Chapter Text
Two boys sat crouching under a bed. Feet stalked past them in flurries, the sounds of boots and chattering surrounding the air as they huddled close together. The smaller of the two with a matted mop of brown hair held firmly to the bed's metal frame.
“Promise me,” he said, holding out his pinky.
The taller boy, lankier and scrawny, eyed his friend's hand. He took a shuddering breath.
“I—I can’t—”
“Ranboo, promise me.”
Ranboo met his eyes. “Tubbo—”
A door was slammed open, the sound echoing over all else filling the room. Desperation flooded his friends eyes, a frantic waiver to his outstretched hand. He abandoned the bed frame, lunging to cling to Ranboo’s shirt instead.
“Ranboo, promise you’ll marry me. Then we’ll find each other again. And we’ll be all big and adults and I can protect us!”
“Tubbo—”
“I can protect you.” His eyes bored into Ranboo’s.
The clicking of heels hitting stone drew closer, the sweeping of a dress catching the corner of Ranboo’s eye. He was almost out of time.
He grabbed Tubbo’s pinky. “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”
Ranboo skirted out from under the bed, and as he left Tubbo called to him.
“I’ll find you!”
Ranboo thinks he likes this house. It's quiet and small. He’d call it cozy if he didn’t feel so on edge sitting inside of it. Animal heads leered down towards him from the ceiling, their glass eyes staring into his soul. He feels like they can see through him even though they’re dead.
His feet shift on the rug beneath him. His toes sink into the plush. He almost feels like he shouldn’t be standing on it. His eyes stay pointedly fixed on the gun laying across the wall. He doesn’t really like the decorations in this house.
“Help yourself to anything in the fridge, kid.” Ranboo yanks his eyes up to the man in front of him.
“Ranboo,” he corrects the gruff man without a second thought.
The man gives a stiff nod. “Ranbow,” he amends. He’s still wrong.
Ranboo doesn’t correct him again, he picks at his nails instead.
“Your room is just up them stairs,” the man points down a corridor. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable, dinner will be ready at six.” Ranboo lets his feet carry him down the hall with the clear instruction.
His small bag is slid off from his shoulders and placed on the finely tucked sheets. The green and red plaid is pulled taunt over the bed, Ranboo almost wonders if he’s actually meant to sleep in it with how tightly it's all tucked. The items in his bag are pulled out with practiced ease, and he hastily slips the important ones under the bed but leaves the clothing tucked in the pack.
There’s a knock from behind. Ranboo spins around in time to the creaking of the door.
It's the man, in his red flannel rolled at the sleeves, and a small parcel tucked under his burly arms. “Sorry, I uh, almost forgot,” a finger reaches up to scratch at the base of his chin. He holds out the package.
Ranboo takes a tentative step forward.
“You can take it, I—I wasn’t sure what you might like but I wanted to get you something, as a,” the man coughs into his fist. “...A sort of ‘welcome to the home’ kinda thing.”
Ranboo wraps his hands around the paper. He stares up at the man.
“Well, go on,” He smiles. “Open it.”
Ranboo peels away the wrapping. There’s a book underneath.
Ranboo runs his hand over the leather bound cover, entirely mesmerized. It's stunning.
He blinks up at the man, confused.
“I know you kids don’t have much but, uh, well, memories are everything right? I heard you’ve got a bit of a memory issue so I thought, maybe you’d appreciate having something to keep track of all of them in order and stuff.”
Ranboo doesn’t remember having any memory issues, but he likes the book regardless. He pulls the cover closer to his chest, whispering a quiet, “thank you,” to the man in front of him.
The man beams, eyes lighting up with delight. Ranboo feels something warm bloom in him at the sight, like he’s done something good even if he doesn’t know what.
The man pats the doorframe. “Right, then. I’ll uhm, leave you to it. Just wanted to get that to you.”
Ranboo curls his fingers around the spine as the man leaves. He waits for the wooden door to click shut before opening the journal, flicking through the yellowed pages empty and waiting. His thumb drags along the edges. He wonders when the last time he got a present had been.
He quickly shoves the book under the bed with the rest of his important items.
This, he decides, is an important item.
01/05/XX
Entry One:
Your married to Tubbo. You can’t forget.
Also Robbie gave you this book. This is your first gift.
Ever!
(you are happy)
Ranboo isn’t happy.
The back of his eyes sting in a familiar way he didn’t have the memories to pair to. It made his throat want to lock up, his chest feeling strained. Maybe the air is trying to avoid him, he thinks, with the way it instantly gets harder to breathe. It feels like one of the heads on Robbie’s wall is sitting right on top of his chest.
He’s being crushed.
He wants to stay with Robbie.
He doesn’t understand why he can’t.
He likes Robbie’s house, even if it has creepy decor that stares down at him with glassy eyes. He likes the man's scraggly beard, and deep chuckles and red flannels. He likes watching T.V. before bed with Robbie, and going on walks into the woods.
He likes Robbie.
“But I don't want to go,” he pleads. “I like it here.”
He thought Robbie liked him, too.
The lady drops to his level, her wide pants hovering over the floor. “I know, sweetie,” she says softly. “But you can’t stay here. Another kid needs to stay here for a while now. You get to go to a new house, isn't that exciting? You’ll get to meet someone else, it’ll be like an adventure.”
Ranboo doesn’t want an adventure. He wants to stay with Robbie.
“Are they going to be nice like Robbie?”
The lady smiles at him. “Of course, there’ll even be another kid your age there.”
Ranboo brightens at that. Living out in the woods with Robbie has been nice, but it was mostly just him and Robbie. Things got slow at times. Robbie couldn’t always play with him and Ranboo didn’t quite know what to do with himself when he was alone.
Being alone made him feel like something was going wrong.
“My age?” He asks.
Her red lips stretch further, and she gives a nod. “Your age. Her name is Morgan.”
“Morgan,” Ranboo feels the name out on his tongue. He wonders if they’ll get along.
He hopes so.
“They like me better, you know,” the little girl folds her arms over herself. Her braided pigtails twist around her ears as she leers at him, like he isn’t taller than her. Ranboo tries to make himself smaller.
“I was here first. They’re my parents.”
Her dress flows around her ankles. He thinks it looks almost like flower petals, the way it twists around her knees. He thinks the blue coloring matches the sky exactly, and he thinks about how he wants to touch a cloud. Anything but what she’s saying.
He doesn’t like what she’s saying.
“I was planned. I know because they said so.”
Ranboo doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he was meant to.
