Chapter Text
When Tubbo gets home after hanging out with Ranboo for the first time, he’s quick to tell Tommy about it.
Tommy had known that Tubbo was going out to see Ranboo, of course. He had been more than skeptical of the whole thing, but he ultimately resigned to it when he saw Tubbo’s excitement at the prospect of spending time with his new friend. Which seems to still be the state of things now, too, as Tubbo details the entire event and Tommy looks at him with a neutral sort of expression on his face.
“He played me some CDs,” Tubbo explains, waving his hands as he talks, “and he took a photo of me in the whole, meadow place, you know the one? Yeah, and it- it was cool. Ranboo seems cool.”
“You mentioned that,” Tommy says, an edge to his voice.
Tubbo pauses. “What’s up, man?”
“... Nothing.” Tommy sighs and leans back against his headboard, fiddling with a fidget cube in his hands. “Keep talking.”
He suddenly does not feel like talking much more about it.
His voice is a notch quieter when he says, “Ranboo… is kind of strange. Not in a bad way, just. Strange. I kinda want to know more about him.”
“You said he knew Techno, yeah?” Tubbo nods. Tommy flicks a switch on the stim toy once, twice, and a few times after. The sound gets under Tubbo’s skin, a little, though he isn’t sure why that is. “Maybe ask him about it. I dunno, dude.”
He should ask him, maybe. Techno is coming over to stay at some point, upcoming, though he’s pointedly not visiting in the times that Wilbur is inviting Quackity over. Which is happening in a few days, Tubbo thinks, maybe. He can’t really get a good read on the situation. He can just tell that there’s more tension around, which usually comes with the other’s appearance, or Wilbur bringing just about any of his friends over.
Tubbo thinks it’s a little unfair, sometimes. How caged Wilbur seems to be. How he went from having all the freedom in the world, gloriously in college despite being the epitome of the high school delinquent and the cool older brother who smoked weed, to quickly alternating between disappearing in far-off places and being trapped right here, in this town. Like some dream that’s died, maybe.
Though that’s the reason, isn’t it?
Before Tubbo moved into the house, but after he met Tommy, his best friend had come across someone. Someone who abused him, and hurt him, and did a whole lot of things. Someone that Techno knew, and Wilbur knew better, and who led Tommy to reach a breaking point when he was 14.
And then Wilbur dropped out of college only a week later, and, well. Everything spiralled from there.
Tommy’s better now, sort of. He’s seeing someone for all his emotional baggage, and his abuser is far away from him. The family had made it clear that they were to never lay a hand on Tommy again, that’s for certain.
Except, well. Tubbo still lays awake at night, only a minute away from Tommy’s bedroom door, thinking that people don’t just disappear. Things don’t just go away like that. They always linger, like some kind of haunt. There’s no assurance that they’re just… gone.
But. Either way. Wilbur can’t bring people to the house anymore without some fight ensuing, and Tubbo can’t be too angry at Phil’s restriction.
It makes him feel a little… weird, about his new friendship with Ranboo, when he thinks about it. But, Ranboo is harmless, and it’s not like he’s going to bring massive amounts of trouble if he stayed over the night, or something.
Regardless of what Tubbo may have seen on his phone.
(But there’s not much he can do about that.)
“Tubbo?” Tommy’s waving a hand rapidly in front of his face, now, squinting in his direction. “You with me, bee boy?”
“Yeah, sorry, hey.” Tubbo gives a thumbs up. “Here, yeah.”
“You were talking about Ranboo,” Tommy reminds.
He had been. But… he isn’t so sure he wants to keep talking about it. Something about Tommy’s expression, and Wilbur’s fight with Phil, and everything else, makes Tubbo feel guilty, almost.
He doesn’t meet Tommy’s eyes. “We can talk about something else, if you wanna.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Tubbo fiddles with his hands for a moment, before forcing a smile on his face and looking up at Tommy. There’s only sincerity in his voice when he asks, “How’s that whole thing with Jack going?”
