Work Text:
|these coloured marks
Blue chalk was the best- in his opinion at least. Less likely to crumble, less likely to stain clothes and most consistent in its colour- unlike yellow that turned murky depending on the concrete. Although, red looked best under this lighting; worn out LED bulbs that glowed more orange than white in a desperate cry for replacement, dead moths and bugs casting shadows in the light covers.
Tommy loved Brighton. Admittedly, he had no friends, worked way too many hours and lived in a shit hole of a flat- but he loved it.
The bright beach-side city was a big difference from his hometown of empty parks and roads that were in dire need of repaving- where he occupied an empty house that felt far too large for just him. Sure there were no spring wildflowers of delicate purples to potter around his feet as he walked the worn country paths of cobbled stones with their bright purple petals, but it also meant there were no empty hallways in a brick house, haunted by family photos all aged well over ten years. It’s not that Tommy wasn't thankful for all his parents did for him- they sent him to a decent school and provided all a child could ever want or need, but he was just sick of pretending.
Here, in Brighton- in his shit hole of a flat, Tommy was free. Completely and utterly free. He paid his own rent, bought his own food and maybe he’d had to ask the downstairs neighbour to help him buy razors for the first few weeks until he was eighteen, but largely Tommy was blissfully independent.
He didn’t have a car- or a licence, but public transport served him just fine, and gave Tommy plenty of time for ‘mindfulness’ as that weird barista that always gifted a cookie with his coffee liked to remind.
He took two train lines to get from work to his flat, one was bustling, near the city centre and flooding with people who shoved and fought to claim a seat of scarily vibrant fabric that, to Tommy, always smelt like cat piss. The second was quiet, heading towards residential districts in a long enough track that he could nod off for a few minutes without having to stress he’d miss his stop.
The stopover between them was always empty, not once in his four months of visiting had Tommy even seen someone else there- it was like this tiny slice of paradise. Greyed concrete and awful lighting, quiet after an eight-hour shift.
For some reason, it always reminded him of the lone train stop back home- where teenagers would board ugly carriages, scented with must and age into the city centre, then switch lines to the London train. Tommy remembered when he was little that his Mum had taken him there, to the platform, large expanses of concrete- stretching as far as his six-year-old mind could see. Maybe she’d just needed something to occupy him in his hyperactive years while she handled a few calls, he’s never quite figured out why. But she’d handed him a pack of chalk sticks and one instruction. Don’t cross the yellow lines.
Must have been some weird sense of nostalgia, he reasoned on the first day he ventured out to the store on his way home. He never really made sense of why it became a habit or why he even started to begin with. Tommy's always been more of a creative type- scribbling in school books, rotting away in GCSE Art, planning elaborate stories in class, yet he’d never considered chalk a medium he would explore. But four months down the track, Tommy is wasting a significant amount of money each week and ruining all his favourite sweaters with chalk dust.
Even now- today with his dark green sweater layered under a thick blue puffer he’d owned since age thirteen, his palms were stained with blues and greens, tell-tale of his work.
The art spreads across the ground- A swirl of blues, greens and purples. It was supposed to be the beach, heavy waves, skewered by a pillar of white- the i360. His colour palette was always interesting- there weren’t a whole lot of options when it came to chalk- especially not for a broke eighteen-year-old who was particularly shit at mixing colours. So his sketches always came out in stark lines, like that cartoon network colour palette he sees on TikTok. This wasn’t much different, blue to colour block the waves, with swipes of green throughout and purple for the shadows. Capped with white, waves lap at the tower’s base, accented with the slightest of pink to its outline.
He doesn't think much of swiping his transit card, even if his fingers leave a smudge of chalk dust on the scanner, or that his usual seat, empty as always, probably needs a thorough vacuum- that when he sits down a small puff of dust erupts into the air, enough to make Tommy screw up his nose in order to hold back a sneeze.
The train was always dreary, and his phone ended up flat by the end of a shift- only enough battery remaining to play music for his fifty-minute commute home. Granted it was painfully slow watching the train stop at each platform only to wait for no one to board.
His friends back home had asked him; why not London? Freddie’s tones low and gravely after a particularly challenging game of Mario kart had caught everyone off guard that day. There had been a silent agreement amongst the four of them to simply not talk about Tommy moving- they weren’t sure why they decided that, they just did. Tommy screwed his nose up. “Too many wankers.”
A bit of a cop-out answer- one to make Eryn snort and Jack's finger slip on the tiny Nintendo controllers as he let out a laugh- but also true.
Tommy had thought about London, he really had, but it was just too condensed. He realised that going from a small town in the middle of Nottinghamshire that not even he could find on a map, straight to London, probably wasn’t the best idea. So he’d settle for something smaller- something light, applied for jobs, accepted the first one and rented his shit hole flat.
Luckily, the first job had been a good one, at The Lego store in Churchill Square. A little difficult to get to, but public transport served him well, even if Tommy had to get creative in the half-hour stopovers between his train lines.
Currently, his apartment was under ‘advised absence’ meaning that there was yet another issue the landlord hadn’t been asked to fix earlier on- last week a bunch of wasps had flooded out of his light fixture- not the best, but tolerable.
But even if the elevator of his building was permanently out of order- or if Tommy’s door was so heavy he had to shove his entire weight against it in order for it to slide open, it was his and that was all he needed. The bathroom sink had the faintest of red tints to it as he drenched his hands, dust bleeding away down the drain the same way his latest art would wash away when the sky inevitably opened up its welcoming arms and poured rain down upon them (most likely tomorrow- this was England, what was he to expect?).
| and whispered words
For some reason, one he has never quite understood, Tommy loved the grey clouds- ones that blended so seamlessly into the pale sky. He revelled in the cool dusk of setting suns and breathing in crisp air that chilled him to his core. But no matter how freezing he might feel ( it was six degrees) the urge to complain- or even attempt to warm himself, never arose.
