the high street, the bell being strikingly louder than most, or maybe he’s just gotten accustomed to the familiar ring that follows every entrance.
The café is quiet. Most have already started on their ways home, seeing the light slowly disappear from the sky. The pastries on display have been taken throughout the day, and litter is scattered around the shop.
Tubbo takes a moment, looking at his watch before deciding to take it upon himself to tidy up. At this point, it feels like part of his routine whenever he comes over— help out a little. Maybe get some spare change as a reward for it to get him by another week. It may not be much, but any bit counts. One shilling is better than none at all.
Pans clang in the kitchen, hitting tile floors, followed by curses to the God above, and laughter from the main room, echoing in the emptiness. Soon, a familiar face stumbles into the atmosphere, face covered in soot with an apron covered in flour. “Christ— you always do this,” he groans.
“What?! I haven’t even done anything! You invited me over, did you not?” he retorts, folding his arms. He watches as Tommy dusts himself off and watches the annoyance cover his face. “Not even a hello, hm?”
“Fine. Hello, Tubbo. Now, what the hell?!”
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” he says, eyes gleaming in mischief. “I didn’t do anything.”
Tommy squints at him, taking his rag and hitting Tubbo with it. “Ow! Bloody hell, man! What was that for?!” he yelps.
“You stole my whiskey!” he scolds. “You know I can just buy you some, you do know that, don’t you?”
“I won’t be taking your money,” Tubbo insists, stubborn as always with his arms crossed.
“But you will take my whiskey?” he retorts, watching as Tubbo takes it upon himself to sit at an empty table. “I will never understand you. Unbelievable, you are.”
Something stirs in the air, and Tubbo almost seems to sink into the chair, eyes stuck to the ground in something akin to embarrassment. He holds his silence close to his chest before letting his eyes wander to the shop’s window, peering out into the street as they slowly simmer down. “I was going to give it back.”
“Okay. Then where is it, exactly?”
Tubbo sighs. “My place. I haven’t even touched it, so calm down, will you?”
Tommy relaxes, a look of relief adorning his face. “Bloody hell, if you want a drink I’ll buy you one. Or, you could simply, oh I don’t know— ask?”
“I’ll return it to you. Tonight.”
Tommy stands up, taking the broom, propped up in a corner into his grasp and sweeping the floor. “Fine.”
Tubbo watches idly as Tommy cleans, looking down at the messy table he sits at. “How about later I buy you a round of drinks, hm? On me, entirely.”
“With what money?”
The room falls silent, and the broom comes to a halt. “You’re my friend, Tubbo, but you can’t steal my things,” he sighs. “I’ve told you multiple times, mate, you could work here with me. Earn some money. We both know you need it.”
Tubbo averts his gaze, looking out again for extra measure and finding his eyes locked onto a puddle, shoes splashing and he can almost see his reflection. He won’t deny it. He does need the money. Every day that goes by he gets poorer and poorer. It’s not like his parents gave him much anyhow. It isn’t like he hasn’t bothered trying. It isn’t like he’s never had a job— but it doesn’t matter. The money dwindles too fast to the point where even if he did have a job, he doesn’t know how well he’d be off. Not many people are hiring anymore. Even when they are, he’s turned down. “I know,” is all he can muster as a response.
Tommy isn’t rich either. Yet he’s got more to his name than Tubbo could ever imagine, and does make an honest living and isn’t always just surviving like the rest of them. Sure, it took him a while to find this job, but being one of two workers certainly helps. He can’t ask Tommy for any more money. He’s already asked for too much. “...How about I—”
“No more money, Tom.”
“You need it. When was the last time you ate?” he questions, setting the broom down and finding his spot again adjacent to Tubbo. “You might as well be skin and bone at this point.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he responds.
Something shifts after then. Tommy’s expression softens into something of sadness, something more but… Tubbo’s never been too good with words. It’s just difficult. “You’re alive, but for how long?”
He can’t say he knows.
Every day is harder than the last, dragging his feet up and down the street to try and pick up scraps, do anything to make money and spend as little as he can. Prices go up, people become more money-hungry, and he ends up with less. “I’ll buy you a whiskey later.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
Tommy laughs. “It’s either that or you steal mine, right?” Tubbo doesn’t. “Come on, we’ll go ‘round to the pub and get something to eat. I do have to finish up here first, but you can wait, can’t you?”
Tubbo nods, bids him adieu and listens to the bell jingle as the door opens again and he joins the lesser crowd down the streets. The puddle from earlier stains his worn out shoes, sock becoming damp and he cringes at the feeling, making a note to stop home to not only take them off but to return Tommy’s drink.
