Chapter Text
Using a black ballpoint pen on a slowly withering pocket calendar, Tommy crossed an "X" over the number twenty-four, surrounded by a list of more numbers under the header stating, "March 2032". It was a ritual he practiced nightly before he went to sleep, and had kept up with for the past five months since he lost everything he had ever known.
Tomorrow would make it exactly six months exactly since the horrible incident on March twenty-fifth. Nearly eight months since he decided never to utter another word aloud again.
Tommy's felt alone for a long time, but now he just feels.. tired, empty, maybe. But he supposes that could've also just been the consequence of sprinting away from a small group of zombies that wanted to tear him open and have his insides for lunch. His legs are sore as hell, but he feels he'd be selfish if he didn't thank whatever gods above that he was blessed with the ability to sprint just barely faster than four literal undead grown adults.
He tucked the small book into a pocket of his rather scruffy corduroy jacket he found yesterday before wrapping it tighter around himself. The nights are becoming more merciful in their temperatures as spring has rolled around, but the thin blanket he carried everywhere he went (usually stuffed in his bag) did little for how unusually chilly the inside of the abandoned rig he planned to sleep in was.
He supposed sleeping in the back of a discarded ambulance might not be the safest, but then again, he's slept in worse conditions. At least the gigantic doors had a lock on the inside.
The seats on each side where paramedics would usually sit aren't the most uncomfortable, but he still has trouble sleeping. Even after all these months, every little outside noise still makes him wary, and more often than not only causes more dread and anxiety to swirl in the pit of his stomach.
The darkness of the night does little to assist the lessening of his fears. Similar to the past few nights, Tommy doesn't fall sleep until early into the morning, when the sun is already peaking out over the horizon.
Tommy wakes up only a few hours later, his body annoyingly restless. He also really has to take a leak, and when he stands to leave the makeshift-shelter, his stomach aches with the pain of not having eaten since... when was the last time he ate?
He had a can of peaches the afternoon before— no, two afternoons ago now. He hadn't been very.. fortunate, to say the least, in finding food or supplies in general lately for that matter.
He gathers the little amount of things he does have and puts them into his rucksack, shoves his (slightly too small now) boots onto his feet, nearly toppling to the ground as he stumbles out of the rig. He's lucky to have found a more fenced off area which is mostly secluded, despite being a bit deeper into a town. Usually he'd stay far, far away from cities because of the larger amount of zombies inhabiting them, but he's becoming more and more desperate, and calling living like this by himself difficult would be more than an understatement.
He supposes it could be worse. He's alive and relatively healthy, whatever that means— however significant that is.
He holds his most loyal companion throughout this whole apocalypse so far in the tight grip of his left hand: a bat punctured with nails. He keeps his gun in his back pocket for last case scenarios, but hopes he won't have to use it considering how low on bullets he is.
He's gotten good, relying on this old bat and his skills with the weapon. It isn't nearly completely covered in dry blood for nothing.
One scan of his surroundings and Tommy's proven to be alone. He listens for any immediate noise, but decides it's safe to move once the only real sounds he can hear are the flocking of birds salting the clear sky above him.
He rounds the ambulance, does his business on the left front tire and ditches the camp.
He decided to leave the entirety of the city as well. The place is too eerie for his liking, all desolate and empty and barren. It makes him feel like he's the only human left on the planet, and nowadays it's a little too easy to believe, especially if he sits with the thought a little too long. He'd like to hold onto the hope that he's wrong, and that any people he might come across again aren't threatening assholes that want to steal his shit like the last group he stumbled upon.
He lost his compass a long time ago, so he picks a direction and decides to walk. Tommy's stomach continues to ache, but he pushes forward until he finds himself a forest, one he's surprised he hasn't come across before.
Tommy gives in and ties his hair back with a think piece of spare cut rope, sick and tired of the long strands getting in his face. He stays attentive of his surroundings, careful with each step to moderate the level of noise he makes. It seems to be another one of the few things he's gotten good at; staying silent. He definitely tries his hardest to be, anyway.
When Tommy ends up finding a few small houses far into his trek through the wood, he approaches them with heavy caution. Upon closer inspection, it doesn't take an idiot to figure out the mini-neighborhood is abandoned. The houses are painted in dark shades of grays and blacks and they look like they're falling apart, decaying from the outside-in, as if they themselves had caught the disease that has infected so, so many innocent people.
