Chapter Text
The TV is turned down low in the living room, crackling loudly to the tune of some suited-up man reporting the international news. The weather forecast stays as an overlay for a few minutes before flickering off, with headlines cruising alongside the bottom of the screen. Politics, tragedies, more weather alerts. A hurricane approaching the coast, getting stronger.
Ranboo takes his coffee mug out from where it sits under the machine, taking a preliminary sip. It burns his tongue, but that kind of dull pain hardly bothers him anymore. He’s not so sure it could bother anyone, really. A lot of people drink coffee, and that’s just the way that coffee is.
It’s worse when it’s lukewarm. Everyone knows that.
He feels heavy in his bones, like his skeleton is being weighed down with flour or something. Maybe if one person bakes enough, their entire body becomes batter, like all of his insides are just cake. That sounds a lot better as a metaphor, though, and whatever it would mean in that case probably doesn’t apply to Ranboo perfectly.
Either way, he makes his way to the sofa in the living room and curls up in the corner as the TV continues to play. They’re focusing on the hurricane now; it’s a category four, but they think it’s getting stronger, that all the winds are getting faster. They’re telling people to prepare for it, that nobody can be entirely sure of how bad it’ll hit the coast if it ever does, but it’s always better to have the upper hand. Get to high ground, get your supplies, and bide the time.
Ranboo rubs at one of his eyes, takes another sip of his coffee. It’s four in the morning on a Monday, and he should definitely go to bed. He had been kept up by nightmares, though, strange and distorted at first, but the same ones he should have expected. Memories from when he was younger, something about a black hole at the bottom of the world, him spiraling down and getting consumed. Talking to it.
It’s stupid, objectively. You can’t talk to a black hole the same way you can’t talk to, like, any celestial body out there. That’s just not a thing, and even in a dream, it’s hard to imagine that happened despite the way that everything else was so resemblant of… a memory of something that maybe did happen.
It’s hard to call it a memory. It’s hard to remember what even happened. He just woke up, throat swallowing around a scream, and he laid in bed for another hour thinking what’s the point why am I here what am I so scared of why am I-
He had been an odd kid in the photos Fundy showed him, and in the photos Fundy has been texting him since they last spoke. Ranboo’s always given him a polite, genuine reply, but it’s always going to unnerve him– no matter what funny story comes alongside it– to see his own face, years younger.
A lot of his scars aren’t there. His face is so much gentler. His hair is long and black, and he always looked tired in them. He’s sure he still looks tired, now, just a little more worn about it– he tries not to look at himself in the mirror, especially these days– but there’s something more painful about it when that expression is worn on his younger self.
There was some time between leaving Fundy and getting to Niki. It could have been five seconds, it could have been a few months. Closer to a year, if someone’s lying to him, but that would just open the floodgates up.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember. He doesn’t know if anyone will ever answer him, if he doesn’t. He doesn’t know if any of that even matters: he got here in the end, didn’t he? Seventeen year old and awake at four in the morning, watching the news while drinking coffee because he had a nightmare. Because he has something to do later, so may as well wake up earlier, because sleep isn’t nearly as much of an escape as being awake is.
(There’s a lot he was thinking of, in the hour he was awake after the nightmare.)
He should probably get off the couch. Finish the coffee, or pour the rest of it down the sink, and head back to bed. Check on Niki, maybe, though he’s sure xe’s sleeping fine. Maybe just in case. He needs to be better to xem, really. Be the sibling that Niki sees him as, has seen him as ever since they first met.
God. It sucks that Ranboo can’t remember when they first met very well. He just has the vague memories of the start, of figuring out leases and stepping around one another, of both of them feeling antsy around another.
And then he has fainter memories, but still opaque enough in his head. One night in the very beginning, where he must have been fifteen or sixteen or something, and he had gotten sick. Waking up that day to Niki checking his temperature, making him soup, talking to him about various things. One time he woke up alone, but heard her singing in the kitchen, and that was the first time he realized that she wasn’t just a hyperrealistic part of a dream, she was really there.
It’s hard to keep grasp of a memory like that, his brain frequently feeling scrambled, the few memories he should know by heart sometimes getting misplaced. Every day is like running through the cluttered backgrounds of a department store, knees slamming against the corners of sharp ladders and fingers grasping for stability against the edge of a blunt knifeware set. And eventually, he has to fall to his knees, ankles precariously resting beside rusty nails, and he sorts through stationary and papers upon papers of memory, trying to place them all in his head. Niki taking care of him while he was sick, learning piano from Fundy as a kid, eating blackberries in a backyard, folding paper cranes with Tubbo, stargazing with Tubbo on the phone and God in the sky, whatever tragic event Fundy had told him upon their first reunion that Ranboo had to block out of his brain to get through the next days.
Sometimes, he can escape with a few pieces of something intact, knows what he’s told certain people and what he hasn’t, has some kind of clue where he first met people, where some of his biggest life moments happened.
But sometimes, he wakes up in the morning and can’t tell who he is, has the mechanical memory to get out of bed but not enough abstract memory to know why he would. Where he has to go once he makes himself breakfast and gets outside of the house. What he wants for breakfast in the first place. Where he even is.
It makes everything a little scarier. He and Niki are roommates and almost-siblings, but he can hardly remember what they did on her last birthday, or the last time they stayed up all night talking– if they ever did that at all. He’s supposed to be Techno’s friend, but he can’t remember anything they talked about the last time they had a tutoring session. God, Tubbo is one of the most important people to him, and Ranboo has memories of Tubbo crying but can’t always remember what he was crying about-
It’s a bleeding curse; it’s the worst thing about Ranboo. How can he even try to befriend classmates or coworkers- hell, how can he even try to keep any of his few friends, when he knows that he’ll forget everything about them? If he goes to college, will he remember anything about the person who took him in? Will Niki’s voice vanish from his head, alongside everything that built up his formative years, alongside everything that Ranboo needs to remember to be a good person.
Maybe Tommy dodged a bullet with everything.
An ad crosses the TV screen, and Ranboo finishes off the rest of his coffee, aware of how his hands have started clenching the mug without him noticing. He gets up to wash the mug and then puts it away, leaving the TV on even as it tries to pitch a lawn mowing company to him, someone who lives in an apartment complex. Bad marketing maneuver on their parts, honestly.
Ranboo stays in the kitchen, gaze locked somewhere just past the TV, because the colors and light are starting to hurt his eyes. Maybe that means that he should just go to bed and try to sleep, but he can’t imagine that he’ll get very far doing that.
After thinking for a few minutes, he opens up one of the kitchen drawers, pulls out a pen and a post-it note, and writes a short message. Might be out on a walk when you wake up. I washed all the peaches in the basket by the way if you want any.
Then he goes to turn off the TV, shrugging on a jacket and stepping outside.
It is far below freezing. Snow falls from the sky in large clumps, and none of the local services have woken up yet to pave the main streets. Tree branches have broken and lay on the sidewalk, and the sky is starless, muddled with clouds in a sheer coat of clear black, nothing to light it up. If the constellations were out, he would be able to see Perseus or Aries, despite it being Capricorn season right now. For now, though, there is just the tranquil dark, harder to perceive through the snowfall.
There’s a sharp windchill, too, he starts to notice. The wind cuts through the air and turns his skin redder, and he carefully tucks his nose and mouth into the collar of his coat. He should have maybe grabbed a scarf, but he hates how they feel against his neck, and it wouldn’t stop the dancing of snowflakes against his cheek anyway.
Ranboo begins to walk, picking any random direction. Nobody is really out at this time in the morning, but he still stays hypervigilant, scrunching up his eyebrows as he tries to follow some non-existent path through the icy asphalt. He has no clear destination, but the cold sinking into his skin makes him feel less heavy, like his bones are less cake-like– rather, that there’s nothing there at all– and so he carries on.
After an hour, where the sky is still dark but the snow has slowly stopped falling, Ranboo finds himself by a bus station. The bus isn’t running right now, obviously, but if he were to wait a few hours, it would come. He could pay for a ticket, go somewhere else in this town, or maybe just leave altogether. It would be easy.
But Ranboo has a responsibility, here. Even if he is forgetful and tragic to those who love him, there is a town that needs a savior. And despite how impossible it feels-
his plans on the 28th -
-there are people who want a Ranboo. Even if they don’t know what they’re getting yet, even if they have no idea how terrible he can be, they want him. So he has to stay, if only for that one reason.
And so, just like that, Ranboo turns around and starts walking back. Easier than it should be, but harder with every step.
–
“Do you ever think about guilt, Ranboo?”
Ranboo lifts his head from where it’s resting against a pillow to look at Dream, pacing along the length of the couch Ranboo’s laying on, a small smile across Dream’s face. Dream is almost always smiling these days, which Ranboo thinks must be a good sign.
“What do you mean?” Ranboo asks, voice a little quiet. Dream offered him the couch to sleep on after his sleepless night, but he’s been awake for the most part, eyes shut and listening to Dream mutter to himself.
This is the first time Dream is saying anything loud enough for Ranboo to hear, directed at Ranboo specifically.
Dream shrugs, but after a few seconds, rephrases his question to be, “Do you have a guilty conscience, Ranboo? Do you ever feel guilty for existing? Do you think guilt is worth suffering for the exhiliation, the reward?”
Ranboo pushes himself up so he’s sitting, looking up at Dream. Dream doesn’t meet his eyes, so Ranboo affixes his gaze onto the floor. “Those… those are kind of different questions.”
“Humor me.”
“Okay,” Ranboo agrees easily. “Uh. I- I think so? To- I think I have a guilty conscience, yeah? I think most people- uh, I think most people do.”
Dream says nothing, but Ranboo can feel his eyes staring at the top of Ranboo’s head.
He takes a deep breath and continues. “I… I don’t know if I feel guilty for existing. That would- that would take a lot of self hatred, and, uh. I think I’m- I think I’m glad to exist. I mean. I’ve helped people, right? I, uh, I helped… I helped you.”
Dream stays silent.
“And, in terms of, uh, the last one.” Ranboo fiddles with his sleeve– pushing it up, pulling it down. “I- I think that, uh. That it’s not worth it. Because- because guilt means you did something bad, so the guilt isn’t- isn’t worth the exhilaration. Like, if you kill someone, then you feel- you probably feel sort of guilty-”
“You think so?”
Ranboo startles at Dream’s interruption, looking up at him. By the time he tries to meet Dream’s eyes, though, he’s already started looking away, pacing again. Ranboo clears his throat. “Uh, sorry, what do you mean?”
“You think that if you killed someone, you would feel guilty?”
“... Yeah? It’s, uh, it’s murder-”
“You don’t think that the murderer wouldn’t care?” There’s a layer of vitriol in Dream’s voice, and Ranboo shoves his sleeve up and down fast enough to chafe his skin. “If you kill someone, Ranboo, it’s usually deliberate, isn’t it? Premeditated, even. Do you think you could purposefully do something that could kill people and still feel guilt?
“I-”
“People who hurt other people are bad, Ranboo,” Dream articulates clearly. “They don’t deserve sympathy.”
“But-”
“Do you believe in the death penalty, Ranboo?” Dream’s footsteps quicken, his voice gets louder. “Do you believe in an eye for an eye? If someone killed Niki, do you think they deserve to die? If someone abused her, do you think they should be abused? Do you think the executioner feels guilt, Ranboo? Do you think the gallows feel guilt? Is sorry enough for you?”
“ Dream -”
Dream stops walking, facing a blank wall. His smile is gone.
“Guilt means you did something bad,” Dream repeats. “Isn’t that a little black-and-white, Ranboo? Would it not be the action that means you did something bad, rather than however the hell you feel?”
Ranboo doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reply or not, skin turning red.
“Most people have a guilty conscience,” Dream echoes. “Isn’t that a little presumptuous, Ranboo? Wouldn’t that mean that everyone is doing something bad, including you?”
Ranboo’s staring at the floor. Dream’s staring at him.
“Have you done something bad, Ranboo?” Dream asks, voice firm. His voice is far past scolding; it feels like the gallows. Like whatever it is, it’s already too late. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
Ranboo doesn’t reply.
Dream kneels in front of Ranboo, hooking his fingers under Ranboo’s chin and forcing him to make eye contact. Dream’s eyes are bright green, and there’s a smile on his face. Ranboo doesn’t know if he likes that smile anymore.
Dream’s voice softens. “I would kill to know the kind of dreams you have, Ranboo.” The smile grows. “Is that wrong of me?”
There feels like there’s a right and wrong answer here.
Ranboo hesitates for a long time, the cold fingers against his face making him want to recoil. “I… I don’t think it is,” he answers.
Dream’s smile twitches downward, and Ranboo feels his gut fill with ice. Yet, Dream doesn’t move away, staring at Ranboo steadily as he asks, voice clear yet quiet, “Why are you still alive, Ranboo?”
“I don’t know.”
After a few seconds of silence, Dream lets go of his chin and stands up, breaking eye contact and starting to pace again. “I don’t know either,” he states, “but they’ll eat you alive out there. You know that, right? Booksmart, but you don’t understand anything.” Ranboo watches, heart curled up in his throat, before Dream orders, “Go back to bed, Ranboo. Sleep.”
“I- I’m not very tired,” Ranboo admits.
