Chapter Text
When Tubbo’s shaken awake by Tommy at ass o’clock in the morning, he already knows that today is going to be the worst day of his entire life ever, probably.
Which might be a bit of an insensitive thought, seeing as he’s recently had two pretty bad days, with Schlatt’s death and the funeral and all, and those would logically outweigh him having to go to school after the fact. The thing is, though, Tubbo can’t exactly get pitied by a dead man, much less a dead man who didn’t care much about him, but he can certainly get pitied by the sheer number of likely sympathetic classmates he borrowed a pencil from two years ago and never spoke to again.
All of that is to say that school is going to be fucking miserable.
Judging by Tommy’s expression, he’s not too excited, either. Except, Tommy can at least pretend to cope with his general irritation by using humor, while Tubbo gives up immediately and usually goes back to bed. Tommy’s really is the more well-adjusted of the two, contrary to popular belief.
“Do I have to go?” Tubbo mumbles into his pillow for the third time as Tommy continues to shake his shoulder.
“Education is very important, Tubbo,” Tommy replies solemnly. “You won’t get any bitches if you don’t learn your times tables. That’s what Wil always tells me. He says, ‘Tommy, if I can tell you one thing, girls love times tables. Makes them crazy and shit.’ That’s a lie, Wil never told me that, but I bet I fooled you, did I?”
Tubbo did not process the second half of what Tommy said at all.
He rolls over miserably and looks up at his best friend, complaining, “I don’t want to get bitches.”
Tommy lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh, “Well, would you like to get bastards? ”
“I want to get back to fucking sleep.”
“Oh, you would say that, wouldn't you.” Tommy gives Tubbo a lopsided smile, and then abruptly tries to heave Tubbo out of bed, which fucking hurts because Tommy is not very strong and Tubbo is heavier than him, but eventually (regrettably) Tubbo is sitting up and Tommy is beaming. “One step closer to learning your times tables, Tubbo.”
“I know my fucking times tables, dickhead.” Tubbo kicks Tommy before standing up, yawning and walking over to his dresser. He grabs an oversized sweatshirt he stole from Techno and some jeans, because he’s pretty sure his binder is in the wash at the minute and he can’t be bothered to try and problem-solve much beyond that. At the very least, more people will be focused on pitying him over Schlatt than noticing his apparent trans-ness. Yippee.
Tommy looks away as Tubbo changes and comments under his breath, “I can never quite get six times eight correct.”
Tubbo glances over and stares at the side of Tommy’s head. “Forty eight.”
“Feels like it should be fifty six, though, doesn’t it?” Tommy responds.
“That’s a you thing,” Tubbo finishes getting dressed, runs his fingers through his hair until it looks semi-decent, and pokes Tommy’s temple to let him know that they can head downstairs. Tommy whines dramatically at the pressure, even though it definitely didn’t hurt. Tubbo rolls his eyes. “Seven times eight is fifty six. You’d know, because eight times eight is sixty four, and if you subtract eight from that-”
“Oh, stop mansplaining to me!” Tommy interrupts. “You and your- and your fucking maths. I bet you don’t know what a comma splice is, huh?”
Tubbo wrinkles his nose. “It sounds cooler than anything else in English, but I bet it’s some stupid grammar thing.”
“It’s when you put too many commas into something.”
“Oh, piss off.”
Tommy laughs, and Tubbo cracks a small smile.
By the time they get downstairs, breakfast has already been made; there are plates of pancakes on the kitchen counter, each with little nametags. Tubbo’s is written in a different sharpie than the others, probably because he’s not really supposed to have a nametag in the first place, but he nevertheless accepts the blueberry pancakes Phil made and sits down at the kitchen table.
Tommy sits across from him and immediately starts scarfing down the food. Which, to be fair, they are running a bit low on time for school, but Tubbo envies the way that Tommy can rush through eating without feeling a little nauseous after each bite. Perks of not being entirely an orphan, Tubbo guesses. But that might be a bit mean to say, so he keeps it to himself. Not Tommy’s fault that he isn’t a fuckup like Tubbo, and all that.
It takes about five minutes before Tommy finishes his food, which is outright terrifying, and he gets up to start washing the plate. As he does so, he asks over his shoulder, “Did you do all the homework and shit?”
“Uh, not really.” Tubbo’s still on his third bite, right about now. He’s wondering if he got too big a piece. “They’ll be lenient on me since I’m all fucked up or whatever, though. I have Bio with you today, right?”
“Yup,” Tommy confirms. After a second, he adds, “English and Film Studies with your boy, too. You might want to sit with him for lunch, since I bet our crew is gonna be, y’know. Asking a lot of questions, and shit.”
That’s true. Tubbo’s friends are all pretty respectful people, but Aimsey can pretty easily lose sight of one’s request for solitude if her concern is great enough and Jack Manifold is generally an inquisitive bastard. So Tommy has a good point.
It doesn’t mean that Tubbo has to like the way that Tommy’s voice dropped a little when he said that. There’s the subtle implication, there, that Tommy isn’t very pleased with Ranboo, something that’s sort of been a thing since Schlatt’s death.
Tubbo’s not sure what happened between the two, though it’s admittedly a bit annoying, since neither are particularly willing to outright say what happened. And Tubbo is a problem-solver but he’s also a bit off his game, recently, so there’s only so much he can really do to try and mediate this without any clues.
Part of him also… doesn’t really want to mediate it. Because Tubbo loves Tommy probably more than anybody, but Tommy always finds some way to get into shit with people, and Tubbo has had to sit through Tommy and Jack’s week-long arguments for almost four years now, and he’s a bit sick of all that.
Especially considering this shit is between Tommy and Ranboo. Someone Tubbo loves more than anybody, and someone that Tubbo really likes in a completely different way. And no matter what the end result is, it probably won’t matter, because Tubbo’s gonna get thrown into the system and never talk to them again. So what’s the motivation to care?
Ugh. Tubbo’s a real shit friend, and he knows that. Both Tommy and Ranboo have been there for him the past week, and he’s acting like this.
He just doesn’t want whatever is going on with them to be friendship ending. Because at the end of the day, if it comes between Tommy and Ranboo and Tubbo has to pick– which probably wouldn’t happen, since he reckons Ranboo wouldn’t make him choose and Tommy wouldn’t if he’s calmed down enough– Tubbo is going to pick his best friend he’s known for years.
But he doesn’t want to lose Ranboo. Because he really, really fucking likes Ranboo.
And actually, it’s honestly pretty fucking terrible of Tubbo to even humor the idea of his friends making him pick between them, considering nobody has even offered up the idea, and this is all just Tubbo being shitty and devaluing someone who’s shown him unbelievable amounts of loyalty. Not that he’s intending it, or that he means it, or anything, and maybe this is just preemptive because he always has to lose something to keep something else, but it’s not like anyone has even forced this ultimatum, and why is he still thinking about this, even, and-
-whatever. This can all get sorted out later.
Tubbo gets up and covers the leftovers of his pancakes with another plate, writing a borderline incomprehensible note for Techno and Wilbur saying the rest is for them. When he’s done, Tommy gives him a nod, and Tubbo goes upstairs to grab his backpack before coming back down the stairs.
They manage to get to the bus stop two minutes before it arrives, and Tubbo makes eye contact with nobody else at the stop with him. And when the bus comes, he sits in the back with Tommy, and he pretends like he can’t hear anybody over his earphones, and he manages fine.
Several hours of school left to go, and Tubbo’s goal is to avoid pity at all costs.
He reckons if he gives it his best go, maybe he can pull that off.
–
Tubbo underestimated the sheer saturation of overly-sympathetic strangers in his English class.
Not only that, but after wading through constant conversation with people until school properly started, he realized that Ranboo hasn’t shown up yet. Which is a massive fucking travesty, honestly, because Tubbo was sort of banking on Ranboo to be his shield. Not in like, a social sense, but more so a physical and emotional shield. Tubbo thinks if anyone gave Ranboo pity comparable to what Tubbo keeps getting now, Ranboo would probably shrivel on the floor and die.
Tubbo ignores class and gets on his phone, which he ordinarily would get told off for, but the English teacher is nice and also stretched thin across a lot of students, so he thinks it’ll be fine. Plus, the whole dead-cousin thing at least gives him some kind of excuse for bad behavior, and all that.
He sends a text to Techno first, telling him about the pancakes. After a minute or two, he gets a read receipt and nothing else, so Tubbo assumes Techno read it and immediately fell asleep again. Good for him. Tubbo hopes he’s cuddling Boreas right now, at least.
After that, and a bit more importantly, Tubbo pulls up Ranboo’s contact.
Tubbo: where r u?
Almost instantly after Tubbo’s text is delivered, he sees Ranboo’s typing bubble pop up.
Ranboo: oh hi, I was just about to text you actually :)
Ranboo: I'm gonna be coming into school late today, sorry. Niki’s got some stuff going on so I wanna stay with her until she’s good and everything
[
Tubbo: oh that’s totally chill, hope she feels better
[
Ranboo: she will, I think. just a slow morning
Ranboo: I’m sorry I couldn’t be at school to see you :( I'll be back by film studies!
[
Tubbo: SICK are you down to be my armrest again
Tubbo: bc so namy people are aksing me how im doing and Ijust wanna take a fucking nap bro
[
Ranboo: oh, that sucks :( sorry people are being jerks
Ranboo: I will happily be your armrest though
[
Tubbo: ur the best
[
Ranboo: just here to help my friends get naps y’know
Ranboo: I mean
Ranboo: you’re my only friend
Ranboo: but I’m gonna make a name for myself in the armrest business I think
[
Tubbo: remember me when you’re famous boss man
[
Ranboo: I’ll take you to fame with me
[
Tubbo: this better not be you flirting with me
[
Ranboo: ????????
Ranboo: no???????
[
Tubbo: is the thought of flirting with me that unimainganble :(
Tubbo: Do you hate me :(
Tubbo: i thought we had something :(
[
Ranboo: i was taking this the starting-a-business direction not a
Ranboo: whatever that would be
[
Tubbo: reckon it’d be romantic boss man
[
Ranboo: yeah not that
Ranboo: I don’t hate you though
[
Tubbo: I dunno youre making that hard to believe
[
Ranboo: if I bring you a muffin for lunch
[
Tubbo: YES YES YES YES YES
[
Ranboo: would you oh okay
[
Tubbo: on one knee proposing
[
Ranboo: well I don’t think that's necessary
[
Tubbo: to the muffin
[
Ranboo: well I REALLY don’t think that’s necessary
[
Tubbo: are you homophobic
[
Ranboo: what
[
Tubbo: that sounds kind of homophobic
[
Ranboo: Tubbo
Ranboo: I don’t even think I’m
Ranboo: uh
Ranboo: eligible to be
Ranboo: homophobic?