Tommy doesn't dwell on it. All he can do is hope that maybe whoever was drawn from the houses were kind enough to leave anything at all to eat behind, as selfish as it may sound. He's starving, and feels like he could probably eat anything at this point, all stubborn pickiness aside.
He can't admit that he isn't nervous, carefully making his way up steps that creak and groan despite his fairly light weight. The front door of the house he picked to explore first is cracked open, only serving to fuel the fire of uneasiness inside his chest.
He pauses, carefully turning to pull a flashlight from the small pocket of his bag. He flicks the switch on the side of it on, and has to hit it a couple of times against his opposite hand for it to stay that way.
Tommy felt significantly warmer as he stepped up to the door. It took all his courage and then some to lean forward and push it open with one hand. He waited for the inevitable; a weapon about to be used, maybe, or an inhumane screech— hell, maybe a dozen inhuman screeches.
When nothing came but silence, Tommy waited an extra minute just to be sure he was safe before he stepped inside.
Finally, he shined the flashlight deeper into the house. The place looked ransacked and messy, abandoned, with everyday household items broken and scattered all over the floors. It wasn't any different than the majority of the places Tommy has explored, the only real difference being the way he hasn't come across any zombies... at least, not yet.
He dubs himself lucky for once, and since this house has two stories and he has yet to check off the upstairs part of it, he decides to pick up his pace, beginning the familiar routine of looking through the place for anything at all that might be helpful to him.
He nearly trips over a pile of books on the floor, catching himself on the side of a torn up couch. There's a bookshelf behind it, and he scans it for anything that might even look useful.
In some drawers in the kitchen he finds batteries, matches and even a lighter. The pantry and fridge are both completely empty, and Tommy takes it that probably means someone has been here before him.
Either that, or...
He hears a noise and immediately turns back to the entryway of the kitchen, one hand gripping his bat and the other resting on his gun where it sits heavy in his back pocket. He really, really doesn't want to use it. He doesn't like using it. His heart is beating terribly fast, and it only seems to pick up more when he realizes that if a zombie were to come at him where he currently stands, he'd be cornered and certainly made into the monster's next meal.
It's definitely a possibility, one that's extremely less than desirable. As shitty as things are, Tommy wants to stay alive, thank you very much.
He steps forward to peek into the other room, and finds nothing.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the noise again— another singular thump against wood flooring. Tommy realizes the source is coming from upstairs, and wonders if he could make it to the front door, across the room from where he is beside the stairs before whatever is up there descends down the steps, finds him and tries to inevitably kill him.
He leans a little bit more forward, moves his foot to take a step and then—
Something falls down the stairs. A book, maybe, Tommy can't be sure because of the way he instantly retreats back into the kitchen to hide, his back pressed against the wall, scared out of his mind.
He realizes how heavy his breathing has become and shoves the flashlight into his pocket in favor of using his hand to cover his mouth, stifling the sound of his rocky breaths.
And then he hears them: the footsteps. One by one, someone— or more likely, something— making their way down the stairs, step, by ever-so-slow step.
It's only one, surely you can take it, Tommy's mind supplies.
You've done it before, it will be easier to get the high ground if you just shoot it now— catch it off guard. Come on, don't be a pussy!
Tommy is not a pussy.
He takes a few slow, deep breaths, before reluctantly drawing his gun.
The zombie is still in the main room, he can hear it walking around, knocking things on the ground over. All he has to do is ambush it, point the gun and...
A deep breath in, a deep breath out.
He squeezes his eyes shut and turns the corner, pulling the gun up to hold it in front of him and—
Tommy stops where he stands, and really, thank gods he opened his eyes and he didn't shoot.
He's face to face with a boy— another boy?!— who can't be much older than Tommy is himself. Upon seeing Tommy and the way he quite literally is pointing a gun at his head, the kid stumbles back with a surprised gasp, tripping over rubble on the ground and falling back hard against the stairs. He winces in pain, curling in on himself and using one arm to cover his head, his opposite hand bracing himself against the steps behind him. He lets out some kind of noise between a whimper and a cry, and it sounds rather.. strange, in a way he can't explain. Tommy doesn't have time to process it considering he's pretty sure he's either gone delusional, or he's actually just stumbled upon another human, alive and not infected and around his age?
Who are you? Tommy immediately wonders, somehow both surprised and amazed. He doesn't even realize he's still holding the gun out, too captivated to focus on anything else.