He enjoys the brief walk to the station from work, all six hundred metres of it. Hands shoved deep into pockets, fiddling with the case of his bluetooth headphones and dreading the fact his phone is already on nine percent- low enough that he gets a little worried each time his shitty headphones cut out.
The platform is empty- as usual. Dim lighting rivalled only by the glowing luminescence of a vending machine. He messily shoves his bank card against the scanner, clicking for a can of coke. But with each mechanical click or dull, thud the machine makes, and as the can tumbles to the bottom, ready for him to grasp its cool metal and bask in the sweet sugar he knew would give him one last burst of energy, he sees it.
Next to his latest art, a field of violets- made to represent the wildflowers he couldn’t stop thinking about lately, the ones that grow around his house back in Nottinghamshire, is carefully lettered text. All straight lines and curved edges, so uninformed Tommy would almost think it was printed- if not for the stub of red chalk he knows is from the box kept tucked away in his backpack.
It’s written in red, presumably to stand out. Each ‘r’ has the same curve, and every ‘a’ features the same flick of its tail.
The window is open and the breeze says;
be safe, the world is quiet here
It’s odd. Thick writing, meaning it took quite some time. Tommy has spent enough afternoons here, carving his drawings in pastel colour to know that a stroke so vibrant must have been run over at least five times, maybe even more judging by the lack of breaks in the colour- thick, full writing. Someone had wasted precious minutes to perfect it- in a city where everyone has somewhere to be and something to do- there was a person out there who stopped to write in a practically abandoned station. And he’s not quite sure why.
There’s a foreign taste in his mouth- one Tommy doesn’t recognise.
He drowns it with coca cola, letting the fizzy liquid flood him as he simply reads. Over, and over, and over again. That day, Tommy does not draw, a confusing feeling brewing inside him.
This was supposed to be his form of expression- the flower field meant something to him- a meaning no one else would quite understand. No one else would know how the flower stems loop and twist in a mockery of the cursive handwriting his mother bore- written on notes he’d trace his fingers over and pretend there was love behind them. The echo of his parent’s presence, the same way the office door would be open just a crack, letting Tommy know it wasn’t a dream- that they did come home. No matter how fleetingly.
Usually, there was no hesitation to smudge out an artwork into a blank canvas of colour, he’d even been excited to run his palms over the delicately drawn flowers, violet petals blending with moss-covered rocks and loamy soil he’d drawn- the colour would have been beautiful , he thinks.
Tommy tells himself it’s the red- that it wouldn't mix well with the other colours, that's why he feels hesitant to erase it. But that just wasn’t true.
It wasn’t just his art anymore- someone else had seen the carefully drawn flowers and decided they too, could admire their beauty- could create the same way Tommy's fingers itched to do. To him, it felt wrong to destroy that.
So instead he takes a seat, dials up his music (his favourite band at the moment- their second ep has been on repeat through his headphones for a whole week now) and mulls the words.
He wastes a whole three percent googling them only to come back fruitless, so they were clearly mustered up by whoever frequents the platform in Tommy's absent hours.
“Be safe.” He whispers to himself, like a mantra as he hears the train roaring down the tunnel, knowing it was his. Watching as it rolls to a slow stop- his own reflection meeting his gaze. Golden blonde hair curling in wild and messy strands, falling over his eyes in disorder. He frowns, waiting for the door to open. He drags a hand through his hair, for once not stained by chalk dust, catching on knots. Tired eyes, rimmed with dark circles paired with the natural downwards tilt of his lips just makes Tommy frown further. “The world is quiet here.”
It’s barely a whisper, but it sounds amongst the silent hiss of a train, echoing against harsh stone, begging to be let free from the confines the platform provides.
The silent stub of chalk abandoned on the concrete speaks volumes, begging for more- asking him with kind tones for more. In the same way he needed more, to be free. From the stench of cigarette smoke on his father’s thick brown coat, or that the month-long absences his parents took for business.
Creative expression, no matter how personal, or secluded it was, needed to be free.
The train doors open with the woosh of air conditioning and the squeaking slide of hinges that needed to be oiled and for just a moment more, Tommy stays frozen in place, thinking. But with calm hands and a resolute decision, he dragged the box of chalk out from his bag and placed it gently on a chair, right next to the artwork- offering it one last glance.
It reminds him of the spring flowers behind his family's home, where he's told his mother would venture out to let him play as a child under her careful protection lest any dangers lie past the tree line. The forests, his father said, were dangerous. Yet here he stands, after years of venturing into it alone, unscathed and more strong than he had ever been under their care.
Tommy is tired, he is exhausted, hungry and struggling. He has no friends, no social life apart from discord chat rooms with school friends who now live hours away. Tommy uses candles rather than the overhead lights and resists using the hot water in his crappy apartment because it costs far too much on minimum wage.
But Tommy is still standing- still happy. He is no longer an inviable ghost haunting his childhood home, a conversation of passing for small talk his parents breeze through on business trips. He feels himself- a person of his own, no matter how tired, hungry and broke he may be. Which is more than his family home could ever offer.
His pass beeps a sweet tone as it scratches against the scanner, his worn-out white converse scuffing on the floor as he spins to land in his seat as he tilts backwards, falling against scratchy fabric.
Tommy lets out a heavy sigh and flicks the volume of his music up a few more notches. Be safe, his mind supplies, the world is quiet here.
| may wash away
It rains that night- and the day after.
