"Hey, Berwald?" asked Tino, looking up at his friend; "do you remember the day we first met?" He was curled up on the wooden floor of the cosy sitting room wrapped in blankets and painstakingly painting designs onto a rocking horse Berwald had put together earlier that day. Berwald himself was sitting on an old sofa with a mug of warm milk.

The sitting room was quite small, like most of their rooms, and sparsely furnished. Just a sofa, a pair of armchairs and a low table made up the furnishings of the room. There were old, frayed, blankets and rugs dotted about as well, to keep the heat in, and a stone fireplace with a roaring fire blazing in front of the two men, burning their faces a little but on the whole a comforting heat.

"'Course I rem'mber," said Berwald. How could he ever forget such an important and significant night? Berwald was certain that he would remember it until the day he died.

"Of course you do," said Tino, humming as he rested his back on the sofa, "silly me."

…

Ten years ago, 1878

…

Berwald stepped off the boat and checked on the small bundle in his arms. Lars. His baby boy. Well, his responsibility ever since his sister and her husband has died suddenly. Berwald was still getting used to the thought of being a father; he wasn't sure he could manage, but that wouldn't stop him from trying. He would rather die than let this baby be unhappy for one day of his life. Berwald was determined to be a good father to Lars.

Which was why they were now in London, the workshop capital of the world. Berwald wanted to run a toy shop, in a place full of people, especially rich people who could afford luxuries. He was going to work his way up and become an important salesman whose creations would be loved by children everywhere. That, Berwald decided, was his purpose in life: making children happy. And no child would be as happy as his little Lars. No, Berwald concluded, this precious baby would never be starving or in poverty. He couldn't bear to let his sister down like that.

The man looked around at his new home, so different from his old one in the United Kingdom of Sweden and Norway. It was huge, and crowded. How could so many people live here? It was polluted too, with huge chimneys billowing out smoke that mixed with the air around them. Even in the darkness he could see that the Thames River behind him, where his ship was bobbing up and down, was absolutely disgusting. Berwald couldn't help but sigh. Was it really the best decision bringing them here? But he couldn't turn back now, so Berwald decided to try to find somewhere to rest until morning.

It was the middle of the night, and Berwald didn't have a hope of finding somewhere where he could permanently stay from now on. So he decided to, quickly, find a little tavern or hotel to stay in for one night and find a room to rent in the morning. He had money, but wanted to be off the streets as soon as possible; there were a lot of criminals about, of course there was, it was a massive city, and Berwald really didn't fancy the idea of being mugged or even killed.

After an hour or so searching, Berwald finally found a little inn near the river, and not a moment too soon. Lars was crying feebly, chubby arms trying to free themselves from their blanket prison, and Berwald was exhausted, the duffel bag in his back weighing down like a boulder and bending his spine.

The building was locked, so Berwald had to knock on the door and wait for someone to answer. Eventually, he could hear angry footsteps and a pair of narrow, bloodshot eyes appeared in a hole in the door.

"Waddya want?" came a gruff voice.

"Erm," Berwald couldn't help feeling a little nervous; this was his first interaction with a Londoner, "I would like a place to stay f'r the night, please?"

The foreign language felt weird on his tongue but Berwald was sure he could communicate well enough in it.

"No," snapped the voice, "go away, full."

"Please!" cried Berwald, "I can't find anywh're to stay, and I have a baby who needs shelter." Right on cue, Lars began to cry louder at the sound of Berwald's raised voice.

"The answer is still no. We don't want you foreign chaps coming in here with your noisy spawn."

"I can pay!"

The person behind the door seemed to be considering this for a moment.

"No, we're full, go away! You can sleep under the bridge!" then the eyes disappeared from the peep-hole.

Berwald banged on the door again but to no avail. He rested his forehead on the rough wood and sighed. Was this how things were going to be? He just wanted to collapse in the doorway and sleep. Maybe even cry. But he couldn't; his child needed him. Lars was still crying and as Berwald walked away, he began to sing a lullaby to his new son, who calmed down at the deep, soothing voice he had grown used to these past few months.

The tired man then began to look for the bridge that had been mentioned and, sure enough, there was a large stone bridge stretched across the Thames. Berwald sighed and made his way to the bottom of the structure where a few figures were curled up in the mud on the banks under thin blankets of cardboard, their stick-thin limbs curled up around their skeletal bodies to preserve the heat their thin, ragged clothes couldn't hope to keep in. They looked dead, and some of the ones lying motionless probably were. He looked at the scene in horror. How could someone end up like this? And why did nobody care? He shivered then resigned himself to a sleepless night of lying in mud.