Dream falls quiet again, face entirely blank, before he suddenly slams his fist into the wall. Ranboo jumps, but he doesn’t have a second to ask if Dream’s okay before Dream says, “Fuck, I need a second. Just- just do whatever here, I don’t care. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Okay,” Ranboo replies, anxiety clear in his voice. “Are, uh, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Ranboo.” There’s an edge to Dream’s voice. “There’s a bottle of melatonin on the table. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Then, Dream leaves, and Ranboo tries to find space in the empty room to breathe.
“You’re okay,” he whispers to himself, voice breathy and hard to control. “You’re- you’re okay, you’re okay. It’s fine. He just- he just said he needed a second, or, uh, ten minutes, and that’s okay. It’s fine, Ranboo, just- just don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything stupid.”
His eyes lock on the bottle of melatonin. He wants to take just one, so that he can try and sleep, but there’s a spider crawling on it. It’s a large spider, pure white in color, and Ranboo doesn’t know if it’s really there.
“Maybe I'm already sleeping,” he thinks out loud. “Yeah. That’s- that’s what’s happening. I’m asleep. I’m asleep, and I just- I just need to wake up. Yeah. Okay.”
Ranboo lays back down on the couch carefully, shutting his eyes. He’s not tired right now because he’s asleep, but if he tries to sleep now, then he will wake up. That makes sense. That makes sense to him.
And so Ranboo falls asleep, entire body heavy and curled up into the couch. His sleep– or rather, his waking up– is dreamless, and he feels the guilt in his body dissipate.
When he wakes up, Dream is standing beside him, a smile on his face. “Good morning, Ranboo,” he says quietly, mindful of his volume due to Ranboo having just woken up. “Had good dreams?”
They were bad dreams, honestly. All of that conversation with Dream was a bad, bad dream.
But Ranboo doesn’t want to kill the mood, so he just smiles back, yawning a bit and saying, “Yeah. They were- they were good.”
“I made us some pancakes,” Dream informs him. “Stay with me for a bit, yeah?”
With Dream, a bit could be hours. A bit could be minutes. A bit could even be days, if Dream means it in a different way that Ranboo interpreted it.
No matter what, though, there’s only one clear answer to that question. A right answer, a wrong answer, it doesn’t matter. Ranboo knows what the answer is.
“I’d love to,” he says, smile hurting his cheeks, and Dream’s grows to match.
–
It’s 3:00 PM, two hours before Ranboo told Tubbo he would pick him up, and Ranboo’s staring emptily at his closet with no hope of moving anytime soon.
It’s a ridiculous thing to be hung up over. Tubbo isn’t going to care what Ranboo wears, honestly, as long as Ranboo doesn’t, like, get hypothermia while they hang out. That wouldn’t be fun. But otherwise, Ranboo just wore hoodies to school all the time, so it’s not like Tubbo is going to draw the line if he decides to wear that again now.
This isn’t a date, Ranboo doesn’t have to dress up. They’re probably going to drive around a bit and stop at a Mcdonald’s; this isn’t prom.
Even if Ranboo feels like this outing is emotionally significant, that’s obviously not reciprocated and shouldn’t affect his dress sense.
So maybe this is less about what he and Tubbo are going to be doing, and entirely existent separate to Tubbo’s nonexistent notions about fashion, and has a lot more to do with Ranboo’s struggle to wear any clothes that aren’t his work uniform or a long-sleeved cotton shirt.
The newfound gender questioning has been haunting Ranboo, which is really just inconvenient, right, because he figured this out literally years ago. He’s a trans guy that’s never had the money to consider operations– and probably never will have the money in the future, so why dream of it– and he doesn’t like being misgendered. Part of that is definitely the truth, but it’s the last part that’s the lie. He doesn’t mind being called she as much as Ranboo probably should, and honestly, even if he did have the money for surgery, would he want it?
Niki both being cis and using neopronouns has changed some of Ranboo’s preconceived notions about what his gender has to be, but the main issue still stands: regardless of what he could possibly do with his gender, he doesn’t have the emotional capacity or the time to experiment. He’s committed to the life of being a pre-op trans guy, and he’s set up a life of being simply that.
So why has he been staring at the closet for thirty minutes now, eyes locked on a skirt hanging delicately in the center?
It must be Niki’s skirt, because it’s floral with pink and black roses across it and even if Ranboo had gone shopping for skirts at some point and forgot about it, he probably wouldn’t have picked a style like that. It is pretty, though, objectively– it’s a nice skirt, and it looks comfortable, and it’s not Ranboo’s and he should give it back to Niki.
But where does that leave the rest of it? Sweatpants in the vivid colors of grey and dark grey, two pairs of black jeans and one pair ripped, a pair of khaki shorts he’s never worn? Three pairs of polo shirts, a tropical print button-up, random monochrome tees, a few knitted sweaters, a bunch of sweatshirts and hoodies? The only exciting thing about his fashion sense is the jewelry he wears, which tends to be mostly his ear piercings that seem to have always been there– when did he even pierce them?– and some necklaces or rings he bothers with on occasion.
It’s not like the way he dresses is awful. He dressed basically the exact same when he was a kid, according to the photos that Fundy showed him, and it’s not like any of that style is inherently awful. Sure, Ranboo’s always sort of wished that he could wear the kinds of clothes he sees in TV shows, but those have high budgets and Ranboo has equally lofty priorities for everything else other than his clothing.
The clothes he has are good quality, are long-lasting, are easy to clean, and are cheaper than some of their probably worse counterparts. It’s all he needs to pull off several outfits for school, wash them all in the weekend, and repeat.
So it’s selfish, then, for Ranboo to want more. For Ranboo to want something that… clicks in his head. Which, okay, now what does that even mean, clicks in his head, that’s not how clothes work or anything works really, so-
Ranboo sighs, thoughts scattering for a moment before consolidating to a single sentence:
Ranboo wants more feminine clothing.
And, further, if he’s really pushing the brinks of his self-awareness, here:
Ranboo wants more feminine clothing, even if he didn’t used to.
And that’s… strange, because Ranboo isn’t sure that’s how that should be. Gender’s complicated and he knows that, but for himself, he was so sure in disliking feminine clothes, so why is he so sure now that he wants something feminine? Is there any point in him even having an opinion on anything at all if he’s just going to flip back and forth like that, constantly stuck in a loop of definitely not and absolutely yes, and-
He shouldn’t be applying his thoughts on clothes to the rest of his life. It’s just a bunch of fabric, shoved together and put in these unreasonable standards that maybe Ranboo should be defying, instead, but he just wants it. There’s no feminine clothes like there’s no masculine clothes, but there are clothes that make him feel like a guy in the wrong way and there are clothes that he can’t stop thinking about.
Maybe the best strategy here is to just… give it a try. Bring a back-up outfit, just in case, but… give the whole other clothes thing a shot. Because the worst case scenario is that this entirely reconstructs Ranboo’s view of his own gender, and the best case scenario is that… well, there is no best case scenario here, really.
Ranboo inhales shakily, reaching forward and grabbing Niki’s skirt. At the very least, he should return this to her. It wouldn’t really fit him, and it’s not his style, but most importantly it’s not his, and he’s going to have to find other clothes in some way that isn’t stealing from Niki, probably. Which… actually begs the question.
… Where is Ranboo going to get these clothes?
He does have one dress in his possession, the one he considered wearing at Schlatt’s funeral, but he gets the feeling that even if Tubbo doesn’t recognize the dress, there’s something wrong on a moral level with wearing a second-choice funeral outfit while hanging out with a person who was at that funeral. So, definitely not that.
That… literally just leaves him with the rest of his closet, which is kind of the source of his problems right now. So either he asks Niki if she has clothes he can borrow, which would maybe be the most embarrassing thing ever, or he goes clothes shopping before seeing Tubbo. Which, sure, he technically has the time for, but he wouldn’t even know where to start looking, and it would probably just be really overwhelming.
So maybe he should just give up while he’s ahead and resign himself to wearing something from his closet, instead of being wasteful and awkward about everything.
But first, he reminds himself, the skirt. He should give it to her.
And so, Ranboo pushes open his bedroom door and walks over to Niki’s. She’s off today due to the whole scheduling of the bakery being thrown into flux during the holidays, half because of the uptick in business and half because the actual manager has been pretty awful at helping out. Niki ended up double-scheduled a few times, and ended up staying way overtime last night trying to make enough baked goods for today. Hence why she managed to pull a few strings to get today off, and also why she’s probably getting a promotion soon, if the manager has any competency at all.
Ranboo knocks on her bedroom door carefully, not wanting to take her off guard if she’s busy or napping or something, but it’s only a few seconds later when he hears a soft voice say, “Come in.”
When Ranboo steps inside, he finds Niki sitting cross-legged in the middle of xeir bed, xeir laptop sitting open in front of them. Springerle is curled up by xeir knee, too, and she lets out a sleepy meow at Ranboo. He makes a mental note to give Springerle some cuddles before leaving the room, but for now, he lets Niki finish up whatever xe is doing on the computer before looking up at Ranboo and asking, “What’s up?”
“I, uh, found this in my closet,” Ranboo says quietly, head tilted down as he holds out the skirt to Niki. Niki takes it out of his hands pretty quickly, so Ranboo just fiddles his fingers together idly as he talks. “I think you left it in with my laundry.”
“Oh, okay,” Niki accepts easily, because this is a very normal exchange for everyone except Ranboo. “Thank you.”
“Uh, I also had a question,” Ranboo says before he can stop himself, and then immediately feels like running out of the room. He shouldn’t, though, because that would make it so much more awkward if he tried to ask xem again, but the thought is very tempting nevertheless. “About- about clothes.”
Niki hums, “Mhm?” before patting a spot on the bed beside her, closing her laptop lid.
So she must know that Ranboo’s question is going to take them both quite a while. He’d feel some degree of shame for that, but instead he just sits down beside Niki, putting his hand on Springerle’s back and gently petting her as he tries to string sentences together in his head.
“I’ve… been wondering,” he starts, wincing at the way that sounds already because it’s too casual, but it’s not like he’s going to admit that he’s been agonizing over this, so whatever standards he’s holding himself to are impossible. It’s not like he’s unused to that, anyway. “Uh. So, you know how you, uh, are cis and everything, but also use different pronouns? Like. Uh, the- yeah?”
“Yeah?”
Ranboo takes a deep breath. “Does that… affect? The kinds of, uh, the kinds of clothes you wear?”
Niki considers that for a second before settling on, “Not really. I’ve always identified more with being feminine, so I tend to wear clothes that make me feel like that.”
“So- so what if I, uh.” Ranboo feels his heart in his throat, more nervous than he should be when Niki’s looking at him with soft eyes like always, and Ranboo can never meet them. It’s always been like this with them, and he shouldn’t spiral into all of that but it’s hard not to, it’s hard to be with Niki and think we should be siblings and still be scared of asking if he can borrow her clothes. “What if I… wanted to, uh. Present more femininely? Whatever- whatever that means, because that’s not, I mean, it’s- it’s complicated, right, and I don’t want to like, I don’t- I don’t know. Would… what if I, uh, yeah.”
Voice still sweet, but underlined with a layer of confusion, Niki tells him, “I’m a bit confused what your question is, Ranboo.”
He shuts his eyes. “I… I want to dress more femininely,” he admits, sucking air through his teeth after. “I think. And I don’t know how to do that.”
It’s so easy for Ranboo’s brain to spiral. It always has been. His brain is insulated with anxiety, keeping his mind a place of constant dread and paranoia. For God’s sake, his own anxiety spirals keep him experiencing things that aren’t actually there, and if his brain had some kind of tactile sensation, it would be cold and dark. Because it feels like a dark part of the ocean, one of the parts that’s gone unexplored, where it’s so easy for Ranboo to plummet so far that nobody can reach him, nobody even tries to look. Everyone is so scared of suffocating, and it’s not worth trying to trudge up a shipwreck of a person just to gawk at them and throw them back down, because Ranboo isn’t a message in a bottle, he’s just the bones at the bottom of the sea that someone could find just as much of in some land-based pile of sediments. Ranboo is a spiral always doomed to drown.
And yet, Niki reaches her hand out to cover Ranboo’s from where it rests on Springerle, and she softly suggests, “Let me help.”
It’s a step of vulnerability Ranboo doesn’t want to take. Xe shouldn’t have to be subject to all of his inane rambles about his gender identity; xe figured xeirs out and he should figure his out without dragging xem in.
Let me help.
From the day Ranboo got taken in by Niki to the first shift he ever worked at her side in the bakery, from when he first met Springerle to when he first hugged Niki, from when he sat by Niki at the funeral to when he helped dye Niki’s hair: everything that Ranboo has done with her pantomimes the act of two people who care for each other, and that parallel only exists because they do.
But Ranboo is unconvinced that loving Niki alone can be enough to make up for everything Ranboo has done, all the memories that he’s lost of their time together and every second that he pushed her away for no reason other than him being too scared to accept that she cares about him. Logically, he can slip out of his own head enough to see that Niki has tried for him, but Ranboo is too scared to let her do anything more .
He’s not too far from his own head to know that he doesn’t want her to, even now. Ranboo wanted to be cared for years ago, when he was younger and weaker and more vulnerable. Now, he’s an adult, and he doesn’t need Niki holding his hand through everything he does.