It pours and pours, enough that Tommy has to collect a large bucket from his building’s reception desk in order to prevent a stubborn leak from ruining his carpet- drip, drip, dripping down from the bedroom ceiling. Lego sets are rearranged and pushed aside to cram the bucket atop his desk- concerningly, right near his computer. So he has to move that too- out onto the kitchen table, just to be safe.
His pc and tactical keyboard, colourful lights shut off with a lack of power now sit in the centre of his apartment, on that tiny little table where he alone eats his meals- exceptions only coming once in a while when Tubbo visits from a few hours away.
And he takes the deep baking tray he’d bought in an attempt to make brownies once (it really didn't work too well) and sets it under the bucket, nerves flickering inside of him at the thought of leaving the apartment for work- a whole eight hours of dripping before he can empty the bucket.
Tommy moves all of his lego to his bed, resting carefully on the duvet and throws a towel over his desk before placing the bucket and baking tray back, Just to be safe .
He ends up being half an hour late to work, but Tommy’s kind supervisor, who is only supposed to be there for the day’s first four hours- not four and a half, is calm about it and accepts his excuses with polite understanding.
“I’ve got a leaky roof too,” he says, smile tracing his features as he collects his car keys from under the counter and clocks off on his phone. “Makes the whole place smell musty- make sure to buy some air freshener- or candles at least.”
Then Tommy is alone in the store again. But today will be a good day , he decides. They had new stock which meant he was allowed to make the new displays- arguably his favourite part about work aside from the twenty percent discount.
He’s meticulous and thorough with his work. When he sells something he resticks the shelf once the store is empty, he keeps the store room in tip-top shape, a sorting system easily recognisable with shelving labelled. And by the end of his shift, when he locks up and slips the key into his pocket, stuffing the lanyard down messily to tangle with the one for his own apartment, Tommy’s fingers feel raw from fiddly work, red with irritation and blunt, broken fingernails shorter than when the day had begun, his habit of biting them in idleness never quite shaken.
It still pours as he makes his way to the city station, his hair flattened by water- Tommy knows that won’t last long and no amount of hair bushing will make it calm into a presentable fashion tomorrow (the curls have a mind of their own). Droplets litter the carriage floor as he stands to exit, the doors hissing open with released air. Tommy’s station is empty, as always, scented with soggy paper and distinct notes of old pot smoke.
Water streams down the surface stairs in little trails, pathing its way to the track drains. It flows smoothly- seamlessly, branching out as it travels, leaving greyed concrete behind.
The water has no mercy as it streaks through thick chalk, dragging away dust and colour in smears of ignorance.
Tommy’s art, his flowers, exist as nothing more than a blurry remainder of what they were. Purples mixing with blues and greens in ugly splotches, running down past the yellow lines along the platform’s edge, lost to the tracks.
The red is there too, giving everything the slightest tinge of brown as water washes the colours into one ugly shade of murk. It looks like there was more- text Tommy wasn’t given the opportunity to see before water seeped into and distorted it.
He wonders what it said- if it was raw like his art, or simply something done in passing, a phrase that someone out in the streets of this city whispers to themselves in order to stay sane. Tommy wonders if he’ll start doing it too, or that now his violets are gone, and the next piece he creates will be something he makes not just for him but for others too, that they will add to it as well.
After being alone for so long, in a house of empty halls and silent nights, it felt so wonderful to be seen- to know someone saw him- even if it is simply through the sidewalk chalk he sketches with.
| but together,
Etho would describe the office as scuffed at best and a disastrous pit of stationery at worst (honestly, they had so many pencils).
Really it was mostly just a working space, all meetings were handled downstairs in a room that was under no condition to be used for anything else- they needed to keep professional appearances and their scrambled office of disorganised desks certainly didn’t offer that.
A messy collection of people who somehow fit together perfectly. And sure there were clashes from time to time- Sacar and Bdubs disagreeing on a design choice, Or papers going missing in one of Tango’s tidying sprees, but mostly, they fit together perfectly.
Their office is close enough to the city to make it convenient, and right next to a station for the underground. Really, their location couldn't be more perfect.
And maybe in the afternoons Etho has to brave the railway station that serves as home to teenagers looking to not get caught smoking, or the odd squatter, but those sorts of things never bother him. Especially when they are outshone by the chalk.
Because a few months ago, on his afternoon commute home, he’d seen the first drawing. It was uncoordinated, with smudges and the occasional shoe print, but all in all beautiful. A pair of koi fish, spotted in orange and white, outlines done in a mix of dark purples and blues, lines of white made ripples around them and it caught him so off guard Etho stopped halfway down the stairs.
No one was in the station, it was small enough to tell from where he stood, but those had definitely not been there at seven am when Etho had made his way to work. He wonders who made it, if there’s meaning behind the fish so wonderfully drawn across the floor. If the creator walked away with chalky footsteps and dusted hands.
But then Etho’s train pulls into the station, and he keeps walking.
The art keeps popping up, every few days a new work begins, sometimes finished between the time when Etho arrives in the morning and leaves in the afternoons, other times left, with short small progress made daily. It intrigues him because this is no performer like the ones at markets who carve illusion into pavements, it’s not meant for the world to see or marvelled at, not created for the purpose of viewing.
His favourite is the wave.
Etho had never really been a beach person- back in Canada he lived inland, never really willing to make the journey towards the ocean unless someone else dragged him along.
He remembers messily planned attacks, swimming silently beneath the surface to snag ankles, friendly splashes and crashing waves.
“Etho!”
“Hu-” He went crashing forwards, water roaring in his ears as the bitter state of salt settled on his tongue. Calm waves lapped around him, an aftermath of the absolute monster that just sent him under. He can hear his friends laugh, the two of them blending seamlessly together in the muffled sound travelling down to him.
