Chapter Text
Niki closes up the bakery five minutes to closing and tells Ranboo the second the door chimes shut, “The funeral is tomorrow.”
Ranboo, who is currently occupied trying to sort out change, immediately puts the dollar bills back into their compartment. He can sort it out later, or leave it for someone else on their next shift. More important things are happening at the minute. “What?”
Niki walks over to the counter and leans against it, opening up her phone and clicking through her mail before reading aloud, “Funeral of J Schlatt. Sunday, November 24th, from 12 o’clock to 2. At the church by the cemetery.” Niki pauses, then lets out a bitter laugh. “‘In loving memory.’ That’s a lie. That’s a fucking lie.”
“Is…” Ranboo doesn’t know how to phrase his question. It feels obvious, but… “Did you know him?”
“We went to high school together,” Niki explains, the bitterness still on her tongue as she speaks. “He was awful. He was the worst man I’ve ever met; he was pathetic, cruel, and evil. He didn’t like me expressing my opinion on him, but I gave him a piece of my mind whenever I could.” She lets out another laugh, but her eyes are tired. She’s been very tired recently. Ranboo thinks that the death and her worry over everyone hasn’t made her seasonal depression any easier. “I haven’t spoken to him or Quackity since we graduated. This is the first time I’m hearing from Quackity at all.”
“He sent out the invites?”
“Yeah. I…” Niki takes a breath. “I have disagreed with Quackity on many things, but I do feel bad for him. He’s the only person who would care enough to organize Schlatt’s funeral, but I can tell he doesn’t want to. He… the two of them had a strange relationship. So even if Quackity isn’t a good person, I do- I do hope he’s okay.” Her voice comes out softer as she repeats, “I hope he’s okay.”
Ranboo is quiet for a moment, trying to think of what to say. He’s not good at comforting, nor is he very good at talking to Niki. It’s not easy trying to bridge that gap between them.
With hesitation, he reaches a hand out and covers Niki’s with it. Niki slumps instantly, resting her head in her arms, and Ranboo exhales slowly. “It’s- I think it will be okay,” Ranboo starts to say, but he knows Niki has become pessimistic over time and that’s not the best of approaches, really. “I’m… I’m worried, too, about Tubbo,” Ranboo admits. Sympathy might… might be better, here.
Niki nods, face still obscured. Her hair dye is coming out a lot, Ranboo notices. She looks depleted from color, honestly, and it’s… it’s a little jarring. He knows that Niki isn’t the happiest of people, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but Ranboo has always seen her as someone strong. Even though she’s cried in front of him before, and been vulnerable, and Ranboo’s made her dinner when she was at a low and couldn’t get out of bed, Ranboo still can’t shake the idea that she’s this… this strong person who can’t be shaken by anything.
It’s wrong of him to think that. That’s not how people work, and he mostly knows that. And that’s not really how the metric of strength operates, anyway, so it’s all nonsensical. It doesn’t make it any easier to see her like this.
Ranboo wishes he could take her pain from her. She deserves to be happy, and… and it’s payment, really, for Niki taking him in. He wishes he could do that for her, for Tubbo, for everyone.
Niki’s shoulders rise and fall around a heavy breath, and Ranboo can just barely hear her say, “Tubbo’s strong. He’s… he’s the strongest kid I know. You as well, but Tubbo-”
“Tubbo’s very strong,” Ranboo finishes quietly for her. Tubbo is a million times stronger than Ranboo could ever be.
“I- I honestly didn’t know much about him and Schlatt,” Niki comments, and it takes Ranboo by surprise that she’s mentioning it at all. Before he can ask, Niki continues, “Schlatt wouldn’t talk about his home life at school. Ever. And… and Quackity didn’t, either. I knew of Tubbo, because I know Wilbur, and… I know how Tubbo got there. How strange those circumstances were.”
Ranboo wants to ask. Ranboo wants to ask, so badly, what Tubbo’s situation was like. Ranboo wants to ask out of curiosity, sure, but mostly because he wants to understand Tubbo, why he has a strange relationship with his family, what he had meant in the car by the church when he said the people before Tommy .
But, Tubbo isn’t here. And Ranboo doesn’t want to hear this important information if Tubbo isn’t the one to tell him it.
So, he doesn’t press. Instead, he squeezes Niki’s hand and replies, “Yeah. We just… we just have to be patient and, uh. We have to support them. Especially Tubbo, regardless of what’s happening. That’s… that’s the most we can do.”
Niki nods and moves her head up from her arms. Her eyes are a little teary, but she has yet to cry. It still makes Ranboo’s heart hurt. “I called off of work tomorrow,” she says. “I told management you’d be off, too. I- we’ll go together. I don’t know if you had any… any plans you wanted to do with Tubbo after.”
“Oh, no, I- I think it might just be best to, uh, leave him with his family. I mean, if he needs me, I can- I don’t have anything else to do, uh. Unless you needed me, then-”
Niki shakes her head. “No. No, you’re okay to do whatever you need to. I was going to spend some time with Puffy afterward, so I will end up coming home late either way.”
Ranboo nods. He stands there for a moment, hand still holding Niki’s, and watches her expression. For a long moment, it stands unbroken, contemplative and neutral, but suddenly, it breaks, and Niki’s hiding her face in her arms again.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
Ranboo lets go of Niki’s hand to come to the other side of the counter. He taps her shoulder and, when she looks up at him, opens his arms up for a hug.
Niki’s quick to accept, placing her hands gently on his back and burying her face in his shoulder. Ranboo holds her tightly, staring out the window behind her as she sniffles and tries to compose herself. Cars are passing, unaware of what’s happening inside the bakery. Unaware of what’s happening in any nearby house, or maybe several houses, just… unaware. And, likewise, Ranboo is unaware of what is happening for them. It’s such a strange feeling, knowing that.
“I’m sorry,” Niki apologizes. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”
“Niki, you’re my friend,” Ranboo says, even though friend is not the right descriptor for their relationship at all. “It’s okay. I… you’re having a difficult time, right now.”
“It’s always hard in November,” she says, voice muffled against Ranboo’s jacket. He moves one hand up to rest in her hair, running through the tips of it as she talks. “It feels like bad things always happen in November. December’s nice, because you have the holidays, but November is never good.”
Ranboo hums, listening intently as Niki continues, even as her voice grows softer and softer. “I dislike winter. Spring… spring is a good season. I like spring. I… that’s when I met you.”
Ranboo pauses.
He… he didn’t know that.
He doesn’t remember much of meeting Niki. He doesn’t remember the transition between where he had been before (or… really anything about where he was before, honestly) and when he met Niki. His memories from back then are a blur, and he knows generally the things that happened, but it took a little bit of time until he got his memory notebook. And the time before then, if he doesn’t figure it out later, is lost.
He… he knows he was around fifteen when he met Niki. He knows that trying to get the lease sorted out was a complete mess. He had gotten Niki to co-sign on the lease, thank God, but it had been… complicated, legally. Ranboo’s sort of glad he doesn’t remember it.
It’s strange to hear Niki talk so positively about what must have been one of the most stressful experiences she’s had.
“You’ve never told me why,” Niki continues. Ranboo feels his chest hurt, but he doesn’t say anything. When Niki brings up the past and he can’t find a way to escape, he just has to hold his breath and wait for her to change the subject. Either way, he never feels good afterward. It’s a lot less painful to try and escape the past rather than remember it, even if he gets so curious about his memories that he would die to understand them. “I still wonder, but I’m very glad I met you regardless.”
“Me too,” Ranboo responds, voice low.
After a moment, one that Ranboo awaits the end of with tension in his arms, Niki breaks from the hug and gives Ranboo a small smile. It’s not a happy smile, but then again, neither is the one that Ranboo reciprocates with.
“We’ll be okay,” Niki tells the both of them. “Yes, we’ll be okay.”
Ranboo nods. “We will be.”
“And for now, we clean up the bakery and head home.” Niki runs a hand through her hair and wipes her face, even though it’s devoid of tears. Some kind of resetting motion, Ranboo assumes. “I was going to stop by Wilbur’s place, actually. I don’t know if I feel up to it anymore.”
“We can go home, then.” Ranboo doesn’t want to stop by again, either, if he’s being honest. It’s selfish, and he’s going to see him tomorrow anyway, but after hearing Tubbo on the phone a few days ago, Ranboo thinks he might cry if he sees him in person. It’s… it’s hard to hear the other sound that upset and know that there’s nothing he can do to fix it. Plus, Ranboo really doesn’t want to see Tommy, and- he just doesn’t want to go there, right now. Not tonight.
Niki moves to take over the cash register with slow steps, and Ranboo quickly begins to sweep the floor. “Did they like the desserts, Ranboo?”
“I think so,” Ranboo responds. “Techno and Philza seemed very happy with the lemon squares. I only saw those two, though, but they seemed happy, uh. So.”
Niki smiles. It touches her eyes, even if only barely. It’s enough. “I’m glad. I’m so glad.”
Ranboo nods, and they fall silent again.
As Ranboo cleans, he thinks about spring. It always feels like an unattainable concept, something to keep yourself motivated with through winter. If you can just live through winter, then you can see spring. Every spring, the cherry blossom trees some houses have downtown are the prettiest shade of pink. The weather gets warmer, and the bees come out, and Ranboo usually gets sick once or twice until summer. It’s far better than winter, though, even if Ranboo’s issues don’t really go away once the sun gets brighter.
February, the last real winter month, is always the hardest.
Now, it’s the start of winter again, and it will be a devastating one.
But he will make it to spring again. Niki will, too, and Tubbo, and Tommy, and Quackity, and everyone. Schlatt may not have made it to spring, but the rest of them will.
He hopes, anyway.
He hopes.
-
Ranboo is sitting in bed that night, clock ticking a minute past ten, when he finally musters up the courage to call Tubbo.
He doesn’t expect Tubbo to pick up. By all means, Tubbo doesn’t have to. He has enough going on right now, and Ranboo should be the lowest of priorities in that regard. So Ranboo doesn’t expect Tubbo to pick up.
But, surprisingly, Tubbo answers.
“Ranboo?” he says, voice soft. He doesn’t sound choked up, which is good, but he sounds emotional in some respect. Ranboo wishes he were a little more gentle of a person, a little better at these things. He wishes he knew how to respond when people are upset instead of… whatever he does to try and help.
Ranboo nods, then realizes Tubbo can’t see him, and that it’s kind of stupid for him to confirm his literal name when Tubbo can just check his contact. “Hey, Tubbo. I, uh. I wanted to call and see how… how you were.”
Tubbo pauses, then delivers a partial non-sequitur. “You’re coming tomorrow, right?”
