It’s All Futile! It’s All Pointless!

by LemonSnickers

Summary:

In which Dream kills people for fun and for profit while hiding behind the facade of an upstanding citizen, Tommy has been his ward for years and is getting sick of washing blood out of the carpet, and Tubbo - freshly orphaned and way too curious for his own good - has been thrust into Dream’s care while social services tracks down his aunt.

Needless to say, things don’t go well.

Notes:

The trigger warnings should be in the tags. If there are more trigger warnings I should add please let me know.

Sorry for the poor quality, I'm too tired to properly edit this chapter but I really wanted to get it posted. There is a plot, I promise, I’ll get around to it.

In the meantime, enjoy some mildly cryptic behavior and shitty pacing.

Also disclaimer, as always this is about the characters not the content creators.

Chapter 1

Tubbo observed the house before him with dull detachment, much to his social worker’s chagrin. Clearly she was expecting some sort of appreciative response from him, eyes darting between him and the house with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

Frankly he would have been happy to stay in the hospital while he waited for his aunt to get in contact with child services, slurping lime jello and binging old superhero cartoons.

Miss Dale (a tall, thin woman with prematurely graying brown hair and a disapproving frown to rival his father’s) had insisted he required normalcy. As well as support to get him through this “ desolate time.” 

As if any of that would bring Schlatt back to life or undo what she referred to as “the incident.” 

It was a pleasant enough place. Gray stone, white shutters, a few neat little flowerbeds thick with tulips and daffodils. There were wind chimes dripping with crystals and colourful bird feeders, a bench with soft cushions and thick ivy interspersed with what looks like grape vines. 

“Awfully isolated, isn’t it?” Tubbo commented, ignoring all the pretty details. Lovely as it appeared to be, it was also nestled so deep in the woods he wondered if it was even within the city’s limits. 

Clearly this didn’t mean anything to Miss Dale, who gave him a strained smile - a vein in her forehead pulsing. “Well that will make it harder for reporters to sniff you out, won’t it? It’s for your own good.” 

All the adults had been saying that. It’s for your own good, it’s what’s best for you, we’re only trying to help. Among other tedious variations on the phrase. He loathed the constant stream of patronizing drivel vehemently.

For all his many, many faults, at least Schlatt had never claimed to do anything that was in Tubbo’s best interests. He was very candid about his true motives for things - so long as they had nothing to do with his professional life. 

Stepping forward with a sigh, Miss Dale knocked on the door. Absently, he noted there was an odd amount of locks on it considering they were in the middle nowhere. That was probably a red flag or some shit, but he was too tired to care much.

The man who answered was surprisingly ordinary. Somewhere in the back of his mind Tubbo had pictured some quirky old retiree, the sort of person who would plant all those flowers. Dale had said he was a pillar of the community or something, so he certainly sounded old. 

This guy looked like a university student, if university students were far more put together. Tall, with neatly swept blonde hair and sharp, somewhat striking features. There was a note of mischief in his eyes, lending him a perpetually amused look. 

When he saw Tubbo he smiled, lips parting to reveal two rows of straight, bleached-white teeth. It was so artificial it made his skin crawl. 

“It’s so nice to meet you Tubbo! And Mary, lovely to see you again. Come in, come in. I was just about to order some pizza for lunch.” He stepped to the side and made a sweeping gesture toward the entryway of the house. 

Miss Dale fidgeted with her glasses, shifting them further up the bridge of her nose. “I‘m afraid I can’t stay long - I’ve got some business to attend to back at HQ. You know how it is

 Mr.WasTaken.” She explained lightly, gaze flicking to her battered sedan. 

Wincing a bit in sympathy, the man nodded. “Call me Dream, please. No need to be so formal. But I understand. Well, I think everything should be in order. Shall we get Tubbo settled in?” He prompted, gesturing again to the open door. 

They spoke of him like he wasn’t even there. Perhaps he should have been bothered by that, but in all fairness, he didn’t feel like he was there. 

“I believe we shall,” She agreed. Turning to Tubbo, she pulled out a business card and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she seemed to remember rather suddenly that he couldn’t. 

In his right hand, he loosely grasped a suitcase. Most of the burns on the right side of his body had been fairly minor. His left hand however, was wrapped in thick bandages. One of the doctors had said he wouldn’t be able to use it without intensive and regular physical therapy. 

Awkwardly, she tucked it into the front pocket of his dress shirt instead, smile miraculously growing even more pinched than it already was. 

“Well, that’s my card. If you have any questions or concerns, Tubbo, do feel free to call me.” She explained briskly. “I’ll be around to check in sometime soon.” 

Momentarily, he was worried she might attempt to pat him on the shoulder or give him some sort of side-hug as those at the funeral had been prone to doing. But she did no such thing, instead choosing to nod once in his direction before making a hasty retreat. 

This left him alone with the mysterious  Mr.Wastaken, who seemed slightly relieved that Miss Dale was gone - which Tubbo supposed he couldn’t fault him for. 

“Alright, now we can get this show on the road.” The man clapped once, loudly. “Kitchen is right through here, I figure we can order that pizza and then show you around. How does that sound?” 

Tubbo took a few steps into the foyer, trying not to tense up too much when all those locks clicked shut behind him. The hallway was narrow and boxy, with stark white walls and a glossy hardwood floor. 

As soon as he’d entered the house the scent of citrus hit him full force, lemony and artificial - like strong cleaning products or the air freshener they use in the restrooms of semi-fancy restaurants. 

Everything was so very clean. Not a speck of dust or dirt to be found. The rug just inside the doorway was freshly vacuumed. There weren’t even any dead flies in the light fixture hanging above their heads. 

It was even more spacious on the inside. High ceilings, open floor plan. That sort of deal. Briefly Tubbo wondered how Dream got his money - but he let go of the question quickly.

His father had been a corrupt politician. He knew better than to ask where money came from. He knew better than to ask questions at all. 

Straight ahead of them there was a staircase, right up against the back wall. If he craned his neck he could make out a vague silhouette of a person hovering at the top, someone tall. 

“Tommy! Get down here.” The man called out, clearly annoyed. He was frowning now, a distinct change from his previous cheerful demeanor. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though he suddenly had a headache.

A boy scurried down the stairs, tripping in his haste to comply. Tubbo wondered with a dark sort of curiosity if he was about to witness another death - falling down the stairs would be a rather boring way to parish. 

Tommy was tall and thin as a scarecrow, his hair the same white-blonde shade as Tubbo’s and twice as wild. His eyes - also blue like Tubbo’s but a few shades   lighter - were wild as well, with some odd sharp quality he couldn’t put a name to. 

For no more than a fraction of a moment they made eye contact, and Tommy was open for a moment - Tubbo could see the lines of tension in his posture and little flashes of frustration and panic sketched across his face. But then his gaze skidded to Dream, and his face was a blank canvas. 

“What have I told you about lurking?” Dream said with an irked sigh, the rhetorical question clearly directed at Tommy. “It’s rude. It’s really rude.” 

There’s tension wound tight between the two of them, thick enough to chew on. A line drawn taut. It made Tubbo vaguely uncomfortable - the wrongness of it. 

Before he could even think about the pros and cons of bringing attention to himself he reached out and yanked on it - half praying it’d snap. 

“Nice to meet you Tommy.” Tubbo said, words tripping rather than gliding. “I ah - I hadn’t realized there was another kid here. I mean, Miss Dale didn’t mention it.” 

Whatever tension he had perceived evaporated in an instant. Dream smiled wide again, focus swinging back to Tubbo.

“Gosh dang it, I can’t believe we forgot to mention him.” The man tossed an arm over Tommy’s shoulders amiably, who flinched but quickly relaxed into the touch. 

“This is Tommy, he’s been staying with me for - geeze, how long has it been?” He looked down at Tommy, only an inch or two shorter than him. Tommy offered no answer. “A couple years, at least. We’re like…” 

“Like brothers.” Tommy spoke up. “He’s my best friend - only friend, actually.” There was something weird about the way he said it, but he sounded perfectly genuine. 