He resurfaced with a bearly contained amusement and spat out water, snow white hair falling limply over his face- not quite long enough to hide the stupid smile on his face. Etho feigns annoyance, and flattens his palms out, drawing in his arms. With all the force he can muster, he thrusts them out, sending a large splash of salty green water straight into his friends' faces.
The art makes his mind foggy with memories, even if it isn’t modelled after the sandy shores of Vancouver and instead the pebbled beach of Brighton, England. Enough of a smile to pause, take his phone out and snap a photo just before he boards his train, transit card beeping as it’s scanned.
He sends it to Beef and Pause, with some text that vaguely telling them he misses the good old days.
>-<
Grian never liked public transport. It made him nervous- fidgety. He preferred Ubers, or getting lifts with friends; they made him less paranoid about being in someone’s way or if he was making the trip unpleasant for another person.
But sometimes, just sometimes he would brave the Brighton underground, climb down the stairs near his office and tap his transit card, sitting with his back to the wall at just the right angle that made his leg hitch up on the seat and told others: ‘ don’t sit there’ .
It's one such day that he sees it.
Flowers, gorgeous flowers that spread across the station floor, carved with chalk dust in thick bursts of colour, purple with yellow centres, spreading over greyed rocks and green grass (or maybe it’s meant to be moss? It’s a bit difficult to tell). The stems loop in such rhythmic patterns he also thinks it’s writing, but a few extra minutes of staring later he realises it isn’t.
They pull on distant memories in his mind- of road trips in a rubbish old van, fresh high school graduates making their way across England with a tent, travelling right from the South Coast all the way to Wales.
No seat belts, no air-con and a top speed of about seventy-five kilometres per hour- really a great idea for two kids who’d just finished the gruelling task of sixth form.
Grian lent backwards, bright light hitting him right in the face for what must be the hundredth time. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes as laughter echoed across the empty field. “Mumbo- I will come over and rip that flashlight away from you if you’re not careful.”
His hiking boots trampled over delicate flowers with each step. Honestly, if the two of them could have made a list of the places they’d stayed in the past month of their road trip, seventy percent of them would be random people’s laws Grian somehow convinced into letting the two of them set up camp. Honestly, it was rather impressive.
“From my cold, dead hands.”
“That can be arranged,” Grian grunted, struggling to pin the cover to the poles. It was the last part of their tent, just to prevent rain pelting down on the first layer in case it did rain. Nearing nine at night wasn’t the best time to start setting up a tent, but it didn't take extraordinarily long, just enough to be bothersome. “You know, maybe this would be faster if my best friend was helping instead of shining a very powerful flashlight in my eyes every fifteen seconds.”
There was just enough annoyed undertones in the words for Mumbo to set his flashlight on the van’s front seat and stop his way through the field to help set up their tent, dumb grin unmoving- much like Grian’s own
With stars shining down on them and the moon smiling softly, Gran remembers it as one of his fondest memories.
And with steady hands and time to spare, Grian collects the stump of red chalk abandoned on the platform ground and writes his message, one he’s known since those early days of graduation, something his best friend had whispered to panicking minds and empty field of violet wildflowers.
The window is open and the breeze says;
Be safe, The world is quiet here.
>-<
Tango and Jimmy had a rocky start, a bit too much conflict when they first met. The firm was, at that point, difunctional, disorganised and horrible at scheduling. So they hired a secretary, someone for straightforward customer relations, something the rest of them were horrible at. Enter Jimmy.
Long time friend of the firm’s founder and just charming enough that all of the middle-aged women who came in for meetings melted at the sight of his smile. Jimmy was different from all of them- he called them hermits, making jokes about how they needed to leave the office more often. Because while Jimmy was hard-working, he also understood work-life balance much better than the rest of them.
Truly, Jimmy swept through their office like a whirlwind. Within a month of starting, he’d established them a meticulously-ordered online calendar, with a slot for each of them and perfectly scheduled meetings. He’d organised their offices with filing cabinets and even started spreading a series of indoor plants around the ground floor. It makes the space more inviting , he tells the rest of them.
Maybe it was his ease that bothered Tango, as someone who had struggled his whole life with organisation, from last-minute school assignments to messy bedrooms, Tango had never quite clicked with whatever method people online threw around as ‘revolutionary’.
So yeah, that was probably what did it. That Jimmy managed to come into work every morning looking bright and cheery with coffee for those of them who drank it, looked at ease when he took phone calls, and always knew exactly where something was if it’d been lost. Jimmy was a marvel of adult life, somehow having everything together, he went to the gym, had a business degree (seriously what?) and still had time to indulge in his hobbies- apparently, he and Grian play video games once a week with old highschool friends.
It bothered Tango.
Until one day, when he rushed through the office doors with his keycard, a whole twenty minutes late and disordered in every which way, and had to physically stop in his tracks. Because Jimmy had a cat sitting on the front desk. An actual cat.
“Hey Tango,” He greeted, that blinding smile that typically served as more of an annoyance than a motivator to him. Then Jimmy boops the cat's nose and directs its face gently with a finger to look at where he stands dumbstruck. “Norman, say hi to Tango.”
This was by far the most unprofessional thing Tango has ever seen come from Jimmy- because not even Grian brings his cats to work, no matter how much he loves them.
Norman (seriously, why Norman?) was wearing a dapper little harness, coloured in mimicry of Captain America.
“Did you bring your cat to work?” It's more of a statement than a question, one said in pure disbelief at the ball of groomed fur and disinterested-looking eyes perched upon their lobby desk.
“Yeah, there was a bit of a plumbing issue in my apartment and I didn't think leaving the kitten alone would be the best plan.” Jimmy shrugs.