[
Tubbo: i don’t think so either
[
Ranboo: I’m glad we agree?
[
Tubbo: Yea
There’s a few minutes of silence, which Tubbo uses as an attempt to get re-invested in class instead of thinking about whatever the hell that conversation was. The second he looks up, though, the teacher’s talking about synthesizing rhetorical evidence or some shit, and he finds himself immediately looking down at the phone and watching, more intently than he’s watched anything in his life, Ranboo’s typing bubble appear then disappear again for a total of five minutes straight.
Ranboo: so uh. how is English?
Tubbo’s not sure why it took Ranboo five minutes to type that, but he’s not going to ask any questions about it.
Tubbo: boring. Hey dya know what a comma splice is?
[
Ranboo: yes
[
Tubbo: do you know what 6 times 8 is
[
Ranboo: 48?
[
Tubbo: did u cheat
Tubbo: be honest
[
Ranboo: Tubbo I did not use a calculator to multiply 6 and 8
[
Tubbo: you’re so smart
[
Ranboo: is that uh
Ranboo: is that sarcastic
[
Tubbo: no thats genuine
[
Ranboo: oh
Ranboo: thank you Tubbo :)
[
Tubbo: tell me some smart stuff big guy
Tubbo: whats something you know a lot about
Tubbo: OH liek those
Tubbo: shit ok the
Tubbo: esthitics?
[
Ranboo: oh aesthetics?
[
Tubbo: YEAH
Tubbo: with photography and shit
[
Ranboo: it’s not very interesting stuff
[
Tubbo: yea but knowing u ur being self deprificating
Tubbo: and its probably really cool u just dont think it is
Tubbo: so tell me >:(
[
Ranboo: wow ok
Ranboo: I actually have to go really quick to do something :( but I’ll get you that muffin and I can tell you about it in film studies?
[
Tubbo: hmmm
Tubbo: acceptable
Tubbo: ill miss u until then
[
Ranboo: text Tommy?
[
Tubbo: yea ok
Tubbo: bye boo :D
[
Ranboo: bye Tubbo :D
And back to comma splices and whatever bullshit his teacher is spewing, Tubbo goes.
-
“How was English?” Tommy asks as soon as Tubbo gets into the Biology classroom.
Tubbo sets his stuff down under the desk and shrugs, his shoulder knocking against Tommy’s as he does. “I dunno. Fine, I guess,” he answers honestly. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, clicking to open up Tetris. Tommy watches over his shoulder, and Tubbo rests his head lightly against his best friend’s side.
As he plays, Tommy asks, “Was Ranboo there?”
“Nah,” Tubbo replies. “He’s coming in later today. Had stuff going on.”
“Oh.” When Tubbo glances up, he sees that Tommy’s eyebrows are furrowed. “... Okay.”
“You know,” and Tubbo probably shouldn’t blurt this out right now, but the longer he lets this sit, the more on edge he is, “if you and Ranboo have some stuff going on, that’s fine, man. But- but if it’s something big, I’d like to know, y’know?”
Tommy falls quiet and still, which is a rare thing for him. It takes some time, which Tubbo spends closing his phone and shifting to shove it back into his pocket, because this is no longer the optimal time to play Tetris, before Tommy abruptly says, “Don’t worry about it, man.” His voice sounds a little strained.
“Well, it’s you,” Tubbo points out, because this should be obvious. “So if you’re upset over something, like, seriously, then I’m gonna ask about it, y’know?”
“You and Ranboo are friends, Tubbs,” Tommy argues. “I don’t want to fuck with that. It’s not- it’s not a massive deal, anyway. Nothing I can’t handle, as the sexiest and coolest person alive-”
“Tommy.” He’s starting to deflect, and Tubbo wants Tommy to internalize this. “Yeah. Me and Ranboo are friends. But I know you, Tommy, you’re not gonna- you’re not gonna make me like, ditch him.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything, and Tubbo straightens up to look at the other.
He won’t meet his eyes.
“...Tommy?”
Tommy stares down at the floor, and Tubbo realizes that this is quickly going to hit worst case scenario. But, Tubbo also knows that Tommy really cares about him, and if this is something on the table, Tubbo can definitely talk it out with him. And, like, get him to think rationally. It’s happened before like this, between something with Tommy and Jack or whatever. It’s not a big deal.
But Tommy’s voice is quiet and nervous when he tells Tubbo, “I’ll- I’ll tell you later, man. We can talk about it later.”
It’s not a big deal. Or, rather, it won’t have to be a big deal.
There’s dread sitting in the bottom of Tubbo’s stomach, though. Not as bad as the day he visited Quackity before Schlatt died, but worse than anything since then.
The only thing Tubbo can do in this situation, he knows, is wait for later, shove it out of his mind, and pray it doesn’t get worse. Even if they both know that kind of thinking only prolongs the inevitable.
–
There’s a knock on the door three minutes after Film Studies starts, and Tubbo watches as Ranboo hurries into the classroom, handing the teacher a slip and apologizing profusely.
He quickly makes his way to the back of the classroom after that, giving Tubbo a smile before sitting down. Tubbo really wants to talk to him, but class instruction is still going on and Tubbo doesn’t want to test the teacher’s patience. Some shit about pulling out last week’s worksheet and filling out the second page for the next part of the movie. Ranboo had dropped all that stuff off for Tubbo, but bold of anyone to assume he filled in the first part. Considering he wasn’t here to watch the fucking movie it’s on.
Eventually, the teacher stops rambling and sits down so the movie can go on. Once she gets on her phone and starts texting her friends, Tubbo– as well as a good chunk of the class– take that as a signal that class productivity is over.
Ranboo is on the same brainwave, once he gets the worksheet out, which is a step more committed than fifty percent of the Film Studies’ kids. “Hi, Tubbo,” Ranboo whispers.
“Hey.” Tubbo looks at the other, resting his shoulder against the wall beside him. Ranboo looks sort of disheveled, but it’s not as bad as the time he showed up to school really late and wouldn’t respond to Tubbo at all. That had been… kind of really fucking concerning, actually. Now, Ranboo just looks stressed, which isn’t much better, but is something Tubbo can help with, at least. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m- I’m good. I’m good.” Ranboo fiddles with the edge of his shirt. It’s a black button up. Nice. Bit emo, as Tommy would put it, but Ranboo regrettably looks really good in black, so whatever. Maybe because Tubbo’s never seen him in color. “Just, y’know. Busy morning and everything.”
“Niki’s okay?” Tubbo asks, because he was honestly kinda worried about that. Ranboo had been vague about what was going on specifically, and it’s not like Tubbo needs all the details about the situation or anything, but he still thinks he should check in on that.
Ranboo chews his lip, hesitating before replying, “... Yeah. I think so. Just, uh, slow morning and everything. She wanted me to go to school and stuff, but it was gonna be a few hours before her, uh, friend came over, and I wanted to make sure she was good until then.”
“That’s nice of you,” Tubbo says. It’s kind of a stupid statement, but, whatever. Fault Tubbo for being appreciative.
Ranboo shrugs. “Just trying to help.” After a second, he brightens up, and he reaches under his desk to pull his lunch box out of his backpack. Tubbo watches in confusion until Ranboo opens it up in his lap, pulling out a chocolate muffin sitting in a tupperware container. Ranboo passes it over with a smile, saying, “Anyway, here’s the muffin! I, uh, am gonna need that tupperware back, actually, but- but, y’know, wanted to keep it all airtight and stuff. So it’s still fresh by lunch.”
Tubbo holds the tupperware delicately in his hands as if it’s ethereal or something. Which to be fair, it kind of is. He’s so glad he befriended a baker, holy shit. “This is what I meant when I said you’d make good husband material,” Tubbo comments, putting the tupperware beside his packed lunch. He rests his head against Ranboo’s shoulder, the other lowering accordingly, and adds, “You’d be able to make the wedding cake and everything.”
“Oh,” Ranboo says, sounding a bit flustered. Fairs. Maybe Tubbo should back off a little, huh. Or a lot . He’s not sure why he’s harping so much on this bit. “I… I think that we would just, uh, get Niki to do it? Would I really have to make the food at my own wedding? That’s… that’s a little depressing, I think.”
“Depressing for you ,” Tubbo corrects. “Fantastic for me.”
Ranboo sighs. “Anything for my hypothetical husband, I guess.”
Tubbo grins, shutting his eyes. “You’re the best.”
“I try,” Ranboo repeats. “Uh, permission to, y’know. Arm. And everything.”
It takes a few seconds for Tubbo to realize Ranboo’s asking for permission to put his arm around Tubbo. “That is the most vague way you could have put that,” Tubbo says, “but yeah, ‘course. Don’t have to ask.”
Now with permission, Ranboo wraps his arm around Tubbo. Tubbo has the fleeting thought that this might be a bad call, considering Tubbo’s not wearing a binder right now, but the likelihood of Ranboo, already an incredibly nervous and respectful person, somehow noticing is unlikely. Him saying anything about it is even more unlikely. And Tubbo is going to stop thinking about all that right now, actually, because he’s done a good job avoiding his gender dysphoria over his life and this is not how he’s about to resurface it.
Almost like he can tell what Tubbo’s thinking about, Ranboo says, “Well, I know it’s not, uh, always the best. Touch and everything.”
“I mean?” Beyond the whole gender thing, Ranboo has a fair point about how Tubbo tends to handle touch overall. Tubbo’s been trying to not think much about the day he found out Schlatt died too. Though that’s a little more time-relevant than the gender thing. “Unless I’m like, panicking or something, physical touch is fine, I’d say? Don’t do it if I’m really zoned out, either. Other than that, I really don’t give a shit.” Probably because of the aforementioned layers of repression, now that Tubbo’s thinking about it.
“Okay. Good to know.”