Stilted, awkward, as he always seemed to be these days, Tubbo nodded. A jerky, spastic motion that tugged painfully at the skin beneath his bandages. 

“I’m going to go order that pizza. Tommy, go show Tubbo to his room so he can unpack his stuff.” Dream instructed. “Give him the grand tour.” He retracted his arm and turned to head in what Tubbo assumed was the direction of the kitchen. 

“Which -” Tommy hesitated, hand fluttering awkwardly in the air like he wanted to grab something. “- which room?” He asked, aborting the movement and letting his arms go limp at his sides.

Again, there was some odd weight to the question that Tubbo didn’t understand. The words felt heavy. That tension he had tried to snap was still hovering, less tight now but omnipresent.

Dream laughed. Tea-kettle laugh. “Well we only have one spare bedroom.” He answered, as though it was obvious. Given the way Tommy’s shoulder sagged with relief, Tubbo got the sense that it wasn’t. 

                      ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

Like the rest of the house, his new (temporary) room was perfectly nice and extremely clean. The bottom of the walls were paneled with oak wood.The top half of the walls were painted a plain, terracotta shade. Sort of red-orange-brown or some mixture thereof. The curtains, sheer and billowing in the breeze flowing through the singular open window, were a similar hue. 

White bed sheets, orange comforter, too many pillows. He hated his bed. It was too soft. Usually back at home he’d slept in a hammock. The feeling of weightlessness kept nightmares at bay most of the time, and when they didn’t, he could always rock himself back to sleep. 

The walls were bare. Every wall in the house was -  no paintings or photos to be found. Back home even his family, consisting entirely of two people who weren’t particularly sentimental, had kept a few framed Polaroids scattered about.  

Puffy’s house had lots of paintings. Some of which she bought in her travels, most of which were gifted to her by patients and old family friends. Even Foolish’s elementary hand-turkeys had a place in the collection. 

Staring at the plain walls, he was hit with a sudden longing for her eclectic home. For anything familiar at all, actually. Aside from looking expansive but lacking decor, there were no similarities to draw between the pricey yet ugly condo he’d shared with his dad and this spacious farmhouse. 

He wished he had been allowed to linger in the apartment. Maybe say goodbye, childish as that was. Most of his things had been seized as possible evidence, and there was an armed escort ushering him along the entire time he was packing. 

They assured him he would be allowed to return, eventually. He didn’t believe them. He never took anything people said to him at face value - no doubt one of many negative, paranoid habits he’d picked up from dear-old- dad.  

Tommy lingered in the doorway, not stepping foot inside the room. He looked out of place in his own home - somehow looking even more ill at ease now that he didn’t have his supposed pseudo-brother by his side. 

“Is it alright? Got enough blankets an’ all that shit? We have more in the hall closet. Y’know, if you need them.” The darting, wild gaze was back. Blue eyes darting from the window to his shoes and back again, looking anywhere but Tubbo’s corner of the room. 

“It’s good. Really.” He forced himself to sound polite. Pleasant even, though privately he thought he shouldn’t have to pretend to be okay with his situation. He was technically in mourning, he deserved to be allowed to grieve. 

His grip on his suitcase went slack as he allowed it to fall out of his grasp. The dull thud it made when it hit the ground sent both of them jumping a bit. It almost made him laugh. He had thought he was too tired to be on edge, but he supposed it could just be the leftover buzz of adrenaline kicking up. 

“I can leave you for a minute. If you want.” Tommy offered flatly, carefully studying Tubbo for some sign of a reaction to his suggestion. “Or close the door at least. If you want me to.” 

“No. It’s okay I’m - I’m gonna be honest, I don’t really feel like being alone. Right now.” Tubbo picked at his bandages, letting the awkward silence fester for a moment while he collected his thoughts.

“Would you like a tour?” Tommy inquired. He shifted from foot to foot and shoved his hands in his pockets, emanating restless energy. “I give great tours, the best tours. I can highlight the house’s awesome at-tri-butes.” His voice had a slightly rusty quality to it, like the hinge of a door that hadn’t been opened in a while. 

Laughter bubbled in Tubbo’s throat, much to his surprise. He hadn’t been sure he could still laugh. He wasn’t sure of much of anything. 

“I would love a tour.” He answered, mustering up a not-quite-smile that didn’t tug at the scorched side of his face too much. By comparison Tommy’s grin was absolutely blinding, a spark of life entering him at Tubbo’s mild encouragement.

“Wait, genuinely? Because I’ve never shown anyone around here before, lots of visitors but not many guests - you know how it is.” Tubbo nodded along as if he did. Tommy hopped into the hallway, gesturing enthusiastically for him to follow. 

“Well this is your room obviously.” He pointed out. Moving down the hall to the right, he knocked on one of the doors before nudging it open. “This is the bathroom. Right next to your room, which is real fucking cool.” 

Aside from the nauseating smell of bleach, the bathroom was pretty typical. Blue tile, white walls. The bathtub is large enough to drown a man in. 

The next two doors are left unopened. “That’s Dream’s bedroom, and that’s his office. He’s always in there working on paperwork or some shit.” Tommy made direct eye contact for a moment to issue a warning. “Never go in either of them. They’re usually locked anyway.”

Across the hall was Tommy’s room and the closet he’d mentioned early, well stocked with cleaning supplies and fresh linens. 

“You can see my room, but only if you promise not to touch my stuff.” He said solemnly, hand resting on the door knob. 

“Of course.” Tubbo replied. Tommy didn’t budge. “I promise.” He added a little more loudly when the boy made no move to open the door. He was slightly curious now, intrigued by Tommy’s protectiveness. 

There really wasn’t much to see. In one corner there was a twin bed without a headboard, with white sheets and pillow casings and a single gray blanket. In the other corner sat a small pinewood dresser, side by side with a simple desk.The most interesting detail was a shelf below one of the windows, covered in a messy, peeling layer of blue paint. 

Even that was fairly underwhelming. All it contained were a few books, a red stuffed cow, and a battered CD player - though Tubbo couldn’t see any CDs to put in it. 

“These are my prized possessions.” Tommy claimed in a reverent whisper as he bounded over to the shelf. “I love them almost as much as I love my many wives. Not that women are at all like possessions of course.” 

Little he said made any sense, but Tubbo found he didn’t mind much. 

“What discs do you listen to?” He asked, genuinely curious. Maybe they could swap playlists sometime - once he got his phone back. Music was something he’d developed a new interest in as of late. 

Tommy’s face went unreadable, just as it had when they’d first met. The change occurred so suddenly Tubbo jolted a bit, blinking slowly. Had he struck a nerve? He couldn’t imagine how. The question seemed innocuous enough. 

Emotion returned slowly, becoming something that looked like tired resignation. “I don’t have any anymore. They got taken away.” 

Silence. A beat, two beats. Three. 

“We should head back downstairs now. Pizza is probably gonna be here soon.” Cheerfulness was in Tommy’s voice again but it sounded forced, his previous energy drained in a flash. 

Considering the house was far away from the nearest town let alone the nearest pizza place, Tubbo doubted that. He humored Tommy anyway, not wanting to hurt (?) him more than he seemingly already had. 

The beginnings of a migraine blossomed behind his eyes. 

Something was wrong here. With this house, with this situation, maybe even with Tommy himself. He wasn’t sure - all he knew was he could feel the wrong-ness crawling under his skin. It was a visceral, instinctive feeling, raising the hair on the back of his neck and sending a cold chill slithering down his spine. 

Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be here long anyway. None of his business really. He knew he ought to leave whatever was going on well enough alone. Still…it had all the making of a very intriguing puzzle. 

Tubbo had always had a weakness for puzzles. 

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Summary:

Tubbo struggles to stay neutral.

Notes:

Hello my darling readers! How have the past five months been? Hopeful better than mine. I won my intergalactic battle with a space octopus just in time for classes to begin so I haven’t had much time to write.