Niki’s hand still rests on top of Ranboo’s, though, and the words let me help echo in his brain. Dream would kill him if he knew, yell at him that he should know better than to trust someone that Dream has always told Ranboo is too controlling.
But Dream isn’t here. And Niki isn’t controlling anything. Ranboo is the one who has to make the choice to let her in, a choice that fixes nothing permanently, but at least gives them the mercy of forgetting everything that’s gone unresolved between them for years.
And so Ranboo caves, because it’s not about his gender anymore, or about the pieces of fabric on his body. It’s about the person that he shut out to a point past repair, and the small steps he can take to steer them away from the car crash of confrontation.
“Okay,” he agrees. “I- yeah, okay.”
With that, like it’s easy, Niki stands up. Xe starts opening up xeir closet, a bunch of empty hangers shoved in the corner and making rattling sounds like a skeleton. In the front and center are all of Niki’s clothes: mostly pastel and in colors that feel too much for Ranboo, who is used to grey and monochromes, but there are a few dark articles that stick out like a sore thumb.
“This would be better if I had some of Wil’s old clothes,” Niki thinks aloud. “He used to buy clothes a lot. It was a way to cope with everything he went through.” Xe rifles through a few more pieces, hesitating on one and staring at it for a few seconds. “He’s your height, though, so I wonder if some of the ones that he never wore would fit you. We can try this, though.”
Xe gives Ranboo what looks like a knee-length skirt, though Ranboo figures it’s probably closer to xeir ankles. It’s black with pleats in it, each pleat spaced out rather than all shoved together like an accordian, and it doesn’t look like it’ll be too itchy or uncomfortable to wear, which is always a plus.
“Do you like it?” Niki asks.
“I…” Ranboo pauses. He’s not sure yet, but, “I’ll, uh, I’ll try it. What- what, uh, looks good over it, do you think? I don’t- I don’t really get fashion that much, so, uh.”
“Well, it’s cold outside.” That’s true, it is definitely below freezing. Ranboo should keep that in mind wherever he takes Tubbo, actually. Maybe they should just stay in the car after it heats up? “Maybe a sweater?”
“Okay,” Ranboo agrees, because he doesn’t really know if that’s a good or bad idea, but probably it isn’t an awful one. “I have one, I think. Or two. Grey and, uh, and beige?”
“Is the grey one light or dark?”
“Light.”
“Wear that.”
“Okay.” His color scheme is going to be a bit depressing, but Ranboo figures that it’s not as bad as his usual fashion choices, which are similarly monochrome. “I’ll, uh, go ahead and wear this, then.” He picks up the skirt, though it’s not like there’s anything else he’d be talking about. Niki, ever patient with his rambles, nods. “I’m- I forgot to tell you this, shoot, uh- I’m- I’m seeing Tubbo later today.”
“Oh!” Niki’s face is covered in surprise for a second, but that quickly melts to a smile. It’s small and a bit apprehensive, but it’s not a negative reaction by any means, and it’s not like Ranboo expected one but it’s still good to see. “I’m glad. I’m so glad. When are you leaving?”
“Five,” Ranboo answers, and then, a little softer, “I’ll be back by sundown. I’m- I’m not staying the night, or anything. We’re just going to- to probably sit in my car and drive around, it’s really cold, so. Yeah. I’ll, uh, I’ll be back by sundown.”
Niki nods, shoulders relaxing a little. “Okay. Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.” Niki shouldn’t thank him for that, but Ranboo’s not going to press the point anymore. He’s surprised that Niki even trusts him at this point, considering how many times in the past month– and honestly a little longer– he’d promise to come home at a time, to text her back, to give her some indication he’s still alive , and then never did. All the unspoken conversations they should have had, but they couldn’t, because what’s Ranboo going to do? Explain that he was out late because of-
Dream. Shoot. Ranboo forgot about Dream.
It’s not like Dream’s going to call for him to come over today, Ranboo doesn’t think, considering how often they’ve been hanging out otherwise. There’s been a streak of days where Ranboo’s seen Dream, and even if it breaks today, that should be fine. They’ve gone longer without seeing each other, much longer in fact.
Dream doesn’t know that Ranboo’s going to be seeing Tubbo, and Ranboo intends to keep that a secret. He isn’t sure why he feels the need to, when Dream’s opened up so much to him, but he guesses it has to do with Tommy. Which is annoying, because Ranboo doesn’t really care about Tommy, but he also knows that he can’t bring Tommy up to Dream, no matter what.
And also, though it sounds kind of stupid, Tubbo’s really special to Ranboo. And it’s kind of hard for Ranboo to… share that. Because it’s already selfish enough, liking Tubbo the confusing way he does, that it’s a whole other thing for Ranboo trying to explain it to someone else.
And Dream’s a bit overprotective of Ranboo– understandably, of course– so maybe he’ll hear about Tubbo and get worried that he’ll do something to Ranboo that mirrors Dream’s old classmates’ betrayal of him. And it’ll be hard to contest that; when Dream’s set on something, he never gives it up.
It’ll be fine though. Of course it’ll be fine. Ranboo shouldn’t worry about that, because worst case scenario, he’s an okay liar and Dream might be too out of it by the end of the night to ask why Ranboo never came over.
He’s been doing that, lately. Drinking. That’s never been a Dream thing to do, and it’s definitely only at a recreational level, but Ranboo doesn’t like the reminders of Tubbo’s confession at the park, Niki’s bottle on the kitchen table, and the drunken way Sapnap and Dream shouted out his name at the party he was calling Tubbo from on the 23rd.
It’s fine, though. It’s fine. It’s a tough time of year; it’s like this for everyone. Ranboo can’t judge them too hard.
He looks back up at Niki– who seems visually okay, back to petting Springerle and giving Ranboo occasional glances, like she’s politely asking him to leave– and he takes the cue, saying, “I’ll put these on now.”
“Let me know if the skirt doesn’t fit well,” Niki requests, “I think I have others. I’m sure it will look okay, though.”
“Mhm mhm,” Ranboo hums before leaving Niki’s room, skirt draped over his arm.
When he gets to his room, it takes him a few minutes to find the grey knitted sweater, having been out of use for a while. He really should wear it more, considering it's the dead of winter, but he’s grown used to the sweatshirts and his temperature tolerance isn’t that low for hoodies to be too light. The texture of the sweater is thankfully okay– the beige one is a little coarser, so in hindsight, he’s glad Niki recommended this color– and he gets to work changing into the outfit.
It feels… normal, wearing a skirt, which Ranboo chalks up to it just being a comfortable article of clothing, nevermind how long it’s been since Ranboo has worn a skirt. Some things don’t change, and one of those is that skirts are comfortable if they’re not too tight, and this one isn’t, so he’s naturally feeling okay.
It’s a very normal response to the clothes, but all of that fades away when he finally looks at himself in the mirror.
His bathroom mirror isn’t full length, so he can’t really see the ends of the skirt, but he can see enough to get the full picture. And with that full picture, he feels…
There’s not really a word for it, he thinks. His brain jumps to piece together synonyms for an indescribable emotion: happy and confident coming to his mind, but neither really clicking, followed by a more audacious excited and impressed. All of them don’t capture in, not really, and as he looks at himself, he can only really connect it back to one sensation:
The way he felt when he first realized he was a boy.
Ranboo’s eyes widen, which is sort of a funny sensation when staring at himself in the mirror, but that’s not the point, he’s getting so sidetracked. The point is, the word that fits best here is euphoria, and that doesn’t make any sense, because Ranboo is a guy who rejected a life of being forced to wear skirts in hopes that he would never have to again, that people would see him as a boy, but-
-but looking at himself, he doesn’t see Ranboo, the guy, the he/him pronoun user, the undefiable boy that’s going to be a man.
He sees a person who stands at an unreasonably tall height, with two wide heterochromatic eyes, a messy split-dyed mullet, a knitted grey sweater, and a knee-length pleated skirt. A person, who happens to be named Ranboo, but isn’t exactly a boy or a girl, just… him.
It’s a strange sort of realization to have, because it’s not like Ranboo goes about his days thinking consciously I am a boy I am a boy I am a boy. But, in a way, as he looks at himself, he starts to realize that… maybe part of himself has been doing that? In some kind of way?
Because this is the first time in years that Ranboo has looked at himself and thought this is it.
There’s an outside world past the boundaries of his bathroom door. He knows that. He knows people are going to judge him, call him a polite young lady, call him words he doesn’t want to echo back, that people are going to look at him in confusion because he used to identify as female and then got fucked up hormones and now calls himself a guy but goes out in his roommate’s clothing– he’s going to face all of that.
And even closer comes Niki, who might look at him and think that he’s been lying to her this whole time, or Tubbo, who may realize that Ranboo’s not the person he wanted to be around, or Dream, who could piece together the fact that Ranboo is more indecisive and confused than he ever really conceptualized.
And yet, Ranboo… doesn’t care. Because he’s looking at himself, and there’s something inside him that says this is it, and it’s such a strange bout of gender euphoria for a gender identity that isn’t cohesive or even really existent, but Ranboo’s okay with it.
And so he takes his time putting in his earrings, and layers two necklaces on each other, and he slips on his gloves. And in the hallway, Niki catches his silhouette and gushes over how nice he looks, how she didn’t want that skirt much anyway, and Ranboo laughs with her as they walk to make coffee in the kitchen at four in the afternoon, for God’s sake.
And Ranboo feels a piece of himself slide into place. A piece that he might agonize over later, or call into question, or shove away in a mix of repression instincts and anxiety response– but for now, it’s still living in him, quietly but peacefully.
For the day, Ranboo is a person that he wants to be. Ambiguous and euphoric and himself .
Almost hysterically, he thinks to himself as he puts his car in reverse and waves bye to Niki from the driveway, I wonder what it’s like to feel like this all the time.
–
It takes Tubbo ten minutes from when Ranboo first calls him to make it out of the house and to Ranboo’s car.
Admittedly, part of that is kind of Ranboo’s fault, because he decided to park somewhere out of line-of-sight, just in case Tommy was outside or something. Which means that to get from the house to where he is, it takes kind of a lot of walking, so it makes sense that Tubbo didn’t like, instantly appear.
But also, it is nerve-wracking sitting in the car for that long, thinking was this a mistake why am I here what if I misunderstood I was at a party did I maybe mishear him did he change his mind what do I do-
Eventually, though, Ranboo spots a familiar seventeen year old with messy hair in the distance, and he unlocks his car for Tubbo to slide into the passenger’s seat, easy enough to look like instinct.
“Come here often?” is the first thing Tubbo says, a smile playing on his lips.
Ranboo sighs, unable to hide his own smile. “It’s been a bit,” he says, maybe a bit too honestly for the joke.
Tubbo’s expression softens. “Yeah. Guess it has been, huh?” Ranboo starts merging onto the main road, taking that as the end of the short exchange, but then Tubbo comments quietly, “You look really nice, bossman.”
Ranboo’s momentarily confused by that comment, but then he remembers that he’s wearing a skirt. He probably should have been more prepared to preface that to Tubbo, but Tubbo didn’t sound upset with it at all, and Ranboo still feels pretty happy about it.
He keeps his eyes on the road, determined not to crash, but tries to convey how genuine his words are when he says, “Thank you. I, uh, was trying something new.”
“I think it looks really nice,” Tubbo repeats. “Your jewelry is cool too, I forgot you had piercings and shit. Do you think I’d suit a piercing?”
“Maybe?” Ranboo tries to envision it in his head. His brain jumps to a fully punk version of Tubbo, which makes him laugh a bit to himself. Tubbo looks at him questioningly and Ranboo just shakes his head, trying to match the other’s earnest expression. “Maybe some of the ear ones. I- I don’t know so much about- about like a septum or anything.”
Tubbo tilts his head. “Isn’t a septum the big ear one?”
“Uh, no. Septum’s the, like- like, it’s the one on the nose. Between the nose- not, it’s like- it’s like between the nostrils. That’s a septum.”
“Oh, I see!” Tubbo exclaims. “Dude, those looks so fucking cool.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty cool.”
“You should get one.”
Ranboo immediately shakes his head. “I, uh. I don’t think that would look good on me.”
“No, no, hear me out.” Tubbo sits up and moves to face Ranboo, straining against the seat belt. “You can get all the cool piercings, ‘cause they’ll look good on you, and then I get to look at them. ‘Cause they’re on your face, so I get to see them.”
“I get the idea,” Ranboo clarifies, “but I don’t think a septum would suit me?”
Tubbo shrugs. “Most things would suit you, bossman.”
“Well, I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t go as far to say that at all, actually.”
Tubbo frowns, nudging Ranboo with his shoulder, which is a bad idea when Ranboo’s driving. Speaking of, he should definitely ask Tubbo where they’re driving to, because Tubbo usually supplies all the places for their hangouts, but before he can ask, Tubbo cuts in and says, “I mean. You’re really pretty, so I reckon nothing could look that bad on you.”
Ranboo suddenly forgets all about driving. A year or so of driver’s ed down the drain, all the reminders of not to get distracted while on the road, especially residential ones that have random kids running in the middle of the street, especially when it’s snowed: all gone, because Tubbo just called him pretty again.
“I, uh, I- thank you, that’s, uh. That’s really, uh, that’s really nice. Of you to- of you to say, I mean, it’s really nice. Thank you.” Ranboo stumbles his way through the sentence, but he gets it out by the end, at least, and Tubbo’s always been kind enough to wait for him to finish and not interrupt him.