The boy doesn't move, only continuing to breathe heavily and shield his face away from Tommy, curling in on himself more and more. He's shaking, Tommy realizes, and fuck— Tommy realizes he's definitely managed to scared the absolute shit out of the stranger.
"Pl—ease." Tommy thinks he hears the boy whisper between a breath, shaky and insecure and unusual. Only then does Tommy look down at the weapon in his hands, realizing he still had it pointed at the kid. He drops it immediately, hiding it away back in it's rightful place before deliberately forcing his hands up so both his palms are facing away from him. Not that the boy is looking at the attempted surrender, still trying to somehow make himself smaller than he is.
Tommy thinks this would be the part where he would say something— anything at all. And yet, he still can't bring himself to speak a word. The boy still doesn't move an inch, his body shaking in what Tommy can only recognize as what is most likely flat out fear.
After a long moment, Tommy takes a leap. He snaps the fingers on his right hand twice, hoping maybe it will be enough to get the other's attention.
It seems to work, even though it takes an entire minute (a strangely delayed reaction, Tommy distantly notes before brushing it off. He's probably just hesitant). The brunette boy lowers his arm, and his body and whole demeanor seems to relax all together even the slightest bit as he sees that Tommy's put away the weapon. It's the first time Tommy can actually get a decent look at him, and man, does he look like shit.
The kid is definitely a teenager, traces of his youth evident in the softness of his jaw and the slight, dimming sparkle of his eyes. Tommy thinks for a moment maybe he's actually younger than he thought for a moment, but that might've just been the way he's much smaller; somehow evidently thin despite the layers of dull clothes he wears. His skinny jeans are baggy when they're probably supposed to hug his legs, and when his sleeve slips down his left wrist looks like it could snap at the slightest effort as he tries to shield himself, noticeably thin even though it's covered in bandages. His dark hair curtains over his eyes and he had to flick his head to be able to see. It waves down the sides of his face, curling around the napes of his neck. His eyes dawn dark bags underneath them, and worst of all, he still looks so, so scared.
The two just stand there for a long moment, staring at each other as if they both think the other isn't actually real; merely two ghosts having a staring contest. The boy still looks afraid, but Tommy takes a rather brave chance and moves. Taking a closer look, he officially confirms that the kid across from him isn't anything more than a kid, and is in fact nothing at all near being a zombie. His skin isn't rotting (more dirty than anything), and his movements are controlled and careful. Tommy has seen zombies, plenty of them, and despite the way he feels like his eyes still might be deceiving him right now, that was not the case.
Tommy moves one small step forward, holds up one finger.Wait, he mouths.
He moves to take off his bag, only taking his eyes off the other for split seconds at a time. Just because he seemed vulnerable didn't mean Tommy didn't want to take his chances, even if he wanted to be nice. He still couldn't be sure if this new person was actually on his side or not.
At some point the other catches his eye, waving one hand frantically. Tommy pauses, raising an eyebrow at him.
The brunette moves his hand slowly, taps his left ear twice, and shakes his head with a frown.
Wh—, Tommy can only look at him, perplexed, before it hits him.
He's deaf..?
He's deaf.
No wonder he's so damn noisy.
So many questions swirl in Tommy's mind but he forces them down, storing them away for now. He offers an understanding nod, before returning his attention to pull out a tattered notebook from his bag that's definitely running out of pages (to be fair, he did find it on the side of a road), along with his trusty pen. He drops his bag to the floor, and gestures to the notebook. The boy across from him blinks, looking utterly apprehensive, but doesn't make any more effort to try and speak or communicate at all anymore.
Wait— he did speak, didn't he? Did I imagine it?
Tommy shakes his head, stores the questions away. He swallows, flipping open the notebook and beginning to scribble something onto a page.
'My name is Tommy, I'm mute. What's your name?', he writes. He turns the notebook for the other to see, hoping the light shining in from a nearby window is enough for the other to be able to read it.
The boy swallows, the frown on his face never slipping. He holds a hand out for the book, and Tommy hesitantly decides to toss it to him, along with his pen. The two aren't that far away from eachother and Tommy has the high ground anyway, but it seems they both decide to take the more safe routes with eachother.
He flips the page in the notebook, writes something down, turns it towards Tommy.
'Tubbo.', it reads in rather slightly messier handwriting, 'I can't hear very well.'