Tommy starts talking instantly, and Tubbo listens. Tubbo listens, because he has to. Because he wants to, too, he thinks, but mostly because he just… does. Tubbo listens, Tommy talks. Tubbo is like the house that he’s been unofficially staying in, all creaky and hollow and craving, and Tommy is the life that exists inside it. And Tubbo listens. He does.
It’s the least he can do to make up for everything he’s already silenced, after all.
--
“Hey, Ranboo, what’s up?”
Ranboo jumps and looks up from the book he’s reading, seemingly surprised by Tubbo’s appearance. To be fair, Tubbo could have made a more clear appearance, but, well, whatever. He’s here now, isn’t he? And Ranboo sees him, so. Whatever.
He puts down the book and awkwardly taps the cover, almost patting it, before shifting to face Tubbo. Despite his body being angled towards where the other sits in the chair beside him, Ranboo’s eyes still refuse to meet Tubbo’s. Not a fan of eye contact.
That’s fine. Tubbo’s never been too keen on that, either.
“Uh, nothing much,” Ranboo says sort of quietly. Always trying not to draw attention to himself. Tubbo likes it, admires his soft tone of voice. Wishes he could be closer to that.
“What were you reading?” he replies. Far too loud.
Ranboo glances at the book, then shrugs. “Uh, The Tell-Tale Heart. Poe. It’s, uh, the really popular one of his. I’ve already read it before, I just- just, yeah. It’s kind of cool.”
“Is that the one where the heart beats in the floor ‘nd shit?” Tubbo leans on his forearms.
“Yeah.” Ranboo glances at it again. “The narrator kills someone and hides their body in the floor, but the heart starts beating loud enough to drive him mad with guilt, and he eventually confesses. The heart could totally be hypothetical, and it’s just something personified, but… yeah.”
There was a certain level of confidence in Ranboo’s voice when he had said all of that. Dwindled towards the end, but, still. Tubbo… doesn’t point it out. Tubbo also tries not to think too much about the actual story, because he’s in one of his… moods, where he’ll start connecting too hard to shit like that, and he doesn’t need to do that right now. It’s too early for that sort of thing, he thinks. So he just sticks with a neutral, “Dope, dude.”
“Mhm.” He pauses, meeting Tubbo’s eyes before looking away again, and then finally says, almost in a mumble, “How did you sleep?”
“I slept fine,” Tubbo lies, cheerfully.
He’s never been good at sleeping. On good days, he’ll have dreams that have really weird plot lines. Some of them turn out to be scary, or really meta, but they’re not outright harmful, so. He doesn’t mind getting those.
It just gets bad when he has actual nightmares. Not like, random alien kills him and Tommy in some research facility by exploding their hearts, but ones based on memories. He’s gotten better at handling them-- he doesn’t scream, or make any loud noises, just lays in bed and takes it and doesn’t tend to fall back asleep again--, which thank God for that, because he used to be a right mess when he got them. Now, though, they’re just annoying. Annoying, and tampers with his mood the rest of the day.
And then sometimes, he just… sleeps. Too much, and for too long. And then for a few days after, he just doesn’t at all, getting a few hours and nothing more than that. That kind of thing tends to worry Tommy and Phil more, but it’s easy enough to write off as just… teenager things. Though, he doesn’t think they believe it. They seem to think there’s something else to it.
And there is. But, well.
Tubbo isn’t exactly going to admit that.
Last night, he had one of those insomnia nights. Where melatonin and other sleep meds didn’t help, so he just listened to music and daydreamed to compensate for the rest he wasn’t able to get. It sucked, and the aftermath of it nearly sucks harder, but Tubbo’s not going to say anything about it to Ranboo when the poor guy is just asking some sort of icebreaker question. Or a genuine inquiry out of the goodness of his heart. Both are plausible and neither change a single thing.
“That’s good,” Ranboo mumbles, then repeats a little louder, “That’s good.”
“How about you, boss man?” Tubbo asks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. He blows a strand of hair out of his face, and belatedly adds the clarification, “How did you sleep?”
“Oh. Uh, I slept okay. Thanks for asking.”
