Chapter Text
Tommy was a poor boy.
The son to a musician, brother to a muse, music ran like the blood in his veins and the air in his lungs. Phil observed the boy from afar, who was sat in the corner of the old bar with his lyre balanced haphazardly across his knee while he plucked away at a new song. The rusted old strings were tuned to perfection, a welcome sound compared to the typical gloom of this time of year. Winter had gone on for six weeks longer than last year, and the residents were less than pleased about it. By this rate, there would be hardly any time for spring before the relentless heat of the summer set in. Tommy plucks a wrong note and swears to himself. Phil sighs.
It's the same every time. No matter what-
“Anybody got a match?” It's always the same.
“Yeah, I’ve got one for ya mate,” Phil says softly, pulling the worn paper box from his coat pocket. He hands it to the young boy, grinning softly. The boy, Tubbo, takes the matches gingerly and sits down at a nearby table. With a swish, the match is lit and turning downward to a small candle he’s pulled from the bag held tightly against his side. For a moment, Tubbo just watches the flame, admiring the way the light of it flickers and dances. He puts his hands near the flame and lets the warmth travel over his skin. He visibly seems to relax, never truly letting his guard down, his posture still almost as frigid as the air outside, though his shoulders drop the slightest bit. Good enough. The sight of the candle leaves a small grin on Phil's face. The picture on the front of it is obscured, but he can make out the red hue of the candle, and the familiar figure on the front. It was hard to forget the face of his best friend. Plus, the soft pink of his hair was pretty unmistakable.
The gentle sound of Tommy’s lyre floats across the bar, though no one pays it much mind. Sure, Tubbo looks up for a moment, unable to pinpoint the source of the music, but it’s not his business anyways. Tommy spent most of his days here after his brother abandoned him and Phil took him in. He had been friends with Wilbur, after all, and besides, he liked to hear Tommy play, and he liked to hear him sing even more. Even now, after knowing him for so long, Phil wasn’t sure how a boy like Tommy ended up with such a talent. He knew it must be the work of other gods, though he never put much thought into who. A low rumble breaks him from his thoughts.
Tubbo was a hungry young boy.
He had seen the worst of the world, and had walls built high around himself. The kid rises from his seat, blowing out the candle and stuffing it in his bag. Phil grimaces at the melted wax likely spilling in there, but knows there likely wasn’t anything of value to damage in there. The kid makes his way across the bar, running face first into Tommy, who had gotten up from his corner to go speak to Phil.
“What the fuck? Where did you even come from-” Tommy shouts, rubbing the side of his face where the two had collided.
“Dude, you literally ran into me-” “no I did not-”
“Boys!” Phil’s voice cuts through the air, the single word warning enough. Get your act together, or get out.
“Sorry, Phil,” Tommy says, reeling himself back in. He turns to Tubbo, eyeing him with curiosity. His eyes shimmer with familiarity, a sense of deja-vu overtaking him, though he can’t remember ever meeting this boy before. “Sorry ‘bout that. Guess I wasn’t really looking where I was going.”
Tubbo, with a twin look of confusion and intrigue, replies. “No, it's fine man. I wasn’t really paying attention either. I’m uh… I’m just gonna-” he says, pushing past carefully. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go. Sorry.” He walks across the rest of the bar, heading out a side door and disappearing. Gone, just as soon as he’d come. Tommy struggles to ignore the part of him that wants to chase after the boy. He shakes his head, as if trying to forget the encounter happened at all, and walks over to Phil, who watched the scene unfold from his usual seat.
“Hey, mate.”
“Hey, Phil. Who was that guy?” Tommy asks, turning back to look at the door Tubbo had left out of moments before. Something was different about him, something that felt like Tommy had known him his whole life, but there was an ache to that. It was…odd. Phil shrugs.
“I don’t know him well,” is all he replies. “How’s the song coming along?” He asks, guiding the conversation elsewhere. Tommy visibly brightens at the question, a small grin stretching across his face.
“It’s going great, actually! It’s taking longer than I’d like it to, though. At this rate I won’t be finished until next spring, if it even comes at all…” he explains, nose wrinkling slightly at the last comment.
The seasons had been out of alignment for years now, winters stretching longer and longer each year, and the summers bringing an unbearable heat that wasn’t ideal for growing food. Everyone knew why this was happening, the relationship between the King of the Underworld and his partner had been rockier than ever. At first, the agreement that Quackity would spend six months out of the year below, and the other six up above had worked well. Their relationship was strong, and in turn the seasons shifted in perfect sequence. By the time Schlatt came to retrieve Quackity for the fall, the people of the Overworld would have had enough time, weather, and resources to withstand the cold of winter. But as time went on, Schlatt grew jealous and bitter, missing Quackity’s presence and dreading their time spent apart. He stopped caring about how long it had been, and gave up entirely on splitting the year evenly. Winter had stretched on for well over seven months now, and the storms outside grew stronger by the day.
“But I’m gonna fix it. My song is gonna bring the world back into tune, Phil, just you wait.”
“I’m certain it will,” Phil says, not a trace of doubt in his words. The boy was touched by the gods, and his voice carried a power so strong, it had the potential to do exactly as Tommy hoped for.
—-------------------------
Days passed, and while he worked away at his song, Tommy couldn’t help but let his thoughts drift to the strange boy he’d quite literally ran into. Something deep within him was pulling, yearning to see him again, and today, they crossed paths once more.
Tubbo had entered the bar the same way as last time, though this time he already had a match ready. He’d saved the box Phil gave him, and was on the last one now. He struck it against the side of the box, lighting the red candle he'd set on the table in front of him, and warmed his hands over it. When Tommy looked up and saw the boy who’d plagued his mind, he stood, clutching the strap of his lyre with a vice grip. Phil steps up behind him and places a hand on his shoulder.
“You wanna go talk to him?” He asks, already knowing the answer. Tommy nods, his grip tightening just slightly on the strap again. Phil lets out a soft laugh. “Then go, but Tommy? Don’t come on too strong. You wouldn’t wanna scare him off.” Tommy nods again, steeling himself as he walks over with new determination to the boy. He had this introduction all planned out. He’d never really had friends before, nor had he had much of a family besides Phil. This going to go perfect.
“Hey, bitch.” Fuck.
Tubbo looks up in surprise, eyes wide in confusion before he registers who’s in front of him. “Oh, it’s you…?” He says, trailing off as he realizes he’d never caught a name at their last meeting.
“Tommy..I am so fucking sorry I don’t know why I just said that I did not meant to call you a bitch-”
“It’s fine man. Did you need something though?”
“Yes, you.” Tommy says, before backtracking. “Wait, that sounds wrong. I meant that like.. I want you to be my friend. Yeah. That’s what I wanted to say, before I called you a bitch and all. I just phrased it really weird and- shit. I’m really bad at this.”
Tubbo raises a brow, looking over at Phil, who has migrated to his usual seat, conveniently placed right behind the two boys. “Is he always like this?”
“You have no idea.”
Tubbo hums, looking at Tommy with a tilted head, as if trying to piece together the puzzle that is the boy. “I’m Tubbo.”
“Tubbo,” Tommy breathes, the word completing something he didn’t know was unfinished. It was like the final piece he’d been looking for.
And the story begins again.