Tommy has to narrow his eyes to be able to read it. He waves a hand, and points to himself. He holds up one finger, pauses, then uses both his hands to make the number seven. I'm seventeen. He waits a moment, then points at the boy— Tubbo— questioningly and hopes he understands.
Tubbo's eyes flick from Tommy's hands up to Tommy. He holds up a one, wincing slightly, then uses his hands to hold up six fingers. Sixteen.
Tommy nods. Okay, he can work with that.
He motions for the notebook and pen and Tubbo tosses it back. Tommy turns the page and begins to write something.
'What happened to your arm?', Tommy decides to go for. A conversation starter— definitely not asked because he's concerned, or something.
He just met Tubbo. He can't be getting connected to a person so easily, he reminds himself.
Tubbo raises his hands, and makes some type of sign, a motion with his fingers even though it definitely physically pains him. Sign language. Tommy racks his brain for anything it might mean, until he thinks he's come to a conclusion.
You fell?, Tommy mouths, hoping Tubbo can read his lips.
Tubbo looks maybe even a little sheepish then, his gaze dropping before he looks back up at Tommy through his eyelashes. He nods.
Tommy frowns. He returns his attention back to the notebook to write something. 'Can I see?', he asks. Tubbo looks leery, and after a long moment he doesn't move or make any effort to try and say anything at all. Tommy supposes that it's fair, considering he did literally just pull a gun on the guy not even five minutes ago. 'I won't hurt you, promise.', Tommy writes, hoping Tubbo will trust him.
A beat passes, and Tubbo nods.
Tommy picks up his bag, throwing a strap over his shoulder. He keeps his hands in clear view, stepping forward and weaving around a few miscellaneous things littering the floor to make his way over quietly.
He crouches down next to the boy, who only blinks back at Tommy. He realizes Tubbo has a bag of his own right next to him which probably fell off him when he tripped backwards.
Tommy holds a hand out to Tubbo's injured arm, and it takes a moment for him to understand what the blonde is requesting. Despite the way Tubbo seems to look a bit more comfortable, it takes a second for him to reluctantly hold his arm out for Tommy to inspect.
Carefully, Tommy takes Tubbo's hand in his (a feat in itself), using his other hand to push up Tubbo's sleeve. His wrist and hand are poorly wrapped with some type of dirty cloth, and Tommy gives conscientious application to the work of unwrapping it.
When he drops the cloth, Tubbo's wrist is revealed to be well swollen and tremoring slightly. He can move his fingers, and Tommy supposes that's a good sign.
Not letting go of his careful hold on the boy's hand, Tommy turns to dig through his bag, remembering something he found in the ambulance that he nearly didn't decide keep for himself. He thinks maybe it's some kind of weird sign that he's in this situation now and he did end up keeping the item; a wrist splint, a left one too, perfectly enough.
He takes it out and glances up at Tubbo. It will help, Tommy mouths slowly, and Tubbo give a small nod.
Tommy helps to put it on his wrist without much trouble. It's a little big on him, clearly meant for an adult, but it's good enough.
Tommy rolls Tubbo's sleeve back down and Tubbo clenches his hand a couple times, turning his arm a few times over to look at the splint, eyes wide with an emotion Tommy can't read.
When he looks back to Tommy he uses his uninjured hand to sign something else. Tommy only really knows the basics of sign-languange— he recalls taking a class on it years ago, before all this— and could probably understand some improv using common sense. He recognizes the sign Tubbo makes as a rather grateful 'Thank you'.
Tommy feels himself smile (when was the last time he did that?), and Tubbo actually returns it. Tommy decides that he likes Tubbo's smile quite a lot, it's much better compared to the concern previously covering his features.
Tommy closes his bag then, slinging it over his shoulder and standing up. He goes to turn away, but finds himself hesitating, pausing in his tracks. He turns back to Tubbo still leaning against the stairs, and does something he thinks for a second that he might regret.
He holds out a hand, a silent offering for Tubbo to take, if only he wants it.
It catches Tommy off guard: the way that Tubbo reaches up and takes it right away. Tommy almost topples over with the pull of Tubbo's hand, but he shifts his weight just in time to pull Tubbo to his feet instead.
Tommy actually has to suppress a laugh, as Tubbo almost falls into him when Tommy pulls him a bit too hard. He catches the boy's arms so he doesn't, steadying him. Tommy only has a moment to notice how short Tubbo is standing beside him before the brunette is reaching down to grab his own bag.