“Do you even have parents?”
“Yes,” He has parents. Of course he has parents.
So why…
“I, I must have.”
The girl scowls, “You must have? What, do you not remember them?” She lets out a scoff, her feet stomping on the concrete below her. Ranboo is reminded of a giant lizard he once saw in a cartoon. He thinks she too would be good at terrorizing a whole city. “I’d never forget my parents. Maybe that's why they got rid of you.”
“They didn’t get rid of me!” The words leave him without a conscious thought, but he knows them to be true. He knows it, down to his core. The words are wrong.
But he doesn’t…
He doesn’t remember.
It stings.
What if it's true—What if he forgot?
He wouldn’t forget something like that. He wouldn’t.
He doesn’t forget the important things.
“Mhm,” the girl nods to herself, talking like she knew all. “They got rid of you. That's why you're here. Don't you know.” She says it like it isn’t a question. She says it like it’s a fact.
Ranboo doesn’t Like Morgan.
His parents didn’t get rid of him.
“Can we go back inside?” he asks. He doesn’t want to talk about the things he can’t remember anymore. He doesn’t want to think about the things he wasn’t there for.
He doesn’t want to hear her talk about it like she was.
Morgan shrugs, the sleeves of her dress raising to brush against her pigtails. “Sure, but we’re watching Clifford.”
“Clifford?”
“Yeah,” she nods. “Because I said so.”
“You're back.”
“I am,” she smiles down at him.
“Am I leaving here, too?”
Her smile turns sad, but she keeps it stubbornly on her face. Ranboo thinks it looks wrong. He doesn’t say anything, though. He kind of wants to leave this time. He doesn’t like Morgan. She's bossy, and pushy, and she never lets him pick what they watch.
Maybe he doesn’t want to watch Clifford. Maybe he wants to watch Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.
“Yep, another adventure, kiddo.”
“Does this one have kids, too?” he asks.
Her brow furrows. “Did you like hanging out with Morgan?”
Ranboo bites his lip, debating over telling the truth. Her eyes continue to stare into him, questioningly. He doesn’t like her. She took him from Tubbo and Robbie and put him with Morgan.
He doesn’t like Morgan.
“It was fine.”
The crease in her brow drops, and she gives a wobbly smile. She looks like she wants to say something. Something other. She doesn’t, though. She doesn’t say what she wants to say, he can tell from the twist in her lip as she gives a decisive nod and a curt, “Okay.”
Ranboo doesn’t like Puffy.
02/18/XX
Entry Nine:
The Andersons took me to the park down the street. We saw a dog.
The owner let me pet it. Her name was Bailey. She had really pretty yellow fur.
Ranboo blinks at the page…
He doesn’t… he doesn’t remember writing it.
His hands tingle all the way down to his nails. He’s kept the book securely under his bed this whole time. Nobody could have gotten to it. He’s checked. It's the same angle, same page, same spot exactly where he had left it from before.
It’s his handwriting.
He tucks the book back into its place, noting the boards it lays across and the direction the binding is facing. He’ll know if someone’s tampered with it.
His feet thud down the hall.
“Kimberly,” he calls, face peering into the kitchen.
The woman turns to him from where she faces the fridge. “Ranboo, you need a snack?”
Ranboo flicks his gaze to the fridge, eyeing the cup perched in her hand and pressed to the water dispenser, “no, uh.” He tentatively steps into the room. He didn’t think this far ahead. “Did, did we go to the park, uhm, uh, two days ago?”
His weight shifts from foot to foot as she stares quizzically at him.
“Yeah, you got to pet that golden retriever, remember?”
Ranboo does not.
“Y—Yeah, yeah yeah. I, uh, a friend at school asked about it and I forgot what type of dog it was.”
Kimberly Anderson’s face lights up, setting the cup down as she steps closer to him, “You’ve got a pal at school, RanRan?”
Ranboos' gut sinks, but he tries to smile up at her, his skin itching to leave. “Yeah uhm, yes. I’ve got a friend.”
She closes the distance, fingers carding through his hair. It makes Ranboo’s stomach churn further. “I’m really glad. Well, you be sure to tell them it was a golden retriever, okay?”
Ranboo nods up at her. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be sure to do that.”
He leaves the room, his stomach in knots.
Why doesn’t he remember writing that log?
This house is quiet for the most part. Ranboo’s current foster spends much of his time out, but the fridge is stocked and there’s always something left out for Ranboo to occupy himself with.
It’s quiet, but it’s okay.
He misses Tubbo.
When his foster is there, they play board games. That's fun.
Ranboo sucks at cribbage.
He wonders if Tubbo is any good at it?
Ranboo has noticed a pattern. He'd have to be a fool not to have seen it sooner, but everytime Puffy visits it's either to check in with how he's doing or to remove him from where he is.
He hates her for it.
Puffy comes, asks him how he is. Leaves for a while.
Only to come back and take him away.
Rinse and repeat.
He's sick of it. He just wants to stay. He wants a house like the other kids in his school, with parents to come back to at the end of the day and a house that never moves unless the whole family leaves with it.
He just wants to stay in one place for longer than a handful of months.
"I don't want to go."
Puffy is gentle with her response. "You don't want to stay," it almost feels mocking with how gently she says it.
Ranboo bawls his fists at his sides. "I don't want to go." He holds his ground.
Puffy stares down at him for a moment. A breath leaves her lips, and she crouches down to his level. Somehow the action doesn't make him feel on even ground with her, it makes him feel as though she's making fun of him. He scowls at her.
"Look," she starts, and Ranboo contemplates closing his eyes just to be a brat. He thinks about it. He doesn't. Puffy pinches her brow, "I watched Trevor push you off the steps, you really want me to believe that's all he put you through? Is this the house you really want to stay in? Forever?"
No.
He'd rather die before telling her that, though. He keeps his lips sealed, holding her gaze dead-on as he does so.
The way she presses her eyes shut tells Ranboo his point was made.
"I don't want to go."
Puffy looks at him, exasperated. If Ranboo liked her, maybe he'd feel bad for how stubborn he's being—how much of a brat he's acting like. But this isn't the first time this has happened. It's not the second. It's not even the third.
He doesn't want to go.
But Ranboo already knows he doesn't have a choice. Ranboo doesn't get a say in where he goes—he doesn’t get a say in anything regarding himself. She’ll make him leave no matter what he wants, because it's not about what Ranboo wants. It's what the adults want.
And the adults don't want him.
"Ranboo, I'll make you a deal."