“Yeah.” In the pursuit of better things to dedicate too much of his mind to, Ranboo has this faint coffee scent. Not like any kind of cologne or perfume, just the organic scent of coffee. He probably made coffee in the morning, or drank some on his way here. It’s kind of like right after he leaves the bakery, too, so maybe this is an always thing. It’s really nice. Maybe a weird thing to notice in hindsight, but, whatever. It’s relaxing.
“I, uh. I don’t want to ask, ‘cause I imagine it’s kind of all you’re hearing, right now,” Ranboo starts, and Tubbo already knows where he’s going with this, coffee bean distractions be damned, “but, how- how are you?”
“Fine,” Tubbo responds, like he's told everyone. Unlike everyone else, though, Ranboo can be privy to a little more information. “It’s- it’s kind of overwhelming, being at school, if I’m honest.”
Ranboo hums sympathetically. “Having Tommy and your friends around helps though, I’d hope?”
Tubbo doesn’t point out Ranboo excluding himself. “Yeah, they help. It’s- yeah, I don’t really want to think about it, honestly. It’s been a long week.”
“It has.” Ranboo rests his temple against the top of Tubbo’s head. His voice softens as he adds, “I hope you get a break soon, Tubbo.”
He won’t. Tubbo doesn’t get breaks, and the worst of it isn’t over, anyway. His life can’t keep continuing the way it is, now, and nobody has any idea how much is at stake, except maybe Phil or Quackity or whoever is handling his housing situation right now. If he thinks too hard about all that, though, he’ll realize that this is temporary, too– leaning against Ranboo, talking to him, getting to be around him. And the thought of that fucking kills Tubbo, so he tries to swallow the thoughts and say, “Thanks, Ranboo.”
“Of course,” Ranboo replies easily. “I know a lot- a lot’s going on, but, uh. If you ever need someone, I’m here. I- yeah.”
“Thank you,” Tubbo repeats. “I imagine you have stuff going on too, though, y’know?”
Because that’s the thing. Tubbo hasn’t tried to think about Schlatt’s death at all if he can help it, but he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the funeral. Specifically, the part where Ranboo burst into the church, crying and completely breaking down, then somehow managing to make Tubbo break, and passing him off to Phil.
It’s a little fucked up for Tubbo to be mad at Ranboo, so he’s not. But- but the thing is, right, he resents it a little, resents the fact that between the two of them, Tubbo broke first. That Tubbo already knows that if he tries to ask Ranboo about why he had been crying, Ranboo will divert and skirt around the subject until Tubbo drops it. And that sucks, because- because regardless of what Tubbo was going through, which was some pretty terrible shit but should have been expected considering the death and everything, Ranboo was really distressed over something. And seeing that he spent the next morning caring for Niki and is trying to care for Tubbo now, it’s unlikely he’s taken time for himself to process it.
And dammit, Tubbo understands that. Tubbo understands that it’s easier to handle everyone else’s problems and shit– he’s done it before, he’s doing it now, he can get it.
The difference is Tubbo is the one with a dead cousin and a lot of people trying to support him, and Ranboo is the guy who attended the funeral with flowers and helped the grieving boy get out of the church and go back home.
Nobody is going to worry about the person who helped. Everyone is going to worry about the person being helped. And Tubbo wishes their positions were flipped, because yes, people are going to care about Tubbo after the funeral, of course, but that doesn’t mean that everyone else should get neglected, too. Looking at Tommy and Ranboo and the distress they’re silently in, Tubbo can’t help but think it’s his fault.
But here’s the thing. When Tommy’s sad, he tries to hide it, but his heart is on his sleeve and he can’t keep his emotions a secret for too long these days before he asks Tubbo if the two of them can talk, one on one, and it usually gets better from there.
And that is far more reassuring than Ranboo, because when Ranboo’s sad, he bakes people chocolate muffins and brews them coffee even when he has school and breaks into chapels crying his eyes out, but never, never, does Ranboo say what’s wrong.
And to Tubbo, that’s fucking terrifying. But, what the hell can he do? It’s the same case as Quackity– someone he loves is a bad liar, but they’re good at deflecting, and Tubbo is left unable to help and fucking unsure. And that’s how all the worst things happen.
If Tubbo is Schlatt’s blood, with high alcohol levels and a bitter fucking heart, and his life is seconds away from falling apart-
-if Tubbo is Schlatt’s blood, and he’s in the back of a high school classroom with someone he really likes, and they look really good in black button-downs and have a smile that can wash all the hurt away-
-if Tubbo is Schlatt’s blood, and Ranboo is the same case as Quackity, and Quackity lost his entire life trying to save Schlatt and Ranboo is-
-and Ranboo-
Tubbo won’t let this be a self-fulfilling prophecy. He won’t.
He can’t.
“Tubbo?” Ranboo calls out quietly. “Are- are you okay? You’re… you’re kind of stiff, and everything, I don’t- I don’t know.”
“You have your own shit happening,” Tubbo protests, even as he knows the conversation about that dropped minutes ago, while Tubbo was lost in his mind anticipating something awful.
“I can handle it,” Ranboo says, and Tubbo wouldn’t be able to tell that it was a lie if he didn’t know Quackity so well. “It’s- it’s not that bad, anyway. It’s mostly, uh, Niki’s… stuff that I’m helping with. I’m pretty alright by myself?”
Tubbo breaks. “You were crying at the church.”
Quackity was fifteen when Schlatt was emancipated from his father. Back then, emancipation was the same concept as ever for the Schlatts: glorified, legal abandonment.
Ranboo is seventeen now, and Tubbo doesn’t want it to end like this.
Even if he isn’t born to care about a damn thing, a damn Quackity. A damn Ranboo.
Ranboo freezes when Tubbo points that out, and it takes him a moment to get out, “... Yeah. I- I guess I was.”
Tubbo doesn’t say anything, and Ranboo exhales quietly before continuing, unprompted. “I hadn’t really been to a funeral before? And- and I guess it was kind of, uh, straightforward. But I was sort of overwhelmed.”
Being overwhelmed doesn’t make someone run into the main room of a church and cry out when will you stop hurting me? Being overwhelmed doesn’t make someone insist it can’t be controlled, as if they already know the end of everything. Ranboo wasn’t overwhelmed, and both of them know that.
But Tubbo doesn’t want to push it, now. Not when Ranboo’s arm is secure around him, and there’s still this coffee scent, and damn him, Ranboo’s too good of a person and Tubbo wishes he was a little worse, just a little worse, so Tubbo could have a fighting chance at being as good of a person as he is.
“Okay,” Tubbo concedes. There’s tension in his voice, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s teared up. He blinks the tears out of his eyes, though, because he doesn’t cry when he’s frustrated, and he said he wasn’t going to cry in front of anyone again, and he meant it.
Ranboo doesn’t comment on it, just shifts to be closer to Tubbo. “I can help you with the worksheet if you want,” he offers quietly. “I don’t- I don’t really know a lot about this movie, but I paid attention in the first half?”
“Later.” Because Tubbo’s tired, and he doesn’t like it when he gets all speculative and pessimistic, when he sees patterns in people and knows how everything’s going to end. It’s all logical, just trends and shit, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. Especially when it’s already glaringly apparent that he’s just Schlatt’s carbon copy. “I think- I reckon I’m just gonna take a nap, boss man. If that’s fine?”
“I’ll wake you up when it’s lunch,” Ranboo promises. “Get some rest, Tubbo.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is Ranboo shifting Tubbo’s worksheet over, using his only free hand to flip both packets to the same page.
Tubbo shuts his eyes again and drifts off into sleep– too shallow to dream, too heavy to wake up.
–
It takes Tubbo a few text messages and one whole phone call, but he manages to convince Techno to come to school and pick him up at the start of Chemistry.
The second Techno pulls him outside, Tubbo tells him the same thing he sent in the first few text messages, “You can drive home, I’m just gonna-”
“Find Ranboo, yeah.” Techno looks sort of tired, but it can’t be the worst thing he’s had to put up with from Tubbo. “At least pretend to be walkin’ with me to the parking lot, though. Is this the first time you’ve skipped?”
“Nah.”
“How’d you do it last time?”
“Had a sub,” Tubbo explains. “Also had a Jack Manifold. I gave him a dollar and he covered for me.”
Techno blinks. “... Impressive. Is it all really worth it, though? Just to, like, see Ranboo. You can invite him over, y’know.”
“Oh, it’s worth it.”
“‘Kay.” Techno stops walking abruptly and gestures in front of him. They’ve reached his car now. “Uh, that’s my car.”
“Looks like it!” Tubbo confirms.
“... Right. Well, uh. I’m gonna. Go back home.” Techno gives Tubbo an awkward thumbs up, which makes Tubbo want to laugh at him, but Techno is literally helping him skip school, now, so he can’t be too mean to him. “Tell Ranboo I say hi.”
Tubbo nods. “Will do. Thanks, Techno.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Phil wouldn’t be happy.” Techno opens the driver’s seat and gets inside, adding no further commentary as he starts to back out of the parking space. Tubbo waits patiently until Techno’s gone before walking over to Ranboo’s car, which takes him about five minutes, since the parking lot is big as hell.
It takes Ranboo ten more minutes, still, before he shows up. He makes a similar expression to the first time Tubbo did this– shocked, confused, and concerned– before he lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes fondly, unlocking the car so Tubbo can get into the passenger seat before Ranboo even opens the door.
“Techno says hi,” is the first thing Tubbo says, which makes Ranboo raise his eyebrow. He opens his mouth, but before he can ask any questions, Tubbo explains, “He’s the one who helped me skip school.”
“Oh.” Ranboo turns the car on. “I really hope I don’t get in trouble for this.”
“Nah, I’ll say I held you at gunpoint,” Tubbo reassures.
This only makes Ranboo more panicked. “Don’t- don’t tell the school that? Don’t- yeah, just definitely don’t say you held me at gunpoint, they- I don’t think they’d like that.”
Tubbo shrugs. “Whatever. Music time.”
“I’m a little concerned that we’re letting the topic drop, but I’m not immune to music time,” Ranboo jokes. He starts to back out of the parking space, looking over his shoulder, before he pauses an inch out and asks, “Hey, Tubbo, can I- can I do the, uh, arm-thing.”
Tubbo looks up from his phone mid-scroll. “You want to hug me right now, bossman? Surely there’s a better time for that.”