He slings a tattered strap over his shoulder, reaching over and tugging on Tommy's sleeve with a smile. He turns away and begins to walk towards the front door, motioning for Tommy to follow.
Tommy does so without hesitation after grabbing his bat, his curiosity getting the better of him, and all thoughts of not getting attached to the first person he's met in weeks flying out the window.
Tubbo leads Tommy about a mile away, and his stomach continues to ache worse. He tries his best to ignore the feeling, not wanting to cause Tubbo any type of concern.
Tommy watches as he walks in front of him. He's so much smaller, and Tommy wonders when the last time he ate was, and how he's functioning so well when he looks so gaunt. If Tommy's stomach hurts after only a couple days of not eating but Tubbo can manage like this, he feels he has no real right to complain at all.
Tommy grips his bat close to him and wonders how the hell Tubbo isn't carrying some type of weapon on him right now. After what had to have been about 45 minutes of walking, Tubbo leads Tommy to what appears to be some type of small, closed off neighborhood. Passing a few abandoned houses that definitely don't creep Tommy out, Tubbo stops before one with faded yellow paint and white lining, a porch and a mini (definitely decaying) garden out front.
Tommy taps Tubbo's shoulder to get his attention, giving him a questioning look. You live here?, he hopes to relay, and Tubbo shakes his head. He suddenly grabs Tommy's hand with his good one, and pulls him to lead him around the side of the house.
Tubbo tugs open a side gate and makes sure to lock it behind them after Tommy steps through. Tubbo takes the lead again, and Tommy finally sees his target.
It's an 8 x 10 storage shed standing in the back yard of the house. Tubbo waves a hand to motion for him to follow again when Tommy paused in his tracks, so Tommy jogs toward him, feeling more surprised and inquisitive than anything.
There's a makeshift chain lock around the handles of they grey shed, and Tubbo has to strain his right hand to get it off with the injury of his left wrist. Once it's off he pulls one door open, stepping into the darkness of the makeshift living space. Tommy opts to stay outside in the light of day, patiently waiting for whatever is to happen next.
A light turns on inside the shed, and only then does Tommy peek his head in. He realizes the light is coming from a lantern in the corner, before taking a scan around the place.
It's not a ton of space, but it's big enough, and Tommy can understand Tubbo's inhabitance of it. If anything it's smart; finding one decent place that works well to squat in for a good amount of time. It's much more wise than hopping places or sleeping in a vehicle, Tommy supposes, so he puts his trust in the boy and steps inside.
There are blankets and towels covering the ground, what looks to be a child's mattress shoved into one corner with a couple pillows and a faded green blanket. There are some supplies hanging up on hooks in the walls; miscellaneous tools most likely left behind; a rusted hammer, rope, even a shovel. There are more things on the floor pushed against one wall, a white cooler, some water bottles and a couple more backpacks.
It's rather cozy, Tommy has to admit. It's lived in for sure, and it's a nice change of pace juxtaposed with the basically derelict world outside. Strange even to himself and even though Tommy just met the guy, its very much Tubbo, somehow— however that might make any sense.
When Tommy squints from where he stands he sees a little picture taped to the wall next to the bed. It's a picture of a cat standing in what looks to be a kitchen setting; a tabby, Tommy recognizes, with little white paws.
Strange, Tommy can only think, this kid is strange.
Tommy likes Tubbo, he thinks, and his little personalized shed.
Tubbo closes the door behind them and hangs the lock on the handles on the insides of the doors. Tommy figures he probably locks the doors at night when he goes to sleep, which would make sense.
The shorter drops his bag, kneeling down to open it. Tommy watches as he reaches in, pulling out a couple small bags of chips, a few cans of food and dry packs of noodles. Tubbo grabs a can and turns to Tommy, holding it up for him to take.
Tommy reaches out to take it and then.. he pauses. His stomach screams in protest and he ignores it, shaking his head.
Tubbo's brows furrow in confusion. He pulls the can back and reads the label, before setting it down and grabbing another can, holding it out for Tommy to take just as he did the first one, definitely thinking the only reason Tommy hadn't taken it was because he didn't like whatever was in it.
Tommy huffs, rolling his eyes and goes to grab his notebook and pen. He flips it open, scribbles something inside it and shoves it into Tubbo's hands.