Her next words seal it. Ranboo doesn't want to hear it, he doesn’t want to hear anything she has to say.
“How about we stop and get some ice cream on our way?" It's a last-ditch effort to get him to go without dragging him kicking and screaming.
He hates how quickly the fight leaves him. If he's dragged kicking and screaming, he'll just end up making himself and Puffy more upset. It'll make it harder for him to find a home he can stay in. Forever.
It's not worth fighting a battle he’s destined to lose.
And he won't have ice cream.
He kind of wants ice cream right now. His ankle hurts where Trevor shoved him from the steps and he tumbled into the cement. Ranboo blinks away a sting from his eyes and takes a deep breath.
"Oreo flurry," he says simply.
Puffy doesn't miss a beat, "McDonald’s or Dairy Queen."
Ranboo scoffs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Dairy Queen, obviously."
Her joints crack as she stands up, reaching out a hand for him.
He takes it.
"Dairy Queen, it is," she concedes.
“Hey Boo, do you want to pour in the ingredients or stir them?”
Ranboo kicks his legs under him, they swing between the metal of the bar stool he’s sitting on, eyeing the measuring cups filled to the brim with the required ingredients.
“Stir, please,” he says. He doesn’t trust his hands not to spill them all over the place.
He’ll either end up with wet hands and flour everywhere or, at the very least, add them into the mix in the wrong order.
Amy tilts the bowl towards him, handing off the whisk.
A hand grazes past his vision once the bowl is in reach, swiftly sliding beneath the rim and attempting to spoon out the bowl's contents.
Ranboo startles, “Hey!”
Niki giggles at him, pulling her arm back only to stare at it sadly.
“It’s not stirred yet,” she says disappointedly. Her fingers are coated in a sheet of light powder and the disheartenship from seeing it rolls off her in waves.
Amy laughs, light and airy. Ranboo can't help his own grin.
“Nope, not yet Niks’, but that's just what we’re about to do.” Niki brightens.
“Can I crack the eggs?” She asks. Amy reaches out to tap on the back of her hand, letting the measuring cup of milk fall into the bowl in front of Ranboo as she does so.
“How ‘bout it, go grab ‘em.”
Niki slides off the bar stool, her feet thudding on the wooden flooring as she drops. Her flow of pink hair slides to the fridge as she uses her socks to skate on the flooring. Mermaids pattern the bottom of her socks in bright blues and pinks.
“Eggs!” She produces the cartoon above her head.
“Be careful,” Amy amends gently as Ranboo watches her make her way back to the counter. Ranboo can’t help the spike in his heart as she slams the cardboard box in front of herself before crawling back into her chair.
“Niki, you have to crack them in the bowl.”
She twirls to face him. “I know,” she says indignantly.
Ranboo rolls his eyes but waits for her to crack the egg over the rim of the bowl. Amy walks over with a cup filled with water, and Ranboo pulls his hands away as she pours it in. The yolks and liquids clash.
“Ew.”
Amy lets out a quiet huff, a smile on her face, “yeah, but it’ll taste really good.”
“We get to eat it this time?” Niki has stars in her eyes as she leans over the counter on her palms.
Amy hums, “Mhmm, you get to decorate it, too. However you please.”
“M&M’s,” Ranboo blurts without a thought.
Amy tosses her head back with the abrupt laughter leaving her lips. “Yes Ranboo, we can add M&M’s.”
“To the batter?”
Niki elbows him, “No that’d mess up the recipe.”
“Oh.”
Niki inches closer to him as he mixes the ingredients. Her palms slide over the back of his hands, fingers falling in place over his and miming his stirring. They move the whisk around in sync for a while.
“Can I stir?” She asks, an added edge of innocence that doesn’t fit to her voice.
She's going to steal some batter.
Ranboo rolls his eyes but lets her, his hands falling away easily.
“Boo, you want to go down the hall into the pantry? You can grab the decoration stuff in there and lay it out for when this goes in the oven.”
“Okay!” He slides off his seat, and pads over to the hall taking the short route to the pantry.
This house is small with only two bedrooms, one of which he and Niki share. They actually live on the second floor, the floor below them being a bakery Amy owns. Ranboo thinks it's pretty cool but Niki absolutely adores it. She took to baking the minute she arrived.
Ranboo’s kind of jealous of how well Amy and Niki have bonded over it.
He’d been staying here for well over two months before Niki got placed with him. Amy and her had clicked instantly, while Ranboo…
Ranboo didn’t.
He likes Amy, of course. And he loves Niki—she helps him with his homework and never touches his things, she’s sweet and she’ll let him have a turn choosing what they decide to do—And they all get along.
But he’s not good at baking, like them.
He doesn't know how to make his way around the kitchen without tripping over his own feet or pouring flour onto the floor. He always over- or under-fills the measuring cups, his fingers too shaky when he dumps them in. He hardly knows the difference in texture between salt and sugar.
Amy’s been kind to him about it, but he can tell she’s wearing thin.
Niki isn’t like him.
Niki is good at baking. Her measurements are precise, her hands are steady, and she memorizes the recipes eerily quick. Her hands don’t tremble as she pours and stirs, she deftly finds what she needs and adds accordingly. He’s fairly sure she could bake without instructions to follow.
It catches Amy’s eye, and she looks at her differently than she would Ranboo.
He hates the jealousy he feels at it. He knows why Amy likes Niki, he knows why she looks at her differently than him. He likes Niki. He understands why they click and he doesn’t. Being jealous feels wrong—Unfair.
Niki and her are amazing. They flow perfectly together. Like two chimes perfectly in sync.
Ranboo gets in the way of that flow, he knows.
He wonders how much longer until Puffy comes to get him, until Niki’s social worker comes by and tells her she gets to stay. It makes Raboo’s gut swirl and his skin feel sticky.
The jealousy doesn’t hurt as much as the guilt.
Niki needs a home, too—She’s been in the system, she’s house-hopped before—She probably wants to stay somewhere as badly as Ranboo does, so why should he feel bitter she’s finding that? Because he hasn’t yet?
It's not fair to her. It’s not fair.
He returns to the kitchen, arms loaded to the brim with edible decorations and treats. And M&M’s.
And—
“Boo… Why do you have a bag of spaghetti?”
Ranboo blinks at the package of uncooked noodles.
“Oh.” He must have grabbed that by mistake.
Niki howls with laughter beside him. “Do you know how bad noodles would taste in a cake?” She asks between bursts of laughter, her hand clutching her stomach as the peels roll out of her.
