Chapter Text
When Tubbo and Tommy get back home from school on Tuesday, Tubbo watches Tommy struggle to use the keys and open the door, and continues to watch as the door cracks open and Tommy is almost immediately toppled over by a large mass of white fluffiness.
“ Boreas , c’mon, man!” Tommy groans as the husky jumps up to lick his face, happily barking at the sight of him.
From inside, Tubbo can hear a low voice say, both disapprovingly and fondly, “Boreas, please get back inside, I’d really rather not chase you down the neighborhood again.”
He seems to not like the thought of doing that again, but Tubbo would have to disagree. It was, in fact, incredibly fucking funny seeing Techno, of all people, run down an entire street trying to get a handle on Boreas, who had been chasing after a chipmunk before quickly getting derailed. Watching Techno run is an absolute spectacle, and Tommy was trying to make them some popcorn before they realized that Boreas had successfully been caught. It could have stood to last a little longer, but Techno was disheveled and displeased, so Tubbo figures the guy had deserved the break.
Either way, Techno’s half-assed complaint is not enough to get Boreas off of Tommy, though the dog ends up getting bored eventually and switches to jumping on Tubbo. It would be a little overwhelming if petting Boreas wasn’t the most therapeutic thing possible. Tubbo immediately relinquishes control and allows himself to be happily and thoroughly licked.
Tommy leaves his side to step into the house, saying, “Hi, Techno,” in a voice that would be annoyed if Tubbo didn’t already know how fond it was.
“Hey, Tommy. Glad to see you at tutoring last week,” Techno replies dryly.
“Oh, fuck off, I had other shit to do.” Tommy shoves Techno’s shoulder and continues to speak over his laughter, “Big man things, Techno. You wouldn’t know because you’re not like me. I’m built different.”
“I am significantly bigger than you, Tommy.”
“I want you dead. Where’s Phil?”
“Kitchen. Boreas, c’mon, leave Tubbo alone.”
“But I love him,” Tubbo complains, practically underneath Boreas. His backpack is all that keeps him suspended off the floor.
“Yeah, yeah. C’mere.”
Boreas lets out one last yip before racing back inside, leaving Tubbo alone and mourning the loss of fluff. Techno heads back in after him, leaving Tubbo even more alone (though Techno isn’t, like, particularly fluffy. Or just fluffy. At all). With a sigh, he gets himself up and brushes the dog hair off his jeans before he steps inside and removes his shoes.
As Techno had said, Phil is in the kitchen, currently being pestered by Tommy as Techno watches. Boreas is running around, still, making sure to thoroughly sniff everyone and yip as loud as possible, bless him, and.
Tubbo notices, silently, that Wilbur isn’t here yet.
Readjusting the straps of his backpacks, he starts heading upstairs, smiling a little to himself as he hears Tommy, Phil, and Techno argue about Tommy getting salmonella in the kitchen.
Honestly, that sort of dynamic between Tommy and his father wasn’t something that Tubbo expected when he started staying over more regularly. He had seen Phil a couple of times when he came over before everything just to play video games, sure, and he knew how Tommy tended to be around his dad, but he hadn’t expected how… chill Phil could actually be.
Well. Not always chill. Overhearing arguments between Phil and Wilbur isn’t very fun, and he knows that Tommy has had some issues with Phil in the past. He’s one of those parents that’s strong on the whole independence thing and trying to get his kids to, for lack of a better term, fuck around and find out what they’re doing with their lives. Sometimes he can be a little distant, and Tubbo knows that Wilbur’s told him before that Phil, despite being an instinctually paternal type, doesn’t really know how to practically be paternal.
Generally, though, Phil seems to be trying his best for someone multitasking a busy job that earns him enough money to manage a stable life while also housing (or, partly housing) three kids and a freeloader. Only one of which being his biological child.
Flaws set aside, Tubbo would take Phil’s parenting over what he had back at home.
Even if he can tell that Phil doesn’t really know what to do with him. Because Phil accepted him in, sure, and eventually gave up on asking him too many questions-- which by itself is already far more sympathy than Tubbo expected-- but in a way, he senses that Phil still doesn’t really… understand it. And Tubbo can’t blame him for being out of his depth, for talking to him one-on-one infrequently, for mixing up his name with Tommy’s, for treating him differently.