Tubbo will take him at his word, since his general body language seems alert. It could be due to adrenaline, but, whatever. None of his business, anyway.
“Yeah. Of course.” The conversation falters, and Tubbo sees Ranboo eye the book, and he feels a pressure to offer something more interesting than a novel written however-many centuries ago. Hard competition. He gets the feeling he’ll do just fine. “Hanging out yesterday was fun,” he starts.
Another small, fleeting smile appears on Ranboo’s face, quick to disappear as it first appeared. Tubbo takes it as a win regardless. “Yeah. That was… that was a lot of fun. Thank you for, uh, doing that.”
“Don’t need to thank me for that, but I’ll take it.” Tubbo taps his fingers on his knee. “Want to hang out again later?”
Ranboo nods, a sharp and almost stunted gesture. “If you want to, then. Yeah.”
“Cool, cool.” The teacher walks into the room, and Tubbo fails to repress a sigh as everyone starts preparing themselves for class and the teacher turns on the monitor at the front of the class. Looking at Ranboo one last time (for now), he whispers, “I’ll let you know more later,” and returns his gaze to the professor once he catches Ranboo’s thumbs up.
He’s too tired to pay attention to this class, right now. And too busy thinking of things to do with Ranboo. And thinking about other things, too, like if Tommy will be upset at him for hanging out with Ranboo again for zero reason, or if the house is going to be tense if he gets back, or if he’s even going back there at all-
-no. Of course he is. Back up to that attic as always.
Except he has somewhere else to go, somewhere he should go. If he wasn’t selfish. If he didn’t brute-force his way into the attic space at Phil’s house and effectively shut out everything else. The things he has left when the person he plays around his kind-of family falls apart, and he only has himself, as he honestly is, and none of the things that complete him. He has somewhere he should go, and probably has to, that he’s wholly neglected and that has nearly forgotten him, but he knows he can never truly leave it so long as he’s still kicking it. Which is dark, but that's just how it is. Some places don’t leave you even once you leave them.
But, Tubbo isn’t going back today. Not today, and probably not even tomorrow. It’s only a matter of time before he has to, but he’s avoided it for this long and can keep pushing, he hopes.
Still. He thinks about it. Because he’s always going to have to. Even when he has much better things to think about, and he nearly tricks himself into believing that it’s all behind him.
Maybe he should go back. Face it all sooner or later.
Or he can keep deceiving himself.
Tubbo goes on autopilot in class and forcibly only thinks about places he can hang out with Ranboo, and nothing else.
--
When Tubbo swings back home, Tommy off to work on his project with Jack Manifold and Phil still at his job, he’s immediately met with a half-unexpected face.
“Hey, Tubbo,” Quackity greets, with a friendly wave and a slightly crooked smile.
Tubbo’s nearly too tired from school to think through this conversation, partly tempted to just say a lackluster response and run up to his room, or break his act entirely. But, interacting with Quackity requires… thought-- for Wilbur, for Tubbo, hell, even for Tommy. And Tubbo isn’t about to slip up here, even if it seems to just be the two of them at the front door.
So, he pays attention. Tests the waters, first, by replying, “Hi, big Q. What’s up?” and then waits.
Quackity’s good eye flickers, slightly, in emotion, which is a notable start. It always tends to do that. Tubbo isn’t sure what the other is expecting, if he wants him to give something more into the conversation. They had established together, long ago, with fervent agreement, that they were to act like they didn’t know each other. Tubbo’s not sure why Quackity-- non-committal Quackity, with a bad eye and a bad reputation and at least a partial ride to any law school if he could just finish his life’s work and burn all his bridges down clean-- is so bad at sticking to it. It’s not like the guy is a bad actor, it’s just… his stubbornness, wanting to breach this barrier, wanting to talk to Tubbo.
Or maybe he’s just projecting.
Tubbo’s not so certain he wants the lies to break, deep down. Or if he prefers things like this: stilted and off.
