Chapter Text
Fit wakes up every day at 6 am.
It’s been this way since he was a kid, getting up early enough to steal food from sleeping neighbours. He doesn’t have to steal food anymore, but his disciplined routine has served him well over the course of 32 years. He carefully removes himself from the bed while Pac is still snoring softly beside him, getting up to begin his morning stretches. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, kneeling onto the ground carefully.
The stretches were prescribed to him by his physiotherapist 5 years ago, when he first came over from 2b2t on the dime of some wealthy philanthropist. With his left arm blown clean off and the lack of long term healthcare on 2b2t, he’d really had no choice but to sign up to leave his home country for a chance to survive. The first few months were difficult, especially in the wake of losing Ramon. Fit had come live in a foreign country, knowing nobody, having just experienced the worst thing that had ever happened to him. The pain, physical and mental, was so unbearable that he almost didn’t let himself life to meet Pac and Mike. Almost.
Summer, 5 years ago, Fit had been sat in the waiting room for his physical therapy appointment. He used to do a lot of rumination there, thinking obsessively about where his life had gotten him. The different forks in the road he’d travelled on to get him here, the waiting room of a physiotherapist’s office with his body thrown off balance. The waiting room was always busy, everyone who’d taken the opportunity to move from 2b2t to Quesadilla Island had been assigned to the same physiotherapy clinic. Fit didn’t know a whole lot about politics at the time (still doesn’t, really) but assumed the philanthropist struck some kind of deal with the centre. That was how things worked in 2b2t, anyway. Relationships were purely transactional, and “goodness of the heart” was about as real as god. Fit was suspicious the whole way through as to what this philanthropist wanted from him and the others from 2b2t. If something was too good to be true, it was a lie. And back on 2b2t, you never let things get that good.
At the height of the new arrivals, the physiotherapy clinic was so overworked that they’d started pairing people up together for appointments. Fit was paired up with some short guy with shaggy black hair and one leg, who was so anxious you could see it in the air. He’d watched the man silently for about two weeks, trying to figure out what the hell his deal was, and who the other guy was, the one with bleached pink hair that waited for him at every appointment.
For two weeks, Fit watched this guy nervously try to stand up from his wheelchair, held back by a force that seemed more mental than physical. He was constantly jittery, glancing around the room. Once, someone in the room next door fell down with a loud bang and the man flinched so hard that his chair nearly toppled over. Everything about him, from his face to his eyes to his body, was soft. Everything but his hands. Fit noticed almost immediately that his hands were strong, calloused, with nimble fingers. Fit just knew they should be steady. These were hands that were used often, for hard work. But these hands were useless now, and the man was completely unable to lift himself up.
Fit’s first theory was nerve damage. That the nerves in the man’s hand had been damaged in the same accident that took his leg. But the physiotherapists weren’t doing any work with his hands, so either they were very shitty physiotherapists, or there was some other issue. Maybe one that wasn’t physical.
One day, two weeks after they had been assigned to the same doctor, the man had taken a call from someone in the middle of the session.
“What?!” He’d shouted, which was the first time Fit had ever heard him speak louder than a whisper. The man’s eyes lit up, and Fit saw him smile for the first time in two weeks. “You have to go to her, Mike! Go to her!”
Fit had watched as the man spoke excited Portuguese to someone on the other line, eventually ending in, “I’ll be fine, I’ll take the bus!”
After that day’s session had ended, Fit did indeed watch the man follow him to the bus stop. They stood (and sat) side by side in awkward silence, waiting for the bus to pull up. Fit still remembers how the trees were turning red, and how the leaves fell around them like a canopy in the late October weather. Fit still, to this day, does not know what possessed him to turn to the man and say,
“So you got some exciting news.”
The man looked startled, like a deer in the headlights, staring up at Fit with big doe eyes. “Yeah.”
“What was it?”