It’s not different enough, really. Because he still packs Tubbo lunch, and he still gives Tubbo shotgun privileges when Tommy and Tubbo get rained on and call for a ride, and he still tells Tubbo he’s proud of him for scoring high in chemistry exams.
But there’s still a distance there. One that’s hard to place.
It’s hard for Tubbo to figure out Phil, all in all.
Regardless, he throws his backpack on his bedroom floor, gets changed into pajamas, and then starts making his way back downstairs. He only gets about halfway through the hall, however, before he hears the distinct sound of a guitar string being played, and immediately pivots to peek his head into Wilbur’s room.
There’s a side of Wilbur that only comes out when he’s playing music, Tubbo thinks. Similar to the Techno that pops out when he’s talking about a piece of history he finds interesting, or Tommy’s expression gushing about his favorite video game, or even Ranboo, soft-spoken but with a passion underneath, explaining how to fold a paper crane.
For Wilbur, it appears in the small smile on his face, even when his eyes are melancholic to match the tone of his melodies. His fingers are calloused and practiced, and for a moment he seems lost in his own world, somewhere that Tubbo imagines to be far more pleasant than whatever lay outside of it.
It’s a little jarring, then, when Wilbur blinks one eye open and spots Tubbo listening to him play a chord progression, calling out, “Tubbo! Come in, man, you don’t have to stand around there.”
It still feels like crossing into private territory, some place that is so distinctly Wilbur’s that Tubbo has no place even touching it.
Then again, so long as Tubbo has his hand on the door frame and eyes locked with his best friend’s older brother, he’s already long surpassed the threshold of overstepping.
So he steps inside and leaves the door open just a crack, in case Phil calls for them to eat from downstairs.
Wilbur’s room is the nicest room in the house, in Tubbo’s opinion. It’s organized, typically, despite the sheer amount of things that he has in it; the various souvenirs in languages Tubbo can’t read rest beside old records and folded up t-shirts on his shelves, and yet none of it looks like clutter. Only a few times has Tubbo caught a glimpse of it being in disarray, and those are the times where the posters come off the walls and nobody goes to visit Wilbur aside from Phil. And Quackity, if he’s around, though those are… usually the times where he’s not.
In the corner of Wilbur’s desk, aside a stack of memoirs he has supposedly been trying to tackle (none of them look remotely touched, but Tubbo only reads books if he’s held at gunpoint, so he’s not in the position to cast judgement), is the terrarium for his iguana, Chamomile. Tubbo doesn’t see her often, since iguanas require really strict care and are also super fucking boring half the time, and she stays in Wilbur’s room only, but she’s cool. Even if she just lays there for days at a time.
And of course, there’s Wilbur. Sitting on the white sheets on his bed, guitar in his hands and being strummed loosely, scooting over to give Tubbo some space to sit.
He hovers by the door, still, and says, “Techno’s back. Figure you know, but, uh. Yeah. He’s downstairs.”
Wilbur hums. His face is unreadable, which is just part of Wilbur’s odd nature-- he’s one of the most emotive people Tubbo’s ever met, he thinks, which pretty much runs in the family with everyone except Techno, but he also seems to hide everything he doesn’t want people to see. Sort of. Sometimes.
It’s hard to tell. In a way, it feels like Wilbur experiences emotions entirely different to anyone else Tubbo’s ever met before. He doesn’t know what that implies.
Either way, Wilbur nods and plays another chord before responding, “Yeah, I talked to him earlier. I got to spend some quality time with Boreas.”
“I fucking love Boreas,” Tubbo comments.
“Boreas is just so good, isn’t he?”
“God, yes.”
Tubbo leans against the door frame with a grin. He can see some stray dog hair on Wilbur’s legs now, if he thinks about it. Wilbur’s wearing his normal black jeans with a jacket over his shirt, and it’s one of the ones he’s got that has a bunch of patches and shit on it. Things from bands, or locations, or homemade by a friend of his. It’s a well-worn jacket that looks well-loved, but a size too big all the same.
One of Tubbo’s arms crosses to wrap around the opposite wrist, and he suddenly realizes he may have other places to be.
“I’m going to head down and eat,” he tells Wilbur, already on his way out. “Do you, uh. Are you coming with, or nah?”