Ranboo’s ears flush, “No! I’d bet it tastes good. In fact, we should add it!”
“We should not add spaghetti. How about that.”
Ranboo sends a playful glare towards Amy. She smiles wider. “We could have it for dinner though?”
“It’d taste good,” A last ditch effort to save his dignity.
Amy doesn’t miss a beat. “It very much would not, and we don’t need either of you getting sick here, now do we?”
Ranboo huffs, but drops it.
Niki straightens up like a bolt, and Ranboo’s eyes draw to her, “Oh! I’ll be right back!” She shouts, on her feet in an instant and dashing toward their room.
“What’re you—” The door falls shut with a slam. Amy lets out a sigh, her gaze trained where Niki retreated. “That girl…” she mutters fondly.
It makes something ache inside of Ranboo. His fingers find each other and he fiddles with his nails hoping to distract himself with the sensation. He wished it worked better.
“She, She gets to stay here, doesn’t she?” He asks before he can stop himself.
Amy's eyes snap towards him, a sudden sharpness to them. “What?”
Ranboo swallows the lump in his throat. “Niki,” he starts, “you’re—you want to keep her. I can tell.”
Amys' eyes sag, something wet and pitiful entering her gaze, “Ranboo…”
“It’s okay!” He rushes to explain, feeling the need to fill the air, to stop her before she says something she doesn’t mean, “I get it, I really do! You two are like a perfect fit, I’m, I’m happy for you. For her. She, uh, she needs this.”
Amy takes a step towards him, Ranboo's throat runs dry. He wishes he never spoke. She takes another step, her hand reaching, hovering. Unsure.
“Ranboo, I—”
The door swings open, and the sound of Niki returning fills the room. Ranboo's hands fall away from each other.
“I found it!” She calls as she dashes back into the room.
Amy looks like she wants to continue the conversation, but Ranboo’s done. He’s said his peace. Maybe it’ll make him feel better now, when Puffy comes to take him away. Maybe his chest will stop aching with the thought of him leaving and Niki not. Of Niki finding her place.
They’re a good match.
He’s happy for them.
“What is it?” He asks Niki, turning away from Amy and her pained expression.
He wonders if he’ll find a good match, too, or if he’s just destined to be alone.
05/20/XX
Entry Seventeen:
Gummy worms and M&M’s don’t mix well with cake.
“This is Ranboo, the foster kid we’ve taken in.” A stiff hand with sharp nails ushers him forward. In front of him, is an older lady, late forties dressed to the nines in a fancy low-cut red dress. Ranboo keeps his eyes pointedly on her face. The smeared blur of blue across her eyelids makes it rather easy.
“Well, come on dear, say hi.” The hands push him closer to the woman. She must be the hostess, he concludes, holding his hands out as he was shown to only hours before.
He keeps his voice steady as he introduces himself. “Hello ma’am, it's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh my,” the woman raises a hand to her lips, her eyes sparkling. “He’s such a well-behaved little thing.” She holds the edges of his fingers delicately and shakes. It's awkward and Ranboo kind of wants to cleanse his hand of the sensation.
The lady behind him, Eleanor, gives a polite laugh. “You can hardly call him little, he’s such a weedy thing.” Her nails bend over his shoulder into his collar. The tie around his neck feels like it's trying to suffocate him.
“Yes, he is quite a tall thing, how old did you say he was?”
Ranboo is fairly certain Eleanor hadn’t.
“I’m almost twelve,” he responds.
The older lady's eyes flicker to him before landing back on his foster standing behind him. Her lips twist as they meet eyes behind Ranboo’s back.
The nails dig a little stiffer into his shoulder and Ranboo holds back a wince.
“Yes,” Eleanor says, an edge to her tone that Ranboo’s almost convinced he’s placed there himself. “He’s eleven. Due to be twelve in four weeks.”
Ranboo looks over his shoulder. “You know when my birthday is?”
Eleanor spares him a glance. “Of course, it’s on your file, darling.”
“How long do you have him for?”
Eleanor's charming smile returns as she looks at the woman in front of her. “Yes, that's the thing about this, you never quite know. It could be a singular month, it could be seven. Possibly a year. It’s really all a gamble.” A gloved hand poses between her lips and Ranboo's ear as she leans closer to the woman. “The kids are quite a gamble, too. Luckily, if they get to be too much, you can trade them in. Their social workers are really quite helpful.”
Ranboo wishes her hand would block her voice.
Eleanor steps back, dropping her wrist.
“Ah yes,” the older woman turns to address him again, and Ranboo straightens out. “I know what all that house-hopping must have felt like at your age.” Ranboo can’t help the spark that burns in his chest at the words.
“You do?” He asks, hoping for a slice of wisdom, of how to come through the other end. Hoping his voice doesn’t convey how desperate he’s feeling.
The older woman nods. “Yes, yes. I did quite a bit of it in my younger years—You see, my parents liked to travel a lot—” Ranboo hopes the way his shoulders fall isn’t visible. “They’d pawn me off with family for a week or so at a time while they were gone. They always came back though, of course.”
“Of course,” Ranboo echoes, trying not to sound bitter.
The lady furrows her brow at him, he assumes he’s failed. “Something the matter, dear? You sound a bit sour.”
Ranboo tries to reset his face, clearing it of the turmoil roiling in his gut. “No, it’s, it’s nothing, sorry ma’am.”
She gives a tight huff, meeting Eleanor's eyes once again behind him where he can’t see.
“Why don’t you go join Ronnan by the fire, Ranboo?” Eleanor's silky sweet voice whispers in his ear. It’s not all that much of a suggestion. Not that Ranboo would shoot down an invitation to escape this conversation.
“I’ll, I’ll go do that,” He says with a polite nod to both of the ladies.
He visibly relaxes when he’s out of their eyesight. His feet drag him to the living room where he drops to the couch, still perching on the edge.
“They’re a bit much, aren’t they?”
The voice startles him, and Ranboo straightens out.
His eyes fall on Ronnan, his foster father. He’s squatted on his heels in front of the couch.
Ranboo relaxes and breathes out a sigh. This draws a chuckle from Ronnan.
“Yeah, they tend to do that.” He sounds fond as he stares into the fire. “I’m sorry about them. The evening will be over soon enough, then we can head to the house,” house, “and never do this again.”
Ranboo stares at Ronnan, the way his hands rest over his knees and his suit bunches at the wrists. His coat lays over the edge of the seat behind him, and Ranboo wishes to follow in course but the idea of getting chewed out later by Eleanor has him staying how he is.