“No.” Ranboo’s face is turning red. It must be miserable, being that pale and easily embarrassed. “I- like, when you back out of a car space, you have to- y’know, do the thing?”
“I don’t drive, Ranboo, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Where- like, in order to see behind me, right,” Ranboo starts to explain, seemingly getting more and more flustered. “You- you have to, like, turn. To look. And- and that’s easier when you, y’know, wrap your arm around the- the passenger’s seat, which you’re sitting in, so-”
“ Oh! ” Tubbo exclaims. “Like the movies!”
Ranboo looks like he wants to fall over and die. “Yeah. Yeah, just- just like the movies. Wait, no, actually, not- not that, not like romantically, just- just to, like, get out of the space, so we can- so we can go, and-”
“Yeah, you have permission to do that,” Tubbo cuts him off, because while it’s really funny to watch Ranboo try and explain himself, it’s a bit cruel.
Ranboo exhales in relief. “Oh thank God. Okay, let me, uh, do that.” It takes another second of contemplation before Ranboo, with more hesitancy than Tubbo’s ever seen out of him, wraps his arm around the back of Tubbo’s car seat. It’s not even, like, touching Tubbo’s skin, so he has no idea why Ranboo was so concerned about this.
It gets them out of the car space, though, which is a noticeable improvement. Still. “That was a little underwhelming, big guy.”
Now able to move his arm back to his lap, Ranboo takes a deep breath and focuses on navigating out of the parking lot, amidst the other research students leaving. “It wasn’t- it wasn’t meant to be exciting,” he mumbles. “I just- yeah, I just needed to do that. Aren’t you supposed to be, uh, playing music?”
“Tormenting you is more fun,” Tubbo quips, but he gets the playlist set up. He puts it as high as his ears can take and sets his phone down in his lap, going for an indie rock playlist that Wilbur listens to a lot and Tubbo follows. “There. Music. Where are we going?”
“The library,” Ranboo replies, and over Tubbo’s groans, elaborates, “I need- I need to do some more research instead of just, y’know, photograph taking and everything. I didn’t really want to sit in school, though, so I’m just going to go to the library.”
“What am I gonna do, then?” Tubbo complains. “I’m not big on the books, bossman, I dunno if you’ve noticed.”
“Take your earbuds with you,” Ranboo suggests. “You can do homework, but I don’t- I don’t expect that’s what you want to do?” Tubo shakes his head, and Ranboo nods with a sigh. “Yeah, that’s- that’s fair. Uh. I can drop you off home-”
“No, I wanna hang out with you.”
Tubbo knows he’s being a bit of a prick, but he doesn’t anticipate Ranboo to start legitimately listing off solutions to his insignificant problem. “Well. I mean, the worst case scenario is that you can take another nap, I know you were, uh, not very happy when I woke you up earlier. So if you’re still tired, you could do that. Or- or, uh, they have… computers? Which, they aren’t great, and definitely meant to be used to check out books, but the librarians like me, so if you, like, used them to mess around on the Internet, I don’t- I don’t think they’d care? Or- I mean, I really need to go to the library, but if it gets really boring I can take you elsewhere? Or-”
“Boo, it’s fine, I promise,” Tubbo reassures. “I’m just being an asshole. Library time it is!”
“Oh. Okay.” Ranboo gives Tubbo a smile, even though Tubbo cut him off. “Library time it is.”
Sometimes, it feels like Tubbo is fighting against his own brain, where the only way to shove down his thoughts is to force in another. Constantly overloading his brain in the hopes that it errors out and nothing can be retrieved, always running the risk of frying the rest of his body up with it. Eternally taking the risk because he can’t let himself think, and can never let the strings turn to tearful outputs.
But that’s the game of data management, and the two of them are heading to a library anyway, so Tubbo thinks he can keep it up a little more. Be a human, don’t cry, don’t think, think too much, be with Ranboo but not overthink it, just be normal.
It’s a system flawed with errors, but it’s how Tubbo will get through the day.
–
The library that Ranboo takes them to isn’t one that Tubbo’s all that familiar with, but he finds shortly after entering that he likes it quite a lot.
It’s a small library, clearly well funded with a whole lot of books and computers and everything, but not as big as the one closer to Tubbo’s house and his high school. It has a cafe attached, which intrigues Tubbo, but he’s not going to tag onto Ranboo’s journey for schooling purposes and then immediately distract him by getting coffee or something. It’s tempting, though. And Ranboo would probably buy them drinks if Tubbo asked. Or, rather, give Tubbo his wallet and make him buy the drinks. Or something. Whatever.
Ranboo says hi to the librarians, and Tubbo does the same, smiling at them. They all look like nice people, though none of them are people he recognizes.
Ranboo leads them both to the back of the library, near the Y.A. book section and the computers. He sets his stuff down at a desk and pulls out his laptop, typing in his password– which is really short, his cybersecurity must suck, but whatever– and clicking into Google.
He lowers the screen a little when he notices Tubbo watching him and says, “You can do whatever you want. I’m going to be a bit boring, sorry. It’s, uh. It’s just research and everything.”
“You’re good,” Tubbo responds, tugging his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna play Tetris.”
Ranboo snorts. “Have fun with that. Keep me updated.”
“Alright.” Tubbo starts a new game and frowns. “Starting off with one of the L-shaped pieces, not really sure what to do about that. Think I’ll store it, going for-”
“Keep me less updated.”
“Asshole.” Ranboo grins, and Tubbo rolls his eyes before shutting his mouth and focusing on the Tetris game.
It’s sort of easy to lose track of time when you’re playing app games, turns out. Tubbo starts off with Tetris, then gets into a heated chess match with random online players. Fresh off the feeling of success, failure, and worst of all, a stalemate, he ends up quitting after a couple rounds to play some Spider Solitaire, then goes back to chess, and the cycle repeats.
The entire time, Ranboo is absolutely engrossed in his research. Tubbo interrupts him a few times with his verbal commentary of the disastrous chess rounds he’s had, but Ranboo mostly replies with just a laugh or a smile before his face falls again and he refocuses. Tubbo guesses that’s pretty normal for someone with actual drive to do schoolwork and whatnot, and admittedly, it’s kind of nice to see Ranboo super focused on something. Tubbo still doesn’t know jack shit about photograph aesthetics or whatever, but it’s kind of cute that Ranboo’s big on that. Tubbo might just do some late night Google Scholar expeditions on the topic himself.
Or he’ll get distracted and sort through the chemistry research studies he has bookmarked. Also a very viable possibility, knowing him, but he’ll make an effort to not do that.
He’s in the middle of another Tetris game and thinking about one of those untouched articles when he unexpectedly gets a phone call.
It startles him, and he’s quick to turn his ringer off because wow that is way too loud for a fucking library, but it’s enough that Ranboo looks up from his laptop and quietly asks, “Spam caller?”
Tubbo takes a single look and fucking wishes it was a spam caller. “No. It’s not.”
“Oh.” Ranboo stares at his phone, now vibrating on the table worthlessly. From the angle, he must be able to see the name, too, because his eyes widen just a little. It doesn’t make Tubbo feel much better, honestly. “I think- I think you can ask to go into a meeting room, or you can call here, or-”
Like hell is Tubbo going to answer a phone call from Quackity, just over a week after Schlatt died, in front of everyone in this goddamn place.
“I’m going to go outside,” Tubbo says instead, standing up. He shoots Quackity a message telling him he’ll call him back in a second, ignoring the snarky remark he gets back, and leaves all of his stuff with Ranboo. “Gonna stand by your car and take the call, is that cool? We parked in the front, right?”
“We did,” Ranboo affirms, but he looks incredibly apprehensive. “Uh. Hold on, you can take these.” He fiddles with his pocket before pulling out his car keys, dropping them in front of Tubbo. “In case you want to do it inside the car or something. Leave a window rolled down, in case of carbon monoxide.”
Tubbo snorts. “Can’t die of carbon monoxide if I’m outside, bossman.”
“Still,” Ranboo insists, and to be fair, he is doing Tubbo a favor, so he should honor this request anyway. “Come back when the call’s done, take your time. I’ll be right here.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Tubbo says, but he knows that’s a lie because his and Quackity’s conversations are many things, but brief is not one of them.
He walks out of the library quickly, traveling the short distance it takes to get to Ranboo’s car before unlocking the car doors and making sure the car is in park. He sits in the driver’s seat and rolls down the passenger’s window just a crack, but that still makes a lot of wind noise. With a silent apology to Ranboo in his head, he shuts the window back up and calls Quackity, free arm resting along the steering wheel.
Quackity picks up. “Tubbo! My man, my man, what’s up?”
He sounds forcibly happy to hear from Tubbo, like all the times the two had to pretend when somebody else was around. Maybe Quackity still thinks someone else is around. Tubbo should clarify that.
“Sitting in Ranboo’s car alone,” Tubbo replies shortly, then realizes Quackity might still have no clue who the fuck Ranboo is. Whatever. Quackity doesn’t need that information, really. “What about you?”
“Where- where the hell’s Ranboo?” Quackity asks, sounding a little concerned. So he does know who Ranboo is. That’s… cool.
“We were at a library,” Tubbo explains, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s inside right now. You called me while I was in there, so he gave me his keys and let me call you inside the car.”
He can practically see Quackity’s expression when he repeats, “He gave you his keys? Just like that?”
“He’s a cool guy.”
“Huh. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Tubbo!” Something in Quackity’s tone falls flat. “Listen, I won’t keep you too long, so you and Ranboo can go hang out. I just- I just wanted to check in, you know! I just wanted to see how you were doing! Doing well in school? Got any detentions under your belt?”
“You know,” Tubbo comments, because he can’t help himself. Because he should be nicer to Quackity, honestly, but he really doesn’t want to think about Schlatt anymore. Because when he’s with Quackity, that’s all he can think about . Schlatt, and the way that Quackity lies about him (and the way that Quackity lied to him, but that breeds sympathy and anger and Tubbo can’t be either right now). “The reason I told you I was in Ranboo’s car wasn’t because I thought that was important. I said that so you would talk to me, boss man. Genuinely.”
Quackity fumbles for a moment trying to think of a reply, and Tubbo lets him. He knows that Quackity probably likes himself more when he’s overly energetic and loud. It’s not the Quackity that Tubbo knows, though, not really. It’s the Quackity he wished he had, but he never got, and now he’s tired of hearing his voice chime like that.