“Nah,” Wilbur says casually. “Just gonna play my guitar for a little and swing down there later. You can come chill with me later today, though, if you want.” There’s something behind that, but Tubbo can’t get what it is. Pity ? “I know high school work is brutal, though, so… just let me know, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Tubbo nods, and then shuts the door behind him.
He rests his head against the wall and shuts his eyes, briefly. He’ll have to go down soon, which isn’t an issue, really, it’s just. It’s just…
Ugh. Tubbo wishes he could stop fucking thinking so much, for at least half a second, please, maybe. He deserves that. Or maybe he doesn’t. Either way, it would be convenient. And just very nice, actually.
But that’s never going to happen, is it?
“Yeah.” He opens his eyes and pushes himself off the wall, starting to head back downstairs to the growing sound of Tommy and his family’s voices. Oh fucking well.
--
“So like, Ranboo.”
Tubbo glances up from his phone briefly, thumb still hovering over the space button.
Tommy’s looking at him, expression blank aside from his slightly raised eyebrow. Curious, then, probably, but not really upset. That’s a good thing, Tubbo figures.
“What about him?” Tubbo replies, careful nonetheless.
“Is that who you’re texting?”
“Yup.” Tubbo glances back down at his phone. Ranboo hasn’t replied in a couple of minutes, but the texting bubble pops up often enough that Tubbo figures he’s just doing the thing where he takes a while to phrase a response.
Tommy nods. “You trust him then, yeah?”
“Yup.”
“Pog.” There’s a small pause, not an uncomfortable one, but not a natural one, either. “Let him know I say hi if you see him, ay?”
“Will do.” A response finally rolls in, and Tubbo grins. He likes the message before turning off his phone and focusing back on Tommy, who’s still looking at him a little funny. He smiles through it and says, “Want to play another match?”
Tommy throws the video game controller back at Tubbo’s chest, resulting in him making a small oof sound (dickhead). “You will fuckin’ die, my friend,” Tommy asserts confidently, starting the game up before Tubbo can even get situated.
--
“So you’ve gotta angle your wrist like this, yeah?” Tubbo turns his arm over in the proper throwing position and holds the rock tightly in his hand. “And then you just. Throw it.”
The rock in his hand skips a few steps before finally plummeting.
Beside him, Ranboo looks more confused than the first time Tubbo demonstrated rock skipping to him. His eyes glance down at the rock in his hand, then Tubbo, then back to his hand.
He throws the rock out and it immediately sinks.
“You’re not very good at this,” Tubbo notes.
Ranboo sighs. “I’m still not sure what I’m doing, here.”
Tubbo is starting to get the feeling that teaching Ranboo to skip rocks is somehow a more hopeless endeavor than Ranboo trying to teach him origami. With a sigh, Tubbo decides, “We can just chill then.”
Ranboo nods, and then, after a beat, says, “Sorry.”
“You’re fine, dude.” Tubbo leans back on his palms and tilts his face up to the sun. “Nice park to chill in, anyway.”
It’s Tubbo’s second favorite park, actually, only demoted to second because it has less nostalgia to it. It has a whole lot of trees and a messy path that left Ranboo nearly tripping into a creek at every possible turn, but it all leads to a small lake with a rocky shore that’s real pretty. Small crayfish hang out along the floor of the water, and some people go boating just a bit off of where they are, but it’s mostly empty that day. Just Ranboo, Tubbo, and a few people walking their dogs.
It’s sunny, too, which is nice in October. It lights up Ranboo’s face and makes the platinum blonde side of his hair look softly golden instead. It’s pretty.
Just as Tubbo’s thinking this, Ranboo blurts out, “Your eyes are really blue.”
Tubbo blinks, staring at Ranboo. Understandably so, his face seems a little flushed from embarrassment at telling his friend what color his eyes are. The shame makes Tubbo grin, and he chirps, “Very true, boss man!”
“I- I knew they were blue, I’m not- I knew that,” Ranboo defends. “They’re just- nevermind, actually, I think I’ve dug my own grave here.”
“We can change the topic?”
“Please.”
What would be a good topic change that’s approximately a 180 of Ranboo indirectly, and miserably failing, at complimenting Tubbo’s eye color? Or insulting it, if Ranboo happens to dislike the color blue. Either way. What’s the best possible topic change?
Got it.
“This would be a pretty place to die, actually,” Tubbo muses.
“... Huh?”
Maybe not a good topic changer.