“Plumbing issue?”
“The pipe under my sink burst at like two am and they wouldn’t shut off the water because it’s linked to the whole third floor.”
Tango frowns, watching as Jimmy just continues flicking through a pile of contracts on his desk and skimming whatever is on his computer screen. “Dude, are you sure you should be here?”
“I mean yeah? I have a shift?”
“No, but- your apartment is flooding.” Tango’s face is contorted with confusion, eyebrows scrunched and lips tilted downwards. Maybe Jimmy wasn’t as organised as he thought- because honestly, who just leaves their apartment with water gushing into it? “Why aren’t you at home?”
“The landlord said they’d get a plumber out in a few hours, and reimburse me for any cleaners if I have to bring them in.” Jimmy shrugs like that's a normal occurrence. “I'm not exactly the most practical of people when it comes to that sorta stuff, so there’s not really much I can do.”
Jimmy- not practical? That was the most surprising thing he’s ever heard, because to Tango, there was nothing Jimmy couldn’t do. He was tall, handsome and kind, good at his job and hardworking, someone who dedicates time to friends and himself. And Tango will look back on this moment in the future with confusion, ask himself why he made the decision he did, but he never finds the answer.
“I- just, come on.” He sighs heavily and charges back towards the glass doors, phone already out and unlocked as he searches for their boss’s contact. There’s no hesitation in his fingers as he hits the call button because this very much was in need of attention.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“ I’m heading to the hardware store. You have fifteen minutes to pack up Norman before I’m back. Then, we’re going to your apartment. And I’m going to fix your burst pipe.” Tango scolds, not particularly bothered if he misses the first half of his work day. Grian will understand.
And Tango walks exceptionally fast to the hardware store two blocks away, he buys a thirty-pound copper pipe repair kit (horribly overpriced but getting an uber back to his apartment and collecting his own soldering gun would take far too long). He calls Grian and explains, who tells him not to worry, that these things happen and thanks him for helping out ‘Timmy’.
Tango charges into Jimmy’s building with a fury never before seen and demands the live-in landlord to shut off the water for the third floor. At the sight of such anger contained in his short stature, they fold quicker than expected, shutting off the power and going back to defend their rather horrible handling of the situation, but he doesn’t stick around to listen and hits the third-floor button about ten times out of impatience.
Tango spends no more than ten minutes fixing the pipe under Jimmy’s bathroom skin. His pants are soaked and Jimmy lends him a pair of sweats that are far too big (he has to roll up the cuffs and the waistband). Tango calls an old friend in the cleaning business. He tells Impulse to overcharge the landlord- the bastard tax Jimmy calls it, pulling a snort from Tango.
The two of them venture back out to the office, Norman safely back in an apartment filled to the brim with dehumidifiers. And when they get back to the train station, there’s chalk art spread up across the wall and along the ground, colour standing out against grey concrete.
It’s a galaxy, stars and lines carved in white, lines trailing to create definition, and in the centre is a planet- about the size of Tango’s palm, swirls of red and pink with a white ring around it. Text of red curves along its edge. The Universe said you are loved.
Tango pauses. It was beautiful and he wondered if it had been there an hour earlier when he’d stormed past. And he was completely ready to keep walking, to head back to work and get mocked for his poor pants options. Ready to be poked and prodded at by Etho who he’d regularly expressed his disdain for Jimmy to.
But he stays because Jimmy collects a box of thick chalk sticks from where they sit, tucked between a vending machine and the wall, making messy smudges of blue and purple, creating paths mimicking the milky way in photographs. He streaks white through it, dragging his palm across to blend the colours. Then he glances back at Tango with a smile and mixes a swirl of red in. Then he writes above it in white, and the universe said, you are the night.
Tango is not quite sure what it means when Jimmy holds the chalk stick out for him, smile welcoming and palms open in an invitation, an olive branch of sorts. But he takes the chalk, and on the opposite side of Jimmy’s smudge of colours, he writes his own message; And the universe said you are the daylight.
He doesn't know what this means, or who made the art because it certainly wasn’t Jimmy’s handwriting around that first planet, scrawled capitals with very little order, compared to Jimmy's uniformed cursive, telling of his time in private schools and handwritten university reports.
But he backs up as Jimmy does the finishing touches and takes a picture, low exposure on his phone, the flash sound echoing just early enough for him to spin and give Tango a blinding smile.
>-<
Scar by all means should have probably asked for a bit of help.
The British public transport systems are much more wheelchair accessible than those of America, and he’s glad, but sometimes the ramps are just a bit too steep.
But he’s here now though, so may as well make the most of it.
He wanted to see it for himself, so once he’d finished up at the office, Scar had made his way into the train station just down the street- the complete opposite direction of his house, but he was stubborn and the pictures Etho sends are poor quality, shaky and lacklustre (that man seriously needs to get a better phone).
And sure enough, the chalk is there, sitting proudly next to what could only be described as a mural, a love letter to the universe.
It covers a large portion of the ground, stretching around the bolted legs of seats and the vending machine, it trails a few feet up the wall in an arc, white stars and lines, interrupted occasionally by drawn planets of colourful smudges, writing accompanying each one.
And Scar feels that itch, the one beneath his fingers- the one he feels when he starts a new sketch or plan. His mind running a thousand miles per hour, telling him to go . To start , to create .
So he begins with orange, getting as close to the wall as possible and testing how the chalk feels between his fingers, making a rough circle with light strokes, before using more pressure to curve the round edge into a more defined line.
He goes and goes, making swirls of colour and extending the stars right up the wall, trying his best to not smudge any of the chalk beneath him. Scar goes until his fingers are red and irritated from accidental scratches against concrete, until his arm is tired from reaching so high. He scoots back a bit, admiring what he’s created and smiles so much it makes his cheeks sting slightly. He takes a picture and sends it to Etho.