“They insist on doing this every time we get a new foster,” Ranboo hadn’t expected him to say more, he glances away hoping he wasn’t caught staring. “It’s stupid, really. Eleanor likes to flaunt it around, like, like it makes her a good person or something. Giving a kid a home. Like it's not a basic necessity we're providing.”
Ranboo’s eyes find the fire.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with… this,” his hands fly around his head, before dropping to his sides.
His eyes pierce Ranboo from where he stares.
“I’m sorry," Ronnan says.
Ranboo has to swallow down the rise in his throat. His eyes flutter shut, letting the words fall over him. His eyes burn, beg, to shed tears. To believe someone actually means what they say. To believe that maybe someone, even temporary, genuinely cares after his wellbeing.
It feels wrong.
He feels wrong.
“It’s fine.” He says.
“It’s not.” Ronnan stands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Do you want something to drink?”
The suddenness of the topic change has Ranboo’s eyes flaring open. “What?”
“I’m running into the kitchen to grab a drink, I’ll get you one, too. It’s been a while since you’ve drank some water, don’t want you getting dehydrated or something by this fire.”
“It’s fine—”
Ronnan is already on his way out the room.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ranboo takes a minute to collect himself.
Ronnan's true to his word, returns in a moment, an offering of water in his hand. There’s a straw peeking over the edge and Ranboo takes a tentative sip.
His stomach churns.
He wants a home.
“People don’t want kids my age.”
Puffy looks up from her stack of papers. “What? Ranboo—”
“They don't. That's why I’m sitting here, isn’t it?”
“Ranboo, no, that's not it,” She sets a folder aside, pen falling over top of it as she looks at him.
“Then what is it?” he asks, arms folding over his chest. “You would’ve dumped me somewhere already if you could have, but you haven’t. No one wants me.” The words hurt to leave his mouth, but he’s bitter and with Puffy and he doesn’t care.
He wants a home, like every other kid.
“Ranboo, people want you.” Her fingers cross over each other as she stares at him imploringly. He wishes he could believe her.
Ranboo doesn’t bother to blink as he looks at her. “No, they don't. That's why I’m here.”
“Ranboo,” Puffy takes a heavy breath, “It’s just, there are a lot of kids like you. A lot of kids who need a place to stay. Some permanent, some temporary, and it’s all very confusing to organize. Sometimes things slip through the cracks. Like now.”
“So I’m a weed growing in a crack across the sidewalk that no one even bothers to get rid of?”
“Ranboo, no.”
“Just a useless little crumb that slips through people’s fingers?”
“Ranboo—”
“No one wants me. No one cares where I go, or what happens to me. I’m not, I’m not worth it, am I? I’m too much work, too much trouble.” His breath comes out in short pants now, “I’m going to have no one forever, aren’t I? I’m just a useless little speck of dust that can’t even be bothered to be cleared away, I’m just an inconvenience, burdening everyone who steps an inch towards me—They don’t want me, my issues, my—”
“Ranboo,” Puffy’s voice comes out sternly, and closer than he remembers. She leans in close to him, her brown eyes so light they glow like fire boring down into his. Her hands hover out over his shoulders.
The minute he sees them, he comes back to himself, rising to his feet and knocking her away.
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice sounds dangerous, foreign. Sharp in a way he isn’t familiar with. It scares him a little, but Puffy takes it in stride.
“Ranboo, I won’t lie to you. I promise. Somewhere out there, there is a family that wants you.”
Ranboo bites his lip and looks away. He doesn’t believe her.
He can’t afford to believe her.
So, he doesn’t.
“Please, sit down. I’ll tell you why you’re here.”
Ranboo bonelessly complies, falling back into his seat across her desk. Puffy drums her fingers along the wooden table. He keeps his gaze on the floor, the pattern of the rug suddenly the most interesting thing he’s ever encountered. He wonders, distantly, how many other kids have had to sit and stare at it, too.
He’s not sure he wants to hear what she has to say.
“You’re here because I didn’t want you ending up in a group home again. The first time was a mistake.” The words feel like confirmation: no one wants him. The words feel like the only thing right, him meeting Tubbo, wasn’t supposed to happen—the thing keeping him tethered. “The fosters we were going to send you to had an emergency at the last minute, and couldn’t take you. I figured you’d rather stay here for a couple hours than with an utter stranger while we found someone else to place you with. It won’t be long.”
He lets the words hang, lets Puffy stew over what his reaction might be. It’s mean, but he doesn’t care.
He’s tired.
Her eyes stare into him, and he shifts in his seat.
“Okay,” he says, finally, voice gravelly and hoarse.
He almost wishes he had nowhere to go.
Maybe then this hopeless cycle would stop.
02/19/XX
Entry Twenty Four
Jamie is your current foster sibling. He’s a dick Jerk. Tegan and Niel are practically glued to his hip. Apparently they’ve all known each other since diapers or something.
I wonder what that's like...
Anyways—They make it their job to terrorize you. They found where you keep your things under the bed. This is mostly to remind you not to put your things there anymore. Or under the mattress.
You need a new hiding spot for this.
Jamie Can Not get his hands on it.
Ever.
Or you're screwed.
(make sure you don’t forget the new hiding place either)
“Oh, what do we have here…?”
“Jamie,” Ranboo pleads, struggling against the pairs of arms pinning him back. The two boys holding him giggle at his attempts. “Jamie please, please, stop!”
Jamie blinks at him, a clever mask of innocence. It makes Ranboo’s veins flood with ice.
“Ranboo Beloved,” he speaks his name like a curse. “What ever do you mean?” His voice is tauntingly sweet, sing-songy, as if this were a pleasant everyday interaction.
As if he isn’t holding one of Ranboo’s most precious items. As if he isn’t aware that it’s one of Ranboo’s most precious items.
He knows. That's why he took it.
Ranboo struggles, slamming his feet into the ground and trying to push forward. Neil body-slams him back into the wall as Tegan bends his arm behind his back. Little wires of pain sprout from Ranboo’s shoulder before leaving and echoing with simply a tingling sensation. The doorknob prods into his hip, achingly and subtle.
The pain hardly registers. Jamie's cold eyes tunnel on Ranboo as he struggles.
“Jamie, give me the book back—I need it. Please,” he cries.
Jamie raises his brow. “You need it? That's funny.” He stalks forward, “Don’t make me laugh, Ranboo.”