To his credit, Quackity’s voice doesn’t develop any newfound tension when he replies, “Nothing much, man, nothing much! Just came to spend time with Wilbur, you know. Sorry I didn’t give you or Tommy a heads up, but you know how things can be.” His voice lowers a bit.
Only text me if it’s important, Tubbo had insisted, back in that hallway that leads to the bathrooms and away from the rest of the house, when the two had first seen each other again. Just keep it to shit that involves him. And only the important stuff, I don’t want the… the day to day updates, you know? And- and don’t call me, either. Ever.
If that’s what it takes, Quackity had replied. I’ll handle all his shit, then. Always do.
Don’t force yourself, Tubbo insisted. The other had laughed, and said,
Think it’s more a matter of him forcing me, isn’t it? But… yeah. Sure. Don’t worry about it, Tubbo.
He had stuck to his word, back then. Him and Tubbo really don’t communicate much these days. Just a random birthday text and nothing else. Hell, Tubbo barely has any clue what’s going on with Quackity, anymore.
He’s not really sure anybody does, though. So maybe that’s fine.
(Even if part of him wants to scream let me in, let me in, let me in, I know you. )
“I get that.” Tubbo slips by Quackity, letting the other shut and lock the door as he takes off his shoes. Tommy’s dog, Henry, runs up to him and immediately starts sniffing his pants legs, and he leans down to pet him.
Quackity steps back. He’s never been the biggest animal fan. Wilbur’s the first person Quackity has ever been with that really seems to care about pets; behavior echoes and habits die hard, in that way. Henry’s the only pet who seems to not hate Quackity, at least, so there’s luckily some hostility avoided in that department. Techno’s husky usually tends to crowd Quackity and bark at him, which Tubbo thinks might be a trained behavior. Even Wilbur’s iguana doesn’t like the guy, and she’s a fucking iguana.
There really is no part of the household that welcomes Quackity in. Tubbo still wonders why he bothers. He knows it's not out of devotion to Wilbur, or a commitment to making things work.
Most likely, Quackity just likes having things made harder for him.
(Or he likes hurting the people who care for him in the crossfire. Tubbo wishes he wasn’t the first to feel the sting.)
Tubbo straightens, eventually, and gives Quackity a small nod. “I’m going to head up to my room, big Q, but I hope you and Wil have a nice time.” Tubbo’s not sure where Wilbur is, actually. Probably ducked off into the bathroom or something. He hopes. “Try not to get kicked out,” he half jokes.
Quackity laughs. “I’ll try, man, I’ll really try.”
As Tubbo passes him to go upstairs, Quackity’s hand reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. Maybe it’s some sort of thing he does with everyone, or maybe he mistook Tubbo for Tommy for a fleeting second-- it must be the latter, because that happens often and the first isn’t very Quackity.
Tubbo freezes.
The other, realizing his mistake, removes his hand like he touched something hot. Quackity, Tubbo knows, has a good memory. He might use that skill for not-so-excellent things, and he might have a track record of invading people’s boundaries for gain, but Tubbo knows that Quackity doesn’t hurt people unless they’ve wronged him or he has zero attachment to them. And Quackity, who is ever-so-fast to feel wronged, has yet to hold anything substantial against Tubbo. So, it’s an accident, and he knows that. And he can’t blame Quackity for, what was it, echoing behaviors.
That doesn’t change the way that panic fills Tubbo’s chest, hard and thick and entirely unjustified, and the cheap cologne Quackity has on starts to smell more like smoke.
It feels like an eternity before Tubbo can regain control of his body again. He knows, in reality, it must have been a few seconds. But he can’t tell time when his internal clock, ticking somewhere near his heart, is filled with blaring red alarms and the signal GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT enough to make his ears bleed.
Quackity doesn’t apologize. Not when Tubbo starts walking upstairs, hands shaking, not when he nearly trips on a carpet and falls endlessly endlessly getting swallowed up and and and . Because Quackity doesn’t apologize for things anymore, and Tubbo knows that, because he’s one of the only people who saw the days where Quackity would, always and all the time.