The large stones were a bumpy, rough backdrop to the gruesome scene, mud so thick that Berwald couldn't help but wonder how many bodies buried deep he was walking over. To his left, the Thames continued its journey.

At least his thick coat would keep him warm. But it wouldn't go unnoticed by the people here, and neither would his bulging duffle bag, so Berwald doubted he would get to sleep. He knew he was scary enough that he suspected no one would try to rob him when he was awake, but if he fell asleep he would be defenceless. But at least he could rest his legs, and not have to worry about talking to people again until morning. With that thought in mind, Berwald moved forward to choose a spot to sit in.

…

Tino wrapped a sheet of cardboard tighter around him and stared helplessly at his leg. That was a pretty deep cut in his shin and Tino knew it was going to get infected, and he would die. He could die that very night. But he couldn't help but feel slightly relieved; these past few months of misery and freezing hell had hardly been worth living. Since he went out onto the street he'd been near starving, all the time, and Tino was sick of watching his body grow more and more skeletal, of having to beg or even steal to get something to eat.

At least, though, he'd avoided the workhouses. Once you're in one of those you never get out unless you were very, very lucky. And Tino had never been a lucky person. That was why he lay dying under a bridge in the mud, slowly bleeding his life away. He'd heard stories of what happens in those terrible places and decided that he would rather die a free man than a slave in a workhouse. Well now he was about to get his wish! Great, just great…

Tino was interrupted from his thoughts by a deep voice from above him.

"M'y we sit here?"

Tino nodded without looking up, he really didn't care who they were. But as a large figure sat down beside him on his right, Tino couldn't help but feel ever so slightly curious, so he had a little glance at-oh holy crap the scariest man ever! A tall blond fellow, wrapped in a warm coat and scarf, was glaring at him though a pair of wire glasses. Why was he looking so angry at Tino? Did he do something wrong again? Was this man some sort of murderer?

Tino continued to stare transfixed at the man beside him as he took a small bundle from the inside of his coat and began to cradle it, murmuring softly in what sounded a lot like Swedish. Tino leaned over and peered over at the bundle to see a small face in amongst the blankets. It was a baby!

Tino blinked in confusion; surely a murderer wouldn't go around carrying a little tot and actually treat it with care, right? He seemed to gentle for someone of his appearance.

"Cute child," he said, his voice hoarse from thirst, "'is he your son?"

The other man looked at him in mild surprise, then he nodded and looked at the child again with eyes filled with adoration.

"He is now."

Tino couldn't help but let out a little squeak. Was this wacko implying he'd killed a woman and taken her child? So he was sitting next to a killer! Tino was certain he wouldn't survive the night.

Berwald looked in shock at the man sitting next to him, who looked absolutely petrified. He tried to think of what he could have said wrong. It was perfectly innocent! Sure, he knew he had a pretty scary face but what had he said?

"Oh, sorry," he mumbled after a while, "I meant th't I adopted him. He's actually my nephew. Sister died. All he has left…"

"Oh, that makes sense," Tino breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm sorry to hear about your sister though." He meant it. "It's hard losing family. Were you close?"

The man nodded.

"She was ma best friend," he said, "we were twins and she always looked after me. So I want to do the same for her son." He seemed to be holding back tears now.

Tino wasn't too sure how to respond so he decided to move away from the subject.

"So what is his name?" he asked.

"Lars."

"Nice name. Oh, I almost forgot, what is your name too?"

"Berwald."

"I'm Tino," Tino tried to smile but couldn't find the energy. Berwald was now going through his bag, when he found what he was looking for, he pulled out various items, a little bit of food, a warm blanket, some water. Tino's eyes widened at this and hoped Berwald would share; he was cold, starving and hadn't had a drink since yesterday. And that 'drink' was a few handfuls of water he'd scooped into his mouth whilst crouched next to a water pump. But those things were almost certainly for him and his baby; Tino didn't blame him, after all, it was every man for himself out here. He looked down as he felt his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears. He couldn't help it, and knew it was a silly waste of energy, but he was miserable. And now he'd have to watch others eat delicious, fresh food…

Berwald looked at Tino; he was just like everyone else under this bridge, skeletal, with hollowed cheeks and matchstick limbs. Under a tattered flat cap, his blond hair looked like it was once soft, shiny and golden, but now it fell, greasy and muddy, almost down to his shoulders, with washing and trimming not the biggest priority for the man. The clothes he wore, a thin shirt and trousers, did nothing to protect him from the cold- as did the cardboard he was huddled under- and he had no shoes. His left leg was stretched out at an odd angle, like he was trying to avoid it touching the mud; the poor guy looked too tired to even shiver. It broke Berwald's heart to see a human being in this state.