Scar was never one for limitations. The feeling of being told ‘you can’t’ simply spurred him on further in life. If he’d spent his life listening to what people said he could and couldn’t do, he would hardly be where he is now.
It happened during his first year there, the university was definitely not the best but it was where he got in, a stepping stone for him. Dorms were expensive, but luckily he’d had a fund set up and a scholarship under his belt, so it isn’t as taxing as it should have been. He streamed in his spare time, amassing a small following- enough to pay for his lunchtime meals and on occasion blow his tweets up.
The cat is small, curled up in a box out the front of the dorm building. There was a sign, written on printer paper, taped to the front. ‘Roommate allergic to cats. Free Kitten’.
And truly, Scar paused- for so long one would have thought he zoned out. But he leant down cautiously and scooped up the box, placing it on his lap and shushing the cat with clam whispers the entire journey back to his dorm.
The vet told him he’s probably not the most equipped to deal with a kitten and said he should probably look into getting a shelter cat- one that’s a bit less trouble. Scar nodded and smiled politely, saying he’d think about it. He didn’t.
Scar kept the squirm of scruffy grey fur and named her Jellie.
When he was twenty-two, he planned the move to England. There was a job lined up already, well paying and with good people.
He was advised that the trip would be too hard on him, taxing. But he was rotting away in his crappy house, there was nothing in his town other than himself and his cat. So Scar smiled and said thank you for the concern. Because it was nice of them to worry, really it was, but he just wasn’t going to listen.
And Scar moved to Brighton, with his cat and sheer will- no limitation set on him.
Then with his sore hands, Scar takes the last nub of orange and writes his own message.
And the universe said you are stronger than you know.
| we see each other.
Tommy got covid, he had to take a week off work to quarantine.
His diet became a mess of takeaway and quick rice, his joints ached and at one point he even lost his voice, but it passed, the only lingering effects being a sore throat and a bubbling sense of shame that he'd had to text his father and ask to borrow some money for food because that was a whole week without pay and Tommy’s bank account is running dry.
So when he finally completes his quarantine he’s practically buzzing to get to work, his supervisor welcomes him with a clap to the back, says they missed him around the store and that his storeroom has gone to shit. (“My store room!” Tommy runs the fastest an eighteen-year-old with no sporting experiences can be expected to run, heaving the wheezing laughter of his supervisor, already knowing the scrunched-up cheeks marked with laugh lines at seeing the scattered boxes and questionably stacked shelved).
To compensate for the time he wastes fixing his coworkers’ inability to follow directions and use shelves, his supervisor shouts Tommy lunch (hot chips- oh how he had missed the overly salted nature of them) from the convenience store down the block.
He works for the last five hours alone and handles it with ease, closes off the till, locks the money in their safe for his supervisor to take towards the bank in the next cash drop off and locks up, a smile on his face as he listens’ to Lovejoy’s new cover on repeat for the first part of his journey home. Looking at the time, he notes that his usual train is most definitely gone and he’ll have to wait another half hour for the next cycle, but he couldn't care less, because Tommy is out of the house, no longer stuck staring at the shitty off white walls and living off McDonald's fries, lukewarm from the delivery time.
Then he lands himself in the station and takes a second to actually look at what he’d breezed past that morning, dipping up to the bakery around the block before his transfer train arrived and barely making it in time. Of course, he’d noticed that his chalk art was still there, the colours standing out, but he hadn’t realised just how much it had grown.
He’d sketched one planet, just one. Red with swirls of pink, he’d used the white chalk, stick worn thin and short from the excessive use when he’d made the stars and drawn a ring around the red and pink, circled by his own mantra, one that he whispered on lonely nights to empty houses and cold blankets. The universe said you are loved.
A gift for whoever had seen his art, because being seen, meant so much more than Tommy could ever expect.
But what sat laid out before him was more than being seen.
Half a dozen planets had been added, amongst galaxy dust and more stars. Someone had stretched the art up the wall next to the vending machine, in waves and flowing lines mimicking what Tommy had created one lonely afternoon.
Nestled amongst the stars and planets was delicately drawn lettering.
Tommy always thought the way someone wrote said a lot about them. His handwriting was messy, favouring capitals but sometimes featuring lower case letters- all sharp edges and uneven sizes, never in a straight line without ruled paper. His high school teachers used to complain about it, how they couldn’t read his exam papers (they’d once pulled Freddie aside in class to have him translate a sentence for Tommy's Literature exam- they joked about it being hieroglyphics).
And the handwriting in front of Tommy said a lot.
He approached the edge cautiously, like a cliff- that if he stepped too boldly, or ended up too close to the edge he would tumble in, fall through stars and planets, into a galaxy of whispered reassurances that he lacked- secrets left for him to find.
It pushed and pulled at him, grabbing at the strings of his heart and dragging him in. Tommy sat down with his legs crossed and traced his fingers along one planet. The dust stuck to his fingers but had been applied thick enough that he made no dint in its pigment, standing strong and defiant against ruin. The colours were bold- blue, red and yellow, primary colours curling to meet in the middle, streaked with white. Underneath it sat; and the universe said you have played the game well.
Each ‘r’ held that same arch and every ‘a’ featured the same flick in its tail from that first message. But only this time it wasn’t the only message. More than half a dozen littered the concrete. Some straight-lined and sharp, others curving and flowing with the art.
He felt it deep in his stomach, the feeling of creating, of being and acknowledgement. Like there’s something in the air, tension snapping from his week of isolation.