“Nevermind.” Tubbo forgets that not everyone has thought out the most idyllic place to die.
Not even for any particular reason, really, it’s just something worth considering especially since he’s probably going to live here for a long while and the graveyard is boring as all hell. Too many pristine graves with dead flowers on them. Tubbo wants his ashes to be scattered over wood chips and a banana peel and put in the ground to compost, with a cardboard headstone reading LOL. If he’s not buried like that, then he’ll simply refuse to die.
Tubbo hasn’t told anybody this, but he figures it may be better to pitch it to Tommy over Ranboo, who seems like he might have a heart attack if he received that information.
“Anyway,” he continues. “Your eyes are a lot cooler than mine.” In the sunlight, Ranboo’s eyes sort of remind Tubbo of the park they’re in, with the brown one looking like the color of leaves once they fall off their trees and the green one like the forest just before then. The cooler tone of the brown iris is negated by the sunlight, and it honestly just… looks comforting.
Ranboo shifts, maybe because Tubbo has been staring directly at one of his eyes for too many seconds without breaking his gaze. “They aren’t really that cool,” he mumbles. “Honestly, I’ve considered just, uh, getting contact lenses, or something. Colored contact lenses. Like, I can see fine, but- but the colors are kind of weird. They’re sort of, uh. Off-putting?”
Tubbo frowns. “Who thinks they’re off-putting?”
“... Me?”
“You’re stupid,” Tubbo states plainly. “I think they’re pretty.”
“ Oh. ”
The word sounds almost strangled in Ranboo’s throat. Tubbo resists the urge to roll his eyes. Jesus Christ, this dude needs to get complimented more. He’s tempted to just tell him that he’s overall just a pretty person objectively, but he thinks that Ranboo might die with that information and as entertaining as that might be, there’s only space for one of them to get buried in this park and Tubbo called dibs first.
(Then again, he can’t really talk too much shit about Ranboo, because nothing Ranboo could do would be worse than when Tubbo, back at age 13, told Tommy that he looked pretty and Tommy immediately started crying. He had issues back then. Tubbo just sticks to calling him ugly now, which he seems to take in stride. Fucking idiot.)
Ranboo seems to have emotionally recovered from the experience of being mildly complimented, coughing before saying, “Thank- thank you, Tubbo,” very meekly.
“Yuuuup.” Tubbo draws out the word, flopping on his back to look up at the sky.
It’s really nice out, the last couple days before it starts to get cold and he has to bust out the oversized sweatshirts Wilbur gave him ages ago for school. He’s not looking forward to it, but hey, at least they’ll maybe get snow in a few months from now and he and Tommy can go out and make a snowman again. And Techno will talk to Phil and laugh as the two of them make hot chocolate, and Wilbur will put on a movie, and all of them will squeeze into the living room together with their pets falling asleep in their lap and it will be warmer than anything.
It’s maybe one of the best parts of the year for Tubbo.
For just one day, it makes him think that he’s part of their family and that he’s been there all along.
Back at home- home, they didn’t do much for winter. Schlatt usually hated it because it meant that he would have to pay for heat and sometimes it would take him weeks to. He’d always get sick, too, and so Tubbo would get sick, and he would try to get his homework done while coughing himself to tears and swallowing down medicine. And then that would make him drowsy, and he would walk his way back to bed, and he would lay there awake feeling the same way that he always does, unable to shake the cough-syrup depression that defined those days.
Sometimes, at least, they would get Quackity to come by. But Quackity didn’t like the cold, either-- he preferred it when it was the summer, hot and free and sunny, and he would usually get pissed off at Schlatt over something, and everything went from there.
Tubbo recognizes now that the winters, too, worsened Schlatt’s depression exponentially . Which worsened Quackity’s… everything. Which was part of the reason the house was such a hellscape the second it hit December.
And the holidays made it worse. Tubbo still doesn’t like the holidays, really. Even if Tommy’s family is really chill about it and they have fun, he still feels… off, then. If not during the festivities, then when it comes night time and he sits up on the roof and wonders if Schlatt can even tell if it’s New Years’ anymore, or if he’s too drunk on champagne to tell.