Ranboo goes with it. He asked a stupid question, anyway. “Yeah. Me and Niki took off work, so we’ll be there the whole time.”
“Good,” Tubbo responds. “I- do you think you could come a little earlier? Like, uh, right… right before it?”
“I think that’s the plan.” Niki had wanted to meet with Wilbur beforehand, she told Ranboo on the way back home. So… they’re probably going early. “So I’ll be there earlier, yeah.”
Tubbo exhales a sigh of relief. “Okay. Thank you.”
The line falls silent, but Tubbo quickly fills it by saying, “Can- can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.” And Ranboo means that.
“Can you just, um. Talk about stuff? Anything, really, I don’t- I was kind of just sitting in silence before you called, bossman, and I don’t- silence isn’t good for me right now, I don’t think?” Tubbo laughs, but it’s more of a panicked sound than anything. “It’s fine if not, I can just listen to some documentary, but um. You- you have a nice voice, so I- yeah.”
Ranboo readjusts where he’s sitting so he’s more appropriately positioned for a long phone call, and replies, “Sure. Yeah, of course, I’ll just- I can just ramble. I… hm.”
It’s easy to say yes to Tubbo’s request. It’s harder to actually think of things to talk about. Ranboo’s not a terribly interesting person, nor is he very eloquent or… good at talking, overall. He’s more of a listener, honestly, and he really likes listening to Tubbo talk, but… people usually get tired of Ranboo talking really quickly.
Ranboo searches his brain for conversation topics, running through what he had done that day. He worked at the bakery, right? That could be something.
Quickly, as to not let the silence go on for too long and unsettle Tubbo, Ranboo blurts out, “We should bake together sometime.”
“Yeah?” Ranboo can sort of hear a smile in Tubbo’s voice. That’s good. That’s really good.
With that approval, Ranboo keeps going. “Mhm. I keep wanting to, uh, impulse bake a cake? Or maybe stress bake, something like that. I’d feel a little bad stealing from our supplies- like, our collective supplies and everything, since making something like banana bread or cookies generally takes less ingredients and yields more, but I also think making and decorating a cake would be fun?” Ranboo feels like he should stop himself from rambling, quickly grows sick of his voice, but he remembers Tubbo wanted him to talk a lot, so he pulls himself together and keeps going. “Niki’s really good at decorating. I have a really shaky hand, though, so I’m… not so good. If you, uh, feel like answering, what’s your favorite cake flavor?”
“Chocolate,” Tubbo replies. “I mean, I’d eat anything, honestly, but… chocolate’s good.”
“Chocolate’s very good,” Ranboo agrees. “I’m a big fan of, uh, marble cake? Maybe it’s because I sort of… look like marble cake, with the hair and everything.” That gets a laugh out of Tubbo, which is probably the best thing Ranboo’s heard in a week. Ranboo smiles. “Yeah, it’s pretty fun to make. Kind of difficult with the mix and everything, but I think it’s cool. Red velvet is also a nice one– I think Techno told me he liked red velvet?”
Tubbo hums affirmatively. “Yeah, he does. Techno’s a red velvet guy, I think Wilbur likes, uh, devil’s food or something like that. To be fair, that’s probably just ‘cause of the name. And Tommy and I like chocolate.” There’s a beat of silence, then, “For some reason, Phil likes fucking carrot cake.”
Ranboo shakes his head in disapproval. “I can’t understand why people like carrot cake. It gets really popular at the bakery in the spring-” there it is, spring again, “-but it’s just… objectively not that good? I guess the buttercream frosting tastes nice, but if you like buttercream frosting, just get the red velvet.”
“I’m a big fan of these hot bakery takes,” Tubbo says. He sounds sort of happy, Ranboo thinks. And- and he knows that he isn’t happy, really, because of everything going on, but if Ranboo’s able to provide a distraction for him, then that’s worth everything. “Gimme some more.”
“Okay.” Ranboo hadn’t realized he possessed these hot bakery takes, as Tubbo put it, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he does have some controversial opinions. Plus side of having worked in a bakery for over a year. “Me and Niki both think angel food cake tastes better than sponge cake, but people barely ever order it, since I think sponge cake feels like a safer option. It doesn’t taste as good, though.”
“Are those two even comparable?” Tubbo asks. “Also, who is naming these?”
“To your second question, no clue. To the first, yes.” Ranboo feels a little pretentious right now. “Angel food cake- or, at least, real angel food cake, wants you to whip just the egg whites in sugar, and then mix that with the rest of the batter. Sponge cake, you whip both egg parts separately and then add it in. It’s supposed to make it taste richer, but… yeah, angel food is better. It’s a small difference, though, they’re, uh, usually synonymous.”
“... Huh. Cool.”
“Mhm mhm.” Ranboo kind of wants to make angel food cake, now. It’s not his favorite cake or anything, since he generally likes chocolate over vanilla and angel food cake is a lot more vanilla, obviously. But, it’s still nice. And the way Niki decorates it looks really pretty. Speaking of decorating, though. “My other baking opinion that Niki and I, uh, really disagree on, is that cupcakes are the worst pastry to make. In my opinion.”
“Didn’t you just make us a bunch of muffins?” Tubbo counters. “Those are, like, the same thing.”
“Well, I don’t really like making muffins either? I just, uh, made them ‘cause I knew you all liked them and everything.” It wasn’t a miserable experience, really. Nothing in baking is that much of a miserable experience to Ranboo. Even though he still can’t crack eggs without messing up at least one per recipe. “Cupcakes are- it’s the same thing, but you have to decorate them in a way that looks similar and people buy them in the set. So there’s a lot of pressure to not make it look just absolutely terrible.”
Tubbo replies, “Wow. I feel sorry for you.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine, don’t worry,” Ranboo reassures, maybe unnecessarily. “I like baking. It’s just- cupcakes just aren’t my favorite. And, you know, there are the carrot cake cupcakes-”
“Oh shit, it’s back!”
“Mhm mhm. It’s back.” Ranboo tries to deliver it in a jokingly solemn tone, but it sort of falls flat. He really doesn’t like the way his voice works after he’s been talking for longer than, like, five seconds. “Yeah, we should bake sometime, though. It would be really fun.”
“Me and Tommy tried to bake something, once,” Tubbo tells Ranboo, and he tenses a little. After a second, he relaxes himself, because it’s ridiculous to be so tense over Tommy. Even if the two had a friendship-breaking argument, that doesn’t really matter. Ranboo cares a little more about Tubbo’s story than dealing with that.
So when Tubbo stops, Ranboo prompts him. “Yeah?”
That seems to get Tubbo’s encouragement to continue the story up. “Yeah! It- it was really shit, honestly. See, I’m good at following instructions, but Tommy has this Tommy reflex in which any time he gets confused at anything, he panics. So he kept fucking up the entire recipe. Also, Wilbur was the only adult home but he just kept laughing at us, and this was when we were fifteen. Uh. It tasted terrible.”
“What did you make?”
“Cookies. It was probably the easiest recipe, and we immediately fucked it up. Nobody wanted to eat them so we just fed them all to Tommy, and now me and him can’t bake anymore unless we have supervision. Supervision that isn’t Wilbur, that is.”
Ranboo laughs. “I- that is unfortunate. That’s really- cookies are not that difficult to make?”
“I know! ” Tubbo lets out a dramatic sigh. “Tommy cannot be trusted with anything. Like, if I baked with you, I would trust that you wouldn’t screw it up.” Tubbo pauses. “I mean. You’re a good baker so, obviously, but I mean, like, sentiment wise. I’d trust you with that.”
“Right,” Ranboo replies. “Likewise.”
“ But, ” Tubbo continues, “I would not trust any of Tommy’s family with any baking at all.”
“Not even your- well, not even Philza?” Real good save there, Ranboo. Would have been just wonderful if you trudged up Tubbo’s family trauma the day before Schlatt’s funeral. Who, from all the context clues Ranboo has gotten, is related to Tubbo. Would have just been the best thing ever.
Idiot.
Tubbo doesn’t seem to notice the very obvious misstep, casually responding, “Nah, he’s shit too. Don’t get me wrong, they can all, like, cook. Except me and Tommy. I’m trying to learn to cook, but it requires a lot of watching and waiting and stuff, and so I keep burning things.” That’s understandable, honestly. “Say, Ranboo, can you cook?”
“Mhm mhm. Yeah. I’m not really as good as I am at baking, but when I cook it’s mostly for myself and sometimes Niki, so. I don’t really, uh, care about the quality.” Or the frequency of actual home cooked meals. If Ranboo didn’t already have issues with remembering to get groceries, then the sheer lack of energy to make something himself would get him.
Tubbo whistles. “Damn. You have all the life skills.”
That tends to happen when you lease an apartment with a stranger at age fifteen. “Thank you, Tubbo.”
“You’d make a good husband.”
Ranboo blinks, then subsequently flushes. “Would I?”
“I mean, okay, hear me out,” Tubbo says in his distinct I’m about to pitch a terrible idea to you voice. It’s the same tone that Tommy takes, too, though a little less aggressive. “Bear in mind I have never actually seen how a husband works.” That’s… okay, there’s a lot to that statement, but Ranboo won’t look into it. He would have to say the same, either way. “So, like. You’re tall, handsome, and rich for starters.”
Ranboo experiences a lot of convoluted emotions at the sound of Tubbo confidently calling him handsome, but he can save that for another day. More objective problems with his statement to address first. “Tubbo, I’m not rich.”
“You have a job,” Tubbo argues. “So you’re richer than me.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’d be richer than my partner in this scenario, though?” Ranboo points out.
Tubbo huffs a frustrated sigh. “Okay fine, smartass, I’ll be your husband in this scenario. So you’re richer than me. Happy now?”
Ranboo’s flush darkens, despite the fact that this is a hypothetical scenario and Ranboo doesn’t even want to get married in the near future, so there’s literally nothing here that would make this a flustering experience. Also, Tubbo is his friend. His friend who is going through a difficult time and may not be thinking through his words too much. But most of all, his friend.
“Yeah? Yeah, that works,” Ranboo concedes hesitantly. “Carry on.”
“Okay. So, tall, handsome, rich, et cetera. You also know how to drive, which I don’t, and you also know how to cook and bake. Additionally- well, I don’t even know if this is a requirement for husbands,” Tubbo thinks aloud, “but- oh, whatever. You’re also sentimental and nice. So like. Prime husband material. Boom.”
There’s a lot to process in there and simultaneously nothing at all. “I… thank you?”
“Now me, on the other hand,” Tubbo goes on. “I am not husband material. I can’t do jack shit, to be honest. I’m comparatively useless, woe is me.”