Tommy opens his backpack with hands that hold the slightest of shake. Because these messages were written for him. He knows they are. He’s not sure how he knows, and he doesn't understand why. But no matter what direction the art spread in, one thing is certain. His planet is centred. Right in the middle, a gift of love, affection and reassurance- spreading out around his bared soul, stars planets and a whole galaxy- for him.
Like-minded people , his mind supplies, like how Tubbo had spoken so fondly of his college friends, that they just get him.
The white chalk feels awkward in his hands, but he traces over the smudges slowly, with heavy strokes and thick lines.
“Huh.” It’s so sudden Tommy flinches in surprise, his head snaps back towards the station’s stairs, where a man is making his way down. “You’re not what I expected.”
He’s tall and lean. With snow-white hair dropping down in messy waves- barely held back by a headband. There’s a mask covering the lower half of his face, looped behind ears and tucked under his chin, but there was no attempt made to hide the thin line that trails down from the tip of one eyebrow and below the mask, a streak of marred skin that tracks right through the man’s left eye- tinted red, presumably from the damage.
The dirtied converse that reminded Tommy of his own sound against each step, worn down laces showing age- stretched out and knotted to stay together. He wears a thick avatar coat, military green with a fluffy white fur lining around the hood to protect against the windy breeze that cuts through fabric and chills skin.
‘What? Who are you?” Tommy asks, his brows creased in confusion, white-dusted hands reaching up to brush away the falling golden curls from his eyes.
Under orange lights, the amusement on the man’s face seems all too inviting and friendly, not the way he is normally looked upon by strangers. It’s comforting, a warmth to the smile that stays hidden behind navy fabric, only given away by the laugh lines around his eyes.
“Etho.” He approaches Tommy’s side, bending down to brush his own hands along the chalk art, long deft fingers, littered with tiny scars. “I’ve never caught you before, always just seen the chalk. You’re not who I expected to be the artist.’
His explanation doesn’t quite sit right with Tommy, because this stranger, Etho , had been imagining what Tommy would be based off the art he left behind, his lips turn downwards. People had been taking note of his art, that much was clear, but for people to wonder about him, not just the lines and trails of chalk, that meant something more that he was willing to accept.
“Huh.” It’s all Tommy can muster really, stunned confusion and puzzled befuddlement.
Etho laughs, brushing hair from his eyes, it’s a breathy exhale, quiet and to himself, but Tommy hears anyway, catching sight of the three letters, nHo , that sit on a metal plate centred on his headband. “Yeah, the lot of us have become quite the fanboys over the past few months.”
“The lot of you?”
‘My friends.” He hummed, fingers tailing along the smudging- right near the wall. “One of them asked me to come fix up some smudging he accidentally made. He felt bad about it.”
“Why? It’s just chalk.”
Etho’s fingers pause and he glances up at Tommy for a second before letting his gaze drop back to the ground, a few seconds of silence passing between them.
“This one was Grian.” He’s looking at one of the planets- the primary colours one. “He’s even bought a stock of chalk, in case the box down here goes missing.”
“He’s that invested?”
“We all are.” Etho mumbles, moving his hand up and to the right, tracking white streaks to settle on a new planet. “This one here? This was Bdubs, you can tell by the shading and tilted handwriting.”
It was a marvellous swirl of blue, shaded with purple in such a detailed manner that Tommy had almost thought it was three-dimensional. The writing so uniform, slanted printing that trails around the planet, splitting off into a curve toward the centre when the sentence ended up too lengthy. And the universe said everything you need is within you,
“And this is Jimmy and Tango” It’s less of a planet and more of a smear, colours blending together in the way Tommy knows they do when smudged with palms, There’s sentences on both the top and bottom of it.
One sits in perfect cursive, letters looping together in a way that reminds him of twisting cables snaking behind his desk, connected seamlessly with no end and no true beginning. And the universe said you are the night.
The other sits in messy chicken scratch, that Tommy finds ease in reading, flashbacks to high school group activities with his crappy pen that always ran out of ink halfway through, letters thick and bold like they’d been brought into existence by sheer determination. And the universe said you are the daylight.
“Last week those two couldn’t stand each other.” Etho laughs at this, like it’s funny and Tommy gets the feeling his missing the punchline of a joke. “But they eat lunch together every day now. It’s honestly a miracle. I don’t know how you pulled it off.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Tommy defends, frowning at the smudge of colour and contrasted handwriting.
“No, but one they walked in here one moring without being able to hold a normal conversation and came back that afternoon as…” Etho paused, lips pursed for a second before he continued. “well I’m not sure what they are now, but they certainly never shut up about each other.”
He continues on with little thought, steps taking around further to the left, eyes trailing over the chalk. His fingers settle on a clash of green and orange, colours that paint the circle in sharp lines of definition. And the Universe said the darkness you fight is within you. “This line here is Cleo, the capitalization gives her away, she was a teacher a few years back- always a stickler for grammar.”
Finally, Etho straightens himself back out, fixing his eyes on the wall of stars and white, smears of colours and one stationary planet, orange and blues mixing in a beautiful spiral of contrast. “And this is Scar, he made this whole wall.”
The whole wall? Tommy’s eyes go wide, staring at the coloured galaxy dust that must have been made with smudge lines smoothed out by palms, stars that sit in perfect shapes, spaced out so nicely in a manner he couldn’t even find a pattern in. Someone did all of that, by themselves. “Why?”
“He’s in a wheelchair, couldn’t reach the ground but was stubborn about it. So he asked me to fix up the few smudges he couldn’t reach and send him a photo.” Etho looks at the line of smudged chalk that Tommy had blended together and thickened up with colour, then dotted with white spots and newly drawn stars. “Looks like you’ve done that for me.”