Tubbo can see Ranboo watching him, out of the corner of his eye. To be fair, Tubbo’s been really quiet and it’s not like there were really any other concrete plans for hanging out aside from teaching Ranboo to skip rocks, which definitely didn’t work, so… yeah, staring at him is as good a pastime as any. It’s just, there’s an emotion across Ranboo’s face that Tubbo doesn’t really get, and it’s not pity or sadness or anything like that, it’s…
Tubbo doesn’t know.
He looks back over at Ranboo again. “Are you bored?”
“Not really,” he’s quick to answer. “I mean, we’re not- we’re not really doing much, right now, but, uh. I like the company. And just the quiet, so, it’s- it’s fine. Really.”
“Do you want to, like,” Tubbo pushes himself up again to get a better look at him. Ranboo immediately breaks eye contact, staring between Tubbo’s eyes, which is normal for him. He hadn’t been doing that when the two of them were talking about his eyes before, though, which was… something, at least. “Should we, like, play a game or something? Like truth or dare, or-”
“Please not truth or dare,” Ranboo requests.
“Yeah, I find that game kind of boring.” Tubbo agrees. “Me and Tommy and Jack try to play it, sometimes, but all of us pick dare every time because honesty is cringe and I usually just make Tommy and Jack fuck with each other and get into a fight by the end.”
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
“I don’t- I don’t actually, uh, know Jack very well?” Ranboo says, voice with a lilt at the end.
“Oh, he’s real chill,” Tubbo explains, waving his hands around to enunciate. “Him and Tommy have been friends for a while, though sometimes their relationship gets iffy and stuff. Jack kind of holds grudges for a super long time, and Tommy is, uh, not the most tactful person when he needs to be, so they’re, like, on and off, generally.” Tubbo thinks the two of them are… okay right now, at least. If he’s being really, really honest, he thinks a great deal of what pulls the two of them together is loneliness. But he’s not going to expose his friends like that. “But me and Jack are chill. He’s pretty smart, kind of stupid, got held back a year because of some disciplinary thing, et cetera.”
Ranboo nods, attention completely focused on Tubbo’s description. “He seems interesting,” he comments.
“Yeah, he’s an interesting guy. You saw him at the bakery a while back, yeah?”
“Oh.” Ranboo pauses, before tentatively saying, “I… I think so, yeah. I did.”
“He had the dumb 3D glasses on, if that helps.”
“... Yes.”
Ranboo still doesn’t seem too sure, which is surprising, because Tubbo can’t possibly imagine how anybody could forget Jack Manifold, but he’ll give Ranboo a pass because he’s not too sure Ranboo’s socialized at all with about 90% of their school. Maybe 95%. Or at least 97%.
98%, Tubbo settles on.
Fair enough, that is.
“But yeah, truth or dare is kind of shit,” Tubbo confirms. “Uh. Do you want to do, like, twenty questions or something?”
Ranboo shakes his head. “I think we can just, uh, talk? I guess?”
Well, that’s kind of the dream, here, Tubbo thinks, but, well. Fair enough. “Okay, sure. What’s up in the life of Mr. Boo, then.”
“... Mr. Boo.”
“Mr. Boo.”
Aforementioned Mr. Boo gives Tubbo a deadpan look, before letting out a loud sigh and saying, begrudgingly, “Not much, really. I went shopping a few days ago.”
“What’d you get?” Tubbo asks.
“Like. Eggs and milk and stuff.”
“Oh.” So literally just groceries, then. Well. “You seem like the type to be lactose intolerant.”
“I, uh, mildly am,” Ranboo affirms. “But also, what does that- how does someone just. Seem. Lactose intolerant?”
“Just the vibes, man. Just the vibes.”
“Are you lactose intolerant?” he asks. “You seem, uh. I feel like if you were lactose intolerant, it would explain why you’re, uh, so short. Because your bones just kinda. You know.”
Tubbo huffs. “I am not lactose intolerant, and I’m taking your bones with me.”
Ranboo laughs, and Tubbo finds it hard to stay irritated. Goddammit. He hates Ranboo, actually, Ranboo is the worst person ever.
“I mean it,” Tubbo threatens.
“Should- should I be scared?”
“Yes.” Ranboo laughs more, and Tubbo scoffs with a smile. “You laugh, but we are narrative parallels, Ranboo. I’m going to kill you and it’s going to be heroic and awesome because you’re everything I’m not and then you’ll die and it’ll be cool.”
“I think the most opposite we get is- is in terms of height, actually.”