Tubbo laughs, but Ranboo doesn’t like the thought of Tubbo saying that as a joke but then actually believing it. And, of course, Ranboo is just so good at saying things correctly on impulse, absolutely evidenced by the way he instinctually says, “I’d marry you.”
And immediately realizes that that’s just a terrible thing to say, actually.
Tubbo pauses, and Ranboo feels his heart speed up. Oh God, he made it weird. He made it weird and strange. He’s calling his friend and took a joke too far and now it’s going to be weird, and Ranboo doesn’t want it to be weird, Ranboo would feel awful if he messed it up now when Tubbo needs him and Ranboo can’t lose two friends to his own mistakes and-
“Bossman,” Tubbo interrupts Ranboo’s spiral. He sounds like he’s holding back laughter, which can either be really good or really bad. “Don’t get me wrong, I am more likely to marry you than anybody else I know.” What? “But. Consider that having a wedding and funeral in close proximity might be a bad look for us.”
Okay nope nevermind, this is terrible. Ranboo made such a mistake, oh God, what was he thinking? “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-” Ranboo is struggling to get the words out, God help his idiotic self with a stupid voice who can’t even comfort his friend correctly. “I forgot- no, I didn’t forget, but I-”
“Ranboo,” Tubbo cuts him off again, except this time, he sounds a little more serious. “Dude, you’re fine, I was just messing with you. You’re literally distracting me from the whole funeral business tomorrow, I’m not- I’m not upset or anything. I was just kidding, I’m sorry.”
Oh. Okay, then. Maybe Ranboo isn’t the worst person alive. “No, don’t apologize,” he returns, “I misinterpreted, that’s- that’s my bad. Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” Tubbo repeats. “Promise you. Anyway, when’s the wedding?”
That was a mood shift, okay. “Uh, well.” Are there any inherently funny days in the year? Maybe, like, April 20th, but- oh. Oh.
“I… I hear spring is a nice time of year,” Ranboo says softly, half to himself.
In turn, Tubbo’s voice gets a little quieter, too. “Yeah?” and his voice is really nice, Ranboo realizes for the hundredth time. He wonders how Tubbo can even stand Ranboo’s voice, much less like it, especially in comparison. “I usually get allergies, but I’ll take your word for it, Boo. Spring wedding it is.”
“Spring wedding it is.”
Ranboo doesn’t really want to get married, mostly because he can’t foresee himself knowing anybody who would want to stick by him that long. Also, he imagines it would be hard to maintain a marriage when Ranboo inevitably dies or gets put into a psychiatric hospital or something.
But… all the same, he thinks it would be sort of nice? A major waste of money, sure, but there would be a cool cake– maybe he could bake it, actually– and there would be cool dresses and everything. And flowers, too. There’s also the whole married couple kissing part, but that reads a lot nicer in books than in hypothetical scenarios. Ranboo feels like kissing would be kind of overwhelming, just in general. He’s not opposed, but he doesn’t really- he’s not sure all that romantic stuff is something for him.
But maybe that’s just because he doesn’t know anybody he likes. And if he ever has, he’s forgotten them, so. He… he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about any of this in the past years of his memory, except one time after talking to Niki about Puffy and his thoughts wandering, but that was different and also a long time ago.
Marriages would be interesting. And they’re not really Ranboo’s thing. Because Ranboo isn’t too big on large spendings of money, nor is romance a big priority for him, he doesn’t think.
But. Well.
Recent events are putting the second part into question. Sort of.
But that’s not important right now.
What’s important is Tubbo trying to get his attention, “Hey, Ranboo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for calling me,” Tubbo’s voice drops to a whisper, and Ranboo can hear a slight sound of wind through the phone. Has he been outside this entire time? It’s past ten, he must be freezing, but Ranboo trusts him to have brought out a blanket, at least. Tubbo lets out a small sigh, and there’s a lot of emotion in it, even if it isn’t tainted by tears. “I kind of hijacked the call and made you talk about cakes for a while, but I really appreciate it. It’s been… it’s not been good, lately.”
“I know,” Ranboo says back, voice not at a whisper but quiet nonetheless. “I hope I can help, Tubbo.”
“You help a hell of a lot more than you think you do,” Tubbo states earnestly, and Ranboo isn’t quite sure that’s the truth, but he won’t try and dispute it either. “I really appreciate it. I have to- I have to get going, ‘cause Tommy wants me to sleep sort of early tonight. Have to wake up at like, 9, so that we can get to the funeral. Even though it’s at noon. Bullshit, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Ranboo taps his fingers on his leg, sighing to himself. The reality of their situation is starting to sink in again. “It will be over tomorrow, though. Hopefully. Then we go back to school and I’ll bring you, and Tommy if he wants one-” but he won’t, “-some pastries and stuff. If you wanted, I know we got you all a lot already, but.”
Tubbo smiles, and Ranboo hears a window swing open. The sound of wind fills the phone before abruptly cutting off. “You’re the best. And yeah, I really hope it ends soon. I dunno if it will, though. But… yeah.”
“Mhm,” Ranboo hums. After a moment, he says, “I’ll leave you to sleep, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tubbo.”
“Goodnight, Boo,” Tubbo mumbles, already sounding tired.
Ranboo smiles, a little bitterly. “Goodnight, Tubbo. Sweet dreams.”
The phone clicks off, and Ranboo sets it on his nightstand to charge and play some quiet music. It has to be quieter, now, since Niki’s home, but he knows he can’t sleep without it.
He puts on a song made of mostly instrumentals and lays down in his bed. He shuts his eyes, slowly, and he hopes with quiet words under his breath that Tubbo has a nice night, and that Niki does, too.
Because tomorrow will be bad. And hopefully when tomorrow’s over, they’ll all heal again.
But tomorrow is going to be bad.
Ranboo just hopes they’re all prepared for it.
-
An hour before Niki and Ranboo plan to leave, neither are even close to prepared.
Niki is napping on a couch with Springerle, fully dressed in black. Ranboo had raised concerns over her getting cat hair on her funeral clothes, but Niki told him plainly that she didn’t really care how she looked when it’s Schlatt’s funeral, someone she clearly doesn’t respect. She then hugged Ranboo quickly, sighed heavily, and told him to wake her up twenty minutes before they have to leave.
Ranboo said he would, and he set an alarm to remind himself to do it, but he thinks he might allow her another five minutes. She didn’t sleep last night at all, apparently. She had blamed it on her makeup, but Ranboo can tell she’s exhausted from much less trivial things than how she looks. Namely, how she seemed on the verge of breaking down the entire morning the two of them were trying to get ready together, actually tearing up as Ranboo braided her hair.
So… Ranboo will let her sleep in. They have some flowers in the kitchen that Ranboo is bringing, because even if Schlatt wasn’t the best, it would feel a little wrong to bring nothing at all. It’s sitting in a vase, and Niki said she’d bring it to the car if Ranboo drives, but Ranboo thinks he’ll just handle most of it, and let her sleep in the passenger’s seat, too. The cemetery is far away, after all; Ranboo’s been there a few times for Dream.
It’s looking like Ranboo might be late to waking Niki up either way, though, seeing as they have an hour until they leave and Ranboo’s already spent the past ten minutes staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, undressed, holding a suit over his right arm and a dress in the other.
Ranboo likes suits. So this shouldn’t be an issue for him. Put the suit on, straighten his tie, loiter around and do some homework until they have to leave. No time to bake anything for Tubbo, but enough time to do something, if he just puts clothes on right now. It’s easy. It should be easy.
It’s not easy, though. It’s not easy.
Ranboo has been uncomfortable in his body many times. Usually, it’s a fuzzy feeling, one that makes it difficult to remember or speak or move, and looking down at his body feels like observing a stranger, or like some corpse laying out on a lab table waiting to be dissected. It’s a familiar feeling, one he always tries to shove away, but always comes to bite at his ankles and crawl up his legs and choke him again.
This isn’t that feeling, though. This is different . And Ranboo’s felt it before, a few times, but he still doesn’t know what it is. He has a suspicion, though, and…
… Here’s the thing.
Ranboo is a boy. Or, a man, maybe– man sounds wrong, but boy sounds too young, and he’s in that age of seventeen where it’s sort of hard to tell which is better. Regardless, he’s a guy. A male. That sounds weird, too– he’s a guy, and his pronouns are he/him, and it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. His name is Ranboo, which was probably given to him by his parents since he doesn’t remember picking it, and it’s a pretty ambiguous name. He likes the idiosyncrasy of it, even when he doesn’t understand why.
Ranboo is also trans.
He doesn’t remember when he first learned this. As far back as he can remember, he’s been a guy. His pronouns are he/him, and it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. But, at some point– probably not a big point, since he knows what his own body looks like, unfortunately– he realized that he isn’t biologically a guy. Or, vise-versa makes more sense, actually: a point he can’t remember where he realized his body isn’t right for him, and that was that.
Which is fine. There’s nothing wrong with being trans, obviously. Ranboo isn’t transphobic, that would be counterproductive. Because he’s trans.
One thing about his body, though, is that he doesn’t look like a girl, to himself. That’s partly due to his high levels of testosterone naturally, which is a whole different thing and medical and something Ranboo doesn’t care to learn more about so long as it’s not killing him. And he’s trans, so he shouldn’t be upset by that.
But, to himself, he doesn’t look like a guy either.
He looks like neither , but also both . And he knows that there are more than two genders, of course, and that would pretty quickly fix his problem. But he hasn’t met anyone who isn’t cis or a binary trans person. So… he doesn’t have anyone he could ever ask, really, about this.
He doesn’t think he is nonbinary, though. Or, well, correction. He doesn’t want to think he’s nonbinary. Because that raises so many more questions for himself.
He likes being a guy, and he doesn’t mind when people call him guy or he or, like with Tubbo earlier, husband. At the same time, when people misgender him at the bakery– something that happens very, very rarely– it doesn’t… it’s misgendering , definitely, and Niki always corrects the customer, but it… it doesn’t feel terrible. But, he likes being a guy, and maybe- maybe he’s just numb to being misgendered, so that’s not the problem. And he- if he’s being honest, he doesn’t like looking at his body in general and prefers to wear loose clothes and prefers to shave and wishes that he was sort of just a bodiless thing, but he likes being called a guy and he hardly feels like he’s in his body ever, anyway, so what’s the point? What does it mean?
He should wear this suit. He likes suits. Ranboo, also known as he, likes suits.