What he doesn’t outright say to Quackity, then, is that his act needs to drop no matter where they are. With the way that Tubbo’s life is going right now, there’s a chance that it’s all over, and Tommy’s family is going to find out everything in seconds. And Tubbo can certainly combat that, but not for very long. Quackity trying to lie and cover him but missing terribly– because you have to know someone really well to cover for them, which is why if this were Tommy, Tubbo wouldn’t have to worry about it– is just going to raise suspicions when everyone already knows these two know each other.
Even when he was fresh off of having a panic attack in Tommy’s bathroom, Tubbo still knew this better than anybody. Tubbo knows how to deflect even when he’s in pain, and every attempt Wilbur, Techno, and Philza made to try and understand who Schlatt was and why both Quackity and Tubbo knew him was denied. The second that Quackity and Wilbur left to go to the hospital, it was over for the rest of them. Tubbo doesn’t budge, and if his parting words to Quackity meant anything, nobody is going to know the extent to which Schlatt and Tubbo were related.
All they know is that Tubbo has no legal guardian anymore, and that his biological first cousin is dead by cause of a heart attack.
The police report must have a hell of a lot of detail, but Tubbo knows that not even that can cover why Tubbo wound up at Tommy’s house at age fourteen, stuff shoved into a duffel bag and a strained smile across his face.
The only person who knows that is Quackity. And Quackity, for all his flaws and debatably faulty lying skills, would never let anyone pry that confession out of him. Because at the end of the day, Quackity loves Tubbo more than he loves most people, and Tubbo has to trust him even when both of them are winging it as they go.
When Quackity talks again, he’s given in. His voice is serious with a tired edge to it, and it makes Tubbo feel better in all the ways it makes him feel worse. Because when Quackity’s happy, Tubbo can pretend his actions are justified, that the two were the strangers they were supposed to spend the rest of their lives being until Schlatt drank himself to death. But when Quackity’s sad, it’s all Tubbo’s fault, and it’s the truth of it that grounds him.
“I’m still asking the same question,” Quackity tells Tubbo. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Tubbo answers by reflex, but he knows it’s not fair to leave Quackity with that. “A little concerned about where the fuck I’m going to be living, now, and the logistics and shit, but I’m fine.” Tubbo pauses, then adds, “Do you know anything about that, by the way? Like, what the fuck is going to happen to me?”
Quackity sighs. “Yeah. Alright.” Quackity inhales again, then breathes out his words tiredly, “So, I’m not an option.”
“Figures.” Tubbo rests his head on the window, letting the coolness of it ground him. This is going to be a fun conversation. “You and Schlatt weren’t married, and you’re twenty one. They wouldn’t let you take me even if you fought it.” Quackity starts to speak, but Tubbo cuts him off one more time, trying to pry as much information out of this conversation so he never has to do this again. “And you didn’t. Fight it, that is. You didn’t fight it.”
“I did for a bit,” Quackity argues, and Tubbo wonders if he thinks that Tubbo would have wanted him to. Really, that’s more than Tubbo expected, considering how much of a pain in the ass it must have been. “But, y’know, Philza set me straight and told me that it wasn’t a good decision. The second everything got complicated, I conceded.”
“So it’s Phil and the foster care system duking it out?” Tubbo asks.
Quackity sighs. “I hate to say this, Tubbo, I really hate to say it, but I have no fucking idea. I’m just trying to sort out the will right now, man, and they’re not exactly letting people in free roam to watch adoption papers get passed around.”
Tubbo should have expected that. It doesn’t mean his heart didn’t sink in his chest to hear it. “So Phil’s the only one that knows.”
“And there’s no way he’s going to tell you,” Quackity finishes, “because you’re a kid, and you’re not responsible for what happens.”
“I’m fucking seventeen, Quackity,” Tubbo states bluntly. “And this is a decision that’s going to change my entire life. I think I have plenty fucking right to ask people to let me say my piece.”
“Hey, hey!” Quackity is getting defensive, and maybe Tubbo is being too hard on him, but he hates being called a kid, especially when it comes to this shit he’s lived with forever. “I never said all that. I’m telling you what I think Philza is thinking, but I’m not a mind reader, man, fuck if I know!”
Quackity has a point, but Tubbo doesn’t want to drop this. “You still think I’m a kid, though.”
“If we’re playing that game, then you said it yourself, Tubbo,” and Tubbo wants to scream, “you’re seventeen. ”
Tubbo laughs, because it’s the closest thing to screaming he can do. “Big Q, I think we can both agree that I’m not a kid-”
“You are, Tubbo!” And Quackity’s yelling, now, but it’s real yelling. Not Quackity’s fake joking-yelling, this is real, and Tubbo could remember the sound of it even if it’s been years, because it rang in his growing bones when he maybe was a kid. “I just told your friend this-”
“Tommy?”
“Ranboo.”
Tubbo straightens up, eyebrows furrowing. “When the hell were you talking to-”
“You and him are both kids, Tubbo! Hell, Tommy is too! And you’re fucking pretending- because that’s what it is, Tubbo, pretending- you’re pretending that you’re adults, that you- that you know the responsibility!” Quackity’s voice shakes– with compassion, with anger, Tubbo can’t tell. Both piss him right off, though, everything about this does. It’s the firecracker that lives in both of them; it’s the gasoline.“You aren’t an adult, Tubbo, you’re not meant to deal with that shit. What, do you- do you think you’re the one who should fill out the will, you’re the one to do the funeral set-up-”
“Yeah, actually,” Tubbo interrupts. “Yeah, I think I fucking should have. Quackity, I was Schlatt’s only family left, and- and shove that responsibility talk up your ass, Q, because you know that this is my fault, so like hell am I-”
“Oh my God, Tubbo!” He can picture it. He can picture Quackity dragging his hand down his face, Quackity’s face red with anger, Quackity’s expression turning to a bitter scowl as he has to face off to another Schlatt. “How many times do I have to tell you that this shit isn’t your fault! You were a fucking kid, Tubbo, you are a kid! You can’t cure someone’s alcoholism-”
“Then what were you doing, Big Q?” Tubbo retorts, and Quackity falls silent. “Because I- I reckon you were doing the same thing!”
It’s a low blow. Tubbo knows that. Tubbo regrets it the second he says it. But Quackity has to know, doesn’t he? He has to know that Tubbo is responsible for all this shit. Tubbo couldn’t have fixed Schlatt’s alcoholism, but Tubbo knew Schlatt before he started drinking, that’s the difference between the two. Ever since the beginning: Tubbo’s mom wasn’t so fucking upset that she had a kid that she had to fucking kill herself after, then maybe Schlatt would have been a better person. Tubbo made Schlatt’s dad shittier by the hour, and Schlatt’s dad is the reason that Schlatt is the way he is, and it’s all about the fucking generations of it. And Tubbo shouldn’t have been born– not emotionally speaking, but fucking logically. But he was, and he’s here, and it’d be easier if Quackity could admit that Tubbo’s at fault for all of it.
But Quackity loves Tubbo more than he loves most people, and that means that he yells when he could whisper instead.
“Don’t you dare say that shit to me, Tubbo!” Quackity shouts, “Don’t you fucking dare! Our situations were fucking different-”
“How?” Tubbo knows, Tubbo knows how, why is he asking? “How are they different, Big Q, fucking enlighten me with all your wisdom, here-”
“Because I was ready to do everything to convince you that Schlatt wasn’t your fucking fault, and you’re sitting in your friend’s car still blaming yourself.” Quackity isn’t shouting anymore, but he sounds angrier than he’s sounded in years. And Tubbo’s holding onto the steering wheel with his free hand harder, now, like a death grip, because it’s his fault that they’re having this conversation but he doesn’t want to have it anymore, he doesn’t. “I’m sorting through the fucking will, I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to do, Tubbo, my grandfather died a year ago and dealing with that was easier than this-” and Tubbo didn’t know- “You were there, Tubbo, when I was your age and staying with Schlatt-”
“I remember,” Tubbo tries to keep his voice more even than Quackity’s, because he’s not a kid, he’s an adult, and he has to stay strong. His body is tense to a painful point, and forcing words out feels like eating gravel, but he has to do this, because this is what the grown-ups do.
“So you know, then, that I did all of that, ” Quackity finishes with as good of a conclusion as a torn up wine-stained ribbon wrapped around a $10 birthday present, “so that you could know that it wasn’t your fault.”
Quackity laughs, and Tubbo feels like throwing up. “I was five fucking seconds from marrying the bastard, too, and seven seconds from running. You know that, right? That I was going to fucking marry him. That I was going to legally get into his fucking life so I could fix it . I was that close, I was considering it!”
And Quackity would never say it, because he doesn’t believe it, but Tubbo knows deep down that the sentence is unfinished, that it’s missing the part where Quackity coldly says and you made that choice for me, didn’t you?
“Unless you have something else to tell me,” Quackity says, as if Tubbo can even speak right now, “I’ll leave you with Ranboo. Kid’s in the same fucking situation, I swear to God. All of you are.”
Tubbo mouths the words I’m sorry over and over, trying to put pitch to it, trying to get himself to say it. But it makes him feel sicker, the pantomimed act, and Quackity must get tired of the silence because he hangs up, and Tubbo’s sitting in his best friend’s car in a state of shock while Quackity’s working on Schlatt’s will in never-ending movements.
Ranboo finds Tubbo, not the other way around, which is downright pathetic but Tubbo can’t find it in himself to mention that to the other.
“It’s been ten minutes,” Ranboo explains as he gently takes the car keys out of Tubbo’s clenched hand, biting his lip as he sees the red indents in his skin. Ranboo leaves him in the driver’s seat as he puts his stuff in the passenger’s side, sitting there for the time being while Tubbo reorients himself with the world. “I didn’t want to intrude, but I was worried. I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”
You didn’t, Tubbo wants to say, but he can’t. He just stares at the steering wheel, body heavy, and suffocates in his guilt.
Ranboo sighs beside him, though it’s less out of frustration and more out of sympathy. “I… I think talking’s probably hard right now,” he says, “so I’ll, uh, try to stop asking questions. But- but, I think I should get you home, so I need- I need you to come to the passenger seat, if you can? I can try and pull you over– the divider lifts up, so I can, uh, do that– but- but walking might be better.”