The man explained that his best friend, Mike, had just been confessed to by this girl he’d been madly in love with for years. Usually, Mike had driven him to and from his appointments from their apartment, but the man had apparently insisted that Mike go to see his girl.
For some reason, Fit had found himself smiling a little. It took him a bit aback, and he realized he hadn’t smiled in the months since he left Ramon. But this guy was just so loving, he practically oozed of sunshine, and for the first time in his life, Fit wondered if maybe the goodness-of-your-heart was actually real after all.
The bus pulled up. Fit got on. It was routine for the last few months, take the bus to the hospital, take the bus to the apartment. Take the bus to the grocery store, take the bus to the apartment. Keep your head down, ignore the stares, and keep change in your pockets at all times. These were the rules Fit had created for himself when taking the bus. On 2b2t, you look out for yourself. You don’t give a damn about anyone else. Spreen made Fit break that rule, then Ramon. But the rule was still useful: If it’s not your problem, it’s not your problem.
But the man beside Fit had a problem, and that problem was that this bus had no ramp.
Fit looked down the steps of the bus at the man, who was very clearly starting to panic. He wasn’t a particularly calm person even before that incident, but he looked at the time as if he were about to combust. There was no way to get on the bus. He was trapped, panicked, left on the sidewalk outside the physiotherapy clinic.
Fit had never done anything out of the goodness of his heart for years before he met Ramon, and upon arriving to Quesadilla Island, he’d sworn he would never again. Still, seeing this guy like that, Fit clamoured down the steps of the bus towards him, stopping just in front. He kneeled slightly down, unsure of etiquette.
“Do you need some help?” He asked.
The man nodded.
Fit, at the point, was not particularly used to social behaviour, and was still just a tad insane. He scooped the man up from his wheelchair with one arm under his bum and his stump trying to reach his shoulder. The man yelped, clinging onto Fit’s shoulders with shaking hands.
“Fit!” The man shouted as Fit hauled them up the stairs to the bus. “What are you doing?”
It was hard work carrying the man to an empty seat, but he soon managed to set him down, then paid the bus fare for both of them.
“Fit!” The man said again, and Fit felt really bad about not knowing his name. “My chair!”
Oh.
Fit raced down the stairs again, ignoring the bus driver’s confused shouting. He lifted the wheelchair with his hand, trying to bring it through the narrow doors of the bus, but it was too wide.
“You have to fold it!” The man shouted from inside the bus, and Fit tried to fold it in half, which didn’t work.
“How the fuck do I fold it?”
The man had proceeded to yell instructions from the inside of the bus, until the knowledge of how to fold this guy’s wheelchair was burned into his brain forever. Fit took the folded up wheelchair into the bus, sitting down next to where he’d put the man, and shoving the wheelchair in between his legs.
The other passengers looked bewildered upon the scene that had just unfolded in front of them, at Fit and the other guy sitting side by side as the bus driver closed the door and started driving again. Their eyes burned into the back of Fit’s skull, until one by one, they all became disinterested in the two strange paraplegic men that had made a scene getting onto the bus. Eventually, when Fit looked around, the only person staring at him was the man beside him.
Fit’s face must’ve looked funny or something, because the man snorted, his face breaking out into a grin.
Fit took weary offence to that. “What?” He’d asked.
“Thank you,” The man said, and Fit had gotten a little lost in his eyes as the reflection of the sun hit them. The warm honey brown they’d turned for a moment, almost golden in the September light.
“I don’t know your name,” Fit said eloquently.
Pac told him.
During the bus ride, Pac received a text from Mike saying that he was coming home to their apartment now, that he’d finally gotten together with the girl of his dreams after dancing around each other for so long. Fit really couldn’t help but smile, almost invested in the lives of these strangers Pac spoke about with so much affection in his voice. He doesn’t remember the particulars of that conversation, what Fit said to Pac’s explanations or what they talked about after, he just remembers it felt like the first day of spring where it’s warm enough to go outside without a coat. It felt light and beautiful, it felt free.