But he also likes dresses. And he has a dress, and it honestly fits him better, but it’s tighter, too, and-
He’s being weird. This is pointless, he’s- he’s overthinking it. Clothes aren’t gendered, if he’s a guy he can absolutely wear a dress, no matter what. That’s not even a question in Ranboo’s mind. Clothes have no gender, neither do compliments, neither does Ranboo-
Ranboo is a boy. He is a boy because he cannot afford to have any more questions about his identity. He is a boy because his gender identity doesn’t matter when the news stories report his death or the driver’s license gives him a little F marker at the top. He is a boy because if he tries to change his mind on this again, when he can’t even remember how it went over the first time, he’s going to lose any self-security he has left.
Ranboo can’t even remember his birthday. He doesn’t know who his parents are, nor does he know his medical history, nor does he know anything about himself. All he knows is that at age 15, he found Niki, introduced himself as Ranboo, as a boy, and his life continued from there.
If he loses that, he loses himself in one more way.
For someone else, maybe, there would be room to question their gender. They could afford to experiment and try out new pronouns and even humor the thought in the first place.
For Ranboo, it’s one of many things he wishes he could do, but can’t risk.
So, he puts on the suit. Stares at himself in the mirror as he puts all the pieces together and fixes up his tie. Watches himself even as his eyes keep trying to dart to the dress he got from Niki’s closet a while ago, when he was being just as much of an overthinker as he is now.
He is a trans man. He cannot lose this. He cannot lose this.
He turns off the bathroom light, sits on the edge of his bed, and stares off into space until the alarm goes off.
What would everyone think, if they found out you weren’t who you said you were again? Ranboo thinks as he walks down the hall to wake up Niki.
You don’t even know your age for certain, you could lose everything, why are you so committed to forgetting yourself? Are you just asking people to forget you, too? Ranboo thinks as he carries the flowers to the car.
You hate your body. You hate yourself. That’s all there is to it. Ranboo thinks as he parks at the cemetery just across the street from the church.
If you transition again, nobody is going to accept you. Ranboo thinks as he wakes Niki up, exits the car, and allows the ensuing event to drown out the way he feels like the world is closing in for him alone.
-
While Ranboo and Niki did come earlier than most people, Ranboo still notices that the expected turnout for people at the funeral is… a lot less than he anticipated.
The funeral is not occurring in the main room of the church, rather in a side room that is much more compact but still spacious enough to fit a casket and some number of people. Since it’s located there, the seating is on plastic chairs rather than church pews, and the amount of chairs present are few in number. Approximately twenty people, maybe under, have seating for the funeral. It’s a sad sight for an event that isn’t for only the family, honestly, even if Schlatt didn’t sound like the most likable person.
Niki starts to search for Puffy, sending a few text messages before concluding to Ranboo, “She’s not here yet.” Ranboo nods at Niki, who reaches out to squeeze Ranboo’s hand and says, “I’m going to find Wilbur. Call me if you need me.”
“Remember to turn off your phone during the funeral,” Ranboo reminds her, partially because he knows he will forget, too, if he doesn’t verbalize it early.
Niki gives Ranboo a rueful smile. “I don’t have any respect for J Schlatt, nor his dead body. If someone decides to call me during his loving remembrance, I’ll step out of the room and take it.”
With that, she leaves the room.
Now alone, Ranboo idles silently, standing in the corner for a few minutes before finding seats for Niki and himself. He elects for something on the second row, since he imagines the first row would be reserved for close family, and he and Niki have no real relation to this aside from being invited for… moral support, it seems.
The second row also happens to be the back row, as very few people are expected to arrive, and Ranboo wouldn’t want to subject other people to his unbearable height. And, finally, it puts Ranboo and Niki further from the casket. Which… it’s a closed casket, which is less unsettling, but Ranboo still doesn’t like knowing he’s that close to a dead body.
He takes his eyes away from the front center of the room and looks around.
The only other people in the room are a twenty year old man, playing app games on his phone and sitting at the end of the first row, on the other side of the room from Ranboo, and a pair talking quietly to themself near the doorway but slowly moving to sit near Ranboo. Not directly beside him, thank God, and they don’t seem to pay a lot of attention to Ranboo, but it’s still a little unsettling.
As subtle as possible, he swaps with where he put his phone as a placeholder for Niki’s seat, so that Ranboo is on the edge of the row and Niki is sitting on his left. It saves Ranboo from the interaction, at least. He just has to hope that Niki doesn’t get a phone call and has to navigate around his inconveniently long legs to leave.
For a while, the room is devoid of everything but the four people, Ranboo included, waiting for more people to arrive. Quickly, though, the energy of the room is disrupted by people entering in groups.
The first group to enter is a pair of college students, both looking rather remorseful as they enter and sit on the left half of the second row. One of them catches Ranboo’s eye more than the other; he’s the one not carrying flowers, but his hair is bright orange, in a way that Ranboo finds familiar for unknown reasons. Ranboo chooses to disregard it and takes his eyes off of him.
They are quickly followed by Puffy’s family– namely, her parents and younger brother– who take a seat in the front row, beside the twenty year old still playing Angry Birds. Puffy spares Ranboo a smile, but mostly, they ignore him. Which is… fine, he’s just curious why the whole family is here for the funeral in the first place.
Ranboo is soon distracted by this when he hears a familiar adult voice, and turns his head to see Tubbo and his family. Specifically, everyone excluding Wilbur, who is likely still outside with Niki.
Phil speaks quietly to Tubbo as they walk, and Tubbo nods along to whatever Phil is saying, eyes shut. He’s wearing a black button down and black slacks, neither of which look to be his size, and he’s holding a piece of paper in his right fist. Beside him, Phil has swapped his olive green hat for a black one, which will make him a nuisance in the front row, but considering that he’s short without the hat, it probably won’t be an issue. And nobody would raise any complaints, either way.
Following Phil and Tubbo is Tommy, walking quickly to try and catch up with them, but eventually giving up and slowing down. He’s the first and only person to make eye contact with Ranboo as his blue eyes scan the room. Both he and Ranboo freeze, but after a single second, Tommy breaks his gaze and shoves his hands in his pockets, continuing to shuffle forward.
God. Ranboo hopes he can fix that sort of soon, with Tommy. Considering the severity of their argument, though, Ranboo is not sure they will.
After Tommy comes Techno, who is carrying flowers like the ones Ranboo has resting in his lap. It looks out of place for Techno to be carrying them, but Ranboo gets the sense that he might have just been looking for something to do. Among the five of them, Ranboo can’t imagine that Techno will appear the most torn up at Schlatt’s funeral, if only because Techno is hardly torn up about anything.
Ranboo counts the seating in his head. It would make sense for Tubbo’s family to take up the entire left half of the first row, with Puffy’s family and the lone person taking the right half. If Quackity is here, which he should be, he’s probably going to go and sit between Niki’s seat and where the pair of strangers are, if only to fill up a full row and avoid a gap in the middle. Niki is beside Ranboo, and the college student pair are on the left side of the second row, meaning that there are three more expected people.
That’s not a lot of people for a funeral. Ranboo wonders when Schlatt’s family will start to show up, assuming that none of them are already here, which it doesn’t seem like they are.
Regardless, Wilbur, Niki, and Quackity have yet to enter the room, as well as whoever is leading the process and anybody else who might come. Ranboo is content to just wait for the funeral to start– they have about five minutes until it does–, but he sees Tubbo leave his seat out of the corner of his eye and turns his head to watch as Tubbo walks over to him.
Ranboo moves to stand up when he does, but Tubbo waves him off with his hand and squats down beside him. It’s a strangely casual position for someone with oversized funeral clothes and messy hair. Ranboo supposes he can’t judge him too hard, anyway.
“Hi,” Tubbo says quietly, looking at the legs of the chair instead of Ranboo.
“Hey,” Ranboo replies. “How are you feeling?”
Tubbo shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” That’s… not a good sign, if he’s feeling neutral at what is likely a traumatizing event. Or maybe Ranboo’s reading too far into it. Maybe Tubbo really is okay. Well. No he’s not. Obviously. But. Maybe. Well, no. He- “I, uh, I have a speech to make,” Tubbo adds, holding up the paper in his hand. It has bullet points on it, from what Ranboo can see, but he can’t really read the handwriting. It’s neat cursive with notes in entirely different font, which is strange. When Ranboo seems to look at it too intently, Tubbo explains, “Techno helped me write it out, ‘cause I didn’t know what to say. I took notes.”
“Oh. Okay.” That explains the cursive. It’s strange, Techno’s handwriting varies from perfect cursive to being completely incomprehensible depending on circumstance. Ranboo guesses it makes sense Techno had more time to write this, though. “Can you read the cursive alright?”
“Oh, no, I’m dyslexic as shit,” Tubbo replies honestly. He gives Ranboo a fleeting smile, chin tilting up just a little for a second, before both fall. He lets his hand drop as well. “I’m going to make shit up, mostly. To be fair, I just told him to write generic shit ‘cause I have no idea what kind of shit they say at funerals. I think I’ll just- I’m just going to lie for however long I have to.”
“Oh.” Ranboo isn’t quite sure what to say to that. The speeches are meant to commemorate memories with the deceased, aren’t they?
Maybe Niki was right in scoffing at the phrase in loving memory. It doesn’t really seem many people here loved Schlatt. Then again, who is Ranboo to assume? Love is complicated, and memories are complicated. And dead people of ambiguous morality are even more complicated.
Especially considering Ranboo doesn’t know anything about any of those subjects.
“Is, uh,” Ranboo inhales, trying to figure out how best to phrase this. Maybe he shouldn’t ask it at all, honestly. It could be a really rude thing to say, but he’s curious, and it seems like Tubbo or Quackity would have the answer. And Ranboo only knows one of those people. He exhales, and asks, “Are any of Schlatt’s other family coming?”
Tubbo pauses, then shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t think there are any other guests, actually, aside from those not here, of course. I actually don’t even know some of these people here- but anyway, yeah. Just the eighteen- maybe nineteen, I dunno- of us.”
“I see.” That’s… that’s fair, Ranboo supposes. He should probably be trying to ask more important questions here.
He comes up with one after a full minute of silence between the two of them, which Tubbo spends rubbing at his eyes and Ranboo spends anxiously bouncing his leg. When Ranboo considers the question, he debates whether or not it’s even appropriate to ask right now, but he supposes it’s worth giving it a shot, even if only out of courtesy. Though it’s far from courtesy to Ranboo.
“How…” Ranboo swallows. “How are you, Tubbo?”
It takes a few seconds for Tubbo to reply, which is fair of him. After his brief contemplation, he lifts his head and makes eye contact with Ranboo, who can finally get a clear look at his expression. He looks exhausted, and his eyes are rimmed red, and his face is older than it was before Schlatt’s death. Surely the latter can’t be the case, and maybe Ranboo’s just seeing things, but it looks like it just a bit. It hurts to see him like that. Knowing that it’s only been a week since they last saw each other, and it feels like Ranboo’s missed an entire lifetime he never had in the first place.