People split off from the crowd, taking out their keys and fiddling with broken locks, some yelling at others to let them in and some finding more… creative ways to get inside their respective homes. The buildings become more compact as the street goes on, seemingly for ages before he can even think to keep an eye out for his street.
By the time he even gets to that point, he’s the only one walking by that time. Most are settled in for the night, he’s sure most of the children won’t be back for another hour or so.
He carefully makes his way to his apartment, keys rattling as it’s turned in the lock— the door creaks, announcing his return. He shuffles his shoes off, draping his coat over its hook, one of three coats that he owns— he knows it isn’t much. He’s not exactly the only one.
The apartment gets lonely, he has to admit— it’s part of the reason why he avoids it so often, trying to fill up his day as much as he can to avoid it. There’s just… something about it, he supposes. Eerie, in a way. The clock swinging almost drives him mad some days. The neighbors, too.
Twats, the lot of them. Too loud for everyone else’s own good, and even to this day he wonders how he managed to sleep every night with their ruckus. Incessant shouting, waking up the whole damn street. Maybe that’s what will eventually drive him to madness.
——
The bar is as lively as ever. Well, not really, it mostly consists of its regulars, to which the barkeep knows their name and orders by name, some of them even keep their orders pre-made a few moments before their typical arrival to account for them. It’s a nice gesture, and he always takes a note of the way their faces light up the moment they walk in. He’s no different from them all, coming in at the end of the day after doing God-knows-what all day, wanting to unwind with a good drink in a room of people just like you, chatting and laughing like it’s what they were meant to do. Maybe they are.
He’s come to that conclusion multiple times throughout the last few years, and maybe it’s silly of him. He knows it is, and he knows if he were to mention any of this to Tommy he’d deny it. He’d say that Tubbo has more potential than he believes he has and undermines it too much for his own good. Tubbo would roll his eyes and take another drink.
He sits at the counter, and without a word, the barkeep places down a glass of whisky with a flashy smile. Tubbo nods as he takes a sip. “Thanks.”
“You look rough.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he jokes.
He chuckles, cleaning a glass to keep busy. “Did something happen, in that case?”
“You know how things are these days,” he says, pushing off the table ever so slightly. “It’s just… you know.”
He fiddles with the bottle in hand, glancing out the window every so often for Tommy. “Is someone joining you tonight?” the barkeep asks, looking with him. “Not every day that happens, hm? Unless it’s that friend of yours.”
“Have to return something. Not quite sure when on earth he gets off work.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon, yes? Tell me if you need anything,” he says, walking away to tend to more customers.
Tubbo sighs. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected Tommy to be here so soon. He’s a busy man, unlike himself, really. Sometimes he wishes he knew what it was like to be him. They’re different, it’s no secret but that only makes him want that more. Maybe it’s ridiculous.
Every regular has their spot. For some, it’s a corner by themself. Some, it’s a group of people at whatever table is free. And some, it—
…Maybe not everyone here is a regular on a Tuesday.
He’s used to the same old faces. Yet amongst the crowd, there’s a new one. He shrugs it off, it’s not like he’s talking to him. He’s not exactly the social type anyway. Even if he was, he doubts most would even humor his presence. Somehow, it’s as if the entirety of London knows. Sure, things spread like wildfire, small talk between folks goes from one to another until there’s no one left to tell. He can’t blame them. He’s not sure he would talk to himself either if he weren’t stuck in this body.
He doesn’t even know why Tommy talks to him. It’s not like he’s unaware— sure, he found out after they first spoke, new to the country and struggling with his English, but even after he eventually found out… he didn’t leave or anything. Tubbo had asked about it once or twice. He said it wasn’t an issue for him, especially since it was so long ago, not to mention an accident.
More time passes by, people come and go, but Tommy isn’t one of those people. Glasses slowly pile up in front of him. “He usually isn’t this late, is he?”
“No.”
He places another drink into Tubbo’s awaiting hand. “Are you alright, sir?”
He coughs. “Of course, of course. You know me, when ever have I not been?”
He laughs from behind the counter as his coworkers make smalltalk in unison. “You’re positive?”
“Why, yes, I—”
The unfamiliar face staggers, “oh my— Sir, I am so sorry,” he mutters, taking a handful of napkins from the counter to attempt to clean his shirt. “Here, let me just—“ he stammers, grabbing a handful of Tubbo’s shirt as he dabs at the area. The barkeep mutters something about more napkins and a towel.
“Oh, no, it’s quite alright—“
“I made the mess. Please, do let me,” the stranger insists, smiling graciously as he scrubs. “My goodness— I… I certainly made one, didn’t I?” he laughs nervously, watching as the damp napkins do nothing to the stain. “Oh dear.”