Silently, Tubbo gets out of the car. Ranboo does, too, albeit more frantically, but after a few seconds their positions have swapped and Ranboo’s turning the car on.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” Ranboo asks. Tubbo musters up the energy to nod, and soon Ranboo’s holding his hand, smooth gloves against irritated skin. “Okay. Can- okay, so could you tap, uh, one for no and two for yes? Uh. Tap twice if that makes sense.”
Tubbo does, finding it a little easier than moving his head, and Ranboo exhales. “Okay. Cool. Uh, so could- do you want me to take you home?” Tap. There’s a pause, likely waiting for more taps or trying to come up with another question, but Ranboo eventually hums. “Okay. Do you want to leave the parking lot?” Tap. Tap. “Alright. Uh, I can- I can take us to a place with food or something-” Tap. “-okay, welp, nevermind. I’ll just drive us to a park, somewhere with not a ton of people, and we can cool down there. Is that okay?” Tap. Tap.
Ranboo lets go of Tubbo’s hand and gives him a smile, and Tubbo doesn’t understand how Ranboo can stand looking at him as if he’s anything more than a catalyst for someone’s death. It doesn’t make sense to him, but Ranboo reaches over to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear, then flushes and turns back to start the car, murmuring, “You can play music, or we can be quiet. I don’t mind.”
And Tubbo doesn’t want to push Ranboo, not when he’s being so accommodating already, but he lets out a small hum sound, coming out like a mmph, and gets Ranboo’s attention long enough to type onto his phone, fingers ever-so slow, and show him the words talk to me.
“Oh.” Ranboo sounds surprised, probably because it wasn’t one of the two options he laid out, but he nods. “Okay, yeah, I can- I can talk. Let me- well, I can multitask driving and talking, one second, let me get the GPS all-” He clicks around a few times before an address pops up, one that Tubbo doesn’t recognize, and then Ranboo nods to himself and starts to turn onto the main road.
“I was actually, uh, thinking in there,” Ranboo begins, “while I was doing the research and stuff, that is. My, uh, my research teacher, like, the person who sort of chaperones us, I guess, and keeps up to date with everything? He was telling me that I should, uh, seriously consider becoming a professional photographer,” Ranboo tells Tubbo, who listens intently, because Ranboo’s voice is far better than the Quackity that still rings in Tubbo’s ears, in his bones, in everything he does.
Ranboo pauses to let the GPS talk, only to roll his eyes when it gives him instructions. “I will not be doing that U-turn actually with Tubbo in the car, thank you,” he responds. “Anyway. What was I- oh yeah, okay. So my teacher recommended that. And, I dunno, I think it’s kind of cool? It would be a matter of, like, scholarships or schools or whatever, but boring logistics aside, since I’m, uh, pretty sure you don’t want to hear that-”
Ranboo could read out every word of an encyclopedia and Tubbo would keep listening.
“-I just kind of think that’d be cool, sort of? Like- like getting to go across the world and take photos and everything. Kind of a dream job, I guess. I- I used to do freelance and stuff, just like, basic photography at events and everything. I don’t- that’s written on my resume, at least. Which- which means it definitely happened, yeah, uh, yeah. Anyway, sorry, but yeah! I think that’d be sort of cool.”
This GPS really wants Ranboo to make a U-turn, and Tubbo’s face is threatening a smile every time Ranboo gets irritated by it.
“Yeah, let me just kill my friend real quick,” Ranboo argues with the inanimate voice, “Let me do that. That’d be a great thing to do, yeah, thank you. Stop telling me to take left turns, I know where I’m going. Jesus Christ, you suck .”
Tubbo’s lip quirks up, which Ranboo doesn’t notice, and he’s sort of glad for it.
“Okay, back to the photography stuff. Sorry I keep getting distracted. Uh, yeah. I mean, I don’t know what else to say about it? But I think there are some places out there that might be cool to see. I don’t- oh, well, you probably couldn’t tell me anyway, which is fine! Uh, but if there were, like, any place you liked or something, I think I’d go there and, uh, take pictures. And bring you with me, maybe? Assuming you weren’t busy doing, uh, astronomer things, I don’t really know what you want to do in the future.” Ranboo looks over, still smiling, and Tubbo’s struck by the dumb thought for the thousandth time that he really likes this guy. “I bet it’d be something super smart, though. You’re really smart. And I’m, uh, average levels of smart, but I do own a camera, which is pretty cool.” Ranboo focuses on the road again, because he’s responsible. “I think that’s pretty cool, yeah.”
Tubbo gets out his phone again and, with some effort that feels like far too much still, he navigates to Google Translate. There, he types, interrupting Ranboo as he takes a breath to keep talking by letting the text-to-speech read out, “I think you are really smart.”
The text-to-speech is not very pleasant to listen to, and it makes Ranboo visibly startle and look over, but any attempt Tubbo could make at speaking would sound way worse.
Ranboo relaxes once he registers what Tubbo typed. His cheeks are a little pink. Tubbo really needs to compliment him more. “Thank you, Tubbo.”
Tubbo returns to typing, now that his fingers are a little more familiar with the movement, and finds it a bit less taxing than it was before, which is a relief. This sentence is longer, but Ranboo waits patiently, humming as he drives, until Tubbo clicks the button again and it reads, “Can you take me to New Zealand?”
“... Like, right now?” Tubbo starts to type out an explanation, but Ranboo’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Oh! Sorry, I already forgot, uh. Yeah. Yeah, if I become a photographer, we’ll go to New Zealand first. I hear that New Zealand is a nice place, I can take a photo of you with some, uh, some trees and everything. Sorta like natural, uh. Nevermind, actually. But still, I would if you wanted me to, yeah. Wherever you wanted, I’m not- I’m not too picky, honestly.”
And Tubbo shouldn’t believe Ranboo. Because this future that Ranboo is implying entails that Tubbo comes with him, and Tubbo has no future. Tubbo is going to drink himself to death the same way his cousin did, and he’s going to die alone in his bedroom, and even before that he’s going to lose Ranboo once all the housing gets sorted out and never see him again, and Tommy doesn’t like Ranboo and Ranboo might have done something terrible and Tubbo shouldn’t get this attached to anybody, because attachments are what kills, having no attachments is what let Schlatt die and it’s easier to die than to live, sometimes, but Tubbo shouldn’t think that.
Tubbo shouldn’t think any of this.
But he does, because he has to. Because everything is miserable when you’re a seventeen year old alcoholic, non-verbal in your new best friend’s car as you call someone who gave themselves up to make you better. And you’re not better, and your best friend is going to go away and do wonderful things, and you’re going to miss the way that they choose their words carefully and the way that they smile and the way that they make you feel like things are getting better. Because nothing is getting better, and Tubbo had his shot and he missed, and now he’s a fuck-up living a miserable life and he can’t drag Ranboo down with him.
He looks over at Ranboo, fully turning his head for the first time. Ranboo is arguing with the GPS again, and the sunlight is drained from the sky but the cloudiness still looks nice against his face. And there’s a smile, too, painted across his face, one that’s fleeting and small but kind of lingers, and his eyes are mismatched and cool and he’s stopping at a red light and looking back at Tubbo, meeting his eyes-
-how can Ranboo have eyes that are entirely different and still look at Tubbo with the same softness?
Tubbo breaks eye contact, or maybe Ranboo does first, because it’s hard for both of them to maintain it for very long when the car is silent and so much goes unsaid.
But enough is spoken in that silence.
Tubbo doesn’t know how he’s going to make it in a world where he can’t sit in the passenger’s seat of Ranboo’s car.
“We’re almost there,” Ranboo announces, and Tubbo feels pathetic, suddenly, terrible and pathetic and like this bleeding awfulness in the passenger’s seat of Ranboo’s car, and he never wants to leave, never, even if he has to swallow both of them up. “It’s still school hours, so I don’t think anyone will really, uh, be there. We can just sit, I think. We can just sit for a while. Whatever- whatever helps. I’m sorry if I’m not helping.”
And Tubbo types, fingers stiff to avoid a typo, eyes burning, “You make everything better.”
Ranboo, halfway through turning into a side-road, stiffens. He looks at Tubbo, eyes wide, before he goes back to driving. And Tubbo thinks about everything that Tommy and Quackity said about Ranboo, and wonders if anybody else will ever see Ranboo like this– eyes wide, cheeks pink, mumbling into the collar of his shirt, “Thank you.”
Tubbo doesn’t type anything else as Ranboo pulls into the park, turning off the car and quickly unbuckling his seatbelt. Tubbo follows, moving a lot slower, and he stands outside with his feet planted unsteadily on the asphalt.
There’s fresh air on his face and the ground underneath him, and he wonders if Schlatt is missing this wherever he ended up. He wonders if he should hold onto this feeling for longer. He wonders if he should shut the fuck up because his head hurts and he doesn’t want to think like this and he just wants to fucking stop. He wants to think about Ranboo’s coffee scent, about trips to New Zealand with him, about his smile, not about a dead body Tubbo wishes he never knew.
“I haven’t been to this park before,” Ranboo says. He starts walking, and Tubbo follows him. True to his word, not a lot of people are here. “It seems nice though. Uh, do you want to go anywhere in particular or just, uh. Sit on the grass? I think the swings are open, too, if you want.”
Tubbo pointedly kicks the dirt. Once, then twice, then Ranboo gets what he’s trying to say. “Okay. Yeah, let me, uh. Let’s find a good place.”
They don’t walk very long before they come across a few trees, far enough away from the borders of the park but not in the dead center, either. They have shade, which doesn’t matter much in late November, but it’s a decent enough spot anyway, and the dirt is all dry under there, thank God.
Tubbo plops down– or, more accurately, slowly lowers himself down with a sigh– and Ranboo sits beside him, maintaining respectful space between them. What Ranboo doesn’t realize, though, is that Tubbo is awful and clingy, and he scoots over until his head can rest against Ranboo’s shoulder and leans against him.
Ranboo doesn’t seem surprised, just shifts so Tubbo’s more comfortable like he always does, and traces patterns in the dirt. After a few seconds, Ranboo asks, “Are you feeling better?”
Tubbo takes his phone out, resting one of his elbows lightly against Ranboo’s leg, and he doesn’t bother with text-to-speech as Ranboo watches him type, “A little. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” Ranboo reassures. “I, uh. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Too much,” Tubbo types out. “Don’t want to bother you. Don’t want to think about it.”