(A feeling he knows all too well).
Tubbo’s voice is low, filled with some mixture of bitterness, sadness, and other emotions Ranboo can’t find words for; his tone stays even, though, even on the day it would make the most sense for it to break, and Tubbo finally tells Ranboo, “I’m okay. Just want to get it over with, you know? I- yeah. I just want to get it over with.”
Ranboo knows that Tubbo isn’t telling the whole truth. But, at the very least, Tubbo took time to consider his question, and that’s about the most Ranboo can push right now.
So, Ranboo accepts the answer, reaching his hand forward to brush a strand of hair from falling into Tubbo’s eyes and responds, “Okay. It’ll be over soon.”
“Two hour proceedings,” Tubbo mumbles. Ranboo tries to move his hand, but Tubbo catches it, holding eye contact with him. Most of the time, looking people in the eye is difficult. Ranboo doesn’t know why it’s easier with Tubbo. Tubbo’s eyes, conveying little emotion aside from his blatant tiredness, stare on as he repeats, “Two hours. I don’t even have that many hours of good memories with him, and I-” Tubbo cuts himself off, and the eye contact breaks. He still holds Ranboo’s hand, though, which doesn’t say honesty but still says trust.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Tubbo apologizes, even though he hardly said anything at all.
Ranboo shakes his head. “It’s okay. I… I do think the funeral might be starting, though.” At least, Niki and Wilbur are coming in, Wilbur swapping seats with Techno so he can sit right beside Tommy, while Niki walks over to sit beside Ranboo. Quackity has yet to make an appearance, but it’s around time for him to.
“You’re right,” Tubbo admits, and his eyes scrunch up slightly, just for a second. A brief display of pain.
Ranboo squeezes his hand before letting go, trying to give Tubbo a reassuring smile. He’s found himself doing that a lot lately, and he’s still not sure if anyone’s really buying them. “You’re going to be okay,” Ranboo encourages quietly. “I’ll be here for a little bit after.”
Tubbo nods, standing up. He starts to walk back to his chair before hesitating and moving a few steps back to Ranboo, asking softly, “Can I have another signature Ranboo hand squeeze? For good luck?”
Ranboo doesn’t reply, just grabs Tubbo’s free hand with his and squeezes it, rubbing his thumb along the back of it briefly before letting go.
“Thank you,” Tubbo whispers, and then he’s solemnly walking back to his seat. Niki hands Ranboo his phone, which he silences, and both Quackity and the man Ranboo assumes is the preacher enter the room. Quackity squeezes past the couple to sit between one of them, who has dark hair and warm eyes, and Niki. The man whispers something to Quackity Ranboo can’t hear, which Quackity responds to with a quick mumble of his own, and Niki nudges Quackity’s shoulder to tell him something as well. It earns a smile out of Quackity, who mouths the word thank before the preacher starts talking and everyone’s attention returns to the front.
The first ten minutes of the ceremony are mostly the preacher talking. Ranboo pays close attention to every word but finds himself forgetting soon after, eyes subconsciously darting to look at Tubbo every time there’s a pause in his words. Distracting, too, is the way that Quackity is constantly fidgeting with his hands, to the point that the dark-haired man holds out his own for Quackity to squeeze. He seems to ignore the gesture and curl up on himself further instead.
Ranboo’s attention is much more focused when the preacher announces, voice sympathetic but strong, “Now, a few words from some of J Schlatt’s loved ones, starting with Quackity.”
There is deafening silence as Quackity leaves his seat, walking down the middle aisle and receiving a pat on the shoulder from the preacher. He makes it up to the stand and taps the microphone once, before he cracks the joke, “Is this working?”
Nobody laughs, and Quackity’s forced smile falls. He looks down at his hands, lacking a paper to guide him through his words, before he looks up and focuses his eyes on the doors right in front of him. His voice is bolder than his body as he says, “Schlatt and I were together for a long time.”
He clears his throat once before he continues, a laugh somewhat strangled in his voice as he talks. “Since we were teenagers, really, we were on and off. No matter what relationship I got myself into, I always found a way back to Schlatt. We were- we were kinda birds of a feather, I’d say. Not in a family sense, y’know, but… birds flock together, birds fall together, and all of that. Kind of a weird saying, but I’d say it fit us pretty well.”
The silence is suffocating, only getting worse with every next pause in the speaker’s monologue. Ranboo knows his own headspace doesn’t matter much right now, but he hates the deafening quiet. In rooms this quiet, something bad is just around the corner. Or, in this case, laying in a casket.
Quackity seems to perceive this stifling quiet, because the further he gets into his story, the less he interrupts himself with slowly drawn in breaths or pauses, talking until he’s gasping. “I always admired Schlatt for his intellect. Y’know, he was a smart guy, really good with people, the charismatic sort. He had a mind for business– I remember the first time we talked, he was trying to rope me into this business of selling cheap candles that smelled like various condiments. ‘To give college kids comfort,’ or some dumb shit like that.”
A few people laugh at that. Ranboo can’t really bring himself to, but he’s grateful that Quackity isn’t entirely met with stilted silence.
“Schlatt was a loyal guy. Didn’t take well for people crossing him, you know. He was honest and loyal, sometimes to a fault, even ‘til his dying day.” The remnants of laughter entirely cut out, and the silence seems consuming. “In his later years, as I’m sure we all know, Schlatt’s health declined. He was a strong guy, intelligent, and he knew the way that su- well, a lot of things, could mess with you. But logic doesn’t really stop you from doing bad things, y’know? So he- he picked up on that stuff, yeah.”
Quackity clears his throat again. “It didn’t make him the best- stress, I mean. But, there were still some good times in there. Like the time we hung out and watched a game– and I dunno if you all can tell, but I’m not a big sports guy or anything, but I followed along to the soccer and stuff and the team I bet on won. He owed me- well, I was gonna say a half-stack, but we just started college, y’know, wasn’t riding on money or anything.” A few more laughs cut in. Really, it’s the strangers Ranboo doesn’t know excluding the couple near him, plus Wilbur. It’s just enough to make a laugh-track out of, but not enough to make a joke land. Ranboo feels sorry for Quackity; Ranboo’s glad he doesn’t have to speak, though he doesn’t know why he would ever conceivably be asked to at any point.
There is one last pause, but Quackity breaks it by saying, “You know, it’s hard to explain Schlatt. He’s one of the best guys I’ve ever known, but I think he hurt more people in this room than helped.” That’s an unfortunate statement, Jesus Christ. Ranboo wouldn’t say it’s untrue, though, but… poor preacher. That’s- it’s going to be a long two hours, if they don’t cut it early. “Either way, it- it really sucks he’s dead. But, I know that he was, y’know. Suffering a lot in his last couple of years. And he believed a lot in God, too, and I know we never saw eye to eye on that fully, but I think he’d be glad to know that he’s been laid to rest here. I wish he had more time to be the guy that he always told me he wanted to be, but wishing on things won’t do much in the end. So… I’m glad he’s dead. Not for us, but for him. And… that’s all I had to say. Connor, did you want to?”
The twenty year old man pauses before shaking his head, and Quackity freezes. That was definitely not planned. Ranboo feels second-hand embarrassment and anxiety, though he guesses people can’t be too embarrassed during a funeral. Mostly anxiety, then. “Oh. Alright, uh. Hey, hey Tubbo, do you want to-”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says quietly, and Quackity’s shoulders relax.
The two of them share a look before Quackity walks back to his seat, and Ranboo sees Tommy give Tubbo a thumbs up once he takes the podium, sheet of paper in his hand. He’s shaking, and like Quackity, he’s avoiding eye contact with everyone, glancing at Tommy before staring down at the paper he can’t even read the words to. A safety blanket, Ranboo assumes. He’s glad Tubbo has something, at least.
After a few seconds of just his shaky breaths, amplified by the microphone, Tubbo starts his speech. “Kinda- kinda like Big Q said, or, Quackity, I guess,” he lets out a nervous laugh, then swallows, “Schlatt- J was a smart guy. He was- he was smart and really protective of the things he cared about. On the whole, uh, on the whole sports note, I know that he was, uh, really protective of baseball cards. Never really got that, I was always a Pokemon kid myself.” The only person to laugh is Tommy, but he laughs just enough that it maybe, if one strains to hear, doesn’t sound as hollow as it is. As all of it is.
Tubbo fiddles with the sheet of paper, then his collar, then shoves his hands on the podium as he continues restlessly. “Me and J had kind of a weird- weird thing going, but he was a good guy, deep down. Stress led to bad health, yeah, and that kind of messed him up, but he had a lot going for him aside from it. I really think he could’ve done some really, really cool stuff, but sometimes- y’know, sometimes life doesn’t give us chances for that.”
Ranboo’s heart aches at that sentiment, and nobody makes a sound. Tubbo blinks before choking out, “He wasn’t- he wasn’t good. But he could’a been, and- and I reckon that’s enough, sometimes. Just the promise of having a shot to be good, even if- even if you never got to take it. I- yeah, that’s- that’s all I had to say, thank you guys.”
Tubbo grabs the paper and rushes out of the front, shoulders shaking. The second he sits down, Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulder, and he leans his head against his chest. Ranboo wishes that he could be there to support Tubbo, but he’s so glad that Tommy can be there, at least. That there’s someone holding him up even as the world falls inward on him.
As the preacher walks back up to the front, Ranboo realizes that even though this is a funeral for Schlatt, it feels more like a funeral for everyone else who knew him. It’s kind of a scary thought, knowing that Schlatt might still be living in people’s minds even though those people lost a piece of themselves at his death.
Maybe Ranboo’s off the mark, though. He doesn’t know much, really. He doesn’t know too much at all.
“We will all miss J Schlatt dearly,” the preacher projects, still maintaining his composure despite the slew of mixed anecdotes Schlatt’s former ‘loved ones’ gave. “For now, let us take a moment to celebrate his life, and trust in God to watch over the body of J as he rests, and all of us as we learn to live without him.” The preacher pauses, allowing everyone to think in silence, much of which Ranboo spent worrying about Tubbo, before speaking again. “Now, if you could, we will be taking the casket out to lower him into the Earth. For those of you who brought flowers especially, please follow us as we do. Thank you.”
With that, the preacher leaves the stand, taking a moment to speak to Tubbo and Philza, firmly grasping Tubbo’s hand with both of his, before being quickly whisked away by Quackity to help move the casket.
Ranboo stands, putting his phone in his pocket and holding the flowers as Niki speaks to Puffy’s family. Ranboo waits until the casket starts moving for he, Techno, and one of the college students to follow close behind and carry the flowers. Behind him, he assumes, filters out everyone else.