Every day for the past two weeks I’ve woken up and thought, “Today is the day! Today, I finally finish chapter two. The chapter from hell that is driving me further into insanity than math class.” And every single day I was wrong. Until now!

It was so painful to write in fact (h/j), that I physically could not reread it for editing purposes. So, y’know, feel free to yell at me about grammatical errors and such. I accept any and all criticism, the crueler the better.

And finally, if you’re in this for the writing style used in my last chapter I’m sorry to say I was unable to recapture that. The version of me that wrote Chapter One died in a tragic motor-vehicle accident (Damn you Henry Ford!) so unfortunately all you get is my tragic attempt at elegant prose.

“Schlatt?”

 

Tubbo clawed his way out of the wreckage, tumbling onto red hot asphalt. Gravel and glass embedded themselves in his knees, his hands.   

 

He didn’t register the pain, his mind too overwhelmed by the agony of his melting skin. 

 

“Schlatt, where are you?” 

 

The smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses. He could taste smoke and ash and blood, heavy and bitter on his tongue.

 

Struggling to his feet, he called out again, screaming so loudly he swore he felt something in his throat tear.

 

“DAD!” 

 

All he could hear was the sizzle of that fire, still burning with a wicked kind of fury. 

   ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

Tubbo woke with a scream still twisting his lips. 

 

After a moment’s pause he forced himself to take a breath and attempted to sit up properly, muscles tense and sore - no doubt from thrashing in his sleep, if the pillows and blankets strewn across the floor were any indication.

 

That happened a lot in the hospital. Often, he would wake and discover he’d torn out his IV or knocked over his bedside table while trapped in his nightmares. It drove the nurses mad. 

 

If he strained, he could faintly smell eggs and bacon, overtaking the lemony scent that had been so pervasive before. 

 

Puffy was the only person who had ever cooked him breakfast.

 

For his tenth birthday, she made him his very own batch of fluffy, chocolate-chip waffles doused in maple syrup. 

 

He could picture it clearly, her ruffling his hair and telling him to dig in with a fond smile. She even let him watch movies while he ate, setting up a little foldout table in the living room so he wouldn’t make a mess. 

 

In later years he had come to realise she was trying to make up for the fact that his dad had forgotten his birthday entirely and spent the weekend at a conference in Australia. 

 

Getting dressed felt like a monumental task. He struggled now with buttons and zippers, and with yanking his useless arm through his sleeve without causing further damage to the injured appendage. 

 

After waking up from his medically induced coma, he was dependent on a nurse’s help to change for three weeks. After that, his physical therapist started insisting he get dressed on his own. To get used to it, he supposed. 

 

It was only because he liked his physical therapist (Eret, who treated him like a normal human being) that he even attempted to comply with that instruction. 

 

Most days he couldn’t. Some days he didn’t even bother to try. There didn’t seem to be much of a point in changing out of his pyjamas just to stare blankly at the television, swallowing medication  that didn’t really help and attempting to tune out whatever chattering care-team member entered his room. 

 

Things were different in a stranger’s house, though. No longer surrounded by beeping machinery, sitting a few doors down from the little girl with a skull fracture and the old man recovering from hip surgery. People hadn’t expected much of him while he “recovered”. 

 

Here, there were expectations, though what they are exactly was a mystery to him. Dream had been vague at dinner the night before, just asking that he keep his room neat and stay within the garden walls. 

 

“We can discuss rules later. When you’re all settled in.” 

 

Back home, there were no rules. His dad didn’t have time to do the grocery shopping, let alone raise a child. 

 

As soon as he was old enough to read, he was given a bus schedule and a weekly allowance and left to his own devices. (Nevermind the fact that he was dyslexic.) Then, when he was ten, he was given a debit card and a sizable bank account his dad made monthly deposits in.

 

After staring at a unique stain on the ceiling for a few minutes, he managed to muster up the motivation to drag himself out of bed and yank some wrinkled clothes out of his half-zipped suitcase. 

 

◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

The stairs creaked as he made his way down them, carefully holding onto the railing for balance. One of many things the incident fucked up was his balance (something about inner eardrums) - which in all fairness wasn’t particularly great before. 

 

Plates clattered and butter hissed in a pan, just loud enough to be heard above a pair of chattering voices. It sounded vaguely like Tommy and Dream were arguing about something but he wasn’t close enough to make out what it was.

 

At the sound of his footsteps - loud, since he didn’t know where to place his feet to avoid making noise the way Tommy did - Dream poked his head out of the kitchen with one of the oh-so-friendly smiles that seemed typical for him. 

 

“Good morning! Great timing.” He greeted Tubbo warmly, beckoning him over with a lazy flick of the wrist. “Bacon should be crispy now, and I just finished up a second omelette. I really hope you like eggs.” 

 

Caught off guard by the sudden attention, Tubbo fumbled for the right expression - gratefulness? Eagerness? Dream had more than enough eagerness for the three of them. 

 

In the end he scrounged up a weak, tight lipped  grin.

 

( “You’re a terrible actor, kid. I’ll have to get you some acting lessons or something because fuck, that was rough.” )

 

He hadn’t been in the kitchen yet. They brought the pizza straight to the dining room the evening before, and Tommy had cleared the table. 

 

Dinner had been an intensely uncomfortable affair, Dream filling the silence with casual, almost vapid conversation while Tommy hesitantly added a handful of awkward comments. 

 

Grey tiles, white cabinets, spotless silver cabinets and a big stainless steel fridge. The bowl of fake looking fruit sitting in the very centre of the kitchen island served as the only decor and the only colour in the room besides the food on a plate Tommy shoved in Tubbo’s direction. 

 

Yellow eggs, green honeydew melon, and purple-red bacon stood out starkly in the sea of greys and whites.

 

Taking a seat on a stool at the kitchen aisle, he set the plate down and poked a piece of melon with his fork experimentally. 

 

Loud thud. Tommy flinched and looked up from where he stood, seemingly sulking over a small plate of toast. Tubbo didn’t so much as twitch. 

 

It was just Dream setting down his coffee mug a little too enthusiastically - which seemed to be his fatal flaw. Too much enthusiasm. 

 

“So, Tubbo.” Dream adjusted his watch. “I hate to leave you and Tommy alone on your first day here, but I have some meetings I just can’t reschedule. You’ll be okay fending for yourself, won’t you?”

 

Narrowly suppressing a snort, he nodded. Not a single one of the simpering adults who now plagued his life seemed to understand his level of independence. They struggled to adjust to the idea that he had raised himself, that anyone his age could be competent and responsible. 

 

“Good, okay, that’s good. You’ll probably be fine to take your medication on your own then I’m assuming?” Tubbo nodded again and Dream looked relieved. “That’s great. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been late to work just because Tommy was too stubborn to take his.” 

 

Tommy looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. But he didn’t respond to the jab, despite the reply Tubbo could see sitting on the tip of his tongue. He just exhaled quietly, looking resigned.

 

A miniscule part of him wondered what kind of medicine Tommy took. His was a mix of painkillers, vitamins, and anxiety pills that made his limbs feel heavy and his stomach churn.

 

Staying quiet, Tubbo surveyed the kitchen again. There was something off about it, something he couldn’t quite put a name to but - oh. Well, that would be the source of the prickling sensation on the back of his neck. 

 

“Why -” a distinctly uncomfortable laugh. “Why are there locks on all the cabinets?” He asked as though waiting for the ending to a particularly wild story, all pinches of shock and dashes of confusion. Measured out carefully, so he wouldn’t burn through his limited supply. 

 

“They’re for me.” Tommy answered easily, like that explained everything. He picked up the small remainder of his toast and turned to face Tubbo with the dead expression he favoured. “I’ve got problems.” 

 

Then he made his way to the backdoor, pausing just short of it and holding up the toast. “I’ve got to go do my offering.” He looked at Dream but didn’t make eye contact, free hand poised just above the handle. “May I go. Please.”