'You look like you need the food more than I do.' It states. Tubbo scowls, as if the notebook itself had offended him.
He writes something, and hands it back to the blond boy. 'Don't be stupid, there's enuff right now for the both of us. Considor it repayment.' Tubbo says.
Tommy blinks at the scroll, but doesn't have much time to ponder about the occasional misspellings as another can is practically shoved into his hands, nearly falling to the ground before Tommy manages to catch it clumsily in his arms.
When Tommy looks up, Tubbo is organizing the food and storing it next to the cooler with the water, and then tossing Tommy a can opener. The blonde can only sigh, sit himself down on a towel cross-legged and begin trying to open the food. The label on the can states, "Dinty Moore Beef Stew", with a picture of the food underneath it. Once it's open, Tubbo hands him a plastic spoon to use before taking the opener to pry his own can open.
The soup is cold, but the label says it has 400 calories in it which is better than nothing, and Tommy wouldn't even think of complaining about it in a million years. Nowadays food is food, and that was all that mattered whether he liked it or not.
Tommy's can is nearly empty in a matter of minutes, whereas Tubbo seems to take his time with whatever it was he chose to eat. It's some kind of chili, it looks like, and Tubbo grimaces at the taste but seems to continue shoving it down anyway.
Tubbo sits leaning against the wall at the foot of his makeshift bed, and after finishing his food Tommy decides to do the same, sitting about a foot away from him considering he doesn't know much about Tubbo's boundaries and how much personal space he likes to spare. Tubbo doesn't seem to mind it when Tommy moves over, barely giving him a glance before returning his attention back to his food.
Tommy waits patiently, picking at hangnails on his fingers, his mind racing with questions once again. He hopes Tubbo might be up to talk for a bit, considering they're both practically strangers even when proven to be trustworthy (so far, at least) on both sides.
When Tubbo finally finishes (even when the can isn't completely empty, Tommy notices), he gets up to set the can on the cooler that Tommy isn't doubtful he uses as some type of mini table. Tommy watches him carefully. Tubbo's shoe gets caught on part of a blanket, causing him to stumble when setting down the can, which in turn causes the can to fall.
Tommy flinches at the only semi-loud noise, but Tubbo doesn't pay it any mind as if it never happened. He ended up catching himself on the wall, and looked rather confused when he turned back to Tommy whose lips were pursed together, eyebrows unfurrowing.
Tommy grabs his notebook, flipping to a clean page. 'No offense, but I seriously have no idea how you've managed to survive this long. You're so noisy.', Tommy writes, handing Tubbo the notebook when he sits back down beside him.
Tubbo frowns at the writing, his cheeks just barely flushing with his embarrassment. 'I'm not sure tbh, your guess is a good as mine.' he writes, 'Sorry.' is written underneath it.
Tommy only shrugs, thinking of which question he wants to ask next, out of the couple dozens running through his mind. He thinks can you hear at all? might be a bit insensitive, so he opts for a lighter alternative.
'You can speak?', is what Tommy decides on.
Tubbo nods, flicking his head to move his hair from his eyes, taking the pen. 'I went deaf after I learned to talk. Usually I try not to tho because I can't hear how loud my tone is. Need to be careful, & that.'
Tommy nods back in understanding, but Tubbo continues to write after taking the notepad back before Tommy got the chance.
'Why can't you?'
Tommy crosses out the question, hoping Tubbo gets the gist. It's a rather personal one, and Tommy is confused over Tubbo's sudden boldness, because what if he just flat out asked why Tubbo's deaf? They practically just met, for gods' sake.
Instead of answering, he decides to counter the question with one of his own, 'How long have you been staying here?'
Tubbo glances at Tommy. 'A few weeks.' he replies.
They continue like that back and forth for a bit, the two making an effort to write smaller to save the pages they have left. Tommy learns quite a few things about his new friend, like how his spelling is off sometimes because he's dyslexic. The cat photo taped to the wall was Tubbo's cat before Tubbo ran away (he doesn't seem to want to elaborate much on that one), and his name was Rocky. When Tommy asks him if he's spent all this time alone, Tubbo tells him about a boy he was very close friends with. He doesn't tell Tommy his name (whether on purpose or not, Tommy isn't sure), only that he was very tall and had a birthmark on his head that made nearly half his hair a snowy-white color, interestingly enough. Apparently what happened was the two got separated running from a hoard of zombies months back. He looks horribly sad, then, and Tommy wishes he had something positive to tell him to make him feel better.