Tubbo stays quiet for a few seconds, then asks, “Do people not compliment you much?”
“I mean? It’s- it’s not like people don’t compliment me.” Because people do. Ranboo’s been told plenty of times that he’s smart, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he’s mature for his age, he’s self-sufficient, he’s a lifesaver. He hears that kind of thing all the time, from his teachers, his coworkers, his customers, and his friends. So, it’s not like Ranboo doesn’t get complimented very often, just– “People don’t, uh, tend to call me pretty though.”
“I guess I’ll have to do it more then, huh?” Tubbo quips, and Ranboo laughs quietly, shaking his head a little.
“You don’t have to,” he tells Tubbo. “I mean, I know that I’m, uh. I kind of look weird to people. Like, I’m really tall and, uh, yeah.” Even if he likes the way he looks today, that doesn’t change the fact that the people who see him all the time know better. That he has a mismatched face with a lot of scars and he’s way too pale and everything. Today’s just an outlier.
Which makes him upset to think about, honestly, but that’s just the truth. He’s smart, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he shouldn’t be looking away from what’s objectively fact just to make himself feel better. That helps nobody; Dream’s taught him a lot about that.
Yet, Tubbo’s still frowning beside him. “You wanna know what I think?”
“Yeah?”
“I think that’s bullshit.”
Ranboo hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh.”
“Like, yeah, you’re six foot whatever and you’ve got the different colored eyes, but I think that just makes you look cooler, and people are just cowards,” Tubbo claims, not a shred of doubt in his voice. “I think you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen, to be honest. You have a nice face, and like- like, you have a good smile.” He’s clearly not entirely sure how to phrase what he’s saying, but he still seems so determined. Ranboo makes a note to himself never to doubt Tubbo’s stubbornness. “So, yeah. I think you’re really pretty. Bam.”
At the very least, Ranboo isn’t alone with having a red face, seeing as Tubbo is generally shameless about saying these kinds of things, but still seems to be somewhat flustered. Which makes the situation kind of awkward, but it would probably be more awkward if it was anyone other than Ranboo’s best friend that he’s a little in love with.
“Thank you, Tubbo,” Ranboo eventually says, taking his eyes off the road for a brief second to give Tubbo a smile. “I, uh, I’m glad? Well, like- it’s just. I appreciate it a lot, uh, thank you. You, uh, you’re also really pretty, by the way.”
“Hell yeah I am,” Tubbo replies confidently. “I get so many bitches.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
Tubbo huffs. “Fuck you.”
“Sorry,” Ranboo apologizes, not feeling sorry in the slightest. “Hey, question. Uh, where- where are we going?”
“Oh!” Tubbo lights up like he’s forgotten something, which makes sense, since Ranboo’s kind of just driven in a circle for the past few minutes. He pulls out his phone, struggling a bit before navigating to some kind of Google maps app or something, and then saying, “I can type the address in, there’s this cool diner I’ve always wanted to go to but nobody ever comes with me. It’s kind of far away, is that okay?”
“If it’s not buried in a bunch of, uh, residential roads, then it’s probably fine?” It’s not like Ranboo would stop him if it was, but the residual snow might just kind of suck to get through if it was somewhere really obscure. He’d rather just stick to the main roads, where there might be a lot of traction since it’s five in the afternoon on a weekday, but there’s at least some salt on the asphalt.
“Yeah, it’s in a weird kinda place, but it’s not bad. Just like, a lot of driving down the same road and then making a weird turn, I think?” Tubbo says, leaning forward to type the address into the GPS in Ranboo’s car. “I dunno, I tried looking at the map and got confused. You can figure it out.”
“I mean, I imagine it’s- it’s fine to navigate if you, like, just. Look at the roads and everything.”
Tubbo shrugs. “I dunno the names of the roads. I know things off of, like, landmarks. Like, I know the big roads ‘cause at some point Tommy broke one of his teeth at a park along it, so we had to drive home during it and it was rush hour and shit.”
“Oh. Fair enough, I guess.”
“I don’t drive, bossman,” Tubbo points out. “I don’t know any road things. That’s what I have you for.”
“Oh, so I’m just your chauffeur?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that sucks.”
Tubbo lets out an infectious laugh, Ranboo’s lips quirking up as a result, and then the car washes away into silence. The GPS, of course, bickers useless instructions– Ranboo considers turning it off until he actually needs it, but that would be more of a pain on Tubbo– and over its choir of automated text chanting at Ranboo despite an obvious red light in front of him, Ranboo turns to look over at Tubbo, who is slouched over and checking his phone.
There’s a lot the two of them have to talk about. Most pressingly, Ranboo wants to know about the alcohol situation, if Tubbo’s still struggling with all of that. He also has a few questions about Techno and Tommy, maybe, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be confident enough to ruin an evening asking those.
That’s part of the problem, that Ranboo has so much to talk to Tubbo about, and Tubbo likewise, but this is just one pleasant evening. One evening that Ranboo gets entirely with Tubbo, because he may not have any more free time soon. Dream’s taken up a lot of his time unsurprisingly, and that’s not necessarily a problem, but it definitely makes it harder to find time to be with Tubbo.
So, Ranboo wants to pretend that none of this lingering tension exists. That it’s just him and Tubbo, hanging out the way that normal friends do, and there is nothing wrong with either of them. Or, well, that’s a mean way to put it, but the most direct one, that’s what’s in question, because Tubbo is drinking and Ranboo is-
Ranboo looks at Tubbo, eyes falling to the scar across part of his face. He looks away before Tubbo can notice, before the car behind him starts honking at him that the light isn’t red anymore. He shouldn’t be so distracted, should just focus on reaching the diner and let the rest of everything slot in there. The GPS certainly makes it harder to focus on anything else.
But the only way this will work is if Tubbo doesn’t want to talk about anything, either. Which isn’t healthy, and isn’t exactly something Ranboo should encourage, but he would be lying if he said that he wants Tubbo to ask him questions today, that he wants Tubbo to open up.
Truthfully, Ranboo wants both of them to avoid the topic. Just for a single day. It can wait until tomorrow, when Ranboo’s stepped out of his shallow shell of confidence and Tubbo’s stepped out of his sworn sobriety. When it will certainly get easier, or at the very least postponed, and pushed back over and over and over and over and over-
Ranboo’s grip on the wheel tightens, and he makes a sharp turn on a roundabout, having pressed on the gas harder than he should have.
Tubbo visibly startles, grabbing the end of Ranboo’s sweater, and Ranboo takes a deep breath as Tubbo asks, “Are you okay? That was one hell of a turn, bossman.”
“I’m fine,” Ranboo answers, as easy as breathing, and prays that Tubbo lets go of his sleeve soon.
Tubbo hangs on. “Are you, uh- Ranboo, you’re-”
“I’m fine,” Ranboo reiterates, cutting Tubbo off unintentionally, but he needs Tubbo to drop it like he needs Tubbo to let go of his sleeve like he needs Tubbo to forget their phone call like he needs Tubbo to drop it.
A few seconds later, Tubbo moves his hand off of Ranboo’s sleeve. As a truce, Ranboo takes one hand off the wheel, leaving it palm-down between them as he uses his left hand to steer. And, breaking this fragile, unspoken agreement, Tubbo slides his hand into Ranboo’s free one.
“The diner’s really nice,” Tubbo says quietly. He’s nervous. Ranboo wishes it isn’t that easy to tell. “I think you’ll like it.”
I’m sure you picked a wonderful place. It’ll be nice so long as I have you there. With you as company, it couldn’t possibly be bad.
“I’m sure I will,” Ranboo says instead.
Tubbo lets go of his hand. Ranboo moves it to the wheel.
They drive.
-
Ranboo’s anxiety doesn’t dissipate by the time they’re at the diner, but Tubbo seems to be in noticeably better spirits.
Especially good spirits, considering that it’s freezing outside and Tubbo’s not very well-dressed for it, just wearing a thin hoodie over a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. It looks nice on him, but it’s definitely not helping with the light snow that’s started to fall. Snowflakes sprinkle the top of his hair, and Ranboo turns to make sure that his car won’t get caught in ice.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just ice, Ranboo’s definitely driven through worse.
Tubbo moves to stand beside him, voice light as he says, “Now, I know that this place kind of looks like shit, but they have a cool vibe.”
Ranboo hadn’t even registered the place, preoccupied with the parking lot, and he turns to look at it. The first thing that hits his nose is the thick scent of cigarette smoke, and he lets out a small cough that Tubbo laughs at, seemingly unfazed.
The second part that registers is that the diner looks… sort of shady. Not awful, but pretty small, and shoved in between a laundromat and tailor shop. They really should have put those two right beside one another, but Ranboo guesses he’ll have a place to go to before prom, if he ever went. And if he ever got a suit tailored or washed at a laundromat, which he wouldn’t. The thought is what’s important, here.
Ranboo can’t imagine what about this place charms Tubbo, aside from the confessed yet nondescript cool vibe, which is a weird thing to say for a place that… actually, well, Ranboo can’t remember what Tubbo had told him about this place initially. So, he asks, just to clarify, “Have you been here before?”
Tubbo takes a moment to answer, eventually settling on, “I’ve driven by it. It looked cooler when I did. But this was a few years ago, and the windows were rolled up, so maybe I just didn’t see it too well.”
“Cool,” Ranboo says, because that makes sense. And he wishes he was in a car with the windows rolled up, because the smoke is starting to really bother him. As is the cold, which seeps past his sweater and especially his skirt, making him start to feel a little miserable. He hopes he doesn’t get sick after this. “Should we go in?”
“Probably!”
Tubbo goes ahead of Ranboo, which is ideal, because Ranboo’s planning to pay for both of them, but is probably going to let Tubbo order. He’ll just give Tubbo his debit card or something and go sit down. That sounds like a functional idea.
He suggests this to Tubbo when both of them have finally entered, the gush of warm air making Ranboo shiver, oddly enough. When he does, Tubbo huffs, countering with, “Let me pay for myself. I brought money.”
“It’ll be easier if we just use a card, Tubbo,” Ranboo reasons. “Plus, I, uh, really don’t want to order. So, like, let me, uh, let me do this for you, so you can do the other part.”
Tubbo doesn’t look pleased by this, but he must realize that Ranboo has a point, here, and sighs in resignation. “Fine,” he says, dragging out the vowel. “Okay, so what do you want? The menus above the place with all the people.”
Ranboo spares it a quick glance, quickly getting overwhelmed by everything, and eventually saying, “I ate a bit before I came here,” which is true, “so I’ll just have, uh, a milkshake or something.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you want to try some…” Tubbo squints at the board. “Mash bro- hash browns, fuck, sorry. Joke’s ruined.”
“The joke’s okay,” Ranboo reassures, which he realizes might be a weird thing to say, but what’s done is done. “And I’m okay. Uh, I’m okay too, like, alongside the joke. Both okay. I’ll- I’ll just have a milkshake.”
“Okay,” Tubbo agrees, “but I’m getting an Eggs Benedict. ‘Cause that sounds cool. Will that taste good with the milkshakes?”
“I don’t know,” Ranboo answers truthfully.
“Whatever.” Tubbo seems mostly uncaring, which makes sense. He probably doesn’t overthink these kinds of things as much as Ranboo does. “What type of milkshake do you want?”
“Uh.” Ranboo’s tempted to tell Tubbo to pick for him, like he did when Ranboo was getting drinks from a cafe with Tubbo’s family. He stops himself, though, because he doesn’t want to annoy Tubbo and make him do everything.
He looks quickly across the list of milkshakes, the diner having way more options than he expected, and eventually settles on, “Uh, the oreo one. That, uh, that looks good.”
“Like your hair,” Tubbo points out giddily, which is admittedly part of why Ranboo decided to pick it. The color scheme just… matched. “Okay, I’ll get the, uh. I’ll get something. Go find a table or something to sit at.”
Ranboo nods, making sure that Tubbo has his debit card before going to find a seat. There are a lot of tables here– some that are large and clearly meant to suit either an entire family reunion or three small groups crammed together, others that are high-up and circular with two barstool seats, and the rest being some kind of booth seat with a rectangular table between. Though there’s only two of them and those tiny tables would probably be more efficient, Ranboo feels uncomfortable with sitting somewhere in direct eyesight of anyone that could come in. Plus, those tend to be closer to the actual diner counter itself, and he doesn’t want the employees watching him or trying to talk to him. Not that he thinks literally any employee would do that, as working at a bakery has taught him that it is hard to care about socializing when you’re four hours into it on a bad day, but his excessive paranoia outweighs his work experience on all but a resume.
So, with much consideration, he finally stops idling and goes to find the cleanest booth seats. The one he finds is just barely within eyesight of where Tubbo is standing, so he’s a bit worried that Tubbo won’t know where he is, but it is the most secluded one from other people, and Ranboo should be tall enough for Tubbo to find him, anyway.
While Ranboo waits for Tubbo to come back, he opens his phone and checks to see if he has any new messages. He had left his phone off of silent mode, just in case Niki or Dream needed to call him, but nothing’s come in yet. If it’s five in the afternoon and Dream hasn’t contacted him, that probably means that Dream won’t be messaging him until way later in the day, when Tubbo would have been dropped back off home and Ranboo would have the freedom to call Dream.