He’s a strange man, Tommy concludes, with clipped words and rounded sounds that make him think of the accents he screws his nose up, but not quite like the Americans he's met, more gentle and curved in nature. It makes him wonder who Etho really is, what he’s doing in Brighton, what the letters on his headband mean and why he’s so invested in the chalk Tommy had spread out along the floor of a train station that barely sees use. He finds himself asking, “Which one is yours?”
There’s not even a moment of hesitation as Etho moves, smoothly to crouch next to Tommy once more.
“That one.” It feels like a confession, the way he points it out, green circled by blue rings. The writing underneath it is all capitals, the same way Tommy’s is, but it’s more uniform, in straight lines rather than curving around the planet, with letters that are all lined up to the same height, perfected from what could only be years of practice. And the universe said you are not alone.
“I don’t get why you’re all so invested in this,” Tommy mumbles glancing at the wall. The idea that one person had added all of that made that feeling grow, pulling and tugging, stewing in his stomach. Tommy wasn't sure if it was good or bad. “It’s just chalk. Something I do while I wait for the train.”
“I guess we recognise art, we all started somewhere.”
“You’re artists?”
“Sort of.” Etho scrunches his nose up.
“We’re builders. Grian started the firm up a few years back,” He gestures to the red, blue and yellow planet again, as if to point out someone in a crowd- which Tommy supposed he was doing. Because truly it was a crowd of people, who’d added their own grievances to this mural, in an underground train station that barely sees ten people a day, where it was hidden from the world, but out- no longer chewing away inside with bitter thoughts and whispered sadness.
“I came next- Grian was awful at getting the electrical stuff done and the contractors he was hiring just weren’t reliable.”
‘You’re an electrician?” Tommy asked, confused- because Etho does not look like an electrician. To him, electricians are old grumpy men who grunt in discontent when broached with having to do work (at least, that was who fixed the broken outlets at work- Tommy hadn't met many electricians).
Etho snorts in lieu of a response, amusement once again lacing his tones as he stands. “And what about you kid, what do you do?”
“I’m a builder too.” Tommy paused, rethinking his words. “Technically”
Etho raises a brow. “Technically?”
“A master builder. I work at the lego store.”
“Cool.” He nods, pulling out a shitty little iPhone from his jacket pocket that clicks obnoxiously with each digit of his passcode as he opens it (Tommy holds back a scoff, because seriously- who doesn't silence their phone?). “Do you do art on the side or?..”
“I don’t do art.”
“You should.” Etho shoves a hand up to force his headband up a bit higher as he backs up slightly. “People would probably pay for stuff like what you do. You’ve got a talent.”
There’s a frown that graces Tommy’s lips for a second as he scowls at the work sprawled out in front of him- specifically the middle, what he’d originally made. It wasn’t that good. “Who would be stupid enough to pay for my art?”
“We would.” It’s a blunt sentence, truly, and makes Tommy think of the way he speaks, especially with friends (not buffering sentences with unnecessary jumbles of words like Freddie did, much to their amusement and his detriment when attempting flirting).
But still, the bluntness of Etho’s words does not make it easier for Tommy to wrap his head around the thought. “Huh?”
“Jimmy’s been up us about getting a mural in the lobby.” Tommy tries to imagine himself painting a wall- a mural. It doesn't quite fit in his mind. Sure he’d done art in high school but that was because he needed a bludge subject and his skills were passable- apparently, Etho and his gang of merry builders think he has some kind of ability- enough of one to paint an entire fucking wall in their building. “Plus, a lot of our clients look to get street art done on the sides of their buildings. Especially the council, reduces graffiti.”
Tommy doesn’t respond. He frowns at his art on the ground for a second- although it’s not really his anymore, is it? Everyone else, these friends Etho speaks of so fondly had added to it. This galaxy was no longer his, he was no longer alone in his city of opportunity, in his expressions of self or even in the shitty little train station he believed no one else knew existed.
Noting the lack of words, Etho simply hoists his phone up, clearly preparing to take a picture. “Would you mind being in the picture? I’m sure Scar would love to know who the artist is.”
“Oh- um, sure.” Tommy looks at the ground and makes careful steps planting his feat on either side of his own planet, it looks small from here, surrounded by the spanning stars of white and other planets. He musters a wonky grin and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, fingers scratching against store keys and wrinkled gum wrappers.
Etho’s flash goes off and the loud shutter sound of his phone echoes off concrete walls. “Y’know- I think the others wouldn’t mind meeting you, they’ve gotten themselves quite attached.”
Tommy feels his nerves flicker for the slightest of seconds before they fade away. “Maybe.”
“We’re just to the left of the station entrance. If you ever feel like dropping by…” He trails off, in a way that Tommy had learnt people did when asking for a name. “Tommy.”
“Right. Tommy.” Etho rolls it over his tongue slowly, experimentally. “Well, Jimmy mans the front desk. I’ll tell him to keep an eye out.”
The train hisses in behind them, but it’s not Tommy’s- too early . Etho though, it’s clearly his because he tucks his phone away and stretches his hand up above his head with a thick exhale. He gives a silent wave and strolls through the train doors with smooth steps, dark cargo pants showing just how long his legs were, the same way Tommy’s worn-out jeans made him look much taller than he actually was.
He stands there, mutters a ‘bye’ as the scanner beeps the sound of a transit pass being tapped and watches, unmoving, listening to the carriage scream out of the station, rails squealing a high-pitched sound that would make him wince most days.
Then it was quiet. And Tommy was alone again.
But not really. Because he stands in their Galaxy, one they built together, for each other. And Tommy doesn’t feel exhausted or tired. He doesn't feel alone, because, through this coloured dust, that stained his hands and clothes, his soul and heart, Tommy feels seen.