It is lightly raining outside, which he guesses is expectable, seeing as it was forecasted as such, but Ranboo still finds it tragically cinematic that it’s raining at a funeral. It’s the kind of picture Dream would want Ranboo to take, but Ranboo finds himself questioning the things Dream finds beautiful more and more. Maybe that is due to his selfishness and lack of perspective, though, he’s not really sure.
Ranboo watches on the front lines as the casket gets lowered into an already dug-out hole, gradually growing more wet as the rain falls. Slowly, dirt is thrown back over the grave, built up until it’s level with the base of the headstone, containing fewer words than the ones surrounding it.
After the casket is lowered, people slowly start to disperse. Connor and the couple that sat near them leave first, both talking to Quackity briefly before they return to their cars. Puffy’s family say goodbye to Puffy as they go, leaving Puffy with Niki. Ranboo isn’t sure how the two are planning to get home, since Niki said she was okay with Ranboo taking the car back whenever, but he assumes Puffy drove separately in preparation for this.
Quackity sticks around, talking to the preacher extensively and engaging in friendly conversation with the college kid that had the flowers. Ranboo doesn’t pay them much mind, instead looking around to see where Tubbo’s family has gone.
After some looking, he finds them– Wilbur, talking to Techno and Tommy; Philza, walking towards the preacher, likely to join in on the polite conversation; and Tubbo, heading back inside the church.
Ranboo has nowhere else to be, really, and so he waits until Tubbo is fully inside the building to start following, determined not to directly intrude on the other and allow enough space for Tubbo to fully get privacy if he wants it, or decide that he wants someone with him.
It’s while Ranboo is walking in the rain back across the blocked-off street and into the church that he suddenly hears a voice behind him, one that sounds a little familiar but he can’t place no matter how hard he tries, like an acquaintance you know in passing.
“Iris?”
Feet just barely on the curb, Ranboo turns around in confusion. He’s not sure he knows anybody named Iris, but surely he can redirect whoever was speaking to who that person may be, considering there were a lot of unnamed people in that room. All of them with the good-will to help, too, considering that they were at J Schlatt’s funeral during their Sunday afternoons.
When he turns around, though, he sees the college student with orange hair staring dead at him.
Ranboo freezes.
The intense look on the student’s face breaks into a disbelieving grin as he walks towards Ranboo, and immediately, he wonders if he’s going to get killed in the middle of the street by a stranger on the day of a funeral. There would be an irony to it, but more presently an inconvenience, as he would prefer not to die right now, actually, and this stranger is slowly starting to scare him. Because he feels familiar, and yes, that happens sometimes, but this feels a little different– but either way, familiarity only tells Ranboo that the two of them may have met once or more, not whether or not they met in good circumstances.
“Iris,” the man repeats, volume raising with excitement. “Holy shit, you look- you look so different. You were with Niki, were- have you been with Niki this whole time? I- I can’t believe this! I actually can’t believe this, holy shit, Iris, I’ve been looking-”
“I’m sorry,” Ranboo interrupts, because he can’t bring himself to watch this stranger break into a display of intense emotion when the target for it isn’t even the right person, in the best case scenario interpretation of this. “I’m- I’m not Iris. My name is Ranboo, I- I think you’re mistaken-”
“No,” the man asserts, looking at Ranboo seriously. His eyes are this strange color– they aren’t quite hazel, but they’re not brown, either. It looks almost amber, though Ranboo’s sure it’s a trick of the light. Nevertheless, it’s familiar, and in conjunction with the sound of the stranger’s voice…
… Ranboo’s definitely met him before. He just- he just doesn’t know where.
And this happens all the time, so he should have just walked away and not answered, because stranger danger and this wasn’t worth it, you should have left, he’s going to-
The man shakes his head. “No, no, you’re Iris,” he insists, and Ranboo feels his heart rise to his throat. How is he so sure? Ranboo doesn’t know anybody named Iris, it doesn’t- this doesn’t- why does he feel so sick? He doesn’t know this person, because he has no reason to, and this is obviously a misunderstanding, so why does the ground feel off-balance below him?
He stumbles back, trying to steady himself, but the man stares at him with those strange eyes, and Ranboo finds himself closer and closer to an answer, a word on the tip of his tongue that he’s been searching for longer than he can remember. It tastes like an anxiety attack with a hint of sea salt.
“I don’t know any other girl with heterochromia like that,” he continues, still pushing despite the silence his words are received with, and Ranboo’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t- he’s not- “It’s me , Iris. I don’t- do you not recognize me?”
He sounds hurt, and Ranboo has no idea what to do, so he swallows his nausea, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “I don’t,” he lies, trying to sound as calm as possible, “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
Those eyes look heartbroken, now, fractured amber with a luster of teariness, and for a second, the color reminds Ranboo of February’s dead leaves creeping back alive in March. The direct inverse of autumn; the transition that happens in spring. It’s such a weird metaphor to make, but his brain latches onto it, like it’s been laying dormant in his mind and he’s just now cognizant of it. Eyes like the leaves in spring, irises like the flowers in spring, meeting people like you do in spring. In spring, spring, spring-
Spring. Spring. That’s- it- no, not spring, it was- that’s not- it’s just a season, he- has to stay calm and ignore the nausea- the ground is spinning- he needs to run- he- this is spring and- not yet, it’s February- it’s February- Ranboo is here and it’s February and-
It’s the coldest night of February, and the rain is icy as it falls down the side of the house, going down, down, down- like from a book, easy description, it doesn’t- it’s nothing personal- but he can picture it like this- like- like how it’s- at the bottom is hell– black asphalt and dead rose bushes and silver ice– and the clouds are made of acid. His skin is burning off, and he still feels like nothing- but that’s not, that’s not the case, his skin is intact it’s just the rain he’s at a he’s at a it’s February he’s at a- hollowing him out until he’s just clattering bones falling off the side of the building- couldn’t cure it. Nothing can cure him. Nothing can cure him. Nothing can cure him. He’s sick, and nothing can cure him. He’s not sick, he’s here, he’s- he’s- it’s February, he’s at a-
He must not be awake.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
He has to wake up. He’s not supposed to be here, he has to- he has- he- who is- where is he, he has to- this isn’t it this is- he has to wake up- but he’s here, he’s here, this isn’t- he’s not- he has to- he is-
An accident.
It was an accident. His heart is sick and his bone marrow is diseased and his mind is- is broken. Tell them, say it, wake up and say it. Tell them, tell them, tell them, tell them, tell them, tell them GET AWAY tell them, tell them, tell them. He is broken, and it was an accident. Nothing can cure him. The world is mad. He is mad, and the world is mad. The world threatens to split in half under his broken body, cracking the black asphalt and the dead rose bushes and the silver ice into a thousand pieces, pulling him under. He’s going to be pulled under, oh God, he’s-
The world wants him. It was an accident. He must not be awake. He must not be awake. He can’t be awake, he has to wake up. You have to wake up. It’s the coldest night of February, and it’s the best night for a funeral. That’s where he is, a funeral. This time, it is the world dying. He’s at a funeral.
This is not a funeral this is how the sun swallows them up. This is how a black hole is formed. This is how it ends.
No, no, no, no, no , he’s at a funeral, he was right, funeral in February, funeral in February, there has to be- Earth below him, Earth above, he has to be- he’s not- he’s not sick, he’s at a- he’s at a- he’s- he’s Ranboo he’s at a funeral in February that’s where he is he’s outside he has to be he has to be-
Ranboo’s head hurts like everything is slipping and fracturing and breaking and falling into the Earth and he’s being pulled under and he feels the memory if that’s what it is slip from him as soon as he uncovers it only to come back in waves receding again. A timelapse of a sea moments before a storm, and the taste of sea salt still in his mouth makes him wish he could grab the water pooling in his hands, drink it, drown, and finally remember. To hold on for longer than a second at a time, to know. That was a memory, he’s not there, he’s here, but that was a memory and memories are like the sea and he is here and he knows- he knows-
Ranboo knows one thing. The sea can’t take it away from him; no storm can change the tides of the universe.
He’s shaking and everything is falling apart and he knows one thing knows one thing knows one thing has to stop his mind racing has to be logical has to dissociate has to detach Ranboo’s okay now Ranboo’s not upset anymore Ranboo’s okay the memory is gone just like that here one second gone another Ranboo doesn’t remember so Ranboo’s okay Ranboo’s back now and he knows-
Ranboo knows this man. He knows him. He remembers.
“Iris,” like the tides receding, “it’s Fundy.”
It comes out as a whisper, but it echoes through the bones of Ranboo’s body like a shout, shattering everything inside of him and leaving his mind screaming after a second of silence. The way that he imagined remembrance always to feel, when the winter ends and spring brings something good, but before the good is the bittersweet and those eyes, that name, that name- no, he’s unfeeling, Ranboo’s-
He’s drowning. He’s drowning, and all he can say is-
“Fundy?”
(The sea of memories is crueler than the river of Lethe but he reserves as much will as he can to wade through both.)
The worst miracle happens for the both of them, then. For reasons Ranboo wishes he could escape, the name Fundy rolled off his tongue easily, despite him not having tasted it then , for the first time since the coldest night in February, two years ago.
Oh God. Oh God.
Fundy walks forward, and Ranboo feels frozen. The rain is falling down harder, and he half-wants to clutch onto Fundy’s warm coat and release the tightness of trying to stay calm, half-wants to pull away and claim he’s never seen him before and never see him again . The first is a picturesque solution, but Ranboo didn’t bring his camera here. And the latter would be dishonest to himself, because though Ranboo wants to shut down and flee and survive this , for a second, he wants to understand more.
“Iris,” Fundy starts, with that same soothing tone Ranboo is starting to remember. They were playing piano, he thinks. He was learning to play piano. He was always bad at arching his fingers over the keys, but he tried, he tried and he played Claire de Lune, he played- he played- “is not your name, is it? You- you go by something else now?”
He doesn’t know. “Ranboo,” he replies weakly.
It feels like the world is falling on him. It feels more like death than inside the chapel, out here on the asphalt under the rain. It will always be here, when Ranboo and the world twist in a struggle to kill the other before they lose their own life.