 

The door was opened just long enough for Tubbo to catch a glimpse of a lush green foliage before it was shut again without a sound. Oiled, presumably. Just like the rest of the doors. 

 

Something about that brief interaction spoke of a sort of ritual, a daily occurrence.

 

 Like on the rare occasions where he and Schlatt both woke up at the same time - Tubbo would turn on the coffee maker and toss the morning paper on the table, where Schlatt usually sat drinking his daily protein shake with a side of coconut water (his hangover cure of choice) while scrolling on his phone.

 

Schlatt would then look up and say something snarky about how newspapers were a dead, useless form of media ( “I oughta cancel that prescription”) and ask him when his next chess tournament was. To which Tubbo would usually reply “for fucks sake, I quit chess two years ago” and Schlatt would mutter about wasting money on a chess coach. 

 

There was a tired familiarity between its two participants. A script they both followed - as though they were putting on a play and he was their unwitting and unwilling audience. 

 

“Offering?” He asked weakly, upon realising he’d been lost in his thoughts for a little too long and the room had fallen suffocatingly silent. 

 

Tilting his head head to the side little, Dream hummed. “Hm? Oh, yeah, Tommy is a pretty strict follower of Prime. He’s supposed to sacrifice part of all his meals and stuff. He’ll go on about it forever if you ask.”

 

An eye roll and a he’s-just-so-much-to-handle smile. It would have been a joke if Tubbo found barely concealed insults funny.

 

Likely sensing his remark hadn’t landed, he cleared his throat and continued, far more subdued. “Whelp, I’m really not religious. But I think Tommy should do whatever makes him happy, y’know? Although I will say we don’t usually make it church. He… isn’t great with crowds.” 

 

Picking up his suitcase and running a quick hand through his hair, Dream started heading for the hallway. “I should get going. Got to make sure I beat the morning rush hour. Traffic is the worst this time of day.” 

 

Soon left sitting alone in the middle of the huge, lifeless kitchen with a plate of now cold, uneaten food, he attempted to process what had already been a whirlwind of a morning. 

 

Intrigue hovered at the edges of his vision, the mysteries and oddities he’d been forcefully ignoring scattered at his feet like fistfuls of brightly wrapped Halloween candy. 

 

Schlatt had raised him not to pursue things that weren’t any of his business,  but he had also accidentally taught him the best way to avoid his emotional pain was to bury himself in a project. 

 

It could be good, he figured, to just give solving the mysteries he knew were hovering in front of him a try - if only so he could disengage better. It would be easier to stay on autopilot if he had a goal to keep himself occupied. 

 

Having come to this conclusion, he was free to take a moment to detach properly and breathe.

 

◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

 

The backdoor led to one of the most awe-inspiring scenes Tubbo had ever laid eyes on, and for a moment he stood still in the doorway - afraid to touch even the feathery green grass, so soft and verdant he was sure he could fall asleep laying in it and never once have a nightmare. 

 

Colour stretched as far as the eye could see, blush pinks and soft lavenders, rich reds and vivid yellows. Zinnias, peonies, daisies, bushes and bushes of roses in a hundred different vibrant hues, and what looked like a thousand other types of flowers he didn’t even know the name of. 

 

It was at once both wild and contained, each garden bed loosely bordered by lacy bushes and  neat wooden paths lined with gravel. There were trees of all kinds scattered between the flowers and all along the garden wall - which was nine feet tall and so covered in rose vines and ivy that he couldn’t make out any details, only that it looked as though it had a strange texture.

 

Unusually tall, for a garden wall, but one hardly noticed it when a sea of beauty stretched before them. 

 

“Tommy?” He called out, taking a tentative step into the yard. The grass gave way easily underfoot, just as soft as it looked. When the whole garden didn’t instantly burst into flame, he dared to venture further. 

 

A light breeze wound lazily through his thick blonde hair, carrying with it the scent of the coming rain. Though the sun shone brightly overhead, no more than a few fluffy white clouds to be seen, the air was thick with the smell of it - of a coming storm. In contrast to the frigid interior of the house, it was pleasantly tepid. 

 

Eventually he found Tommy kneeling by a pear tree, head bowed and hand clasped together in the traditional prayer position. There was a book of Prime on the ground next to him, opened to a page titled Repentance. He looked up when Tubbo came near him, wary. 

 

“Hello?” Tommy pulled himself to his feet with the help of a branch on the pear tree. “Did you, ah, need something? I was just -“ His eyes darted to the book and he quickly nudged it shut with his foot. 

 

“I honestly just didn’t want to be in your house by myself. It’s very -  whatever the opposite of claustrophobic is.” Tubbo gestured at their surroundings with what he hoped was a properly impressed expression. “I’m glad I came outside though. It’s well pretty out here.” 

 

Lighting up, Tommy made an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Like he was trying to grin but he couldn’t remember how. 

 

“These plants are my children.” He lovingly stroked the bark of the pear tree, and while the sentiment was clearly exaggerated for comedic effect, it was easy to hear the adoration in his voice. 

 

Struck with a new thought, Tubbo looked at him with a hint of surprise. “Did you grow all these? There must be a thousand different types of plants here.” Tommy didn’t seem like the gardening type. But then, neither did Dream. 

 

“Of course I did!” Tommy shoved his hand out, palm side up. “Just look at these callouses! Didn’t exactly get them learning to play the fuckin’ violin.”

Rough hands, chapped and raw from hours and hours of labor. He had more scars dotting his hands than Tubbo had seen on some construction workers, which was really saying something. Including one of a sort he recognized, where a broken bone had pierced through skin. 

 

Once when he was much, much younger he had broken his ankle in a skateboarding accident. Which, before The Incident, had been the most painful experience of his life. The doctors called it a - 

 

“Compound fracture?” Tubbo reached out and tapped the scar. “That must have hurt like a bitch.” 

 

Shoulders rose and fell stiffly, a noncommittal shrug the only thing Tommy seemed keen to share. He changed the subject. 

 

“I reckon there’s only about a hundred kinds of plants, not a thousand. I’ve never fucking counted them or anything.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe I could spend a couple days cat-o-log-ing them.”

 

That seemed like a very odd way for someone to spend their time, but it wasn’t like Tubbo had any room to speak. He himself had many odd, lonely hobbies he’d developed living in the city - especially after he quit playing chess as a sport and stuck to challenging strangers at El Rapids Central Park. 

 

“Sounds fun. I’m in. Do you have a notebook somewhere we could use?” Tubbo asked, and Tommy’s eyes widened in surprise. 

 

Wary again, his jaw tightened. “You seriously want to help me write down the names of a bunch of plants? For hours? Because, y’know, it’s going to take a really long time to get all these written down, maybe even weeks and I’m not sure my identification book has even got pictures of all of them.”

 

An eyebrow raise, almost challenging. “Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn't my guy.” He was aiming for reassuring. Tommy remained skeptical. 

 

“Well I don’t have a notebook.” He crossed his arms, challenging Tubbo right back.

 

False bravado. A puffed out chest and a stern frown, while his hands were tucked underneath his folded arms to hide the way they were shaking. 

 

“Surely there’s something we can use.” Tubbo mused, trying to remember if he’d packed anything to write on. Unlikely - he dreaded reading and writing. 

 

“Do you have a phone? I’d use mine but the cops took it.” Now it was just a burnt, jumbled mess of wires and plastic anyway. 

 

Confused and somewhat unsettled, Tommy shook his head. “The cops took your….? No, no I don’t have a phone. I’m not allowed access to fucking - what’s the word, electronics? I’m not supposed to use the internet.” 

 

Blinking slowly, Tubbo tried to figure out the best way to respond to that statement. “Why not? Is Dream one of those people who shops at Trader Joe's and thinks computers are radioactive?” 

 

“ Look I’ve just got these doctors I have to see like every couple of years and you know how doctors are, they love they theories . Last time they asked me a couple questions and then they said they felt that all the screens and shit were ‘feeding my delusions ’, so Dream made a new rule.” 