“Okay,” Ranboo comforts again. “That’s okay. We can… we can just relax. Unless you want me to talk more, I can- I can also do that.”
Tubbo shakes his head, typing, “You don’t have to. Just give me a bit to get my voice back.”
Ranboo hums. “Mhm mhm. Yeah, I can do that. I can do that.”
With that, Ranboo falls quiet, leaning his head back against the tree and shutting his eyes. Tubbo wonders if he needs the peace of being out here, too, because Ranboo’s been stressed and Tubbo’s been an awful friend and Tubbo hasn’t asked if he’s doing okay. Or, well, he’s sort of tried to breach the topic, but Ranboo doesn’t let him in. And Tubbo wishes he did, because it’d make Tubbo feel less stupid for being so goddamn vulnerable all the time.
But there’s not much Tubbo can do to fix that right now. So he just sits there, head against Ranboo’s shoulder, and slowly, he feels his body lose its tension. And slowly, the idea of talking doesn’t seem as impossible. He wishes the ability never escaped him in the first place.
He waits a few minutes longer than he should before he finally tries to speak, clearly his throat and getting out, “I’m okay,” before he notices how dry and shitty his voice is. He sounds like fucking death , and barely any time has passed, but at least his throat doesn’t burn with the words I remember anymore.
Ranboo glances down at him, and Tubbo coughs before saying again, a little more confidently, “I’m okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Ranboo says for the thousandth time, voice so much smoother than Tubbo’s. “It’s okay. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Tubbo responds. He doesn’t want to elaborate, because saying it feels like how it did in the morning, when everyone was asking him how he was and he didn’t care enough to give them more than that one simple phrase. Ranboo’s different, of course, but Tubbo’s still resentful of the way that Ranboo can shut himself up while Tubbo spills everything out, and he can’t help it.
“Thank you for driving me here,” he adds, not to sound entirely ungrateful.
“Of course,” Ranboo replies easily. “I, uh, I can take you back-”
“Not yet.” Because when Tubbo goes back home, everything is going to crash down on him, and Tommy is going to explain why he’s upset with Ranboo, and Tubbo will have to tiptoe across a house that may no longer be his without ever being that in the first place.
Ranboo nods. “Okay. Uh, yeah. Yeah, we can just- we can just hang out, yeah.”
“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” Tubbo asks far too late.
“No, not really. Just, uh, have homework, but that’s- that’s not an issue, really.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “Okay.”
Ranboo goes quiet again, and Tubbo lets his head keep resting against his shoulder as he thinks, too. It’s both easier and harder, being out in the free air, but it’s a change of scenery regardless and he has the other to ground him.
Tubbo thinks about what Quackity said, with Ranboo beside him and his gloved hand brushing barely against Tubbo’s. The whole idea that Tubbo’s just some kid, even when he isn’t, even when he’s seventeen, a perfectly acceptable age to be an addict and get fucked up and die, in his books. He thinks about Quackity handling the will, and Phil handling where Tubbo’s going to call home, and both Wilbur and Techno chipping in where they can, and probably a lot of officials sorting the rest out, too. He thinks about how Tommy’s way of talking shifts when his distress is too large to hide, and how Ranboo shuts himself off so clumsily you can almost mistake him for being permanently fixed in that calmness, and how Tubbo can’t stop feeling waves of panic then numbness over and over again until nowhere is safe.
Tubbo can do the adult tasks in a heartbeat. Tubbo could sort out the will and who gets what inheritance after a few Google searches and some legal advice, and Tubbo could figure out real estate since he already keeps a close eye on which houses go for sale– just by virtue of being a possible-runaway who’s lived in one place for so long–, and Tubbo could help with all of that, he could.
It’s the supposed kid part, as Quackity calls it, that Tubbo can’t get. The emotions and the complicated bullshit and whatever. The stuff that isn’t in the paperwork, the stuff that’s ruining everything, to the point that Tubbo doesn’t even know who he is and what he’s feeling anymore, just some carbon copy of Schlatt. Did Schlatt know how he felt when he was dying? Did any of it make sense to him?
Ranboo is sitting beside Tubbo, and Ranboo’s eyes are shut, and there’s something so sad about his resting face that makes Tubbo think it’s not just a resting face. And Ranboo wants to be a photographer, wants to take Tubbo around the world with him, and Tubbo doesn’t want to go anywhere anymore, he doesn’t want to leave this town, because unless he’s going to a foreign country with Ranboo or to Wilbur’s corner store with Tommy, he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want the ground to change under him.
Tubbo doesn’t understand what Quackity was saying, still, but Tubbo thinks being a kid has got to be a hell of a lot worse than what being an adult entails.
Or maybe he’s just lost in the middle, now. Lost in some murky middle space.
Tubbo traces his finger in the dirt the same way Ranboo did before, nudging his palm gently with his, and waits out their time silently until Tubbo has to go home.
–
When Tommy finally takes his signature deep breath, the kind he takes before he’s going to say something important, he’s standing at Tubbo’s door frame after showing up unannounced in his room.
Tubbo cuts him off before he can start, putting his pencil down and tilting his head towards the bed, saying, “Sit down and close the door.”
“Awfully serious of you, Tubbs,” Tommy quips back, but it’s half-hearted. He sits on the very edge of the bed, cross-legged, and Tubbo’s a little worried that he might tumble off the bed. Which would be funny, but would probably not be the best thing to happen during a serious conversation.
Honestly, Tubbo’s kind of surprised Tommy’s doing this at all. Like, Tommy trusts him and is honest with him most of the time, but still . When he agreed to talk later, he never technically agreed for it to be that afternoon. Tubbo’s glad it is, because it’s weighing on his mind, and maybe it’s doing the same for Tommy, too, to be fair. He’s a little shocked that it’s happening, like, right now, though.
It could be nothing, Tubbo keeps telling himself. It probably isn’t anything major. Just some small disagreement Tubbo missed out on and now he has to mediate. And he’s trying, as hard as he fucking can, not to be bitter about that. Because beggars can’t be choosers, but this isn’t his favorite kind of distraction.
It’s a distraction nonetheless though, is what he has to remind himself. So he really should shut the fuck up and just take it.
“So,” Tubbo starts, spinning in a rolly chair around to look at Tommy. “You and Ranboo. What’s going on?”
Tommy sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s- fuck, okay.” Tommy takes a deep breath, then lets out a strained laugh, “You sound like my fuckin’ therapist right now, man. This is such bullshit.”
“It’s bullshit when you complain about Jack,” Tubbo says, cutting off Tommy’s attempt to protest, “after you two decide to do another fucking group project together, but I don’t get the feeling that you and Ranboo have the same kind of relationship you have with Jack.”
“Jack Manifold is one of a kind,” Tommy admits.
“Not really what I was getting at, but alright.”
“Look, Tubbo, just-” Tommy breathes out slowly, taking another breath in, and then eventually says, “you gotta promise me you’ll believe me. You have to. Because you and Ranboo are close, but I- I’m not lying to you. I wouldn’t- I like Ranboo too, I- I- I- I- I like him just fine, but I can’t… you gotta promise me that.”
“Tommy,” Tubbo says, scooting forward so he’s sitting right across from Tommy. He has to agree with Tommy, this kind of fucking sucks. He hates having serious conversations and shit. But it’s Tommy, and that makes it easier. It should make it easier. “You’re my best friend. I trust you.”
“It’s really bad, Tubbo,” Tommy says, hands shaking. Tubbo reaches out to hold onto them, because just listening doesn’t feel like enough. “It’s- it’s really fucking shitty, Tubbo. Ranboo’s done a shitty thing.”
Tubbo runs his thumb along his hand. “What was it?”
“I- fuck, okay, so.” Tommy shuts his eyes and slumps his head forward, and Tubbo stares at the single strand of hair on his head sticking out as the other talks. “This was- this was the same night that all the, y’know. All the bad shit happened. That I still don’t get and nobody is explaining to me, but that’s- that’s a different thing.”
“That’s a different thing,” Tubbo confirms, and his voice is a little more forceful than he means for it to be. This conversation is moving too fast already, and he can’t lose control and let it derail from here.
Tommy laughs, voice tense, and continues, “Yeah. So- so while everyone was chatting, I went outside to like, get fresh air. And Ranboo was out there, too. Gonna go home and shit. Then he got a text from his boss.”
Tubbo furrows his eyebrows. “Niki? Or, no, the guy who-”
“Not the bakery,” Tommy clarifies. “That’s what I thought. ‘Cause that’d make sense, right? Ranboo, busy guy, smart guy. Probably only has one boss. The same boss we all knew about, y’know?”
And this is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Tubbo scoots forward and says lowly, “Who is it?”
Tommy’s shoulders slump, and he lets out another laugh. It almost sounds panicked, and he lifts his head up to look at Tubbo. His eyes are dry, thank God, but they look frantically resigned. Tubbo’s grip on his hands tighten, and he watches Tommy’s mouth as he forms the words,
“It’s Dream, Tubbo. Ranboo knows Dream.”
When Tubbo was twelve years old, he met the person that would eventually become his best friend.
His name was Tommy, and he had a chipped tooth and a bird’s nest of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He liked soccer and flowers and ants and dogs, and he was twelve years old. He was a troublemaker, according to the teachers, but Tubbo just thought he was funny. Because he was easy to upset, but he was funny, and he was really kind, and he would only make fun of the mean people. And he would sit with Tubbo at lunch even though Tubbo smelled bad, and he would pass him notes with penises drawn all over them.
Tommy was Tubbo’s best friend, and Tubbo was his.
But there was someone else in the picture.
When Tubbo was twelve years old, his best friend would show up to school sometimes really upset. He had to walk him up to the guidance counselor once, and he got sent back to class right after, but he Googled everything Tommy told him he felt on a school computer in the library and pieced together that Tommy was really, really upset. A lot. And it wasn’t the first time Tubbo had seen it, but it was the first time that he learned there was a word for depression .
He didn’t tell Tommy. Instead, he tried to make him laugh and succeeded most of the time, and he fucked off when Tommy told him to, and he would come over the few times Tommy would let him, and he was extra nice to his parents and brothers. He tried to wear cleaner clothes so Tommy would feel more comfortable sitting with him, and he yelled at people who made fun of him, and he tried to be a good friend.