Now, he just pretends nothing happened. That his hands aren’t shaking the way that Tubbo’s are. That their heart rates don’t accelerate in tandem. That they aren’t both made from the same set of instructions, distilled and written into their bodies, all because of things they couldn’t control.
Quackity is a good actor when he wants to be, Tubbo decides.
--
When Tubbo gets to his room, the first thing he does is set his backpack down and pull out his phone. Because, whether his body is on the verge of a full panic or not, he’s going to tell Tommy about Quackity first. Warn him. See if he’s okay. Because he has to see if he’s okay.
The rest can come after.
tubbo: hey btw toms bigQis here
Tommy replies pretty quickly after, which is a relief, because every second without a response was driving Tubbo up the wall with worry.
He’s not usually like this. He was doing better .
tommy: oh pog
tommy: I’ll be back in a few hours, jack and i have made 0 fuckin progress so far
tubbo: oh ok
tommy: yeah he’s a real dumbass innit he
tommy: how are you?
Tubbo wants to strip off all his clothes and burn them, because they carry this thick scent to them that he knows is all illusion, that doesn’t actually exist, but he’s terrified that it does. Tubbo wants to pry all his skin off and scream until he doesn’t have to feel a single thing anymore. Tubbo wants to bend his shoulder in all the wrong ways so the world will stop making him carry this. Tubbo wants to do something he’ll regret , because Wilbur and Quackity seem to be the only ones here right now and- actually. Actually.
He has an opening here. No Phil around to really stop him, no Tommy here to hang around him, no Techno with his strong sense of smell-- just Quackity and Wilbur, who know Tubbo’s habits even if they’ve never caught him in the act, and who aren’t going to say a thing. The two people who would have no right to intervene, not after seeing Tubbo much worse in the past, and not after barely being any better than that themselves.
He drops his backpack on the floor and types a quick response back to Tommy before setting his phone down and reaching under the loose hardwood board.
tubbo: i’m vibin. gotta go tho
tommy: oh ok see you later
Tubbo finds what he’s looking for, eventually, biting his bottom lip with his teeth before shaking his head and leaving his room with it gripped tightly in his hand. He doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, here.
Wilbur’s out of wherever he was, now, sitting on the living room couch with Quackity. He has an arm slung around him, and Quackity laughs at something he said, all high pitched and from his throat-- he never seems to feel anything from his chest. Henry is at Wilbur’s other side, and he scratches him lightly behind the ears as the two of them talk.
Tubbo, as light on his feet as ever, starts slipping past the two of them to head to the kitchen.
Wilbur, as attentive to detail as ever, and Quackity, as quick to pick up nonverbal cues as ever, immediately catch him.
“Hey, Tubbo!” Wilbur says cheerfully. “How’s it going?”
“Hey,” he replies quietly. He doesn’t look at Quackity. Quackity returns that gesture, and stares at Wilbur’s jaw instead. “Just getting something from the kitchen. Tommy’s out with Jack right now.”
Wilbur nods. “Alright. Good, good. Well, don’t let us stop you.”
“Yeah.” Tubbo is fast to pivot, then, and starts walking into the kitchen. He can hear the conversation pick up in the other room, at the same jovial volume, but he knows that doesn’t mean that the interaction has slipped past their minds.
Ever since everything happened with Tommy, Wilbur’s paid a lot of attention to his siblings. Mostly to him, but he also tends to keep an eye on Techno and Tubbo as well. It’s a hard task-- all of them are withdrawn, albeit Tommy is the most open out of all of them, generally speaking, as the trauma made him more likely to lash out than internalize it all-- but he tries. Tubbo can’t say it’s unappreciated, even though Techno’s emotional state is mostly unrecognizable beyond general lethargy or unusual excitement, and Tubbo has, personally, done all he can to make sure people can’t read him. And Wilbur himself, too, isn’t exactly good at expressing himself-- if he was good at that, him and Phil wouldn’t have so many arguments, and he wouldn’t have gone off to Europe for a year without a word.