There aren't a lot of things to be positive about, nowadays.
When it's Tommy's turn to tell Tubbo about himself, he confesses that there really isn't much to say. He explains that he was an only child, how he had a couple of dogs, but leaves out the fact that both his parents were bitten by zombies which caused him to be forced to leave them behind. He isn't sure if Tubbo understands the subtle implications, but just like the brunette was with a few things about himself, Tommy doesn't want to elaborate even if he does pick them up.
Tommy realizes he has to think hard about anything really interesting about himself he can share.
'I used to like listening to music a lot, but I haven't been able to since I broke my phone like three months ago.' Tommy writes, sliding the notebook over to Tubbo.
It takes a moment for Tubbo to read it, and when he does, his eyes go saucer-wide for some reason. He scrambles up and crawls onto his bed, and Tommy watches as he throws the blankets back and lifts a pillow at the head of it before picking something up and returning back to the older.
He has something clasped in his hands, as if whatever it is is sacred and special— meant to be kept a secret from anyone else. When he opens them in front of Tommy, his hands reveal a small, square device with a little screen and a few buttons on it, a pair of dirty headphones wrapped around it.
Holy shit, is that—?
Tommy's expression matches Tubbo's previous one now as he comes to the realization if what it is; an old ipod, surely from over a couple decades ago now. Technology was practically rare nowadays as internet is practically non-existent, and even though Tommy has no idea where it came from, the fact that Tubbo has an ipod this old at all is.. insane.
Tubbo unwraps the headphones and holds a button on the side of the device. The screen lights up, and for a split second Tommy thinks he might start crying.
No. No crying. That's embarrassing. I'm a big man. Big men don't cry, he reminds himself, determined. He bites the insides of his cheeks in hopes that Tubbo doesn't notice all the silent emotion washing over him in that moment.
And then Tubbo is offering Tommy one earbud, and he takes it from the younger easily. He puts it in his right ear, and Tubbo is using the buttons on it to click through the small selections of songs on it. He chooses one Tommy doesn't recognize, but Tommy is grateful over everything. For a moment he seriously has to hold himself back from tackling the boy next to him in a hug, because he hasn't felt this genuinely excited over something in a long, long time.
Tubbo smiles, and holds out his hand for the other earbud. Tommy hands it to him and he puts it in his left, and Tubbo hands him the ipod. Tubbo picks back up the notebook and pen, beginning to write something.
'I can feel the vibrations.' Tubbo explains, as if reading Tommy's wondering thoughts.
And there really is something so bittersweet about that, Tommy thinks. Sharing earbuds and music with someone to trust, even if you can't really listen. The two enjoy eachothers company nonetheless, and after a bit they move to sit on the bed which is decidedly much easier on their tailbones than the hard shed ground is.
Tubbo has moved the pillows behind them to rest their backs against, and draped a blanket over their legs. The small windows in the doors of the shed are covered by fabric, but there's no longer any daylight shining through them. The night has settled over the two boys before they'd even realized it.
Tommy leans back a bit more against his pillow, tilts his head back and closes his eyes, focusing on the music. He silently wonders what it's like for Tubbo, hearing only the vibrations like he said.
Soon enough Tommy can feel himself drifting off, but before he can get the chance he feels something fall against his shoulder. When he opens his eyes and looks to his right, Tubbo is leaning into him, his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, already fast asleep.
Something inside Tommy softens at the sight— the silent gesture, the implication that Tubbo became so comfortable with him so quickly, even if the action wasn't deliberate. Tubbo's hair is covering a good portion of his face, and when the earbud accidentally falls out of the younger's ear Tommy takes on the effort of carefully putting it back in. He shifts his body to lay him and his friend down better, wrapping an arm around the boy and holding him close when Tubbo unconsciously nuzzles into Tommy's sweater. He doesn't realize how much he missed or really needed the physical contact until the warmth of Tubbo's body radiates onto his own, and it's nice, having another person to to lean against after being derived of physical contact for so damn long.
The next song that plays is much slower, and it's only when Tommy is finally falling asleep that he realizes that he hadn't marked off the day in his calendar.
He sighs, subconsciously matching his breathing to Tubbo's and allowing it to slow into a steady rhythm.
He'll make sure to do it tomorrow. For now, the calendar can wait.