When the bus stopped, when Fit unfolded Pac’s wheelchair and placed it on the ground, Pac was waiting for him awkwardly, shifting around him his bus seat. Fit scooped him up as best as humanly possible, and Pac’s trembling hands held on tight to his shoulders. Fit made his way down the steps of the bus blinded by the body in his arm. He could feel stares on him, stares that he really didn’t care as much about as getting Pac home safe.
Once Pac was set down in his wheelchair and Fit was escorting him to his apartment, Pac turned to him and said, “You could’ve just supported me while I hopped up.”
Fit stopped, turned a bit red. “I was just trying to get you on the bus safely,” he iterated.
Pac laughed as they made their way to the apartment complex. “You sound like a knight in shining armour,” he said, pushing the button to activate the automatic door.
And Fit, bring extraordinarily awkward, answered, “Of course, my liege.”
Pac laughed again, swerving down the hallway to the right before stopping at the door marked A13. He took a key out of the pocket of his jeans, fitting it in the doorknob in front of them. Fit opened the door for Pac to go through, catching a small glimpse of the messy apartment.
From the back of the apartment came a loud yelp, and suddenly the man with pink hair who’d driven Pac to and from each physiotherapy session- Mike- came rushing towards them.
Fit doesn’t remember how the conversation at the door went, only that he was extremely awkward and that Mike gave him his phone number so Fit could call if he ever needed anything. He remembers Pac thanking him profusely, calling Fit his ‘saviour’, and Fit had choked on his own spit a little.
As he turned to leave, to start walking back to his own apartment, Mike had thanked him again for helping Pac, with gratitude in his eyes that Fit had never seen before.
“Anytime,” he’d answered.
And Mike held him to that.
__________
Pac wakes up around 9 every day, sometimes earlier if he doesn’t want to eat Fit’s borderline charred bacon that he makes every day for breakfast.
Fit watches him rise from the bed, grumbling to himself and running a hand through his dark messy hair.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” Fit says, sipping black coffee.
Pac grabs his prosthesis and attaches it to his stump, clicking it into place. “Hi, Fit,” he responds sleepily. “How was your run?”
“It was good.” Fit turns back to the frying pan, shaking the brown bacon around. “It’s getting very chilly outside, though. It’s only a matter of time until we start getting snow.”
Pac perks up at that, swinging his legs over the bed and coming over to the kitchenette. “Snow? Really?”
Fit chuckles, taking the bacon out of the pan and placing it on the plate sitting next to the stove. “Yeah, it was freezing outside.”
Pac smiles at that. He’s always loved snow, since coming over to Quesadilla Island from Brazil. Mike’s always said that Pac’s first time seeing snow was hilarious. He’d run outside with childlike wonder in nothing but a sweater, and immediately face planted onto the ground, face first into the deceivingly fluffy thin layer of snow on the ground. Pac hit his nose off the dead grass underneath, blood immediately gushing out onto the white snow. Fit laughed the first time he heard the story, because, although he’s never face planted into the ground in years since, Pac’s love of snow has never gone away. Just as strong as the very first time.
They eat Fit’s charred bacon in combinable silence for the most part as Pac wakes up. Warm sunlight shines through the window onto their faces, bouncing off of Pac’s soft dark hair and the smooth metal of his leg. The sun kisses the sharp lines of his face, painting his skin golden. Fit finds himself in awe of just how handsome Pac is even mere minutes after waking. God, it’s infuriating. He’s so handsome, Fit’s so fucking jealous.
“What?” Pac asks with a mouth full of bacon.
“Nothing,” Fit chuckles, embarrassed for some reason. “You’re just like, so handsome, it’s embarrassing.”
Pac swallows his bacon and looks Fit directly in the eye, sunlight glinting off them almost dangerously. “Why is it embarrassing?”
Fit swallows. “Just leave some for the rest of us, is all,” he laughs.