However, a few seconds later, his thoughts switch away from Dream as– speak of the almost devil, like, penultimate– Niki sends him a brief text.
Niki: Tonight, Puffy’s picking me up to have me stay with her and her family until the 2nd. Springerle’s food is taken care of, text me when you get home anyway. Have fun, and tell Tubbo I say hi.
It’s nothing that Ranboo didn’t expect, having known that Niki was going to spend the holidays with Puffy’s family, but it is good now knowing that Ranboo can technically stretch a bit past curfew with Tubbo without so much complaint. Obviously, he won’t be out until midnight– after all, Dream might call him by then– but at the very least, he won’t have to rush this hangout when the sun sets earlier these days anyway.
Ranboo: okay! have fun and tell her I say hi
[
Niki: Will do. I love you
[
Ranboo: <3
When Ranboo’s done texting Niki, he looks up and gets immediately taken off guard by Tubbo’s sudden appearance at the table, holding one of those number buzzers and setting it down between them.
“Didn’t hear you coming, sorry,” Ranboo apologizes, since him jumping at Tubbo’s appearance might have come off a bit weird. “Also, Niki says hi.”
Tubbo waves it off, sliding down in the booth seat. “I’m silent. Like an eel. Or a worm, I guess, maybe. I dunno if eels talk. Also, hi Niki.”
“I think they could,” Ranboo says to the eel point, off of no scientific basis whatsoever. “I mean, if they’re in the deep ocean or whatever, they probably echolocate and we- and we just don’t hear them do it. I think, like, the majority of fish do that.”
“I wouldn’t say the majority, but probably a few do.” Tubbo says, then his eyes widen. “Oh, dude, it would be sick if fish could all, like. Like, if fish could all, like- like, if they could talk to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think would be the bitchiest fish?” Tubbo asks suddenly, making Ranboo let out a startled laugh. Tubbo continues, a fervor in his voice as he practically gossips about sea life. “I think those fish with the big fins would be. Like- like the ones that have the colorful, big fins that are always in those fish tanks at the dentist’s office. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“I think so?” Ranboo takes a second, scanning his brain for what they’re called, before it clicks. “Betta fish?”
“Yes, those!” Tubbo exclaims, and Ranboo should tell him to watch his volume, probably, since there are other people here, but the excitement in Tubbo’s eyes is worth a public noise complaint, he thinks. “They seem like assholes. Don’t they, like, kill other fish they’re around?”
“I thought those were piranhas.”
“Yeah, those also do that, but these, like. They get angry if they have other fish around. God, dentist’s offices are fucked.”
Ranboo agrees, less because of the fish and more because he really hates going to the dentist’s.
“I think, uh, I think the… meanest fish,” Ranboo settles on– he’s saving his verbal usage of the word bitch for a special day, “is probably a- a largemouth bass.”
Tubbo squints. “... Why?”
“They just seem like they’d be kind of jerks.”
Tubbo seems more confused by that. “What the fuck did a largemouth bass ever do to you, bro?”
“I mean, I’ve never seen a largemouth bass in person,” Ranboo clarifies, “I just- I don’t know. Every photo I’ve seen of them makes me think they would kind of suck.”
“Why are you frequently looking at photos of largemouth bass?”
“I wouldn’t say I do it frequently,” Ranboo weakly defends, the amusement growing on Tubbo’s face at Ranboo’s expense. “I just- I don’t know. Look at a photo of them.”
Tubbo humors him, opening his phone up and looking up the fish. A few seconds later, he whispers, “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“These guys look powerful. ”
“I mean, I don’t know if I’d say powerful, but-”
“These guys are fucking awesome.” Tubbo’s eyes are incredulous. “I like these guys. These guys are cool. Almost as cool as turtles, but not. Nothing beats a turtle. Or sharks.” Tubbo frowns. “Actually, largemouth bass kind of suck in comparison to literally everything.”
“Yeah, they’re- they’re average, I would say. I just- I just think they would, like, they would be the kind of fish to beat me up.”
“Surely not.”
“Look at them.”
Tubbo takes enough long glance at his phone before conceding with a solemn nod. “I see. I understand now.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation ends there– which is a good thing, because Ranboo can’t pretend for much longer to know anything about fish– and both of them go back to fiddling with their phones. At least, Tubbo does, eyebrows furrowed with concentration as he texts someone, his phone clearly on silent with no sounds emitting from him clicking the keys. Ranboo spends some time going through his texts, too, but ends up getting much more easily bored with nobody else to actively text, so he looks back up at Tubbo again.
The diner is primarily lit up with these lantern-like ceiling decorations rather than vivid bulbs or elegant chandeliers, which is part of what gives it both a casual energy and a splash of mood lighting across the place. If Ranboo were to take a photo in here, it would probably look awful, because there’s no natural sunlight coming in and the actual light, again, is not the kind that’ll come across as great if he were to try and capture any kind of detail without it being overly shadowy. It'd be especially bad if he were to get a polaroid, too, but to be fair, polaroids are weirder with lighting than his actual camera is.
That being said, he has to admit that the lighting… looks really nice shined on Tubbo. It’s not like Tubbo ever looks bad– Ranboo’s learned both by being around him a fair amount and also by being a photographer that the other doesn’t necessarily have a bad angle– but something about the soft light in a mix of gold and sienna against his skin and hair makes him look… a little like he’s glowing? Or in a painting or something. Either way, the light highlights his brown hair and makes his blue eyes glimmer with some kind of yellow sheen, kind of like the ocean. And maybe Ranboo was right to pick this place to sit for more reasons than the seclusion, since he thinks the lantern positioned right behind where he sits is making Tubbo look so much brighter.
Objectively, Tubbo is a good subject for a photo. Most people can be, but Tubbo especially has some kind of photogenic quality to him, not one that makes him grin brightly and scrunch his eyes up, but one that just makes him look real, even if he’s being posed.
Subjectively, Tubbo is really, really nice to look at. He’s not sure if pretty is the exact word he’s looking for, but every other one sounds a little too intense for him to manage without getting flustered.
With a small laugh that makes his expression light up so much more, enough to make Ranboo’s chest hurt for some reason, Tubbo looks up from his phone. His grin widens when he sees Ranboo looking at him, and Ranboo averts his gaze, cheeks slightly pink, because he’s probably been staring at Tubbo way longer than he should have been.
Given the opportunity to embarrass Ranboo, all Tubbo says is, “I’m flattered,” which is somehow the most humiliating thing he could have said anyway. Before Ranboo can make some weak attempt to defend himself, the buzzer in the middle of the table goes off, and Tubbo grabs it to go and grab their milkshakes.
Still sitting down, Ranboo takes a deep breath. He can’t be thinking about how nice Tubbo looks. That’s weird to think about one of your friends, and Ranboo isn’t trying to be weird about Tubbo. It’s not like he has a crush on him or anything– like, objectively, he likes Tubbo more than he would like the average friend, but that’s not because of a crush. That’s wrong. Because Tubbo is his friend and Ranboo hasn’t ever had a crush on anyone, anyway, so this probably isn’t that, this is just his brain being messed up. Or him being a photographer. Or him for the first time having someone he likes enough to develop a-
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Definitely not. He doesn’t have a crush on Tubbo. He won’t let himself have a crush on Tubbo.
What would the endgame to that be? He finds out he likes Tubbo, he tells Tubbo, and then he disappears for another month because he has some mission to do, a mission Dream hasn’t mentioned to him in a while but still an existent one nevertheless? He tells Tubbo he has a crush on him, then he goes off to try and save people’s lives, probably losing his in the process, and leaving Tubbo in the dust?
No. Ranboo doesn’t have a crush on Tubbo. He can’t handle that.
But, as Tubbo walks back to their table, somehow managing to carry everything in his arms, it crosses Ranboo’s mind again that he really, really likes this person.
“I have gotten the eggs benedict, Ranboo,” Tubbo reports as if he were telling Ranboo that he got a job promotion. Which is a bad metaphor, considering Tubbo doesn’t have a job, but the excitement in his voice still rivals it nevertheless. “Also, I got you the milkshake. And mine, which is the peanut butter chocolate one. I also got you an apple.”
“Thank you,” Ranboo says politely. “Uh. Why the apple, though?”
“You said you weren’t hungry, but I didn’t want to be the only one eating while you just, like, sat here. So I got you an apple.”
Fair enough. Ranboo isn’t that hungry, as he had said before, but it’s not like he’s so full that he couldn’t eat anything at all. So this works out well, honestly. “Thank you. I didn’t realize they sold apples at this diner.”
“Yeah, me neither. I kind of just asked for one and they handed me it.” Tubbo pauses, and then adds, “Upon further thought, I don’t know if they actually charged me for it. Which, hey, let me give you the card back.”
What? “Hold on, back up, did they just- did they just give you an apple for free?”
“I don’t know, maybe someone just had an apple on them?” Tubbo slides the debit card over, which Ranboo takes and stores away, and then Tubbo starts eating his food.
“Is that not, like, slightly suspicious?”
Tubbo shrugs, swallowing most of his bite before countering, “Isn’t this entire place suspicious? They didn’t poison a fucking apple, Ranboo.” A smile grows on Tubbo’s face. “You do actually look like Snow White. Pale ass skin, black hair, y’know the rest. Fairest of them all.”
“That isn’t Snow White,” Ranboo points out. “I think that’s the other one. Aurora.”
“No, Aurora is the sleeping beauty one,” Tubbo corrects, “Snow White is the fairest of them all, ‘cause the Evil Queen kept trying to poison her and shit.”
“Oh yeah,” That makes a lot more sense. “My bad.”
“Yeah, I was trying to tactically flirt with you, but you didn’t know enough Disney princess lore to get my joke,” Tubbo says with fake indignation.
Ranboo tries not to think about the first half of that. “Sorry. I’ll make sure to study up next time.”
“You better.” Tubbo takes another bite, and Ranboo starts inspecting the apple a final time before biting into it. “Say, who’s your favorite Disney princess? Or prince?”
Ranboo swallows. “Uh, Cinderella, I guess.”
“Figures,” Tubbo replies.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re responsible.” A brief explanation, but one that fits pretty well. “She had, like, a sense of duty to her and stuff. And you do work and school and research and tutoring and probably domestic house stuff, so.”
“Mhm mhm. That makes sense.” Ranboo hesitates, then says, “I have a really faint memory of reading Cinderella when I was younger. Like, it was a… a thick book of a bunch of bedtime stories, and I remember I read hers a lot.”
That’s the most concrete part of the memory, anyway. It’s only coming back to Ranboo now, since the topic’s arised, but there had been something about him being curled up, probably around the age of five, struggling through the syllables in the book. He had been alone, which he guesses makes sense, and it had been late. Most of his memories take place in the afternoon or evening, he’s noticing, if only evident by the sensations of being quiet or seeing moonlight that permeate them.
He wonders if he had been in a foster home by then. He wonders how long his parents kept him at all.
It’s not like a memory of him reading will tell him much of that, though. Nobody had been there while he was reading, guiding him through the words, and that says everything and nothing about what he must have felt.
Tubbo, of course, is unknowing to all of that, giving Ranboo a fond smile before commenting, “That’s sweet.”
“Yeah.” Ranboo should probably think about something else. No use wasting time with Tubbo by thinking about his probably dead or uncaring parents. “I also liked, uh. Well, I liked Rapunzel a lot too, I think, but also, uh. The prince from The Little Mermaid?”
“Yes!” Tubbo cheers, like Ranboo had somehow answered the entirely subjective question correctly. “Dude, I fucking loved Eric. Also Mulan if we’re talking princesses, but, like, I loved Eric. Second gay awakening.”
Ranboo asks curiously, “Who was your first?”
“Luigi.”
Ranboo stares blankly at Tubbo, who continues eating his eggs benedict tranquilly. “... Luigi was your gay awakening?”
“Yep.” Tubbo pops the consonant.
Ranboo takes a few more seconds to process that. Then, a laugh escapes his throat. “That’s- that’s certainly- that’s certainly something, alright.”
“Ugh, you’re worse than Jack,” Tubbo comments, presumably referring to his friend Jack Manifold, which Ranboo figures probably has heard this story before. “Look, I like tall guys, alright? And Luigi is better than Mario.”
“I’ll agree with the second part,” because Mario is overrated, he can concede to that. “But, I’m- I’m surprised you like tall guys, anyway.”
Tubbo raises his eyebrow, leveling Ranboo with an unimpressed look.
“What?” Ranboo isn’t sure what Tubbo’s looking at him like that for, but he knows an opportunity for a short joke when he sees it, so he casually continues with, “I just figured, y’know, since you’re so short, that-”
“Oh, fuck you!” Tubbo shouts, Ranboo laughing harder at his indignation.
Then, Tubbo kicks him under the table, and even though it kind of hurts, that only makes him laugh even more, wheezing slightly.
“You’re not funny.” Tubbo insists. Ranboo can see the smile spreading on his face, though, and he watches it grow even as Tubbo says, “You’re not. I hate you.”
“Mhm mhm,” Ranboo hums, unconvinced.
Tubbo kicks him again.
“Now, that was just- that was just unnecessary, I think. That- that was just rude, actually.”
“You deserve it,” Tubbo grumbles. “My eggs benedict would never do this to me.”