His face drops of emotion, like a ruse. Every hint of entertainment or cruelty falling away at the final drop of his name, leaving behind empty pits of dark brown eyes. They're far too dark to be compared to mirrors, but Ranboo sees himself in them the same.
“The only thing you need—” he sneers, their noses nearly touching as he tonelessly bites the words out, “is to get out of my house.”
Ranboo shivers.
“I’ll, I’ll leave, please, please—just give me the book back, Jamie.”
Jamie reels away and Ranboo watches him tensely as he does. The movement pulls his heart to his throat. He can feel the burn of tears well at the back of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He won’t cry. He won't.
Tegan hikes his arm up higher on his back; it forces Ranboo over with a wince and a gasp.
“Oh, you can have it back,” Jamie waves the book languidly as he backs away.
Ranboo nearly drops to the floor with relief.
“Th—Thank you.”
“But I think for you to truly get the point of this, the lesson,” he says, “has to be made a little more clear. Don’t you think, boys?”
He pulls a pen from his back pocket, flipping through the book before yanking out a page. Ranboo shudders with the resounding rip, the yellowed page bunching in Jamie's hold.
He wants to reach out—
“This,” Jamie says, slamming the page against the wall, “Is so you don't forget your place.”
“Jamie…” Ranboo feels numb as he watches Jamie scrawl something illegible onto the page, he jostles in the hold he’s held in. “Jamie, what're you doing?”
“You know, I’ve noticed something,” Jamie drops the page down onto the sink’s edge. Ranboo stares after the page, unable to make out its contents. “I’ve noticed, you don’t care much for water, do you?”
Ranboo stills.
“It’s almost obvious now that I think back to it all,” he grins wickedly. “You always avoid the sprinklers when we walk to school, you shower at the speed of light, and don’t even get me started on how often I’ve seen you avoid drinking a glass of water.”
Ranboo stares at Jamie’s back as he turns, walking deeper into the small bathroom.
The thundering of a faucet rings throughout the room.
Jamie draws back with a wet hand.
“Don’t,” The words feel as though someone else has said them, as if it wasn’t Ranboo’s lips whom they left. But it was, “Jamie, please don’t. Don't.” Cold spikes of fear drill through Ranboo’s core.
“Please,” he begs.
Jamie smiles.
Jamie drops the book.
Ranboo lurches forward, the bodies holding him back falling away easily as he charges towards the tub. He can't hear over the running water echoing deafeningly in his ears. His knees slam into the floor and his hands dip into the water before he can think.
It feels like acid eating through his skin.
He grits his teeth and draws out his book, clutching it to his chest. Little dribbles of water roll off the edges and onto his arms. He nearly gags, clinging to his leather-bound book like a lifeline all the same. He can’t let go.
His gift—
His first gift—
Robbie—
The memory of the man nearly has the tears in his eyes falling, but he can’t risk any more damage to the book in his hold. The leather was so fine, fitted and worn, shaped with care. Ranboo’s half sure the man put together the journal himself.
His fingers dig into his arms, pressing the book deeper into his chest, trying to absorb it—save it—into his soul. There, it would be safe. There, Jamie couldn’t ruin it.
There, Ranboo wouldn’t waste Robbie's care.
The idea of opening the book sends shudders down his spine. Seeing the waterlogged paper and smudges of indecipherable words. He doesn’t know if he can handle it.
His memories—
Cold trembles run down his hands, contradicting the sheen of fire over his skin.
But he has it. He has it in his hands, the cover rubbing into his soiled fingers. It’s damaged but he has it.
He can’t let it go.
He won't.
Hands fall onto his shoulders, his back, his spine. They press down.
He lets out a yelp, holding closer to his book as hands seemingly arrive out of nowhere. Their fingers draw into his skin, pressing indents through his shirt, twisting and bending over him uncomfortably. He fights their pressure, pushing back to the best of his ability. His arms get pinned over the tub's edge.
The hands continue shoving him down,
down,
down.
His nose hits the water.
It burns.
Ranboo loses control over his body. He’s no longer piloting it as his hips buck and legs kick out in attempts to further himself from the pooling water. He cries out, but he doesn’t feel or hear the shouts as they pass. The hands sink deeper into him, shoving, pressing, digging.
Ranboo wills himself away, hands refusing to remove from around what they protect.
He’s at a disadvantage.
Fingers curl around the base of his neck.
His head is dunked under the water.
Ranboo screams.
If he had thought he lost control before, he is utterly unaware of himself now. Bubbles cloud his vision as water enters his lungs. Water drips into his pores, invades every crevice of his being, slipping over and into him with sickening ease.
All he can feel is the moisture touching him—crowding him, surrounding him, invading him—
It burns.
His throat runs raw, droplets of poison sinking down into his throat. It feels like a fire burning from outwards in. It ascends down his throat, running through his chest and starting to scald in the back of his stomach, lighting a fire through where his heart drums against his ribs.
He wants it to end.
He wants it to end.
He wants it to end.
He’s pulled free.
He gasps for air, but instead spits out liquid. The boiling fluid rising from his throat and spilling from his lips stings all the way down to his chin. His diaphragm pulses and spasms as he tries to breathe—tries to reassemble himself.
His skin trembles with each shuddering hack of his lungs.
A fist is curled into his hair, and suddenly he’s going down again, his mouth still wide open and desperate.
He gasps, but it's not air that greets him. Water pools into his lungs, his nose rubbing against the bottom of the pool. He retches, the feeling overwhelming him. A fire has been lit in his jaw.
It’s back, the burning, the pulsing, the claustrophobic sensation of being surrounded by every edge. He twists his head under the pressing palm, trying to escape.
Desperately trying to escape.
He—
He—
His leg crashes into something solid—omething wobbly—and then his ankle is being pinned down, bone mending to the ground. He hardly notices.
His senses scream at him: Escape, escape, escape. The words are a mantra shouted over the faucet pouring into his ears. He can feel it pulse under his skin.
He feels like his skin is melting off, his lungs burning up.
Black crowds his vision.
His nose bends against the gritted flooring, drops of water sliding through and he feels as they scorch down the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to burn—he doesn’t want to burn.
He doesn’t want to burn.
He gags into the water, but it only invites more fire into his lungs.
He can’t breathe—
He chokes on the acid, holding it in his throat and sobbing into the water. If he sheds tears, he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything under the palm forcing him down besides fire filling his skin.
Fire, fire, fire.
He howls, and the sound melds in with the rest of the ringing.
The black takes his vision, power slowly leaving his veins. His body faults to the fire. Bubbles crowd the water until they don’t.