 

This was probably one of the largest moments where Tubbo stopped to wonder if getting invested in the bewildering puzzle that was Tommy and Dream was really worth the distraction it offered, and questioned whether or not he even had a choice in the matter. 

 

“I’m hardly an expert on doctors or mental illness, but I’m fairly certain that isn’t how things normally work.” His headache came back with a vengeance, drawing his attention to the fact that his burns were aching more than usual. 

 

“Speaking of doctors, I’ve got to take my painkillers but I’m not sure where they are.” He pulled a little on the neckline of his shirt as if it might lessen the heat he was now keenly aware of flaring up beneath his bandages. “Would you like to continue this conversation inside while I search for my drugs?” 

 

Tommy, looking completely and utterly caught off guard by the turn the conversation had taken, nodded hesitantly - so tense in his discomfort that he greatly resembled a windup toy. 

 

“ Okay .” He agreed reluctantly. “But you don’t -“ Tubbo watched as Tommy quite literally bit his tongue to keep himself from finishing his sentence. “I know where it is, but you’re going to think it’s weird. Even though it isn’t. So just - fuckin’, follow me I guess.”

 

And with that totally not ominous statement, Tommy straightened up and marched toward the path back to the house. 

 

Thoroughly intrigued, Tubbo trailed after him.

Notes:

Once again towards the end it all started to fall apart. The last few paragraphs were written while Despicable Me: Rise of Gru played in the background. I became so desperate to avoid actually writing that yesterday I procrastinated for six hours straight by opening my google doc and then watching Cinema Therapy videos and making picrews.

Still going to keep writing it though! Just don’t except consistent updates. Between the Time Travel, Classes, and my mental health (which is rapidly Pokémon evolutioning into mental illness), it’ll probably be another few months before I post again.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Chess.

Notes:

I MADE IT! I POSTED ON HALLOWEEN! I was going to make it spookier but I wanted to stick to my outline.

Y’all are lucky I have inspiration for this Fic. *stares longingly at “Why Little Songbird (What Happened To Your
Wings?”*

Tommy was correct when he said Tubbo would think the location of his medication was weird. 

 

He had expected Tommy to lead him to the bathroom, or maybe a closet. Instead he found himself, a few minutes later, standing in front of a shelf on the far side of the living room.

 

The carpet looked like it had been vacuumed recently, glaringly white and covered in perfectly straight lines. It was as bland and pristine a place as the rest of the house, the walls a shade of grey that could only just pass for blue if he squinted very, very hard. Modern furniture, glass tables. No decor. 

 

Standing a few inches taller than Tommy, the shelf was made of dark wood and full of boxes labelled neatly with things like school-work and lunch. 

 

At waist level, there was a small tray with two small paper cups and two glasses of water. It reminded him of the hospital - a tiny white cup full of pills and a glass of juice. Blue for the pain, green for the anxiety. If you take the little square ones you can find oblivion, but don’t take too many or you’ll never wake up.

 

“He couldn’t have just given us the bottles?” He asked, reaching for the cup with Tubbo scrawled across it. All his usual medicine was there - he double checked, squinting as he tried to read the lettering on one of the smaller pills. They looked right, but he was wary.  

 

Back home, most of their over-the-counter medicine was tossed haphazardly in ziplock bags due to Schlatt’s tendency to knock over bottles and spill things everywhere while scavenging for a late night Ibuprofen, half asleep and usually intoxicated. So he got in the habit of checking pills before he swallowed them so he wouldn’t accidentally overdose on something and kill his kidneys. 

 

(Puffy disapproved of this practice most vehemently, but it wasn’t her house. And he wasn’t her son - even if he let slip the night he broke his ankle that sometimes he wished he was. She had driven all the way from the next town over to stay the night with him in the hospital, while Schlatt ignored his, Puffy’s, and the hospital’s calls.)

 

The other boy shook his head. “All the medicine has got to be locked up.” His cup was full of different kinds of pills of varying colours and shapes, some of which were familiar - they had a shared anxiety suppressant and antidepressant (shoved in his hands as Miss Dale escorted him out of the hospital ) - but most he didn’t recognize. 

 

“Any particular reason?” He dumped a few into his palm and swallowed them dry. 

 

Tommy washed down a few of his own. “For safety. Mine, to be more specific.” He flashed a sarcastic grin. “Basically I used to want to just fucking die, yeah? But Dream was like mimimimi you can’t die Tommy! And I was like watch me bitch! And then he Tommy-proofed the house.” 

 

“I suppose that’s what your medicine is for, then.” Tubbo mused, tugging up his sleeves the best he could as he considered simply consuming the rest of the cups contents like a box of tic-tac mints. 

 

“Bottoms-up to you Big Man,” he muttered, raising his glass in melodramatic celebration and doing just that.

 

“I feel like I’m on enough antidepressants and antipsychotics to medicate a donkey.” Tommy replied, only half joking. “A very large, strong, handsome donkey who gets all the women.” 

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure these painkillers are going to make my mouth eternally dry.” Tubbo commiserated as he set his glass back on the tray. “But they’re also the only thing keeping me from going absolutely insane from the sheer pain of these fucking burns.”

 

“How did you get them?”

 

He froze at the question, and his damaged hand twitched. 

 

Instantly Tommy reacted to Tubbo’s change in body language, crossing his arms over his chest and putting distance between the two of them. “I’m sorry - I’m really sorry I didn’t think that question through.” 

 

Shaking away the shock that had overtaken him, he forced a smile. “It’s alright.” (It isn’t, but nothing is, and it never will be again .)

 

Silence swallowed them both for a handful of minutes, Tubbo trying to think of a way to bring back the light atmosphere they’d enjoyed while Tommy stood still, tense. 

 

Staring at the shelf, something caught his eye and he reached for it. “You’ve got a lot of boardgames.” He pointed out, picking up one particular box. “You know, I used to be rather good at chess. They thought I was a prodigy. We should play.” 

 

“Dream likes chess.” Tommy offered tentatively. “I’m - I’m not very good at it. Haven’t got much of a strategic mind.” He did that a lot - switched between claiming to be the greatest of men and putting himself down with biting comments that sounded like echoes of things he’d heard. 

 

“But you do know how to play?” A hesitant nod. “Then let's play. I’ll make it fun, I promise.” He walked over the spindly little coffee and started setting up the game, one of many tasks made more difficult without the use of his hand.

 

By the time he finished and looked up from this task, Tommy was sitting on the floor across from him. He’d wagered Tommy wouldn’t say no to him, and he was right. (Sometimes he hated his ability to read people. Dots and lines were beginning to form a picture in his head, and he hated that too.)

 

“We ought to make things more interesting.” He hummed, considering. “How about…every time you capture one of my pawns, you get to ask me a question. And everytime I capture one of yours, I get to ask you one. You can go first.” 

 

Carefully, Tommy moves a pawn d4, a classic opening. The Queen's Pawn opening, to be precise. Though Tubbo doubts he knows that, unless he learned to play from a book. 

 

They went back and forth for a bit. D5 met with c4. He moved e7 to e6 and let him capture it, using it as bait. “Ask away Boss Man.” 

 

“Wait, really?” Tommy’s eyes widened. “I thought you were kidding.” He shook off the surprise quickly in favour of asking a question. “Well - I’ve been wondering…what is it like to go to school? Like actual school, with cafeterias and shit. I’m homeschooled and it’s the fucking worst. ”

 

“Oh.” Tubbo was caught off guard. “Well I honestly haven’t gone to public school in years. I signed myself up for private school in year seven because I didn’t like my mathematics teacher.” 

 

“And your parents were just alright with that?”  Tommy sounded incredulous, comically so.

 

Laughter bubbled in his chest, an almost manic thing. “Schlatt -” he gasped. “He didn’t even notice. For two years. I used to just steal his chequebook and mail tuition payments to the school every term.” 

 

It wasn’t like he’d tried to hide it. He left a letter from the school on their mess of a table, pinned his report cards to the fridge, tied school ribbons to his backpack and left it in the hallway. If anything he flaunted it, he wished his dad would notice. 