“It— it’s alright. Really, it’s no worry.”
“No, please, let me.” With a queer smile, he nods. Maybe it’s the way it almost sounds pleading that he allows it, freezing in place. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for this trouble.”
The regulars peer over from their seats at the sight. He feels his heart threaten to burst out of his chest, “It— I’m positive, don’t fret. It is only a shirt.”
After repetitive futile attempts of scrubbing, the stranger sighs in defeat. Dampened napkins pile in the rubbish, and his shirt continues to share their hue. “Maybe I shall lend you a shirt in return? Or— no, no, I’d let you keep it. As an apology, if that is alright with you, sir.”
“You needn’t do that. It isn’t necessary—”
“It’s the least I can do. Please,” he urges. “I’m afraid I do not have an extra on me— maybe I need start, but I have one at home.”
Before he could process it all, the stranger had taken his hand, bid the barkeep adieu and kept his pace steady. It was strange, in the way he was so quick to leave without a second thought. The streets are completely and utterly empty— he would be a liar if he claimed that he weren’t at least a tad frightened by the whole ordeal. He supposes this isn’t exactly a daily occurrence. It isn’t every day someone whom you’ve never met spills some wine on you and incessantly insists on replacing the shirt with one of his own.
The drunkenness slowly creeps up on him, the many drinks of the night finally catching up to him in their true capacity, feeling as if he was not moving his feet himself, but more akin to some doll dragging against the floor.
All lights have long since been put out. Maybe he were dreaming, but he swears he saw another also roaming the streets at this wicked hour.
Soon enough he is ushered into a home— a true home, elegant and extravagant. It certainly isn’t what he is used to coming across, if anything maybe be it in his own dreams of what could be some day. That is, if the world finally were to change its putrid idea of who he is. That again, he cannot say he disagrees.
The floors don’t squeak underneath the weight of his boots, the walls aren’t chipping slowly or bare in any way, and the furniture is of one with not only good taste, but the wealth to accommodate it. A large clock stands in the corner, and it feels as if the hands are moving too fast to be functionable. Canvases lay against the walls and it’s simply a wonderful sight, even he can acknowledge this whilst in this state. “I do apologize for the mess, this isn’t quite how I had expected to spend my evening.”
“Oh, it is alright— I’ve seen much worse.”
His lips turn into a smile. “Let me get my shirt. You can stay here, I won’t be long.”
He nods and lets himself find comfort on the sofa. This may be a comfort he allows himself for once in a lifetime, but for now he can savor it and rid the thought of the blasted future in his mind. Always tormenting him— it’s ridiculous. He isn’t even sure how he’d made it to here, and yet the future awaits more as an unkind hand reaching out. He hesitates to take it as he always has, even when it’s in the shape of an unlit cigarette. Though even then, it’s always tempting.
The Thames roars, open windows letting in every noise of the outside. He’s certainly never gotten a view as lovely as this. The lanterns reflecting on the water is a sight he hopes every resident of London is able to see some day in their journey that is known as life. He hears the shuffling of the still unknown stranger in a room down the hall. He could have assumed, just by the initial look they shared, that the man must have come from at least a bit of wealth— judging by clothing alone, and yet this house was still quite a surprise.
He enters the room once more, almost identical shirt in between his well kept hands, except it’s much more posh than his current one. “Are you still alright? I saw you had, erm… quite the stomach for beer, did you not?” he rambles, approaching and taking a spot next to him. Tubbo notices the way his eyes fixate on his neck, before finally going to unbutton the shirt.
“I suppose— were you watching me?”
“I was… curious, I suppose. I wasn’t aware someone could consume so much alcohol in that manner.”
He chuckles to himself, watching him carefully. “Yes, well, it is— … oh dear. Tommy.” He rises to his feet, rebuttoning his shirt and scrambling out the door.
“I— I beg your pardon?”
“I— I am terribly sorry, I must go—” he hastily replies, rushing away and feeling the man’s eyes still upon his back.
How could he have been so foolish? Getting caught up with all of… this and entirely forgot. Maybe it was simply the alcohol clouding his mind. He almost trips over himself, hoping that he may somehow catch him somewhere among these never ending roads.
The winds run past him, and he turns back for a moment to make sure no one chasing him or following in any capacity. It’s only then he finds who he’s looking for. “Ow— oh. Where have you been?” Tommy says from the ground. “What happened to the bar, hm?”
“I… got a tad… distracted,” he claims as he stands once more, wobbling. “I’m sorry.”
“Psssh. It doesn’t matter now. C’mon.”
Tommy takes his hand and leads them both in the way of his own home. Tubbo sighs in pure relief.