He can’t,
He can't—
He can't…
Breathe.
His world fades black.
He wakes to the sound of voices. His world is stilted, equilibrium unbalanced. He feels as though he’s rocking back and forth on a ship's deck. Nausea clings to the back of his skull. His hair feels damp, his hands are wrapped tightly around something.
He doesn’t…
This isn’t how he passed out.
He passed out? When did he pass out—
Blood pulses in his ears. He feels water under his skin, but the way his fingers rub together tells him they’re dry.
“I dunno mom, he just, passed out, I guess.”
Jamie…?
Ranboo stirs, his eyes willing to open but the weight of them too intense. He’s distant from himself—Disconnected. Something’s been cut in the wires running through his mind.
The panic that rises with that feels far off, too.
“How would he have passed out, Jamie?”
The voice is… far away. The vowels blend together, muddling in a shapeless sound. Whoever’s speaking sounds… agitated.
Ranboo’s fingers twitch at his sides, the tone making something stir in his chest.
He’s… nervous?
Why is he nervous?
“I dunno, mom! Like I said, he just did. You saw too, right guys?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Jamie’s tellin’ the truth!”
He knows those voices. He knows…
“I’m not accusing you boys of anything, just trying to figure out what happened. Don’t want the kids' social worker thinking we abuse him or something.”
That's… That's right. He’s a foster kid.
He’s…
His eyes slip open, slow and lidded. He almost wishes he hadn’t opened them when the light lands blindingly into his vision. His chest spasms as he blinks, pulsing like it's trying to expel something that isn’t there. He gags pointlessly at his side.
Hands reach to rest on his back. His body jerks from the movement, something he can’t explain shooting through his frame.
“So—Sorry,” He coughs into his fist, sitting up. The lights are still far too bright for his taste, blurry objects not yet focusing in as he adjusts. Figures surround him and he can’t explain the trapped feeling it sends through him.
“Ranboo, what, what happened?”
His fingers curl around something. It’s leather and worn, soft and moist to the touch. His stomach churns at the sensation.
It feels… It feels wrong.
A loose page threatens to fall from the object.
“I… I don’t know?”
"Ranboo?"
Ranboo blinks. He's sitting in an empty McDonald’s, a flurry in front of him. There’s something pressing into his back.
A book?
"Huh?" He asks.
Puffy’s seat across from him forces him to look at her concerned face. "The Jeffersons said you've been spacing out a lot recently, is everything alright?"
Spacing out... That’s what’s been happening?
That—No.
That's not the right word. He stares at the fast food joint around him. The neon menu’s sign burns his eyes, he blinks away out the window beside him. Cars whiz past. It's more… Something. Something else.
"What," he mumbles groggily, confused. Was he here a moment before?
Losing time.
Puffy’s face creases with more concern.
"Ranboo," he looks back towards her, "what's going on, sweetie?"
Ranboo picks his nails under the table, “Nothing?” He’s not sure. Would he tell her if there was?
Puffy’s lips pinch. Ranboo fears he’s done something wrong.
Why is Puffy here?
“Why are we…” Ranboo trails, gaze flickering towards the room they’re in. Impossibly, Puffy’s face contorts with more concern.
“Ranboo, we’re in a McDonald’s, four blocks away from your current residence. I’m here to talk to you. Your fosters are worried.”
His…
The Jeffersons. Right.
“Why are they worried?” He asks.
Puffy frowns.
Ranboo picks at his thumb.
“You’ve been spacing out, has something been going on you need to tell me about?”
“No,” he says instantly. He shouldn’t tell her. Why shouldn’t he tell her? His stomach lurches with a resounding, no.
“Ranboo,” her fingers drum across the hazardously washed tabletop, “this is a safe space. If something is happening that I need to be aware of, I can help. That's what I’m here for.”
Something cracks. His fingers find their way to his chest. “Help?” He asks weakly, “I don't… I don't think I need help. I don't… I don't remember…”
“You don’t remember?”
Ranboo feels like he shouldn’t have said that. His lips immediately seal shut.
“Ranboo, I need to know if you’ve forgotten something?” Puffy presses.
“How would I know.” The sudden anger takes him by surprise, stirring in his chest like a prodded fire urging to burn. “How would I know what I forgot.”
Puffy draws back. “Ranboo.”
Ranboo doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t like Puffy.
Puffy… Puffy takes him away. That's right…
Puffy takes him away and puts him in new places, she’s—
“What did I do?” He asks. Puffy stares at him. “What did I do?” He gestures, “to deserve this?”
“Ranboo—”
“No! ” He shouts, “You lie. You lie to me.”
“Ranboo, when have I lied to you?” She pleads.
“You—You—You lie.”
“Ranboo, is this a bad house?”
Ranboo jerks. “What?”
“Ranboo, is this house bad for you? You’re not yourself right now.”
Ranboo wonders who himself is.
He lets a beat pass.
“I don’t know.”
Puffy’s eyes are sad. “That's okay,” she says. Ranboo feels like it isn’t. “That's okay.”
Is it?
“Why don’t you finish that flurry? It’s Oreo, I know it's not Dairy Queen but it still should be good. I have to make some calls, will you be alright for a moment while I step away?”
Ranboo doesn’t know why he wouldn’t be.
He feels hollow as she slides out of the booth and steps away. His fingers continue to pick at each other.
He doesn’t touch the flurry.
03/04/XX
Entry Thirty Nine:
Chester is safe. This house is safe. You’re losing more time, but he’s patient with you. You don’t know if he’s aware of how much time you lose, but when you do forget, he doesn’t seem bothered.
Don’t let him know. Don’t let your guard down.
But Chester is kind. Be kind in return.
Ranboo blinks.
He’s sitting by a fire, the warmth licks at his fingers. A blanket is curled around his shoulders, the feeling of his memory book biting into his hip.
He’s sitting on the floor.
Why is he on the floor?
“‘If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’” A gravelly voice reads aloud.
Ranboo looks toward the voice.
Chester.
He’s… Right. He lives with Chester now.
Chester's wrinkled hands wrap firmly around a book. A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway, it reads. The corners of the aged book are rounded and scuffed, its loved life clear in its tattered but still-legible state.
It fits perfectly into Chester’s hold.
His mellow voice continues with the lines of the book, soothing Ranboo to sink further where he sits. The fire flickers its tongue of warmth over his fame.
He’s warm.
He’s so… warm.
The words lull his eyes shut, and he sleep curled at the foot of a couch, Chesters voice filling the air and a waning fire flickering at his side.