 

“Schlatt?” Tommy asked, face twisted with confusion. “What, are you adopted too?” 

 

In an instant Tubbo remembered that he and Tommy were from vastly different worlds. Before all this, adoption was a whispered confession in the dark, while he and one of his friends (nameless, as they always were) sat on the curb sipping diet soda, watching the cars go by. 

 

For them it was a twilight secret, spoken quietly for fear of being heard by the people who always watched them - the politician’s children, whose muttered words could ruin their parent’s campaigns at the drop of the hat. 

 

For Tommy it was probably just part of his life, the same way the garden and the shelf and the tense silences seemed to be. If he had friends who were adopted or fostered, they could be loud about it. 

 

“Nope.” He shoved some hair out of his face, making a mental note to see about arranging a haircut. “Schlatt is my biological father. But it always felt weird calling him dad since he wasn’t….” Fatherly? Present? Good? “- around much. He had me right when his career started to take off, so he was gone more than he was home.” 

 

When he was home he was awkward. Stiff. He didn’t know how to be a parent, and Tubbo didn’t know what to do with his half-hearted attempts. He had vivid memories of the one time Schlatt had attempted to cook him dinner - it was frozen fish fillets, and he burned them, and it didn’t matter anyway because Tubbo (eight years old and already intimately familiar with the local delivery services) had already ordered pizza for both of them. (He didn’t even like fish.)

 

You remember my pizza order? Seriously kid? That’s…really lame. You should get a hobby or something, Prime. You must be going crazy in this fuckin’ apartment. 

 

To his relief Tommy didn’t pry further. Instead, his curiosity satiated, he nodded to the chessboard. “It’s your turn.”

 

Easily he captured e6, just as he’d planned to. Tommy responded by moving e to four and then pausing, waiting for him to ask his question. 

 

“Have you got any friends?” He thought he might already know the answer to that - it couldn’t be easy to maintain any kind of relationships out here in the middle of nowhere, without access to technology. 

 

The look Tommy gave him was so heavy and pained Tubbo flinched at the intensity of it. 

 

“I used to have a friend.” He said, voice cracking on the word friend. His eyes took on a distant quality, as if he was staring at something far off Tubbo couldn’t see. “You’re -” he laughed a little, dry and quiet. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re hardly the first kid to come stay with us.” 

 

That wasn’t what Tubbo had expected to hear. He hadn’t really considered the possibility of other kids passing through the house. The idea felt almost strange - he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a long term placement with Tommy and Dream, when their bond was so tightly woven and, admittedly, a little strange. 

 

“What happened to them?” He asked, blunt. Curiosity had to be the reason his skin was prickling, the reason he felt something in his stomach twist at the admission. 

 

“He died.” Tommy answered simply. For a moment it seemed like he might say something else, but he didn’t. His face went blank again and he moved his pawn from d4 to e5, knocking Tubbo’s over in the process. “My turn to ask a question.”

 

   ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

 

“Get up.” Schlatt said, marching into the living room with a stack of passports in his shaking hands. “Grab your shit, we’re going on a trip.”

 

Tubbo looked up from the virtual chess match on his phone, blinking slowly in surprise. “You don’t take me on trips,” he replied bluntly as he took in his dad’s appearance - tie hanging loose around his neck, bags under his bloodshot eyes, hair wild like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. 

 

He looked like he’d seen a ghost, like he was about to have a heart attack and drop dead. 

 

“Fucking - alright, Puffy is on my ass about me leaving you here all the time. So we’re going on a family vacation.” He clapped and it sounded like thunder. “Gonna go visit the Maldives or whatever the fuck. Now get packed, we need to go now. ” 

 

No witty retort, no snide comment. Schlatt got like that sometimes - anxious, paranoid. He fired his personal security detail semi-regularly and he frequently left the country. But he never took Tubbo with him. He usually didn’t even tell him he was leaving - he just left. 

 

If he was bringing Tubbo on a trip - and for fucks sake, calling it a vacation - something was seriously wrong. 

 

“Don’t - don’t go through all the trouble of packing clothes. ‘Kay? I’m gonna buy us some Hawaiian shirts when we get there.” He laughed, bordering on hysteria. “So just - get your fucking wallet so we can fucking go.” 

   ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

The door downstairs slammed open and Tubbo woke with a start. 

 

It was late. He didn’t know how late, there weren’t any clocks in the house. But his room was dark, pitchblack save a sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window from behind the gauzy curtains. 

 

Rowdy voices and laughter drifted upstairs, echoing off the walls. Unsteady footsteps - the kind he knew well, followed. Something fell - a plant, maybe - the loud crash of breaking glass followed by a noisy apology. 

 

He recognized one voice as Dream’s, but the other was unfamiliar. Higher in pitch though not by much, slightly rough and accented heavily. A guest, he supposed.

 

That wasn’t strange. Schlatt often had guests at odd hours. Business associates, clients. Sometimes he called them friends or buddies , an arm slung over their shoulders and a cigar between his fingers. He didn’t have any real friends, except perhaps Quackity.

 

(Well, he wasn’t quite sure friendship described the relationship Schlatt and Quackity had.) 

 

Sometimes he’d wake up to a poker party in full swing in the living room. They were exciting when he was younger - late nights with the grown ups, learning how to count cards and discovering graphic new expletives. 

 

Then he got older. Suddenly guests and parties meant raucous laughter at three am the night before exams, ruckus keeping him up until sunrise the day he had a match. What was once exhilarating rapidly became exasperating. 

 

Tubbo listened as footsteps made their way up the stairs, then down the hallway. Someone knocked three times on the door across the hall. Tommy’s door, he realised.

 

The door opened. Hushed arguing, tense and hurried. Tommy’s voice, raspy with sleep. Footsteps, out the door and down the stairs.

 

Tree branches rustled outside Tubbo’s window. He laid on his bed, listening for more sounds. Trying to make sense of things. He wondered if he should go investigate. It wasn’t like he was going to fall back asleep. 

 

After another crash, this time one that sounded like shattering glass, he decided it was in his best interest to see what was going on. He gave it five minutes, counting his breaths, and then he followed them. 

 

Broken glass littered the entry to the kitchen, along with the sticky red remains of what looked like half mopped up wine. Most of the lights were on but turned down low, sharpening shadows and casting an eerie glow on his surroundings. 

 

He made his way to the living room, the source of the voices he’d been hearing. 

 

There was a man around Dream’s age sitting on one of the pristine white couches - with a nearly empty glass of wine. ( A disaster waiting to happen.) His cheeks were slightly flushed, and his jacket hung lopsided, rumpled and slipping off his shoulders. There was something vaguely familiar about his face Tubbo couldn’t quite discern. 

 

Dream sat across from him, an untouched glass sitting on the table to his left. Still filled to the brim with claret. The bottle sat there too, about a third of the way empty. 

 

Tommy stood awkwardly in the corner with a little black notebook and a dismayed expression which quickly flipped to panic when he caught sight of Tubbo. Leave, he mouthed, frantically gesturing back the way he’d come. Get out.

 

“Eyy, another one!” The stranger turned to Dream. “ Fuck man, how many fucking kids do you have man?” He swivelled to look at Tubbo and his glass tipped to the side, spilling a few droplets. Tommy winced. 

 

“I’m sorry, I thought he was sleeping.” Dream seemed surprised to see him. “Did we wake you up?” He asked, with a careful sort of calm that turned Tubbo’s stomach for a reason he couldn’t place. 

 

“Um, yes.” He shuffled his feet, grabbing the doorframe to keep from stumbling. “Who - who is that?” 

 

“Call me,” the stranger laughed, “call me fucking Mexican Dream . No names, no names. It’s more fun that way.” 

 

( That would seem fun to a drunk person.)

 

“Right, okay.” He shook his head, dizzy. “Why are you here?” Rude, perhaps, but he had just been awakened rather unpleasantly. 

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Dream said crisply, waving off the question. “We’ll try to keep it down. Did you take your sleep medication?” 