Pac doesn’t. “You’re pretty handsome, Fit.”
Fit must hate himself, must be the most pathetic man on earth, because he just says, “Yeah?”
Pac glances down at Fit’s muscles, the strong curve of his forearm that he’s spent years cultivating. “Yes. You’re very muscular.”
Fit sputters uselessly at that. “Yeah, um, you could be too, if you wanted to be.”
“Yeah?” Pac asks, not looking away.
“I could take you with me on my morning runs. If you want,” Fit offers. “And i can spot you the next time you’re working out.”
“The next time I’m…? Oh!” Pac laughs nervously. “Yeah, the next time I work out.”
“It’s a date,” Fit says without thinking. “Not a date-date, but as in like, save the date, you know.” Nice.
“It’s a save the date.” Pac smiles in the warm sunlight. Fit does, too.
Fit gets up, walking to the fridge. “What do you want for lunch today?” He asks Pac, opening the door.
“What do we have?”
Fit leans down, spying the leftover steak. “We have the rest of the steak from last night.” He looks back at Pac, grinning. “You could start bulking up now.”
“Yes,” Pac laughs, showing off his weak muscles. “Let’s get those gains!”
The two get dressed, pack their bag for the day, and make their way to the parking garage. And Fit is completely chill, unconcerned about their leisurely pace.
After all, the best thing about living with your boss is that you’re never late for work.
They usually take Fit’s Honda, and Fit, naturally, drives. Pac has full control over the music they listen to, which is usually a mixture of absurdist musical parodies and upbeat Brazilian pop. Fit doesn’t mind the Portuguese, despite not knowing a whole lot of the language besides curse words and “Você é tudo pra mim”, a phrase Pac taught him while they were almost blackout drunk last summer. It means “I love you”, Pac said, but Fit can’t be sure, and knowing Pac there is actually a fair chance it’s some rancid Brazilian insult.
They stop at traffic a few times, Pac dressed in a t shirt and lab coat singing along to the music in the passenger’s seat. Fit looks over at him at the red light, hiding a smirk.
“What?” Pac asks, smiling.
“Nothing.”
Fit keeps driving towards Tazercraft Labs.
Four years ago, Pac and Mike bought a small, nearly abandoned warehouse and turned it into a workshop for their mad scientist shenanigans. Tazercraft Labs had been their dream since they were little boys at the same foster home back in Brazil, and seeing them achieve it had made Fit happy in a way he never thought he would be again. Pac and Mike were still the only people Fit knew on Quesadilla Island at the time, the people he subconsciously clung to between jobs he never stayed long at. Three immigrants trying to make their way in a world stood against them.
Fit wanted to do something nice for the guys for the grand opening, so he’d decided on making a massive wooden sign for the front of the lab. Everyone who walked by could know that this was Tazercraft Labs: home to the greatest inventors on Quesadilla Island.
Pac had cried when Fit finally unveiled the sign, which Fit didn’t know what to do with except give him a very stiff, awkward hug. Meanwhile Mike, absolutely ecstatic, offered Fit a job on the spot helping build various projects and supplies, and tidying up afterwards. And who was Fit (an unemployed, one armed, new Islander) to say no?
They pull up onto the street in front of the Lab, parking the car in front of the massive garbage can in front of the warehouse. Fit hops out of the car and Pac follows him, strolling towards the front entrance. Fit fits his key in the door for the both of them, but notices that Pac has stopped in his tracks. He looks back.
Sitting next to the warehouse entrance, wrapped up in a thin blanket is a young man with long, messy brown hair that may have once been bleached blond, the colour showing on the tips. He snores softly in the cold, early November air. His eyes are shut tightly, like if they loosened a bit the cold wind would blow them open.