Ranboo blinks.
He’s sitting at a table, mashed potatoes and peas being crushed under a fork. His fork? He’s holding a fork. His head spins around, his eyes seeking Chester.
The older man patiently meets his gaze.
Was he in the kitchen before this? He isn’t sure.
“Everything alright, Ranboo?” He asks softly, his thick white brows furrowing. The wrinkles in his brow pull. He must have had to make the face many times. Ranboo wonders how many other kids like him have faced the same painfully caring expression.
How many kids had to have left it.
Ranboo repositions his hold on the fork, “Yeah, uh, yeah. What were we talking about?”
Chester smiles warmly at him.
Knowingly.
Ranboo doesn’t know what he knows. His gut twists uncomfortably. He swallows awkwardly.
He’s not really hungry.
“I was just saying we’ll have to start a new book now that we’ve finished our last, any that come to mind?”
That's… That's right.
They read together in the evenings, don’t they?
“I’m not picky?” He doesn’t know what the right response is.
The laughter startles him, Chester’s blue eyes shine with the smile stretched across his face, the wrinkles doing nothing to date the joy playing on his features. He looks young when he smiles.
Ranboo can’t help but stare.
“You say that every time. I’m sure there’s a book out there you want to hear, is there not? Can’t let me choose everytime.”
“I don’t mind. I like your stories,” Ranboo counters. And it’s true.
At least, that's what his lips say. His heart doesn’t contradict him. He’s not sure. He thinks he does.
He doesn’t really remember.
He remembers warmth though, and Chester's voice sounds as though it would be soothing to listen to.
He likes it. He must.
He does.
He knows.
Chester laughs again. “How about a change in genre, then?”
Ranboo’s fine with that.
Ranboo blinks.
06/19/XX
Entry Ninety Eight:
He’s… He’s been using the book a lot more…
The number scares him. How much has he forgotten?
He tucks it away.
Ranboo blinks.
He can hear a faucet.
He’s alone in a room. His room?
He’s living with Chester right now. Right.
His room.
He hears a faucet.
The hairs on his arm prickle, something cold shooting down his spine.
He hears a faucet.
Why does he feel like there’s water under his nails?
He hears a faucet.
Where’s his book? Panic jolts him forward.
Where’s his book?
He hears a faucet.
His hands search the sheets frantically, his hands scrambling over them and clawing into the fabric. Where’s his book?
He feels water.
He inhales a choked breath.
He feels water.
His fingers tremble.
There!
He feels water.
His hand grazes over leather, a loose sheet ruffling from where it's tucked.
There.
He found his book.
He can breathe.
Ranboo blinks.
He’s sitting by a fire, again.
Again?
Again.
“‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.'"
A cough pulls his eyes from a fire.
Chester. Chester was reading.
In Chester’s trembling hand, holds a book. H.P. Lovecraft, the cover reads. Somehow he knows it to be entirely different from the last book.
He doesn’t remember what the last book was.
Ranboo listens as he reads, palms opening to the fire next to him. His legs fold over each other, and he rests on something plush. It feels…
Familiar.
He’s sat here before.
He’s warm.
He lets out a heavy breath. Chester’s eyes draw to him, his white hair glowing yellow.
“Everything alright, Ranboo?” He questions, pausing his readings.
“Yes,” He says, he finds it to be true. “You can keep reading, if you like.”
Chester smiles.
He continues reading.
Ranboo blinks.
10/02/XX
Entry One Hundred and Sixteen:
You’re losing more you’re—
The pencil cuts off. Had he been writing?
Something cold courses through him as he stares at the page.
It’s…. Is it getting worse?
No.
No.
No—
Ranboo blinks.
Chester coughs into his elbow, a ragged hacking that pulls through the man’s shoulders. Ranboo steps forward.
“Are you, are you alright?” He asks, skin prickling.
Chester waves him off, leaning to rest in a nearby chair. “Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it, Ranboo.”
Ranboo fiddles with his fingers, but drops it. Chester sags into the nearest chair with a heavy breath. Ranboo swallows around a lump forming in his throat.
It feels… Wrong.
Something is wrong.
He worries about it.
Ranboo blinks.
Ranboo blinks.
Ranboo blinks.
Ranboo blinks.
He runs out of the room, his shoulder ramming into the door frame in his haste.
He was sleeping,
He was sleeping,
He was sleeping—
His fingers wrap around the landline, punching in numbers without a conscious thought.
"Puffy, Puffy, Puffy," he chants.
The line clicks through.
"Ranboo—"
"He was sleeping—he was sleeping Puffy, Puffy he—" he gasps for air, shudders coursing through his frame and rattling his hold on the phone. "He was supposed to be sleeping!"
"Ranboo," Puffy cuts through his harsh breaths. "Ranboo sweetie, I need you to slow down, what's going on here?"
"—Sleeping," he responds desperately. "Chester, Chester was supposed to be sleeping but, but, he won't—he won't wake up! Puffy he won't wake up, he's supposed to be sleeping, why won't he wake up! Puffy—"
"Ranboo, I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?"
He can't breathe. He can't—
Chester was supposed to wake up. That's what sleeping people do, right? They wake up. Chester has to wake up.
He had to wake up.
Chester has to wake up.
The air refuses to go down his throat, a hissed whine escaping instead. It sounds foreign to his ears, he winces away from the sound.
"Ranboo, I need you to breathe sweetie, I'm coming over. I've called an ambulance. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
Is he hurt? Why would—
"He won't wake up!" He stresses. "He's—He's—"
"Ranboo, Ranboo, I need you to breathe—"
How is he supposed to breathe? Chester's cold, his skin is cold his chest isn't moving—
He has to wake up.
He has to wake up.
He has to wake up.
Something trails from the edges of his eyes and suddenly everything is worse.
He's underwater, thrashing, screaming—he can't, he can't breathe and, and, Chester won't wake up.
Chester won't wake up.
Chester's...
Chester's not going to wake up.
Chester’s not going to wake up.
Chester’s not—
He gasps for air, but it slips away from him. Trails of acid slide over his skin and it burns.
It burns. It burns. It burns—
"Puffy," he whines desperately into the phone.
It burns. It burns. It burns.
He's under water. He's screaming. He's thrashing, something's holding him down.
He can't breath—
Chester's not breathing.
He can't—
He can't—
He can't—
Ranboo retches, legs giving out beneath him. "I can't—"
He gasps and gasps and gasps.
He can't breathe.
He—
Chester—
Chester is dead, isn’t he?