 

“You didn’t leave any for me, I don’t think.” If he had, he would be completely dead to the world right now. “Which reminds me - I think we ought to discuss the way I’m given my medicine.” 

 

“In the morning.” Dream promises, standing up and walking towards him. He rifled through his pockets for a moment before pulling out an orange prescription bottle labelled Ativan . 

 

“Take these. To help you sleep through any noise.” He dumped two into Tubbo’s hand. “Should help with any nightmares too.” 

 

Curling his fingers around the pills, he smiled stiffly. “Thanks. I’ll just go get a glass of water and then I’ll head upstairs.”

 

As he left, he heard Tommy ask Mexican Dream a question. “What’s your favourite colour?” His voice shook. 

 

“ Red, ” was the last thing he heard before he climbed back up the stairs and returned to his too dark, too still room. He was unconscious before his head hit the pillowcase. 

 

(He did not hear the thump. )

 

 ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

 

Morning found him in the garden with Tommy again, a bowl of oatmeal left abandoned on the kitchen table and an emptied paper cup discarded in the trash. 

 

Tommy was meticulously tending to a new rose bush he’d planted the night before. 

 

“It’s best to plant things at night, you know.” He informed Tubbo confidently. “No sunburn that way. But you should water them in the morning, otherwise the water will just sit in the roots and rot things. Gotta give the sun time to dry out the dirt.” 

 

His hand was bandaged, the gauze damp and stained with mud. Tommy didn’t appear to own gloves, even though he spent most of his time gardening. 

 

“What happened to your hand?” Tubbo wasted no time in asking, allowing a little concern to creep into his voice. He was more curious than anything else, unsure how he’d managed to injure himself so badly in the short amount of time they’d spent apart. 

 

“Tripped holding a pair of gardening shears. It sucked ass .” He grabbed one of the blood-red blossoms and yanked off a petal, pressing it between two pages of his notebook. 

 

Looking around the rest of the patch the rosebush was nestled in, he noticed something. Several feet of dirt around the plant in every direction had been disturbed substantially. 

 

Though he didn’t know very much about gardening, Tubbo didn’t think the soil was meant to look like that. 

Notes:

Abrupt ending are my thing now. I hate this chapter. Duces.

Chapter 4: An Update of Sorts

Summary:

Hey Everybody. So, a few months ago I was trying to flesh out this story a little and I went man—those bones are looking a bit…brittle. This begun the ambitious project of rewriting this story from the beginning, implementing all the new puzzles and lore I’ve been accumulating.

Once I have three chapters completely written, I plan to repost this story. Most likely under a new name. If there’s anybody left I’ll keep you updated. And if you’d like updates on the rewrite, please let me know!

In the meantime, I’ll give y’all the unpolished draft of what would have been chapter four. (I didn’t get very far).

Tubbo laid in the soft green grass, twisting it between his fingers as he watched dark clouds gather overhead. They were like smudges of ink against the dull grey of the sky, lacking the interesting shapes he had come to appreciate. 

 

Cloud gazing was a relatively new hobby of his, one he picked up largely because he lacked the energy to do anything else. 

 

The Ativian made him lethargic. He felt as though someone had shoved cotton up his nose and into his brain, as though his limbs were made of rubber. But he slept deeply, undisturbed by nightmares. By dreams of any kind, to be precise. Once his head hit the pillow there wasn’t a sound in the world that could wake him - and that unsettled him for reasons he didn’t yet dare allow himself to name. 

 

From the kitchen, muffled shouting. He pushed himself into a sitting position and frowned at the house, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare with his good hand. 

 

He was something of a connoisseur when it came to fights. He could pluck out the voices of those involved, what they were upset about, how long he had until somebody started throwing things. It was like a trauma-induced party trick. 

 

Arguments were nothing new, but even now they made him nauseous. 

 

  ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

 

The sun beat down on the pavement, the cement blistering hot beneath Tubbo’s bare feet. He wished he had time to grab his shoes. 

 

“Can you come pick me up?” 

 

Inside the condo, something shattered. Most likely the bottle of champagne Quackity brought home to celebrate the deal he closed at work.

 

On the other line, a fork clinked against a plate. “Sure, yeah, I can do that. It might be a little while though…are you okay?” Puffy asked.

 

Quackity raised his voice. “Fuck you man, I do half your fucking job! You don’t even know how many meetings you’ve missed in the past week alone!”

 

Tubbo winced and turned off the speaker phone, holding the phone up to his ear so she wouldn’t hear the shouting. “Yeah, I’m fine-” 

 

“Oh my god, honeybun ,” Schlatt spat the nickname like it was poison. “Do you ever stop fucking WHINING?” 

 

Something else shattered with the light, tinkling sound of smashed porcelain. A plate from dinner—he didn’t even get four bites of his Khao Pad before the arguing started. 

 

“I’m just sick of listening to Schlatt and Quackity shout about, I don’t know, whatever it is they’re shouting about.” He walked the curb and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. 

 

Puffy sighed. “How long have they been at it?” 

 

“Schlatt is due to start complaining about how useless his underlings are any second,” he notes, pretending to check his watch. “So probably twenty minutes, just about.” 

 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Wait by the stop sign, I don’t want you near that house until they’ve sorted things out.” 

 

Tubbo felt exhausted. “Yes ma’am.” 

 

  ◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸

Chapter 5: A Brief Update

Summary:

A Sneak Peak

Notes:

Hey guys! This is just a brief little update to let you guys know I’m not dead. I’m afraid the writing is rather slow going as I’ve been moving a lot and I’m also rather ill, but it is going!

For one thing, I’ve got a new title for the story! “Anymore Words? (I Think You’ve Spoken Enough)”

I’ve also been writing the story as a script of sorts to help me figure out dialogue (because I’m shit at it) and just adapting that as I go. I’ll be posting that separately at my friend’s suggestion.

To ride you over, here is a snippet from what I’ve got so far in the script. :)

TOMMY

It's just ‘cause Dream likes to show off to his clients. Wants ‘em to know he’s the biggest man around,y’know? He’s really successful and shit. 

 

TUBBO

What does he do? 

 

Tommy instantly sticks his head back out into the hallway, checking, Tubbo assumes, to see if Dream is within earshot. 

 

TOMMY 

He’s in The Business. 

 

TUBBO

What do you mean? What business?

For a moment, Tommy’s mouth hangs open as though he’s considering answering honestly. Then he seems to think the better of it, wiring his jaw shut and shaking his head a little. 

 

TOMMY 

I mean, he has his own business. In finance, or something. Usually when he starts talking about work I zone out. I zone out all the time, they call me zone boy–let's get back to the tour.

 

Some questions are best kept to yourself, and there are times to pry and times where things are best left alone. 

 

TUBBO

Whatever you say, boss man. 

 

Chapter 6: An Update of Sorts

Summary:

Just a brief update!

Notes:

So, the writing and editing of the first chapter of the rewrite is slow going. I’ve recently transferred to a new school with a much heavier workload than I’m used to, and I’ve been having some health problems that make writing quite the…task.

Since I feel bad about that, I was wracking my brain for something to give everybody to hold them over until I finish that first chapter and I decided to look through old drafts. This is one I found that would have been part of Chapter Two of the original.

The house was too quiet at night. 

 

A handful of crickets chirped, some floorboards creaked, an owl seemed to be having a fit somewhere - but it was all hushed. Muted. 

 

He longed for the sounds of the city. Cars and sirens and the occasional gunshot. His dad’s frankly ridiculous snores, which he always used to pray would mysteriously stop one day because he could hear them through the door and they kept him up at night. 

 

Well. At least that wish came true. 

 

Strange to think about. The fact that he would never see his dad again. Those feelings were jumbled, all tangled up tight in his chest and writhing like living creatures - like a nest of snakes. 

 

It’s hard to mourn someone you never truly knew. He knew his dad was a big-shot politician, he knew his dad’s favorite hangover cure was a Virgin Bloody Mary, and he knew his dad was happy to throw money at him no matter the occasion if it kept him out of sight for a few hours. Little more than that.