Tino's muscles tensed as he felt a weight descend upon his body. He looked up to find a warm blanket thrown over him and a lump of bread being pushed into his hands. He stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up with a puzzled and questioning look on his face.

"Fer you," mumbled Berwald, hoping the darkness disguised the blush from his face, "ya look like ya need it."

Tino didn't need to be told twice; he ripped a large chunk out of the bread and swallowed without chewing, then another, and another. He'd almost forgotten how good bread could be. Even if this bread was somewhat hard and stale, it was the best thing he'd eaten in weeks. Bless this stranger! How could Tino have even thought for a moment that he was a murderer? He was nothing more than a saint!

"Hey it ya swallow without chewing ye'll get sick," warned Berwald. Tino glared at him.

"I haven't eaten in three days," was all Berwald got in reply before Tino started wolfing down more chunks of bread.

Suddenly, Tino stopped eating and began to splutter and cough, the dry bread getting stuck in his dryer throat and choking him. Berwald hurriedly passed a flask of water which Tino downed in one go before handing an empty flask back to him.

"Thank you," he sighed, leaning back against the bridge, "I can't believe how exhausting coughing is." Berwald said nothing but handed him a wedge of cheese. Tino took it gratefully and begin to eat, slower this time, alternating between it and the remaining bread. He looked up at his companion suspiciously.

"Why are you helping me?" he demanded. Berwald looked taken aback for a few seconds before replying, slowly and carefully.

"Well ya needed a helping hand," he said, "it's horrible to see someone so young look like ya do," he couldn't help but feel slightly (very) embarrassed as he said it; Tino probably thought he was weird. Was indifference and not helping really the norm here?

"Well you're the first to think like that," said Tino, "people here see a guy on the street with no home or possessions and they instantly blame him for everything that happened in his life. He's not for them to worry about. It's not their business!"

So he was right.

"Besides," added Berwald, "it's m' mission in life to make sure children are happy and to r'duce their suffering." Tino glared at him again, looking somewhat offended; oh crap, did he say something wrong again?

"I'm not a child!" he said indignantly, "I'm seventeen, you know."

Berwald was starting to hate being right. Tino wasn't finished.

"Just because you're, what-?"

"Tw'nty."

"Twenty," repeated Tino, "doesn't mean you can treat me like I'm no older than little Lars over there."

Berwald nodded, "I know, s'rry Tino."

"Oh, well that's okay," Tino's face softened a little.

There was silence for a few moments before Tino decided to break it, but Berwald got there first.

"Where are yer shoes?" he asked. Tino looked down at his feet, now buried in a blanket. His left leg was poking out though; he didn't want to get blood on the stranger's blanket.

"Oh, well I sold them a week or so ago for food," he explained, "all I got for them was barely enough to buy some cold soup," he added darkly. To be completely honest, he was surprised he managed to sell the things in the first place.

"Ah, I see." It was then that Berwald noticed a large cut on Tino's left leg, so that's why he was holding it at a weird angle.

"Hey what h'ppened to yer leg?" he asked, hoping Tino wasn't finding the questions too uncomfortable, but the man just made a weak shrugging gesture.

"Fell over today, slipped on some frost and hit a cart or something. It hurts like hell and I was limping all the way here." Tino scowled at himself. Great job, he thought, way to wallow in pity to a stranger, you still have your pride, you know. He laughed internally as he thought that; there was no room for pride in his life anymore.

"Mind if I have a look?" asked Berwald.

"Knock yourself out," grumbled Tino.

"Sorry?" Berwald was genuinely confused at this.

"It means yes, go ahead." Tino explained.

"Oh, okay, I, err, have some bandages and antis'ptic with me so… might be able to help you."

"Really," asked Tino, raising an eyebrow, "why would you help me?"

"Because I want to and I can," Berwald replied simply. Tino didn't like this, trusting someone after months of being alone. And strangers don't just help strangers for no reason. What was this man's motive?

"Still, those things are pretty expensive, are you sure you want to waste them on someone you jut met?"

"I'm sure," Berwald said, "I saved up for them so I'd be prepared in emergencies. And this looks like an emergency."

He moved over to the sight of the wound, after passing a sleeping Lars to Tino, and studied it closely. It was bad. A large gash ran from the side of his knee to a third of the way down his shin. It wouldn't be too deep on a normal person but Tino was so thin he was surprised it wasn't exposing the bone. It was red and sore, but it least it didn't look infected, well, not to Berwald anyways.

Of course, Berwald didn't have a clue about medicine; that was his sister's forte. Even just thinking about her, Berwald felt a painful pang in his heart. It had only been a few months after the accident that took her life and he wasn't used to having to face life without her. But this man needed help, and Berwald was never one to deny someone that. So he set to work, cleaning the wound with antiseptic, trying to ignore the hiss of pain coming from Tino's mouth, before wrapping it with clean bandages.