“I hate you,” Tubbo groans.
Ranboo beams at him, which is clearly a rookie’s attempt at manipulation, so Tubbo retorts by lightly jabbing his side with his elbow, to which Ranboo jumps. “Ow, hey!”
Tubbo takes his turn to smile threateningly at the other. “Ribs first, knees next.”
“I am terrified now, actually!” Ranboo exclaims. “I’m actually just really terrified now!”
“Good.”
Tubbo crosses his arms, satisfied, and soon Ranboo’s laughing again, and Tubbo joins in, and now the both of them are laughing about something that’s only barely comprehensible and is overall just really stupid, but they’re laughing, and for a second it feels like Tubbo’s heart is flying out of his chest, because he isn’t nervous or dissociating or overwhelmed. He’s just happy.
Maybe the winter this year will be better, he thinks, as he and Ranboo stop laughing, leaving them smiling and energetic with a thousand other conversation topics to hop between, both of them still doused in sunlight.
--
“He just fuckin’- just fuckin’ threw the stone into the lake?” Tommy asks for the third time, still incredulous.
“Right in the water,” Tubbo confirms.
Tommy sighs loudly. “God, Ranboo is a dumbass.”
“To be fair,” Tubbo counters, “it took you a while to learn how to do it, so.”
“Yes, but I was like- like fourteen or some shit. And you give very bad instructions. You were just like ‘Oh Tommy, move your wrist up like this and angle it at the water’ and all that shit, and I said ‘Oh but Tubbo, I can’t do angles, I failed geometry class’ and you said ‘Tommy, you won’t get women if you can’t do geometry’ and I said ‘Oh dearest Tubbo, you are so right’ and then the stone sank.” Tommy recounts passionately.
Tubbo squints. “I didn’t say the part about women.”
“Tubbo, you would be the perfect wingman.” Tommy says, immediately contradicting himself in a way that is so effortless that Tubbo sometimes wonders if Tommy’s ever had a single thought in his life.
“That doesn’t make sense, dumbass. Also I’d rather die.”
Tommy shakes his head. “You will die woman-less.”
“I’m pretty sure I like boys, Tommy.”
“Exactly.” Tommy pauses, leaving Tubbo noticeably confused, before raising his hand and high fiving Tubbo. “Stay winning, king.”
“Thank you so incredibly much, man, holy shit.” Tubbo exhales a sigh of faux relief. “I’m so incredibly glad that Tommy Innit is here, right now, supporting men with me-”
“No, no, no, I hate men,” Tommy is quick to argue. “I think men are evil and I would like them to die because I only like women. But because I am a very good friend and actually the best friend, I will support you liking men even though you have bad taste and are also wrong.”
“Your accidental homophobia arc might be starting,” Tubbo warns.
“No!” Tommy looks genuinely distressed, and Tubbo laughs at his misery. “Say it’s not so, Tubbo!”
“I guess Tommy just hates gay people.”
“NO!”
Tubbo giggles, swatting away Tommy’s arm as he moves to playfully hit him. He pulls his phone out, checking to see if he has any new messages-- specifically, from Ranboo, because the two of them had been texting back and forth earlier before Ranboo stopped replying in the middle of the conversation and hasn’t returned in two hours. Nothing’s there, still, so Tubbo tucks the phone back into his pocket and focuses on Tommy again.
Tommy looks at Tubbo seriously, “You do know I don’t actually hate gay people, right?”
“... Yes? Obviously?” Tubbo’s not even sure if Tommy’s straight. Tommy, coincidentally, isn’t either. They both gave up on trying to figure it out years ago, and now Tommy’s just Tommy, misandry and all.
“I just hate you,” Tommy explains.
“Oh, okay.” Tubbo pauses. “Fairs.”
“If anybody else hates you, though, I’ll bite them. Really. I’ll just go up and chomp on their arm and go ‘Only I can hate Tubbo’ and they will die.”
Tubbo grins. “Good.”
“So if you ever insult yourself, you are in danger.”
Tubbo frowns. “Shit.”
Tommy cackles, “Get fucked, bitch boy!”
“I will also cannibalize you if you are mean to yourself,” Tubbo warns.
“My therapist already does that, try again.”
Tubbo frowns deeper. “Surely not.”