Ranboo wants to win, but the cost- the cost-
“Ranboo. God, I knew Niki had a kid named Ranboo this whole time, I never-” Fundy chokes back a sob, and Ranboo feels his eyes tear up despite not understanding why. “I never thought- I didn’t recognize you, Ranboo, it’s- it’s something, man, you look- you look so different. You’ve gotten so much taller. ”
“I don’t-” and God, Ranboo can’t breathe, he can’t catch his breath. He never thought this would happen, and for every night he wished he could remember anything, he curses the universe one more time in his head for having it happen like this. The universe gives him nothing, leaves him with the waves that recede and then crash, but never sweep him in the debris. For once, he wants to feel the impact without having to hide from it just so he can keep breathing. For once, just once, he wants to be collateral damage. “Fundy, I don’t- I don’t know you, I-”
“Shh,” Fundy reassures, and that single sound is the most comforting thing Ranboo’s heard in years. It makes him want to crumple up and cry on the side of the road, but he knows he can’t. He knows he can’t do that. The universe wants him dead, and he cannot let it kill him. “Ranboo, we can- we can talk in my car. I have those CDs we used to play, do you still listen to CDs?” Yes. God, yes, I do. All the time, I never knew you were the one to- “We can talk about this. I’ve been- Ranboo, I’ve been hoping I’d find you again for years. After- after what happened, I- I needed you. I missed you so fucking much, man, I-” Fundy dissolves into a sob, and he’s burying his face into Ranboo’s shoulder, and Ranboo can’t breathe so he has to control himself.
But Ranboo wants to cave. He wants to agree, to go into Fundy’s car that must have the same distinct scent of cheap cinnamon cologne as he does now. He wants to listen to the CDs Fundy has, the same ones Ranboo might have back in his car, and he wants the other to explain, in that low, comforting tone, who he is and why he knows Ranboo and how Ranboo can remember that he knew him before Niki but nothing else. He wants to know who Iris is, and why he is Iris, and where he was before all of this, because Fundy is a mirage from a blur of time Ranboo can’t remember, and more than anything, he wants to know.
Fundy lets go of Ranboo and opens his mouth to say something, car keys already in his hand, but Ranboo takes a step back before Fundy can speak.
Fundy tilts his head. “...Ranboo?”
Ranboo wants to cave so, so badly.
But his best friend is alone inside a church on the day of J Schlatt’s death, and Ranboo swore to himself that he would help Tubbo without letting his personal matters interfere.
He knows that’s a bad reason. He knows the reason it’s a bad reason is because it’s an excuse, too, not a reason , but the truth is far more selfish to say. For once, Ranboo wants to be selfless, but that is not how anyone survives.
Ranboo is faced with the only person in the world who holds the key to what he’s been missing for the past two years– his memory. Fundy holds Ranboo’s entire world in his palms, the same that taught him how to play piano back then, in the mental image Ranboo’s clung onto with his whole being. The tune to that piece plays in Ranboo’s ears underneath the sound of his heartbeat; Fundy has everything Ranboo has ever wanted.
And Ranboo is terrified.
(The universe wants him dead. The universe will never give him anything. )
“I can’t-” Ranboo starts to protest, and he sees the way Fundy’s face falls. He shuts his eyes tightly, shoving both his hands in his hair and gripping the strands tight enough to ground himself. It doesn’t work, because what is there to ground himself to when the world has been cracked into pieces under him? How can Ranboo breathe when he’s been parched for two years and he finally has a taste for water, only to have to say no? Ranboo can’t breathe, he can’t ground himself, and the pain in his head is nothing compared to the way it feels like he’s imploding like a supernova, dying out into a white dwarf and fading in a church parking lot.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers through tears, and there are galaxies behind his eyes. God is out there, and God hates him, and God must want him dead if It listened to his prayers and bestowed this instead. “Fundy, I’m so sorry, I can’t- not right now, I-”
“Ranboo, I’ve been looking for you for years!” Fundy yells, voice drawn back from the sobs still suck in his throat. Ranboo wonders if everyone has the choice to drown or not. Ranboo is making his choice for the first time, but Fundy is drowning right in front of him. “Years,” he repeats quieter, “I can’t- you can’t leave now. You can’t leave me, Iri- Ranboo!”
“ I’m not Iris! ” Ranboo screams back, not loud enough for anyone to hear, not loud enough for anyone but himself. Maybe in the chapel, it would echo, but the rain drowns out his cries the way it always did. He opens his eyes and regrets it, but finds he can’t keep them closed anymore. He can’t look away as the world falls around him. He can’t . “I don’t- Fundy, I don’t remember you, I can’t remember anything, I can’t- I can’t take this right now, I physically- I literally can’t .”
Fundy shakes his head, and his eyes look brown with the sky darkening above them. His irises don’t have to play a charade anymore; Ranboo can’t forget them. “I can’t lose you, Ranboo-”
“Then- then, I-” Ranboo shakes as he steps back again, strands of hair tucked into his fists as he pulls them forcefully from his scalp. “Niki will- Niki will give you my number, you can- on another day, I can’t- I can’t-”
“I understand,” and if he does, that would be devastating, because he looks at Ranboo with eyes that swear he’s honest, but the tears streaming down his cheeks echo the way he shouted for Ranboo to stay just moments earlier. God, Ranboo wishes he could stay, but he can’t. Not right now, not when the glimpse he got of his past was enough to make him feel like he was dying.
Fundy wipes his tears and calls out, one last time, “Promise if I do, you’ll let me in. Please, I can’t- I can’t lose you, not after all this time.”
Ranboo nods, choking back a sob that hurts his chest as he starts backing away faster, legs tripping over the edges of his suit. “I will,” he swears, and his voice breaks as he says, “I’m sorry.”
Fundy’s reply is lost to him as Ranboo turns to run inside the church, stumbling his way through blurry vision until he ends up in the main room, the doors bruising him as he pushes past. There’s someone in the church pew at the front, but Ranboo can’t see them, just runs until he’s under the stained glass window of a saint he doesn’t know nor believe in.
And he asks, “What did I do? ” his shoulders shaking. It’s the most pitiful he’s ever been; he feels like a kid again, almost falling for Fundy’s soothing voice earlier, mind plagued by memories he once thought he would die to have again. In a way, he thinks that may have been right. “This isn’t what I wanted, how could you- I-”
God isn’t here, but Ranboo prays to It so he is spared from begging the universe, a much less merciful entity. It’s all an act of survival that Ranboo is miserable at, but he has to play because it’s him and it’s the universe and it’s God and it’s no other players, no allies.
“When do I get to choose?” Ranboo can’t breathe. Thousands have given their confessions here. He’s confessed to the sky thousands of times. He won’t let this be his last plea. There must have been worse confessions here. He’s not a bad person, he hasn’t done anything wrong. This can’t be it for him. “When will you stop hurting me ?”
“Ranboo?”
And that’s not the voice of God, but it’s close, because Ranboo opens his eyes to see Tubbo in front of him. Tubbo’s expression is filled with concern under his own sorrow, and the funeral clothes he’s wearing are starting to wrinkle as he raises his hand and places it on Ranboo’s cheek, eyes flickering across his face. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Ranboo lies, sparing one last look at the saint before looking back at Tubbo. Tubbo, his best friend, who just lost someone close to him. Someone who just watched a door shut for himself the way a casket falls into a grave; the exact opposite of the way Ranboo opened a gate he can never close like the thundering of the clouds.
Ranboo can’t tell him the truth. It would be unfair to him, especially on a day like this. He has to lie, because Tubbo doesn’t deserve Ranboo’s pain– Ranboo’s always wished he could take on all of his, instead.
What amount of suffering will make it stop hurting?
“I’m okay,” he insists, even as Tubbo furrows his eyebrows to argue. “Please. I’m okay, I- I’m worried about you, honestly.”
“I’m fine,” Tubbo lies, and both of them are liars in a church, but Ranboo told Tubbo they wouldn’t talk of God again, so Ranboo leaves their lies behind and wraps Tubbo’s soft hands in his instead. “It- I thought the funeral would last longer, honestly, but I- I just needed to think. I… you’re okay though, right? You- you look distraught, Ranboo, and I haven’t- I haven’t been listening to you-”
“Someone close to you died, Tubbo,” Ranboo says too bluntly. Tubbo falls silent, and Ranboo squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not good at this. He’s not good at any of this. “I don’t- my problems aren’t your concern right now.”
“Bullshit!” Tubbo argues. “I’m not- I can take it, Ranboo, I’m not fragile-”
“I don’t think you’re fragile, I just- I think you’ve had to take on too much, and it’s not- it’s not important- ”
“ You’re important, Ranboo! You’re the single most important thing to me right now, can you not tell me-”
Ranboo shakes his head, talking over Tubbo as he tells the truth, finally: “It can’t be controlled. Not by you, not- not by me .”
Tubbo looks at Ranboo, hands still in his, and his voice breaks a little as he says, “You’re scaring me, Boo. I don’t- this is all scaring me.”
I’m scared, too, Ranboo wants to say, but he lets go of Tubbo’s hand to brush his hair back, instead, both on their knees in front of a church pew. In front of stained glass windows displaying a God that hurt Tubbo, a God that Ranboo loves and always hides from and disbelieves. “I know,” he whispers, hands shaking. “I- I know, Tubbo. I’m sorry.”
“I want to go home,” and Tubbo’s voice breaks fully, a sob unleashed as he chokes out the word home, and Ranboo’s heart breaks. The word home is painful for the both of them, now. No map nor constellation could take them there. Tubbo’s trying to hold back tears like it will make the atlas any clearer. “I want to go home, Ranboo-”
“Okay,” Ranboo says, standing up and pulling Tubbo up with him, guiding him out of the main room. “Okay, you can go home, I’ll help take you there, let’s go home-”
“My home is dead, Ranboo,” Tubbo tells him, and Ranboo holds him closer as soon as they step outside, as if he could shield him from the rain. “My home is in a fucking casket, that was- that was the last thing, the last thing I didn’t even have, I’ll never go home again, I-” Tubbo breaks down, words rendered incomprehensible, and Ranboo pushes forward through the elements until he can find Phil, still talking to the Quackity under a roof, and Ranboo moves forward with every last piece of energy he has.
Phil turns to look at them, eyes widening as he cuts Quackity off, mid-sentence, and shouts, “ What the fuck happened? ”
Ranboo lets go of Tubbo, enough for Phil to look at him. “I found him in the church. He told me he wanted to go home, so I brought him here.”
“ Jesus, mate, you’re all soaked,” Phil murmurs, taking off his coat to wrap around Tubbo. It engulfs him, and Tubbo’s still shivering. “Quackity, I’ll call you later, yeah? Gotta get the kids home.”
“I understand,” Quackity replies, voice calm. “Call me whenever. I’ll always pick up.”
“You have a way to get home, Ranboo?” Phil asks, mind seemingly in a thousand directions. “Do you wanna get a ride?”
Ranboo shakes his head. “I can drive, I’m fine. Just- get Tubbo home, please.”