And in the very few times that Tubbo tried to ask what was wrong, if someone was hurting him or if there was something going on back at his house, Tommy would shut down even further, tell him that he wouldn’t understand, that it’s none of his fucking business, to be frank, and God, has Tubbo never heard of giving a man privacy, and Tommy’s fine and he’s fine and everything is fine and he’s not crying in the cafeteria he doesn’t have a bruise on his leg that only Tubbo knows about and it’s okay Tubbo just fuck off it’s okay I’m fine I’m big man Tommy and I’m-
Tommy never really stopped being sad, but things sort of got better and then worse and then better again. Tubbo was twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, and it was a month before he moved into Tommy’s house, and Tommy missed a week of school.
Tubbo talked to Phil, because he was sort of like a dad to him back then, and Phil eventually told him, voice clipped yet soft, that Tommy was in the hospital. Maybe he thought that Tubbo didn’t understand how things worked back then, and yeah, he sort of didn’t, but Phil would keep telling him he’s sick, and Tubbo knew that sickness didn’t really look like that.
Tubbo was fifteen when Tommy started crying in his bedroom, in the middle of them playing a video game. Tubbo shut off the TV, held Tommy’s hands, and asked him what was wrong. And Tommy, with a shaky voice and runny nose, told Tubbo everything. It took him two hours, but he told him everything.
Tubbo is seventeen now, and he lives with Tommy. And he has a new best friend.
His name is Ranboo, and he has heterochromia and split-dyed hair and pale skin. He likes photography and baking and driving and CDs, and he is seventeen years old. Nobody really notices him much at school, but Tubbo thinks he is one of the best people he has ever met. Because he is really reserved, but he is thoughtful, and he treats Tubbo nicely without being pitying. And he listens to Tubbo even when Tubbo rambles a lot, and he teaches him to fold paper cranes.
But Ranboo worries Tubbo.
Ranboo cries in churches, and Ranboo has a CD with sad songs, and Ranboo doesn’t talk about his family much, and Ranboo doesn’t have a lot of friends. And Ranboo’s hands shake sometimes, and Ranboo has tiny scars across his face, and Ranboo tells Tubbo that there are things that he can’t tell him but he smiles as if it’s okay anyway.
And Ranboo has very few contacts, very few, but one of those is the same name Tubbo heard Tommy say back when he was fifteen-
- Dream.
Tubbo isn’t an idiot, nor is he an asshole. That’s a lie: he’s both, but not in situations like these. Tubbo should have told Tommy as soon as he saw the contact, he honestly should have, because he knew that it couldn't have been anybody else.
At the very same time, Tubbo was a little worried about what would happen if he did say something. Because if Tommy knew that Ranboo had connections to Dream earlier, this would have happened then. Sooner or later, it would have happened. Because of course it would have, and it makes sense for it to have, and Tubbo doesn’t blame Tommy at all.
It sounds like an excuse to himself, and Tubbo knows he fucked up on this one, but the thing is: if he told Tommy, and Tommy knew about Ranboo knowing Dream, Tommy would have said something to him. Or, if Tubbo told Ranboo– regardless of who told him– the same thing would have come from that.
Ranboo would shut down even further, telling them they don’t have to worry about him, that really he’s doing just fine, honestly, and Jesus Christ, they have enough on their plate already, and Ranboo’s okay and he’s okay and everything’s okay and he’s not crying in the church he doesn’t have scars all over his face that only four people have ever looked at close enough to see and it’s okay Tubbo just get some sleep it’s okay I’m okay I’m Ranboo and I’m-
(And it’s selfish, but there was part of it, too, one that Tubbo would never admit out loud, that he never wanted to say that Ranboo knew Dream because the thought of it scared him. Not as bad as it’s scaring Tommy now, but Tubbo knows what Dream can do to someone with a good support system. Tubbo didn’t want to be split across protecting two people, even though he’s capable of it, because he’s strong and he can, when one of them is the exact kind of person Dream could be after.)
Tubbo takes a deep breath and looks up at Tommy, hands still in his even though both of theirs are sweaty. “Tommy,” he says quietly.
But Tommy knows Tubbo, knows Tubbo’s tells, and in a volume even lower, he asks, “You knew. You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know for sure,” Tubbo tells him, because that’s true. “All I knew is he had his contact.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t.”
Tommy falls silent, shoulders still slumped. Then, they start to shake, and Tubbo holds Tommy’s hands tighter. And they fall again, and Tommy looks torn between exhaustion and panic, but between the both of them, he still knows Tubbo. And the pieces are clicking for him more painfully than they did for Tubbo. “You think that it’s the same thing as me.”
And Tubbo hates himself for saying it, hates himself to the very fiber of his being for ever being in a position where he has to admit this, but these things are easier to see from an outsider perspective, and he didn’t expect Tommy to think like this, because Tommy isn’t the analytical thinker across them and Tubbo is okay with that. “You know the type of guy Ranboo is,” he says evenly. “The shit he carries. It’s more possible than the alternative.”
“I know you’re right,” Tommy replies, too fast, too easily, and Tubbo opens his mouth and shakes his head, but before he can get any further, Tommy cuts in, “Don’t. I know you’re right, that Ranboo’s probably- that Ranboo’s probably dealing with the same shit. But- but what if he isn’t, Tubbo, then-”
“Then neither of us talk to him again,” Tubbo reasons, “and we report everything to the police. Done.”
Tubbo isn’t a fan of the police. They’ve never been able to do anything for his life, so he doesn’t see why putting faith in them when it comes to Tommy’s infinitely more valuable life is a good idea. But, Tommy is quicker to place his faith in things, and Tubbo’s situation has always been a very different thing. Very illegal, in nature. Tubbo’s more of a guilty until proven innocent type.
Tommy exhales shakily, “But if Dream is- is doing shit to Ranboo, do we-”
“We can’t press,” Tubbo starts, and Tommy lets out a noise of disagreement, but Tubbo pushes through, “Tommy, we can’t. You know we can’t. Ranboo- I know you don’t, like, you two haven’t talked as much, but Ranboo doesn’t say shit. Ranboo never says shit when he’s upset. We can’t- we’ll make him close off.”
Tommy catches Tubbo’s eyes. “How do you know that?” He sounds angry, but Tubbo tells himself that Tommy isn’t angry at him, because he can’t be. He usually isn’t. “You- how do you know what to do? How do you always know what to do?”
“I don’t,” Tubbo counters. “Most of what I do is bullshit. I just- we have three possibilities, right? First one is that Ranboo has no idea who Dream is or anything, we let him know, he’s disgusted, and cuts contact. Number two is that Ranboo knows Dream is a piece of shit, which is unlikely, but, y’know, we already talked about that. And three is that Ranboo is Dream’s next… that Dream is doing similar stuff to Ranboo. Then, we just…” Tubbo inhales slowly. “We just have to wait, man. We can’t coax that out.”
“Nobody did a thing when it happened to me, you know,” Tommy says, and Tubbo reminds himself that Tommy doesn’t remember the details of this time very well, that of course he wouldn’t remember all the times that Tubbo tried . “They just waited. And that fucked me up. That fucked me up so bad that- that I tried to- Yeah. And- and I’m really mad at Ranboo right now, and I don’t want to talk to him until I know a thing, but if he’s- if he’s being hurt, which he didn’t sound like it but I dunno, then- then if we wait, he could just. Y’know.”
Tubbo does know. But Tubbo doesn’t want to think about Ranboo in a hospital bed. Tubbo doesn’t want to think about what every piece of self-deprecation from Ranboo could mean. Tubbo doesn’t want to.
“Tommy,” Tubbo gets himself back on track, because his brain is all black-and-white hair on a white hospital cot and he can’t think like that, not right now. Not a day after a funeral. “Waiting sucks. It really fucking sucks. But forcing it is worse. Forcing it is how it gets worse, quickly. You know that.”
Tommy falls quiet, and Tubbo waits the agonizing thirty seconds before Tommy asks, eyes on the floor, “Is that why you won’t talk to us?”
“It’s different,” Tubbo defends, because he hadn’t been prepared for that, but he also was, has been prepared for these sorts of questions ever since he started staying here. “Look. You and Ranboo don’t have to talk. But I’m going to stick around until we have actual evidence of what’s happening. Because if he knows about Dream, then he’s a piece of shit and I’ll hate him for it. But if he doesn’t, or he’s been treated badly by him, then I’m not going to abandon him.”
Tommy nods, but he already looks defeated. Like they already learned the worst. “Okay.”
Tubbo knows that Tommy is terrified. And Tubbo, himself, is fucking terrified.
And Tommy will shove his feelings down as hard as he can until he explodes in therapy, and Tubbo will do the same except without the exploding, and Tubbo will talk to Ranboo and Tommy will avoid Ranboo and every day will pace at this pace, slowly and slowly, as Tubbo feels it all fragment around him.
Tommy’s lip blood on his pants and his hands still sweaty from holding the other’s, Tubbo hopes that through this all, he doesn't lose Tommy, too.
But after their eye contact, Tommy is looking everywhere else but him, and Tubbo goes downstairs to get the two of them food, and Tommy is joking but it feels off-key, and Tubbo is guilty for wanting Ranboo and Tommy to both be okay and both love him because that means Ranboo isn’t okay and Tommy isn’t with him, and Tommy is fucking terrified.
And Tubbo won’t sleep easily that night, knowing that he could never make the sacrifices for the people he loves that they died to make for him.
-
When Tubbo has the cabinet door half open, almost a bottle of alcohol in his hand, he hears a tired voice behind him ask, “What are you doing?”
Tubbo shuts the cabinets and looks at Wilbur, who is half-awake yet still walking around at three AM. He has a twinkle in his eye that persists despite the exhaustion, and the way that he picks up on Tubbo’s movements the way he always seems to tells Tubbo that Wilbur may know exactly why he’s here.
But Tubbo isn’t one to give a confession.
Instead, he brushes past the other as he says, “Nothing. Goodnight.”
Wilbur stands in the kitchen before opening the cabinets after Tubbo, and Tubbo quietly goes upstairs and lays down in his bed, and he shuts his eyes to let the pounding headache whisk him off to sleep.
(It doesn’t work, though. He stays awake, because of course he does.
Behind his eyes, he sees Tommy and Ranboo and Schlatt and Quackity all in hospital beds, cycling over and over and over.
Tubbo wonders if he’s ever truly been enough to save anybody.)