 

Is it wrong to wonder if you miss your own father or not? 

 

During his time in the hospital he quickly learned that those thoughts often led to the sort that made his burns ache. 

 

So he stopped. He sat up (carefully, he was always so careful now) and made his way to the window. The moon was full and bright. If he strained he could almost hear a wolf howling somewhere in the distance. 

 

Softly he brushed the curtain aside, allowing light to stream in through the glass and scatter a few beams of moonlight on the dark-wood floor. With his damaged hand he reached for them, sighing quietly to himself.

 

There was a gentle knock at the door. He startled, head whipping away from the pretty sight. 

 

Isn’t it a bit late for this?

 

Surprisingly the door didn’t squeak when he opened it. He’d expected it to - the doors in his condo nearly always had. 

 

Tommy was standing in the hallway, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands like just needed something to do with them. He smiled - or rather, he grimaced. Like he was trying to offer a grin but his facial muscles didn’t quite remember how to make the expression. 

 

“Ow do?” He coughed. “I uh - I heard you tossin’ and turnin’ and shit. Thought it might be the quiet, y’know? Got to me when I first moved here too. If that is your problem. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you, I can go -”

 

Tubbo reached for Tommy’s arm as he turned to leave, letting go like he’d touched the eye of a hot stove when the other boy flinched violently. “It’s okay. Did you want to come inside?” 

 

“We have to be -” Tommy put a finger to his lips. “We have to be really quiet.” His voice lowered to practically a whisper. 

 

Glancing over his shoulder as he took a small step inside the door, he hummed nervously. “I can’t - I shouldn’t stay long, yeah? I’m not supposed to leave my room at night.”

 

Not my business, definitely not my business.

 

“Why not?” Tubbo blurted out as he moved to his bed and started pulling off the comforter, planning to lay it on the floor to use as a cushion. 

 

“I’d get into trouble. Mischief if you will.” He glanced at the window, averting his eyes. “Plus Dream is worried I’ll steal things or run off in the middle of the night. Ah - what are you doing there Boss Man?”

 

“I don’t want my ass to get bruised sitting on the uncomfortable floor. I’m delicate. Like a bumblebee.” Tubbo answered matter-of-factly. “Now talk to me. I want information.” 

 

He plopped onto the now well-spread blanket and crossed his legs, gesturing for Tommy to do the same. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.

 

“What do you want to know?” Tommy asked hesitantly. He did everything hesitantly - even his fidgeting was uncertain, halting, like he could and would stop in a heartbeat if anyone so much as raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

What’s safe to ask?

 

Shrugging, he leaned back against the bed frame. “I don’t know. Just general stuff maybe, like….who planted all the flowers and shit out front? They’re well pretty.” 

 

“Oh.” Tommy shifted and looked like he might smile, eyes softening. “I did. I always thought I would hate gardening, but it’s basically playing in mud for hours. I love mud. I want to eat mud. Flowers are pretty cool too though. Maybe I can show you the garden in the morning.” 

 

“That’d be awesome.” Tubbo tossed his head, trying to clear some hair out of his face. It was always getting in the way, itchy and thick. He was fairly certain he inherited his hair from Puffy, whose unruly mane had curls large enough to wrap around her wrist like bracelets. 

 

“You’re - I mean -“ Tommy paused and cleared his throat, suddenly flushing a light, embarrassed shade of red. “I mean you’re not just saying that to mess with me are you? Because we don’t have to look at it.” 

 

“Flowers are fucking cool man.” Giving up on his previous method, he just finger-combed the hair out of his face - huffing a little in annoyance when his nails caught on a tangle.  “I’d love to look at some flowers, I swear it.” 

 

Shoulders eased, relief clear on his face, Tommy gave a little nod of approval - apparently Tubbo had passed some sort of unspoken test. 

 

“Good. That’s really good.” Jerky shrug, awkward wooden-puppet movements. “What do…what do you like to do? Y’know, for fun?”  

 

What do I like to do? 

 

Ride the bus for miles and miles until nothing looks familiar. Reach new records in Packman at an antique arcade in the decrepit old shopping center near the condo, located squarely between the shady Chinese Takeout Place and a derelict convenience store. For a while he’d made it a goal to try the pancakes at every diner in L’Manberg, because hell, why not? 

 

“I’m a chess prodigy.” He settled on. “I used to compete in tournaments and stuff - even got on the fucking news once which was pretty pog to be honest. So I play chess sometimes. Usually against the computer, since I haven’t found anyone who can beat me yet.” 

 

“You don’t sound like you enjoy it very much,”  Tommy noted. “You sound - fuck, what’s the word…resigned? I don’t fucking know. Like it was okay but not fun.” 

 

Startlingly, he was correct. Chess was something Tubbo started doing because it was easy, he was good at it. A natural at it. He got trophies. Prizes. Applause. 

 

He never got his dad’s attention. 

 

“I prefer video games these days. Play a lot of Minecraft.” Smile - grimace, it’s all the same in the dark. They could just make out each other’s faces in the dim moonlight, any details beyond vague shapes shrouded in shadow. 

 

“Ha.” Tommy laughed, a short, breathy thing. “We haven’t got a computer here. Apparently I’m not supposed to go near anything with a fucking screen.” He explained, sounding rueful and mild in equal measure. Clearly it was something he’d gotten used to a long time ago. 

 

Laying flat on the floor, Tubbo could feel the grit and grooves in the wood under his back. There was a gauge in the floor he traced absently with his fingers, enjoying the strange texture. 

 

Foolish is going to find this hilarious. 

 

“Why not? Does Dream think they’re radioactive or something? Is he one of those people who shops at Trader Joe’s?” He didn’t mean to gush, but he’d never met someone who didn’t have access to excessive technology. Almost everyone in his family had worked with computers to some degree - hell, even his dad’s ex-fiancée had been into that shit. 

 

Laying down next to him, Tommy snorted. “It’s my doctor actually. Says the internet might ‘further my delusions and ‘damage my fragile psyche’ or whatever the fuck.” 

 

“Care to elaborate on that, Boss Man?” Tubbo pressed, turning onto his (un-injured) side to stare at him imploringly. 

 

At first, Tommy said no. Then Tubbo’s stubborn silence finally got to him and he sighed, giving in to the smaller boy’s plea for information. 

 

“All the adults think I’m crazy.” Tommy admitted in a conspiratorial whisper. “Totally fucked in the head. I’m guessing they didn’t warn you about that.” 

 

“Must have slipped their minds.” Tubbo answered amiably, almost lethargic in his calm reaction. “So are you?” He was half listening, half staring at the ceiling. It was relatively plain, but there was an intriguing stain just above his head and he was trying to figure out how it got there.

 

“Am I what?” Tommy rolled into his side just like Tubbo had, until they were properly face to face. His gaze felt searching, prying, but Tubbo didn’t think he meant it to be so he didn’t mind much. 

 

“Crazy. Mad. Totally bonkers.” He yawned and it was painful, his melted skin protesting most enthusiastically.

 

 Puffy always said those were very negative terms, crazy and mad and all that. She said it was okay, that everyone struggled with mental health sometimes and some people just needed a little more help than others which was ‘totally fine’. That didn’t make them crazy or bad or wrong. 

 

I miss her. 

 

Tommy laughed that quiet, rueful laugh again. “The hell if I know, Big Man. Maybe. Fucking probably.” He adjusted his body so he was lying on his side like Tubbo, nearly eye to eye with him. 

 

“That’s okay.” He let his eyes drop shut and bunched the blanket up under his head as a makeshift pillow. “I think maybe what happened to me is making me a little crazy too.” 

 

Sleep wrapped him in her warm embrace and he drifted off, fast asleep (or doing a great job of pretending to be) before Tommy could ask any follow up questions. 

 

Notes:

The ending is so rushed sksksks I’ll fix it later.

Feel free to throw me some criticism, I thrive on negativity.