“I don’t think your eggs benedict is- is sentient enough to make short jokes.”
“Be nice to him,” Tubbo says, “his name is Benedict, first name Eggs, and he’s tall and nice and I’m going to marry him instead.”
Ranboo almost forgets about the amount of marriage jokes the two of them have made with one enough, getting close to asking Tubbo who the instead would have been directed at before realizing that this is, like, a thing between them. “Would you really rather be Tubbo Benedict than Tubbo Beloved?”
“The initials are the same,” Tubbo points out, which isn’t really an answer to the question or helpful information, since TB doesn’t really spell out anything.
“I mean, what’s your middle name?” Ranboo asks.
Tubbo pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. He goes silent for a few seconds, extending long enough that Ranboo starts to worry that he’s asked something bad, but then Tubbo suddenly says, “Huh.”
“... What?”
“I don’t think I ever gave myself a middle name,” Tubbo realizes.
“How- how did you forget to give yourself a middle name?”
“Look,” Tubbo says defensively, “to be fair. I only remember what my middle name is when I have to do the fucking standardized tests, like, I just remember that the initial is A, and I’m always like, oh I should probably change that, but then I forget. Mans gets busy, Ranboo, I can’t remember everything.”
“I feel like you would remember that, though,” Ranboo says, then realizes that’s pretty hypocritical, considering he doesn’t even know what his birthday is.
Tubbo finally takes the bite, shrugging as he does and asking, “Hey, what should my middle name be?”
Ranboo pauses. “Why would I pick that for you?”
“Well, I need a middle name, ideally before my marriage with Mr. Eggs Benedict so I can change it all in one fell swoop,” Tubbo points out, which, setting aside the eggs benedict part, makes sense considering Tubbo’s legal first name has been changed to Tubbo, but the rest of it probably hasn’t. “Give me some ideas.”
“I feel like this isn’t a decision that should be made while we’re- while we’re at a random diner?”
“This is the exact kind of decision that should be made at a random diner,” Tubbo argues, expression still thoughtful despite the absurdity of this. “I was thinking of Pestilence.”
Ranboo tries to process that, then realizes that there’s no way to rationalize what Tubbo just said. “You aren’t going to legally change your middle name to Pestilence, Tubbo.”
“Tuberculosis Pestilence Benedict,” Tubbo recites, “or would you prefer Beloved? I guess Underscore can stay to, I don’t really-”
“Your first name is short for Tuberculosis? ”
Tubbo frowns. “Did I not tell you this?”
“ No? ” Ranboo feels faintly hysterical.
“Oh. Well, yeah, it is.” Tubbo ignores what is likely a mixture of pain and shock on Ranboo’s face in favor of suggesting, “Maybe Chicken. But, like, shortened for Ken. I could be a Ken, I think I could do it.”
“That’s even worse?” It comes out like a question, despite Ranboo desperately not wanting Tubbo to take this as a challenge.
Because he’s Tubbo, he does anyway. “Better one. I like this one a lot, so you better be on board with me. Formaldehyde.”
“ Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, you took organic chemistry, you know formaldehyde is the coolest ever.”
“We haven’t even learned about aldehydes.” Ranboo read ahead enough to get the gist of what they are, but it’s not been taught yet, he barely has any idea what Tubbo’s talking about. “Either way, how is that good name criteria?”
“I almost beat up a guy named Anthony once. Jortanthony.”
“Tubbo, what is the criteria for this?”
“Whatever gets the ladies.”
“You don’t like women, Tubbo.”
“Ladies but in, like, a guy way.”
“What?”
“You just don’t understand my artistic vision, Ranboo,” Tubbo says with a sigh. “What’s your middle name?”
… Well. Tubbo’s kind of got him there. “I don’t, uh, know.”
“You were shitting on me for forgetting my middle name, but you don’t even know yours?”
“In my defense,” Ranboo doesn’t really have one, but he can at least try something good here, “that’s kind of a thing with me,” okay, that’s not good at all, actually, that’s pretty bad, maybe don’t admit you have memory issues, “forgetting things, that is, not- not specifically middle names,” and don’t double down on it what’s wrong with you?
Tubbo’s expression softens, and Ranboo hates seeing it melt into something more gentle just for Tubbo to say, “Oh.” There’s enough pity in that alone, and Ranboo’s seen enough pity for a lifetime.
So, he’s quick to try and cover it up, insisting, “I was kidding, that was- that was a joke.”
“It’s okay,” Tubbo reassures, and God, Ranboo is awful at avoiding talking about everything he came out here to avoid, he’s so bad at it, this sucks, Tubbo must be so uncomfortable- “I guess that just means we have to give you a middle name now, too.”
Well. Admittedly, Ranboo wasn’t expecting that.
“You can have Formaldehyde,” Tubbo says, “I’ll give it to you. Take good care of it, okay? Use it well.”
“I don’t want my middle name to be Formaldehyde,” Ranboo complains.
“You can go by Hyde?”
“What kind of name is Hyde? ”
“Jesus Christ, you’re picky,” Tubbo rolls his eyes, no bite in his voice. “Fine, we can table this discussion for later. I need to ruminate on these long and hard before picking a contender.”
Ranboo nods. In hindsight, the issue might actually be that he doesn’t have a middle name legally. He can’t remember now, but if that’s actually the situation, that kind of makes the fact that he just admitted to Tubbo that he has memory issues way worse, because it’s just… pointless.
Either way. Having a middle name would be cool, maybe. But he’s definitely not consulting Tubbo on any of it.
The two fall quiet so Ranboo can finish eating his apple and Tubbo can finish off his husband-to-be eggs benedict, which is such an absurd thing to have become a thing in this conversation.
Eventually, they finish up what they have to eat, and Ranboo gets up to throw out the apple core while Tubbo shoves the plate to the side, both of them now getting to probably the best part of the whole thing, which is the milkshakes.
Ranboo takes a sip through the large straw stuck in the tall glass, happy to find that the drink has remained cool, and also that the oreo milkshake was a good pick. It has a nice vanilla base to it, but there’s also bits of the cookie that come through, which is really nice.
Tubbo, across the table, seems to be enjoying the peanut butter chocolate one equally as much, drinking from it for a few seconds before saying, “This is so fucking good. Do you want to, like, stick your straw in it and try a bit? It’s so good.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ranboo says, moving his glass around so he can take a drink of Tubbo’s. Tubbo does the same with his, and Ranboo quickly agrees, “Yours is really good. I like mine better, I think, but yours is really good.”
“Same here.” Tubbo takes his straw back out, warning Ranboo, “I’m going to probably down this entire thing in, like, five minutes and give myself the worst headache in the world. As a heads up.”
“This doesn't surprise me,” Ranboo replies.
“Fuck you,” Tubbo throws out light-heartedly, before both go back to drinking.
Ranboo’s thoughts wander as he does, for the first time actually taking in the music that’s playing. It’s all pretty dated music, but Ranboo’s not going to complain about that, and he enjoys the mix of old rock and softer ballads, despite how odd the mixture is. It really is a nice diner, since the vibes are really on point, and the lighting is good and the music is good and the milkshakes are more than good, honestly. He’s really, really glad that Tubbo took him here, even if they’re drinking cold drinks in the middle of winter.
He turns his head to look outside the window, the booth seats positioned directly against one. He can’t see his car from here, but he can’t see any snow flurries coming down anymore, so he figures that might happen later that night. Either that, or the sky is starting to clear up, which would be exciting because maybe, just maybe, Ranboo can actually watch the stars with Tubbo in person. He’s always heard that they’re prettier in winter, anyway, though he’s not sure if that’s exactly true. They could catch the constellations of Perseus and Aries, even though it’s Capricorn season.
Ranboo looks away from the window, about to ask Tubbo if he would want to go stargazing after this, when he realizes that Tubbo’s staring at him, the same way that Ranboo had been staring at him before– though, definitely for different reasons.
Tubbo’s eyes are still unfocused and on him when Ranboo turns back to face him, and so Ranboo figures he should get his attention somehow. So, he says, extremely awkwardly, “Uh, you, uh. You doing alright there?”
Tubbo’s eyes focus again, and he shakes his head, looking between Ranboo and his drink. His cheeks tint pink, and he eventually gives Ranboo a thumbs up and says, weakly, “All good. Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re okay,” Ranboo reassures. “Did you, like, want to say something, or?”
“No, no, I just.” Tubbo’s cheeks get darker. He hesitates for a few seconds before saying. “You, uh, you look really nice today.”
Oh. “You- you told me that in the car, yeah.”
“Yeah, I know, but, like. You- it’s. Uh. Yeah.”
Ranboo’s never heard Tubbo that visibly flustered, which is in turn just making him more flustered, which isn’t even remotely fair. He ends up replying, voice a little strangled, “Yeah.”
“Just, uh.” Tubbo does a hand waving gesture, and Ranboo has no idea what he’s gesturing at, since it’s not even being done in Ranboo’s general direction. So unless Tubbo is trying to point out something about the trash can a few feet away from them, Ranboo’s not really sure what he’s trying to say. “You get it.”
“Yeah,” Ranboo says, absolutely clueless.
“You were staring at me earlier anyway,” Tubbo points out.
Ranboo breaks eye contact, suddenly extremely interested in the napkins on their table. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No, no, it was cute,” Tubbo says, and then after a pause, adds, “Fuck.”
Ranboo looks up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just had a life realization.” Tubbo’s cheeks are still pink, and he’s smiling, which isn’t a bad sign, but that doesn’t make what he just said any less concerning. “Y’know. Like you do when you’re with your friend at a diner. Drinking, uh, a peanut butter chocolate deluxe milkshake.”
“What makes it deluxe?” Ranboo asks, nerves having calmed down from Tubbo seemingly being okay after this specific life’s realization.
“I mean, it tastes pretty damn good,” Tubbo suggests, “so maybe that?”
“Yeah, fair.”
“Yours had Supreme in the title.”
“Is Supreme better than Deluxe?”
“Probably, but I’m still going to fight you on it anyway,” Tubbo says honestly.
Ranboo laughs. “You are awful at picking your battles, y’know that?”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Tubbo admits with a defeated sigh.
“Well, either way, hope that life realization of yours goes okay,” Ranboo says earnestly, going back to drinking from his milkshake.
Tubbo looks at him confused. “What?”
Ranboo waits to swallow before elaborating, “The, uh, life realization. That you brought up, like, ten seconds ago.”
“Huh?” A few seconds later, though, Tubbo realizes what Ranboo meant. “Oh! That life realization! Yeah, okay, yeah. Yeah. It’s going great, bossman.”
“I’m happy to hear that?” Ranboo’s a bit confused, but Tubbo seems happy enough, so Ranboo’s not going to bother him about it.
One drink later, Tubbo adds, “It has a little to do with the middle names, actually.”
“Oh God.”
“Hear me out. Leuk, but spelled L-E-U-K. It means nice in Dutch.”
Ranboo buries his head into his hands, partly to hide his smile as Tubbo laughs, and partly because he knows this absolutely ridiculous conversation is far from over.
–
Both of them finish their milkshakes before sunset, which is surprising, since Ranboo thought the sun set way before six in the afternoon.
He brings it up to Tubbo, who shrugs and says, “The sun’s like that, man. Hey, want to go for a walk?”
“It’s cold,” Ranboo points out, the two of them outside in the parking lot, absent of snow but still definitely below freezing temperatures. “And it still smells like cigarette smoke, somehow. I don’t even know how it manages that.”
Tubbo shrugs. “Hey, this place is close to the railroad tracks.”
“Is it?” Ranboo asks. He isn’t even that sure he knows where they are, honestly, just that it’s way too far from their homes. Which is more of a reason to maybe skip walking, but Tubbo seems excited about it and Ranboo’s learning that he’s weak to Tubbo’s excitement. “Is it in walking distance?”
“Hell yeah it is!” Tubbo says, then pauses. “Let me check, actually.”
“Please do that,” Ranboo replies, blowing on his hands before realizing that’s ineffective as a heat-preserving measure when he’s wearing his gloves.
Tubbo manages Google maps enough, even with his bad navigational literacy, to say, “Eh, we can drive to it. That might be better. Less smoke scent. But, like, it’s three minutes away by drive. We can just park by some random place there and walk.”
“I don’t want to get a parking ticket.” Even so, Ranboo clicks open his car, and both he and Tubbo pile inside, quick to avoid the cold temperatures. “Is there a safe place to park there?”
“Let’s scope it out,” Tubbo recommends. “If there’s nothing, we can come back and park here. Don’t think the diner’s going to get more filled within the next five minutes, hate to break it to you.”
Ranboo snorts, but makes no other comment, focusing on pulling out of the parking seat. He throws his arm around Tubbo’s chair to do so, which he feels a bit bad about not asking first before doing it, but in the past Tubbo’s said he’s fine with it and, even now, he barely seems to notice.
Still, Ranboo makes sure to move his arm back when he’s done, listening to Tubbo as he recites instructions to the train tracks. It turns out, only a few minutes later, they end up there, and there are no other cars around them, nor instructions about what the parking situation is. Since there’s nothing there, and barely any buildings around it, Ranboo ends up parallel parking by the curb near it, and both of them get out of the car.