After his work was finished, Berwald sat down beside Tino, who was looking at the baby intently.

Tino couldn't remember the last time he'd seem a face so innocent and sweet, and alive. Lars' deep blue eyes were closed and he had a thumb in his tiny mouth. A lock of ginger hair peeked out from the blanket and he looked so peaceful, so untarnished by the cruelties of the world. Tino smiled as he handed him back to Berwald.

"He's so adorable," he said, "I can see you've been taking good care of him. Your sister would be proud." Tino honestly meant it.

"Thanks," mumbled Berwald, "I hope she would be too."

There was another short period of silence before Tino spoke again.

"So how come you came to London? I'm sure it wasn't for the smell," he added jokingly.

"Well I want to open up a toy shop here and m'ke toys for kids," Berwald explained.

"Well good luck with that," said Tino. He looked out at the river in front of him, greyish brown water slowly making its way down to the ocean. The world seemed almost colourless, only a few speaks of light from the buildings opposite the river breaking the expanse of grey.

"Terrific view," he said sarcastically.

"Wonderful," Berwald replied in the same tone, "but I must ask, why is it that colour?"

"It used to be where all the sewage pipes fed out to. Even though the pipes are directed elsewhere nowadays it's still polluted," he chuckled a little as Berwald made a small squeak- he didn't know the man's voice was able to go that high- and looked in disgust at the mud he was sitting in.

"So all this is…is…"

"Welcome to London," Tino joked, patting Berwald on the back, then yawned.

"Tired?" asked Berwald.

"Jus' a little," mumbled Tino sleepily, leaning against the other's warm coat, "haven't talked this much in days. Maybe weeks."

"Oh, sorry."

"No no… is nice, to have someone to talk ta." Tino was half asleep by now.

"Goodnight," said Berwald awkwardly, but Tino was already asleep. Berwald smiled a little before looking out at the river in front of him.

He didn't sleep at all.

The next morning the three shared a small breakfast of weak broth Berwald had made whilst Tino slept and they packed their things, well, Berwald packed his and Lars' things; Tino didn't have anything to pack.

Before they parted, Berwald took off his coat and draped it over Tino's shoulders, the other lifted up his hands, fingertips brushing against the stiff material.

"But don't you need it?" he asked. Berwald shook his head.

"I'm warm enough, and I pl'n to find a room to rent today, so I can start work. I can g't another soon."

Tino shrugged and put his arms through the sleeves. It was far too big for him but so warm that he didn't care. Oh gosh, it was so soft and snugly that Tino felt like he was wrapped up in a giant blanket which would protect him from the evils of the world.

"Thank you," he said, "for everything. You're one in a million Berwald." He smiled, well, it was true and Tino wasn't too prideful to admit it.

"As are you, Tino," replied Berwald, "take care and I hope your luck changes soon."

"Oh it think it already has," he said hopefully, "and who knows, maybe it's enough to keep me out of the workhouses." And with that, Tino walked away, waving happily as he went.

~present~

Tino smiled warmly at the memory, then chuckled.

"Sorry," he said to his friend, still smiling, "it's just that whenever I'm all wrapped up in warm blankets, I always remember that."

"It's fine," said Berwald. Tino nodded sleepily and looked at the fire. It was dying now, embers barely glowing, which meant it was probably time to call it a night and get some sleep.

"Hey I think it's getting late…" he began. Berwald nodded and stood up, downing the last of his now cold milk and setting the mug in the table; he'll get it tomorrow. Tino got up too and stretched; the rocking horse could wait until tomorrow as well.

"It's funny sharing a room with you now, you know?"

Berwald nodded, nervously playing with his hands and hoping his flushed face wouldn't steam up his glasses. No, don't think…

"Nice though," Tino added, "cosy even. It reminds me of how we were before we got this place, but nicer, you know?"

Another nod.

They heard a knock at the door. Tino groaned and began to make his way down the stairs, feeling his way as he struggled in the darkness. Who the hell was calling this late at night?

Berwald followed him into the shop and leaned against the counter as Tino, obviously annoyed, opened the door. He braced himself for the rant that was sure to follow, but it never came. Instead, Tino turned to him with a face drained of colour.

"It's Mathias," he whispered; "he's been mugged."

…

So here's another chapter for whoever's reading this. It's quite long compared to the others, just so you know. But seriously, is anyone even reading this? At all? Ah well.

This is actually the chapter that inspired the whole story in the first place, which was in turn inspired by the song 'Missing you' by Christy Moore. So… enjoy!