He notices a lot, though. More than Techno can, obviously, since the other is out of the house for the most part, but even more than Tommy, who tends to miss things separated from his own mind. Phil tries to pay attention to all four (three?) of his kids, but there’s a lot you miss, and he’s always been best at communicating with Techno and not so much the rest of them.
When Phil notices things, though, he tries to confront them. Desperate to prevent something bad from happening again, confused and tired and wanting his children to be safe.
Wilbur, on the other hand, stays quiet. Waits until there is an empty moment he can get alone with the person, and idly debates if he should take it. Tubbo wonders how many times Wilbur has seen Techno withdraw more, or Tommy get hit with a depressive episode, or Tubbo go off to do what he’s about to do, and just never said a thing.
Or, well. He would with Tommy. Not the rest of them. Most of them would do the same, really.
Tommy, the loudest voice in the family, the problem child thrown into the adoption ring, the one who bit Techno the first month he came to live with them, sometimes seems to be the only one holding everything together.
If Tommy is the glue that keeps the family strong, then Tubbo thinks he must be a knife cutting through all the adhesive and slowly tearing things apart. If Wilbur hasn’t already done it first.
He sees a lot of himself in Wilbur, honestly. Beyond solely the brown-hair and rosy-cheeks comparisons.
For example, this. The bad habit he’s giving into, because he knows that Quackity and Wilbur are aware of it, but knows that they aren’t going to say a word about it yet. The bad habit he still has to be careful about, because one day Wilbur might change his mind and get panicked, and the rest of his kind-of family will learn what he’s fought to keep hidden. The bad habit that never makes a single thing better, but stops things from getting worse. Or vice versa. The bad habit that he’s seen every possible consequence of, and has had to bear the scars of witnessing its impact, and yet his body cannot defy the urge to become some self-fulfilling prophecy or successor to the very thing he came here to escape from.
Tubbo unlocks the cupboard where Phil keeps his bottles for special events, and he pours some into his flask.
Then, he puts it away, locks the cabinet, and heats up some microwave mac and cheese to cover up the scent.
With both in hand, he heads back through the living room-- exchanges a few hello again s, gets a certain look from Quackity, pretends it never happened-- and makes his way towards the rooftop.
He takes a bite of the pasta, swallows it, and tips his head back to drink.
And for a second, his mind is clear.
--
tubbo: oi ranboo
tubbo: ranboooooo
tubbo: Ranboo.
tubbo: ranbobobooboboooo
ranboo: hey, sorry, i’m here now. everything okay?
tubbo: YES
tubbo: did you wanna to hang at sume point
tubbo: perhaps tomrrow
tubbo: i can take you somehere coooler than a medow promise
ranboo: i’m really sorry, but i think i may be busy tomorrow. i have a lot of work i need to catch up on. i’m really sorry
tubbo: THATS OK what things u got
ranboo: organic chemistry, mostly
tubbo: oh i am cracked at chem i can hielp
ranboo: you don’t have to
tubbo: what if i want to
tubbo: we could do one of those what do you call them uh uh uh
tubbo: help me what’s the specific thing i’m looking for here
ranboo: i’m not sure actually
tubbo: i’ve got this pens ec
tubbo; STUDY SESH
tubbo: like study SESSION but people shorten it ok ok ok
tubbo: thoughts?
ranboo: that works :) where do you want to meet for that?
tubbo: my place will be busy as hell what about yours
ranboo: mine will just be me and my cat, i think
tubbo: pog i’m coming for the cat and only the cat
ranboo: i’m wounded
tubbo: lmfao
tubbo: ok see u then
ranboo: bye! :D
--
In his dreams, there is a thick, black claw curling around his shoulder. Yellowed nails dig in sharply, and he bleeds red wine. Someone laughs, laughs, laughs-- a familiar voice says you know how things can be. The floor beneath him starts to crack, and the sounds of Tommy’s family suffocating in debris makes him shut his eyes. He thinks those are bleeding, too.
When he finally opens them, there is a message spelled onto the floor. My blood, it says. My blood.
Tubbo wakes up, left hand on his right shoulder. Digging his own nails into himself.
Nothing will ever make his mind clear enough, it seems.