There aren’t any houses beside it, which makes it come off as kind of strange. Just an opening between thick lines of trees, and then the trees and gravel continue for the rest of it. To be fair, it is kind of vacant here in general, a lot of smaller businesses and gas stations, but nothing residential and nothing industrial. It’s… kind of depressing, but in the way most suburbia is, so it’s not like he can complain that much about it. Still, it feels heavier walking towards it than being near the bus stop he had gone to a few mornings ago, even if both are places of escape. The melancholy is heavier here.
“I wonder how many people come here to think about getting away,” Tubbo says, and when Ranboo looks over at him, face contemplative, Ranboo gets the feeling they’re both thinking the same thing.
Either way, both of them step out onto the tracks. There’s a thicker line of safety on the other side, but not by much. Ranboo looks down the track and, as far as he can see, there’s just metal, gravel, and trees. Most of them haven’t lost their green yet; he figures they must be pine. That maybe there’s a place near here where people go to get their Christmas trees, though Ranboo wouldn’t know much about that practice.
Tubbo ends up stepping out onto the track, and Ranboo’s quick to grab his sleeve. “Tubbo! Be careful, there’s- a train could-”
“They don’t run at this time,” Tubbo says, voice calm. “It takes them a few hours to get here, usually. There’s a proper train station a bit down, maybe twenty minutes if we drove there? Probably seven by train. That takes people from here at four AM. That’s the only time it does for a shitty small place like this.”
Ranboo hesitantly lets go of his sleeve, cautioning, “The tracks might be icy. Be careful.”
“It’s interesting that there isn’t snow banked here,” Tubbo points out, and he’s right. There’s no piles of snow alongside the tracks. “I wonder who cleans it. Maybe that’s someone’s job.”
“Maybe.”
“I guess they’d have to avoid seven past four in the morning, then,” Tubbo says darkly, closing his eyes and letting out a small laugh.
Ranboo looks at him, the way that his shoulders are slumped down and something seems irrevocably different from when they were in the car, and he steps out onto the tracks.
“Come here often?” Tubbo jokes.
Ranboo’s face doesn’t shift. “Are you okay?”
Tubbo looks down at the ground, sighing before saying, “Having another life realization. Don’t worry about it, big guy.”
“You didn’t even tell me what the first one was,” Ranboo says weakly, almost pleading.
“Didn’t I say? It had to do with last names and shit,” Tubbo reminds him.
“Middle names, I thought.”
“Yeah, see? So you heard me.”
Ranboo doesn’t point out the contradiction in what he just said, giving Tubbo space. Tubbo says nothing else about the subject, though, and the silence feels heavy on Ranboo’s shoulders. Still, he’s not sure what to say, whether to press as to why Tubbo seems sadder now than he did a few seconds ago, or ask why Tubbo wanted to come here in the first place, or question why Tubbo thinks people would come out here if there isn’t enough houses near here for anybody to be remotely close anyway. Why someone would seek it out, why Tubbo knows where the train station is, what this place means to him at all.
When someone breaks the silence, it’s not Ranboo. He’s too much of a coward to.
Instead, it’s Tubbo. “Can I ask you a question, Ranboo?”
“Yeah. Anything.”
The second part is a bit too earnest, but it makes Tubbo’s lip lift up a bit at the corner, which Ranboo will take as not too bad of a sign. “You said earlier you forgot what your middle name was.”
Oh. That’s- that’s what Tubbo’s asking about.
Maybe Ranboo should be more shocked. But he’s lived seventeen years like this, and now, when the night is cold and they’re all alone and he’s starting to get tired, he can’t be bothered to fight the pity off that actively anymore. He never wanted to sit here and open up with Tubbo, had hoped for different things on the drive here, but maybe their words will make a home in this train track, swept away by the morning, away from both their minds.
So, he says, “Yeah. I actually, uh, don’t have a middle name.”
“Really?” Tubbo doesn’t seem to believe him.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you tell me you forgot it, then?”
“Because I did.” Before Tubbo can open his mouth to doubt him further, Ranboo adds, “I forgot that I didn’t have one.”
Tubbo finally turns to look at Ranboo, but he only meets his eyes for a second before he shakes his head and looks away again. Then, he sits down, and Ranboo gives the tracks one last cursory glance before he joins him. He tries to put space between them, but Tubbo scoots closer to rest his head on Ranboo’s shoulder, and Ranboo figures that’s better for warmth purposes, anyway.
“Do you forget things often?” Tubbo asks.
Ranboo could lie. He could lie about this the way he’s been doing for a while, tell Tubbo that it’s not a big deal, that he’s fine, that Tubbo should drop the subject because everything’s okay. But he can’t, because what would he do after that? Just get in his car and leave Tubbo alone here, waiting until four in the morning?
They’re both leaving together, and Ranboo shouldn’t piss him off, not when he feels sort of sad but mostly okay. Being around Tubbo makes it easier to be okay, even if it makes it harder to be honest. Ranboo should at least try to be the latter even at the expense of the former.
All are complicated ways of saying that Ranboo shouldn’t keep lying about this. It’s exhausting, and it’s going to hurt Tubbo in the long run, if Tubbo cares enough about Ranboo’s health for that. And, unfortunately, it seems like Tubbo does.
So, Ranboo tilts his head to rest against Tubbo’s, and he answers his question with a quiet, “Yeah.”
“Is it just like, small stuff? Like- like deadlines or whatever?” Ranboo’s hand lies a few inches away from Tubbo’s. He doesn’t make a move to grab it, though he thinks that even through his gloves, he could feel the warmth of Tubbo’s palm. As he thinks this, Tubbo talks again, taking the silence as discomfort, “Sorry, we can- we can drop it, it’s fine.”
“It’s not just deadlines,” Ranboo says, and Tubbo immediately falls quiet to listen. It’s nice, having someone just listen, even if it twists the knife of guilt into Ranboo’s gut. “It’s kind of everything. It’s, uh, okay most of the time, where I just forget small things. If I’ve been talking to someone for five minutes, I’ll forget where the conversation started, things- things like that.” He leaves out that it’s easier to remember conversations if he’s talking to Tubbo, either because he’s always made a habit of prioritizing writing it down, or because there’s a stronger emotion attached to all of it. Emotional memories are the easiest ones for him to hold onto, even if he only feels the emotion and none of the details.
“Is that a good day for you, then?” Tubbo asks.
“On a good day, my brain actually works properly and I remember, like, most of everything,” Ranboo says, then amends, “most of everything actively happening, anyway. Remembering things in the past is- it’s a whole other thing. But yeah, on an okay day, I forget more stuff than most people do, but, like, kinda as much as you would forget if you were really sleep deprived. Like, my brain’s just scattered.”
“Oh. Okay, yeah.” Tubbo nods against Ranboo’s shoulder. “I know what you mean. Well, sort of. I don’t really- yeah.” He slumps down, defeated. It’s not like Ranboo’s going to hold bad phrasing that heavily against him, though he doesn’t think telling Tubbo that will make him feel better.
“Bad days are when- it’s- it’s kind of hard to explain.” Ranboo can’t even believe he’s telling someone this, much less how to actually go about it. He never thought he would be in this position before, and now, his words are scrambling. His brain stutters on itself for a few seconds before he manages to come up with something. “Do you remember that one day where I showed up to school really late?”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says instantly, remembering it faster than Ranboo did, just then. He guesses that makes sense, that that’s what they’re talking about in the first place. “It was during English. You seemed off. You wouldn’t talk to me much.”
Ranboo nods. “Yeah. I had, uh, I had spent that morning, sort of. Like, I- sorry, this is really weird to be talking about.”
“Hey, don’t apologize.” Tubbo nudges Ranboo’s side gently. “You don’t have to talk a lot about it. Shit’s rough, I get it.”
“I think you deserve to know.”
“I don’t have to.”
“I know. I just- I think you deserve to.” If Ranboo wants to keep Tubbo in his life for longer than the end of high school, which he does, then Ranboo should let him know. With a deep inhale, he continues, “That day, I, uh. I had woken up in kind of a blur. Like, I sort of knew where I was, but I couldn’t figure out what day it was, or if my calendar was off, or if I was supposed to be going to work or school, or where work or school even was . I ended up pulling over halfway on the way to school because I, like, couldn't tell if I was going in the right direction. I didn’t even really know how old I was.”
“Oh,” Tubbo says, voice quiet.
“That’s what I consider a- a really bad day. They happen more often than good days, but- but most days are okay days. So it’s fine, I can- I can deal with most of it.”
“Does anything help?” Tubbo asks, and Ranboo tries not to think too hard about how kind it is, that that’s Tubbo’s very statement after everything, because that thought makes his heart ache.
Ranboo answers, honest yet feeling awful as he does, “I keep journals and calendars and post-it notes and stuff. That keeps my brain on track.” He tries not to think about the planner empty of study plans throughout finals week, how he only noticed when he was with Dream, one of the only other people to know about his memory problems. “Nothing else really helps, though. It just is what it is.”
“Shit, dude,” Tubbo breathes out, a puff of air stagnating in front of him for a brief second. “That sucks.”
“It’s not great, but it’s life, I guess.” Ranboo’s not exactly an optimist, but he’s never been able to let himself be all that pessimistic, either. If he thinks that his memory issues are the start of his bad luck, everything else would just about kill him. It shouldn’t go without consideration that in some ways, a bad memory can be a blessing for someone as fucked up as him. “Sorry for dumping all of that on you.”
“It’s okay. I really- like, I cannot emphasize how little I am bothered right now. Like. I don’t care- not like, I don’t care about what you said, but as in I don’t mind that you told me it. I’m glad you did, actually. Yeah.” Tubbo’s ramble comes to an anticlimactic stop, but Ranboo appreciates the sentiment woven throughout it. “Can I ask, is it- you remember childhood stuff, though, right? Like, you’ve told me stories from when you were a kid. Not super little, obviously, but like- like, y’know, being eight and stuff.”
“That’s the funny thing,” Ranboo says, as if any of it is funny in the slightest, “I don’t remember anything before the age of fifteen.”
He can feel the way Tubbo freezes from where he lays against him, shoulders tensing up as Ranboo confesses one of the most damning things about him. The kind of thing that would get people leaving, or at the very least interrogating him, asking how is that possible and are you sure you’ve forgotten everything and, Dream’s favorite, how do you know you did nothing wrong, then, how can you tell, how can you-
Instead, the only thing that Tubbo says to Ranboo is a soft, stilted, “Oh.”
And then, he grabs onto Ranboo’s hand, squeezing it tightly, and doesn’t say anything else.
He’s not sure how he expected the conversation to end. With Tubbo, he’s never really sure; it’s miraculous that the other has stuck by him long enough already that he’s always wondering when Tubbo will go. If it’s not the confession of his bad memory that gets him, then Ranboo’s starting to wonder what else it will be. Maybe it’ll be Ranboo’s badly controlled emotions that scares him off, or Ranboo’s whole thing with Fundy, or Ranboo’s relation to Dream in contrast to Tommy’s apparent one with the same person. Something has to make Tubbo go, but nothing Ranboo’s said has made him leave so far. In fact, the person that’s most responsible for their lack of conversation throughout late November and most of December was Ranboo himself.
He knows that he was doing it for a good cause, that what he and Dream are up to shouldn’t be the thing that Tubbo’s getting involved with. Tubbo shouldn’t be part of Ranboo’s whole issue with their hometown whatsoever, because involving him would be reckless and selfish and stupid. And Ranboo’s smart, has a good head on his shoulders, so he’s not going to do that to him.
Still, he can’t deny that he missed this between them. The way that even when both of them are sad, Ranboo feels a twinge of happiness around Tubbo. Sometimes, it’s more often that all of what he feels is happiness, and the sadness is all nullified. Being around Tubbo makes him feel better, and he hopes that Tubbo feels the same. Because he doesn’t want this to be the last time that he has to see Tubbo; he wants to be by his side for a long time. Maybe forever.
But, of course, the world calls upon Ranboo and crushes any hope of what he wants. And so, it’s only seconds after he realizes that he wants to be with Tubbo forever that he hears his phone ring, and he knows for certain that it’s not Niki texting him.
Tubbo hears it, too, and his free hand grabs Ranboo’s as he tries to pull out his phone. Ranboo’s arm stops moving, and he looks up at Tubbo, now sitting in front of him and holding both his hands, and watches as Tubbo asks, “Is it Niki?”
“No,” Ranboo says definitively, though lying might have been better. “It’s not Niki.”
“Then don’t answer it,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo has no time to argue before Tubbo adds, “Please.”
There’s something desperate to his voice, and it’s sudden and unexpected and Ranboo’s never seen Tubbo this defiant of Ranboo answering his phone before. Of course, Ranboo knows that it’s probably Dream, checking up on him and telling him to come over, but Ranboo wouldn’t know that’s the case. He’s been lying to Tubbo every chance he gets to imply that it isn’t.
And yet, Tubbo stares at him imploringly, and Ranboo has to ask, “Why?”
“I just-” Tubbo starts, then cuts himself off. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I just want you to be here. And- and just- I just want to be with you right now. And I know that sounds stupid and selfish and you should probably just answer it anyway, but I- I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Ranboo looks at him for a few more seconds. In that time, the phone rings again, and Tubbo tenses once more.
Then, Ranboo moves his arm out of Tubbo’s hand, and Tubbo lets go in defeat. He watches as Ranboo pulls out his phone, spares a quick enough glance at his screen to realize that it is Dream,
and then powering off his phone, putting it back in his pocket and looking back at Tubbo.