Seeing homeless people in the Favela isn’t uncommon. There are better neighbourhoods in Quesadilla City, even if the people who live around the area are pretty awesome. But there are no Federation agents around here to patrol the streets, throwing “loiterers” into the back of cop cars to clean up the richer streets in the city. Homeless people tend to stay away from Tazercraft Labs, though, the smell of chemicals and sound of metals grinding turning them away to softer and sounder street corners. Often in the small enclave between Felp’s coffee shop and the old apartment complex, joining the small city of tents that’s been forming the past few months. Homeless people are uncommon.
Homeless kids aren’t.
Pac stares down at the kid, watching him shiver periodically under the thin blanket guarding him from the November weather. Pac’s bleeding heart has been a holdup before (everything from texting his ex boyfriend all morning because he was “going through a hard time” to running the Honda into the sidewalk so they don’t hit a duck). But this is personal. Pac loves kids, and his own childhood as an orphan has made him fiercely protective of them. It’s sweet. It’s also going to make them late for work.
Fit turns away, fitting his key in the lock of the door and pushing it open. He glances back at Pac before going inside, hoping to see him leave the boy alone. Of course he doesn’t.
Pac kneels down very gently, then softly shakes the boy’s shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he whispers, quietly, and then gets violently punched in the nose.
The boy wakes up screaming, and Fit doesn’t know how a person can scream in a posh English accent, but somehow this kid is accomplishing it. His fist that rammed into Pac’s nose is hanging there, shaking, as Pac lets out a slew of curses as well. It’s not uncommon for people to be screaming in Portuguese at 9:40 am in the Favela, but Fit really hoped he could avoid it today.
Instinctively, Fit pulls Pac away from the boy, shielding him with his body. Fit crouches down to the boy’s eye level, glaring menacingly at him as the screams die down.
“Who the fuck are you?!” The boy yells.
“Who the fuck are you?!” Pac yells back.
The boy starts to get up, taking his blanket in his arms, but Fit grabs him by the shoulder, holding him in place.
“What the fuck! Let go of me!” He shouts. Fit rolls his eyes.
“Apologize to Pac,” he orders.
The boy looks bewildered. “Tell Pac to apologize to me! He woke me up from my slumber!”
Someone taps Fit on the shoulder, and he whips his head around like a rabid animal. It’s just Pac. He relaxes.
“Are you hungry?” Pac asks the boy, too kindly for a man whose face is swelling up post beating. “It’s really cold outside. Have you been sleeping here the whole night?”
The boy looks between them for a moment, almost confused, then asks, “Is this really a lab?”
Pac blinks. “That. Doesn’t answer my question.”
The boy hops up, slithering out of Fit’s hold before he has a chance to catch him. “So you’re a scientist. With a lab.”
“Yes,” Pac answers. “We’re inventors.”
The boy looks bewilderedly at Fit. “We? You and your guard dog?”
“I am a janitor,” Fit responds.
“I see.”
They enter a standoff, then, glaring daggers at each other as the boy looks down up Fit’s kneeling figure. From there on the ground, Fit sees his intense green eyes, the mop of brown and blond hair, the beginnings of an unshaven moustache forming above his upper lip.
He looks like Ramon.
And Ramon would be around his age, too. Maybe 17 or 18 at the latest. With the same spunky attitude and an apparent interest in invention. Fit’s heart races as he rises up onto his feet.
He opens his drying mouth to speak. To ask if this is his beautiful baby boy, come to find him again, no matter how far. “Ramon?” He asks almost inaudibly, his heart pounding him his chest so loud he can barely hear himself speak.
The boy in front of him opens his mouth, and for a moment Fit is ready to launch himself into the arms of his boy, to never let him go again, until-
“Who?”
Fit’s heart plummets.
Pac, bless him, steps in immediately with a strong warm hand on Fit’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside the lab and warm up?” He asks. “I’m Pac, and this is Fit.”
The boy lights up, coming over to shake Pac’s hand rather enthusiastically. “I’m Tubbo, and yes, thank you, I would absolutely love to see your lab.”