There’s a noticeable pause. And then, hurriedly, Tommy clarifies, “No, no, no, my therapist doesn’t- she does not threaten to cannibalize me, that is not what I-” He takes a deep breath through another laugh that he clearly tried, but failed, to suppress, “My therapist is very poggers. She says ‘Tommy, you have depression’ and I say ‘Okay!’ And then I talk to her about Henry.”
Henry’s outside, Tubbo assumes, likely playing with Boreas. It’s funny, Henry is a pretty small dog and Boreas is all large and regal-ish, and yet almost all of the yips Tubbo hears through the windows come from Boreas. Henry has gotten more tired with age, he figures. Mans is still kicking it, though, so that’s good.
Tubbo feels as if he had a comment to make about Tommy’s recount of his therapy sessions, but before he can pause to remember it, his best friend, in a wonderful display of his hyperactivity, has already completely switched topics. “Tubbo, could you do my homework for me?”
“No,” Tubbo replies easily with a smile.
Tommy groans. “Please? It’s not even, like- it’s just maths and shit. I’m not good at that, unless it’s money because I like money and also scams.”
“I haven’t even started my own shit yet,” Tubbo counters. “So, like. Just ask Techno or something.”
“No, but- but Tubbo ,” Tommy emphasizes, “You’re the only person here that can do maths. Phil only knows history and old people shit, Techno, like. Techno’s Techno , and Wil knows English and geography and art history and other weird obscure things, but he doesn’t know maths either. You’re my guy, Tubbo.”
Tubbo sighs. “Okay, fine . But you have to help me with English.”
“I can’t write your essay for you, Tubs.” Tommy is satisfied, now, and also a hypocrite. And also right. But also.
“I just don’t know what the article even wants from me! It’s- it’s argumentative, I think, but I don’t- it’s confusing! ” And frustrating. And useless. Which is why Tubbo doesn’t do his English homework.
It’s funny, Tommy has a good point. Every person Tubbo knows is good at English, except him. Oh, and, well-- Jack Manifold is more of a science guy, too, since he would always work with Tubbo in first year chem labs. And Jack’s just shit at words in general, isn’t he? Bless him.
But aside from him? All of Tommy’s family gears to liberal arts and humanities and shit, and though Tubbo gets the feeling that Ranboo’s just generally smart in everything, he also seems a little more English-y. He seems a little bored when doing his organic chem homework, at least, from what Tubbo remembers, but Tubbo was also distracting him the entire time talking too much about himself so it’s not really like that’s a good metric.
Maybe he assumes just because Ranboo seems a little melodramatic in, like, a good way. Nice melodramatic. Maybe just emphatic.
Though. If Tubbo really thinks about it, aside from Tommy’s family and his friends and everything, there’s also his… there’s also Schlatt and Quackity. Both of them did political science and law shit, Tubbo knows, but both were also really good in business fields. Schlatt was real good at statistics and math and stuff, and Quackity kind of dabbled in everything.
Tubbo should check on Quackity.
Or maybe he shouldn’t.
(He should. He just doesn’t want to.)
Tommy, still sitting near Tubbo, was talking through the time where Tubbo was spaced out, and by the time he pops back in, he’s not even talking about English or the math homework that he pulled out and is holding in his right hand, instead on about something one of his other friends had told him earlier.
Tubbo abandons all other thought, leans against his arms, and listens.
--
J: Tubbo kidd iM fuckcin sorry
J: been a fuckin wrekc lately but Im getting stronger
J: hopeee you are Quackityt looks like a fuckign twink
J: Lets go to the gym lateer and lift some weights Yeha?
Ranboo: oh gosh hey i’m sorry i stopped replying, but that sounds interesting! we can listen to it at lunch soon if you want? i haven’t heard their stuff before i don’t think
J: you fuckingG BIT CH
J: beTYOURE sitll just a fucksign PUSSY
Ranboo: oh it’s been four hours since you sent the last message i’m so sorry it took that long to get back to you
[
Tubbo: ranboo
Tubbo: it’s fine boss man dw about it
Tubbo: and yea that sounds great :)
[
Ranboo: okay sick
J: this is Quackity, I’m taking his phone. you don’t need this shit
J: Jesus fucking Christ his screen is so cracked i can’t see shit
[
Tubbo: oh hey big Q
Tubbo: thanks
[
J: no problem, big T
[
Tubbo: stay safe pls
[
J: always am