“On it, mate. Take care now, you two,” Phil says, somewhat absentmindedly, as he and Tubbo move towards the parking lot. There are only a few cars left there, now– Ranboo’s, Quackity’s, and Phil’s. Fundy’s already gone.
The sea is still lapping at the corners of Ranboo’s mind, but Fundy is gone and the only thing Ranboo has left to do is shut his mind down until he can drain the sea and drown again.
Quackity, still standing beside Ranboo, clears his throat. Ranboo turns to look at him, and Quackity gives a sheepish grin, one lined with guilt, before saying, “Honestly, man, I don’t- I don’t know you. You’re, uh… Tubbo’s boyfriend, right?”
Ranboo would ordinarily fluster at that. Right now, though, the complicated feelings he has towards Tubbo are the farthest from intimidating, compared to everything else. “No,” he replies honestly, voice still trembling a little, even as he tries to keep it as even as possible. “I’m a good friend of his.”
“Got it. My bad, I’m not good with reading that stuff,” Quackity apologizes, but Ranboo shakes his head in a you’re fine motion. Quackity nods and taps his foot on the concrete. “Sorry if I fucked up my speech,” he says, as if Ranboo is the one he should apologize to. As if it even needs an apology in the first place. “I- Schlatt’s a fucked up guy, I’ll be honest. Now that the big guys are gone, I can swear, Schaltt was a fucked up guy. ”
“He hurt you and Tubbo,” Ranboo guesses, “and, uh, Connor, I guess?”
Quackity scoffs. “Nah, Connor’s a friend of his. Don’t know why I fucking trusted him to say shit. But, yeah, me and Tubbo were- Schlatt was not great.”
Ranboo nods slowly. “You- you think you’ll be okay?”
After a moment, Quackity shrugs. “Honestly? I doubt it. But… I’ve got hope for Tubbo. Preacher said that means I gotta have hope for myself, too.” Quackity huffs, then coughs, and only then does Ranboo notice, under the petrichor, the scent of smoke. Quackity shoves his hands in his pockets and sighs. “Tubbo didn’t deserve this shit, man. I won’t- I’m not gonna say more than that, it’s none of my fucking business to say, but he deserves better people. Get out of this shithole and have good people.”
“I agree.” Ranboo respects that Quackity won’t spill all of Tubbo’s business to Ranboo, but his heart still hurts at the faintest implication that Schlatt seriously hurt Tubbo.
“Would you say you’re a good guy…” Quackity freezes. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Ranboo.” Ranboo can take a guess as to why Quackity asked, but it still feels strange, to receive some version of a shovel talk while Ranboo’s body hurts from grief and Quackity’s lungs sing a smoker’s tale for the same reason, different case. “I… I’d say that I’m… fine.”
“Fine?” Quackity raises an eyebrow.
“Honestly, I’m not the best person,” Ranboo tells this near-stranger, “but I’m trying. And I’d do just about anything for Tubbo if it meant he would be happy.”
“Is that so?”
Ranboo just nods, and Quackity sighs again. “Huh. I’d say I would do the same, but I’m shit at that. At making Tubbo happy, that is.” Quackity looks Ranboo in the eyes, and Ranboo breaks eye contact. Quackity furrows his eyebrows but doesn’t comment on the gesture. “I hope that you can make Tubbo happy, Ranboo, I really do.”
“Me too.”
Ranboo knows, deep down, that he can’t make Tubbo happy, no matter how hard he tries. He won’t be the person to do it. He knows this because Ranboo knows that he is not the kind of person to make anyone happy. It’s awful, but Ranboo is awful, and Quackity must understand that, keenly, for the way guilt crosses his face.
Still, Ranboo lies, the same way that Quackity tells a preacher that he has hope for himself. Ranboo is built of lies, and the worst of them are told to himself; he hopes Quackity is not the same, in that regard, because nobody deserves to collapse in front of the stained glass image of a saint praying to have a choice.
“Are you going to head home?” Quackity asks him.
“Are you?” Ranboo shoots back. There’s no spite in his voice, even as the conversation is tense. If Ranboo and Quackity really are similar, than Ranboo isn’t so sure he wants to get comfortable with him.
Quackity laughs roughly. “Alright, fair enough! I’m- I was gonna head back, yeah. Don’t really know where I’m going, but… yeah.” He kicks some dirt; neither are really leaving yet, it seems like. “You live with Niki?”
“Yep.”
“You’re eighteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Huh.” Quackity considers that for a second, before asking, “When’s your birthday?”
“Late spring,” Ranboo lies. “How old are you?”
“Twenty two in August,” Quackity says easily. It could be a lie. Ranboo wouldn’t know.
Ranboo nods. “I’m- I’m going to head home, I think, are-” a bit of guilt fades in, because Ranboo doesn’t want to leave someone alone here, even if it's a stranger, “-are you going to be alright, staying here?”
“Say, Ranboo, one last thing.”
Ranboo just nods again, because one more thing can’t hurt after everything.
Quackity seems relieved, shoulders slumping a little as he tries to look Ranboo in the eye. Ranboo, despite his discomfort, holds the gaze. Quackity has skeptical eyes, the type that unsettles Ranboo even further than normal, but Quackity has a right to that skepticism, Ranboo would guess.
Quackity echoes their earlier conversation, “You’re seventeen. You’ll turn eighteen in, like, May, and it’s November– you’re going to be eighteen in, like, half a year.”
“... Yeah?”
There’s a moment of silence, then Quackity takes his hands out of his pockets to drag them down his face, shaking his head once before saying, almost accusatory, “What the fuck is it with kids, man? You and Tubbo and Tommy, acting like fucking adults. What the fuck.” Ranboo watches as Quackity kicks the dirt again, anger overtaking his cynicism. “I was doing this shit too, when I was seventeen. Fucking five years ago, and I’m still stuck in this shithole. So are you. How the hell does that make sense?” Quackity scowls at Ranboo; he’s the only other one there. Even the preacher’s gone now. “Why the hell- why is it like that, Ranboo? Why do you think it’s like that?”
Ranboo pauses, long enough for Quackity to start getting visibly frustrated. Quickly speaking after realizing that, Ranboo responds, “Is that- is that a rhetorical question? Or- or do you think I have the answer?” Ranboo doesn’t. Ranboo wishes he does. Ranboo wishes he’s given it more thought.
Quackity stares at Ranboo for longer, then blinks and tears his gaze away. He takes a step back, laughing a little to himself, and Ranboo wonders how many times he’ll have to hear a bitter laugh today. It’s the choir of a funeral, maybe. Ranboo’s trying really hard not to be a singer.
“It was rhetorical,” Quackity tells him. “It- yeah. You don’t know and I don’t know, so… that’s fine. Have a safe night, Ranboo.”
“You’ll be okay?” Ranboo asks again.
Quackity scoffs, and his eyes look a little teary. “Go fuck yourself, man.”
Ranboo leaves Quackity there, walking down the closed-off street and through the rain to get to the cemetery parking lot. He opens his car, getting the driver’s seat wet, and tilts his head back in his seat as he tries to breathe.
There’s a silence that lasts for a few minutes. It’s punctuated by his shallow breaths, trying to piece together all the memories of what transpired within the past few hours, rain hitting the asphalt outside as he holds his emotions down, limb by limb, and thinks through everything. He has control; it is strong, and it is here, and it is unbroken.
And then it is broken.
“Goddammit,” Ranboo mutters, hitting his hand against the dashboard of his car. The rain clouds his windows, and he is too tired to cry anymore. “God dammit! ” And he’s shouting now with a sharp scrape of his voice, because nobody can hear him, the closest person to him is smoking and grieving, and there’s better company in a casket, right now.
“Why are you doing this?” Maybe if Ranboo cries out loud enough, something will take pity on him. Something will give him a choice, finally. “I’m so- I’m so tired of this! What do you want from me? What do you even want from me, what- what do you want? What do I have to do to get you to care?” He hits his head on the top of the steering wheel, hands in his hair. “Why don’t you care? I don’t- I don’t even know who I am, I don’t- God damn you, what do I have to do? There’s nothing I can do! There’s nothing I can do for you, is there?”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s the truth.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Ranboo whispers, voice hoarse. His eyes sting, but he’s far from crying. It’s silent in the cemetery parking lot, aside from the rain hitting his window and the sound of Quackity’s car turning on; no uproar resulting from his outburst, no chasm. Ranboo hasn’t even opened his car yet; he’s going to be the last person here, may as well be the last person on Earth, it’s not like that’s his decision, anyway.
Sometimes, Ranboo thinks he’s insatiable in wanting everything. He wants to remember, he wants to function like a normal person, he wants to be confident in his gender identity, he wants to know himself, he wants to make people happy, he wants to live.
But Ranboo has never been allowed to want. He’s selfish– God, he’s the most selfish person he’s ever known, assuming he can even include himself in that kind of categorization– and it’s so sick of him to want anything more than what he has. It’s just- even though he should be grateful, the only thing the universe has given him is the chance to survive, and isn’t that just a bare necessity? Doesn’t Ranboo deserve more than that? Should that even be a question?
People keep telling Ranboo that he’s seventeen, he’s not an adult, he’s too young, but he’s never been considered that. He doesn’t see himself as a child, because when was the last time he was anything like a kid?
… Thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago, when he saw those yellow-ish eyes, and heard Fundy talk, and felt like he was safe.
Ranboo is not safe, and Ranboo has no choices. He’s told Dream about this, and Dream had agreed: Ranboo is wanted dead by the universe, by the town that has a mystery, by his own convoluted past. Everything is predetermined, and he’s not so certain about God but he does believe in prophecy. He is the prophecy, and he gets no choices, he gets nothing.
And that’s fine. Because Ranboo can handle it. Ranboo isn’t as weak as people think he is. He can take it, he can take all of it. He can lie bold-faced to a stranger like Quackity, and he can turn away Fundy, and he can let Niki sleep in a little longer, and he can call Tubbo and crack some jokes and try to make him smile and you will never make Tubbo happy-
Ranboo is fine. There’s nothing more to it. He’s fine, and his best friend is grieving. His best friend is grieving, and Niki is depressed, and Tommy is angry at him. All of these are things that can be healed; these aren’t permanent, and Ranboo can help. Ranboo will help.
Ranboo is beyond healing, though. You can’t heal something that is already broken. You can’t heal something that can’t break anymore because the second another piece of it falls off, it will die. You can’t heal something like Ranboo. So Ranboo is fine.
He lifts his head up from the steering wheel, turns on his car, and puts in his happy CD, ignoring the bitter feeling of clicking the slot back in and waiting for it to play.
Iris
by the Goo Goo Dolls starts playing, and the sound of a broken scream tears through the rain.