“It’s off,” he says, even though Tubbo just watched him do that. “I- I don’t want to, uh, talk to the other person.”
“I didn’t mean to force you,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo shakes his head.
“It’s okay. I didn’t want to answer them.”
Tubbo’s face is still filled with guilt for a moment, even as he moves back to sitting beside Ranboo, and Ranboo lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around his shoulder.
That guilt disappears eventually, though, when Tubbo looks up at the sky and says, “Hey, Boo, the sun is setting.”
Ranboo looks up, and past the vacant suburbia that lays in front of them, he can see the sun setting on the horizon, the sky erupting into oranges and pinks. It’s not as colorful as it is some nights, but he can see the stars where the sky has already melted into a deep indigo, and that makes it look a lot prettier than most other sunsets he’s seen.
Plus, Tubbo’s sitting beside him, his hand idly resting on Ranboo’s leg while his ankle barely brushes against his calf, and that makes the sunset one of the best ones Ranboo has ever had.
“It’s really pretty,” Ranboo whispers, afraid of speaking loudly as if that would ruin the natural process of the sky, the push and pull of the sun and moon, who always find an hour to speak even when they can’t stay.
Beside him, the sun says, “So are you.”
Ranboo doesn’t point out that Tubbo’s repeated that same sentence several times today, knowing that it would be hypocritical when Ranboo’s thought similar things about him over and over today, too. He hasn’t avoided thinking of it for longer than a few minutes before it dawns on him again: that Tubbo’s definitely lovelier than Ranboo deserves, that he wants to be by Tubbo’s side forever, that he may not have a crush on Tubbo but he likes him a lot more than the word like can really encompass.
He keeps those thoughts carefully tucked away in his own head, though, watching the sun until it finally disappears from view before both of them stand up in tandem, crossing the frosty train tracks back to Ranboo’s car before it gets too cold to stand.
(As Ranboo parks, a block away from Tubbo’s place, he realizes that Tubbo’s fallen asleep in the passenger’s seat. He stares at him for a few seconds, heart fluttering so fast that he thinks both of them might die in the car, Tubbo to hypothermia and Ranboo to a heart attack. It’s not a question that God’s here, somewhere, in the space between them.
But Ranboo keeps those thoughts to himself, shaking Tubbo awake and keeping his voice low as he says goodbye. Tubbo looks at him for too long to just be an earnest text me later before he closes the car door and walks the rest of the way home.
And Ranboo keeps those thoughts to himself, carefully tucked away in his own head, the entire drive home. It’s only that which keeps him sane.)
–
When Ranboo gets home, having texted Niki a confirmation that he’s alive and shut his phone off before Dream’s frequent texts can ramp up in intensity, he finds himself in his room, Springerle at his side, opening up his laptop.
He can’t tell if right now is the best or worst idea to be doing this kind of thing. But, worst case scenario, if he gets an answer he doesn’t like, he can just throw himself into hangouts with Dream until his brain gets filled with so much of… whatever emotion it is he feels around Dream, that he doesn’t even think about the emotions he feels around Tubbo. So, considering that, there’s not really that much harm in searching this up.
And so, Ranboo sits in his apartment, alone besides his pet cat, in the complete darkness, with his phone completely shut– and he types into Google am i gay and also in love with my best friend quiz.
Because he needs somewhere to start.
The first test that comes up is titled Am I in love with my best friend? (LGBT Quiz edition), which seems like it might help him out some, more than stressing out over a long article could, at least.
The first question on the test, made conveniently by a website called AllTheTests.com, with a whopping 4 stars to its name, is If she said she liked you, how would you react?
Well. The she/her pronouns are definitely going to throw him off here, but he ignores them and tries to focus on the rest of the question, which is… really upfront. And already throwing way too much at Ranboo, who hasn’t even thought about Tubbo liking him back. Like, sure, Tubbo finds him sort of pretty, but liking Ranboo is a feat and finding him a little pretty isn’t going to make up for literally everything else that’s wrong with Ranboo. Therefore, reciprocation is already instantly off the table.
Still, hypothetically, were Tubbo to like him…
He’d probably ask him how. And why. Which are both maybe bad things to ask, actually, since it’ll make him seem really emotionally insecure, but look, he can workshop that part of it later, alright? The important thing is that he tries to figure out if Tubbo is making some massive mistake here or not, and then if Tubbo is making a massive mistake and was just messing with Ranboo or something– unlikely that Tubbo would be mean enough to do that, but this is all hypothetical– then Ranboo can just forgive him and accept that the two of them will just stay friends, because he likes being friends with Tubbo so that’s not even a bad thing. And if, for some reason, Tubbo actually does mean it, then Ranboo would ask him how. And why. And then maybe hug him or something, because he would not want to do any stereotypically romantic thing, and then be like oh, me too, kind of, like I’m still figuring it out but-
Neither option really sounds appealing to Ranboo, if he’s thinking through it now. He likes Tubbo, he knows that, but he’s not sure if he wants a romantic relationship with Tubbo. He’s not sure what that would look like, but from everything he’s read and seen in media, a romantic relationship isn’t exactly something that interests him.
He likes the parts where the couple vow to stick by one another, and he likes when they hold hands and hug and say nice things to one another, but kissing and pet names and public displays of affection honestly make him kind of uncomfortable.
Maybe if he did it with Tubbo, it wouldn’t be so bad, but he can’t imagine himself ever wanting to kiss someone, much less in front of other people, though maybe it’ll be fine if he tries it? And not every couple does pet names, just the majority of them that he’s seen, so maybe he and Tubbo wouldn’t have to do it.
It just… it almost feels like the term romantic makes him uncomfortable in general. He doesn’t want to romance Tubbo, doesn’t want to have anything like that, but he doesn’t want to have a strictly platonic relationship with Tubbo either, if he’s honest to himself.
He looks back at the quiz results, trying to see if there’s anything in the answer results that fit his current predicament.
Get freaked out and ask for space is the first option, followed by say you need some time to figure out your feelings about them, say you feel the same way, and say you love them, but not in the way.
The second and fourth one both seem kind of close, but Ranboo clicks the fourth one, because he’s trying to do this right now so he won’t need to spend more time on it later.
He scrolls down to try and see how many questions there are– ten, easy– before noticing that there’s a comments section. He makes a note to check that out later before scrolling back up and moving through the questions. Some of the questions have answers that kind of make it seem like the quiz taker must have already figured everything out, but he still tries to push through them, ignoring the way that the quiz indirectly misgenders the hypothetical Tubbo, though Ranboo isn’t bothered by the she/her pronoun usage towards himself as much.
He finishes the test, nervously waiting for the results to appear before finally getting the answer: You might be beginning to develop some feelings for her, but you're not really sure yet and that's okay. Do some soul diving and imagine other possible scenarios. Always remember that it's okay to have a crush on your best friend.
Well. That’s… helpful, kind of, but also not really, because Ranboo’s soul-diving experience was supposed to be aided by this quiz, and that kind of backfired on him.
Okay. Maybe he needs a different, more broad approach.
And so, he looks up are there other kinds of relationships that aren't platonic or romantic?
He scrolls down a bit until he finds a source that claims to list off 35 different types of relationships. He opens it up, skimming through the first couple until he finds one called Basically or close friends, which, in his description, describes These terms describe a platonic bond that most often exists between two friends that have a great deal of love, care, and non-romantic affection for one another. A platonic relationship that kind of looks like a romantic one, but not exactly. Huh. Okay.
It feels like a lot to just call Tubbo a close friend, since the two of them haven’t even known each other for that long, which Ranboo had noted on the past test. Still, he keeps it in mind as he continues to read.
None of the other listings really fit, which feels strange, but maybe that just means that close friends is the right descriptor for it. Even still, he finds himself trying to scroll lower, only to find a promotion for an online therapy service, which is not what he’s looking for at the moment.
Back on the drawing board, he finds another site that points out the differences between romantic and platonic relationships. There, it says that platonic relationships aren’t characterized by the words desire or passion, but rather a word like support, but that seems way too abstract to be helpful. Even worse, as he continues, he realizes that the entire website describes romantic relationships as being filled with apprehension, inequality, and a constant fight to keep your partner, which does not seem like a good description of such a relationship.
Frustrated, he goes back up to the Google search bar, starting to type in the words I feel, when he notices that in one of the autofill suggestions, there’s the phrase I don’t feel romantic attraction.
Ranboo… isn’t sure what that entails, hasn’t exactly heard of anybody who just straight up doesn’t feel romantic attraction, but considering how difficult this whole process has been, he may as well look this up and jump down a slightly more productive rabbithole.
The first thing that comes up contains a phrase that Ranboo’s never heard of before: aromantic.
And it describes just what the search result said. Aromantic people are people who don’t feel romantic attraction, and apparently, according to a forum thread on asexuality.org, there are people on different spectrums of it.
Eventually, he ends up on a site called aromanticism.org, which has a frequently asked questions section. Silently, with his breath almost caught in his throat, he scrolls through every single question for what feels like an hour, re-reading the answers over and over again, until he reaches something that makes his heart jump up to join his breath, too, tangled in his throat until he can’t think.
What is a queerplatonic relationship?
A queerplatonic relationship is a committed non-romantic relationship that goes beyond what is the subjective cultural norm for a friendship.
Queerplatonic relationships go beyond what is considered the cultural norm for friendship and are not romantic relationships. That means one person’s queerplatonic relationship can look like another person’s friendship depending on the behaviors it includes, the feelings felt, and the level of commitment involved. It can also look like someone else’s romantic relationship in a similar way. What is crucial is that the people in the relationship itself consider it to be beyond their culture’s definition of friendship. What constitutes a queerplatonic relationship is highly subjective.
… Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh God, is that-
He starts scrolling back through different sections, free hand twisting into his bedsheets.
How do I know if I’m aromantic?
Some aromantic people may want to go on dates with friends and aren’t able to tell if that means their feelings are romantic or not.
Some aromantic people have fallen in love or had crushes, but it occurred rarely or under specific circumstances.
The same affectionate actions — such as cuddling, receiving heartfelt gifts, terms of endearment etc. — can feel comfortable or uncomfortable to some aromantic people depending on whether they are intended to be romantic or not.
You’re not sure if you’ve ever had a crush on someone or fallen in love.
You’re more excited by making a new best friend than by falling in love.
You would rather have a queerplatonic relationship than a typical romantic-
Ranboo shuts his laptop.
Springerle, still resting against his knee, lets out a curious meow.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Ranboo tells Springerle, who just meows again before nuzzling against his leg. Ranboo takes a shaky breath in, feeling like he’s been asphyxiating for a few minutes, and says, “I think I’m aromantic, Springerle. I- I don’t expect you to get it- well, of course you don’t, you’re a cat.” He lets out a frustrated exhale at himself. “But- but the way they described it, I- I think I’m aromantic, and what I want with Tubbo isn’t- isn’t romantic, it’s something else. There’s- there’s something else. It’s not just platonic or romantic, there’s something else .”
Springerle meows again.
“Because I was- I was sitting with him, at the diner, at the train tracks, and I was thinking, I- I want to be with him for as long as possible, but I don’t- what we have isn’t just a friendship, but it’s- but I don’t want to date him. I want to go on dates, yeah, but not- I don’t- I don’t want to do anything that isn’t just, just hanging out, hugging a bit? And- and I still want to commit to something with him, but it’s not- it’s not romantic, right? And there’s a term for that, apparently.”
Springerle meows one more time before hopping off the bed and stalking out of the room, probably to curl up at her cat bed for a few minutes before coming back and falling asleep on Ranboo’s face.
He can’t even manage to think about how uncomfortable that cat hair is going to be, his mind so preoccupied by what he’s just discovered.
It’s almost like he felt this morning, getting dressed in the skirt, except a little more nerve-wracking. He feels euphoric, but apprehensive. It explains so much and yet he’s so confused but it doesn’t matter because what he feels about Tubbo isn’t wrong, it’s just not what he thought it was.
“Oh my God,” he whispers to himself. And then, he says it again, “Oh my God.” And then, he shouts it for a third time, “Oh my God !”
And then he cowers, because there are definitely people in the apartment above him and the walls here aren’t great and it’s also late, but still.
It’s clicking. He has to do more research when he’s less overwhelmed, but he’s euphoric and he’s apprehensive and everything is starting to click.
He likes wearing skirts, and maybe that’s wrong but Niki helped him style it and Tubbo called him pretty more than once. He likes Tubbo, and maybe that’s wrong but the internet says there’s other people like him out there, that it doesn’t have to be romantic, that there’s such a thing as a platonic-adjacent feeling with a lot of commitment that doesn’t have all the other romantic stuff.
He likes wearing skirts. He likes Tubbo. Neither of these things are wrong.
Ranboo can’t wipe the smile off his face, even as he changes into pajamas, even as he struggles to fall asleep for the next hour with so many thoughts and not enough music to drown them out, even as he knows that he has a hellish world outside of just Tubbo that he’ll have to answer to tomorrow.
Because it’s finally starting to make sense for him. Ranboo Beloved, someone with so many things wrong with him, somewhere that can barely understand himself much less hope for anyone else to understand him, is finally having things make sense for him in a way that feels good.
And Ranboo, for the first time in a while, falls asleep feeling okay.