Chapter Text
Maybe there are no such things as perfect days.
Sure, you can get pretty damn close. There are days when really good things can happen. There are good places to be, good people to spend time with, there’s good food to eat and lots of fun things to do. Maybe if you’re lucky, you might get good news or good ideas. Lots of little moments that can come together to make something so very nearly perfect.
Take today for example. It’s sunny. The sun is high in the early afternoon sky, holding back the subtle chill in the air. The air is crisp and fresh and the smell of baking bread drifts from an open window on a light breeze. The breeze rustles the long unkempt grass on the hill and tugs gently at sunset coloured leaves, decidedly too proud of their own beauty to yet give up their grip on the outstretched branches of trees. The trees sway gently where they stand, sturdy as ever and unafraid of the winter to come, flaunting their most vibrant display of the year with bold colours and seasonal flair, dripping with generous arrays of cones, seeds and apples.
The apples are sweet, but still crisp enough to yield a satisfying crunch when biting into them. Their shiny skin is bright red, though some have a gradient of yellows and greens mimicking the trees they get plucked from. They’re round, and ripe, and just the right size and shape to fit into Tommy’s hand. He wonders if this is the first time he’s ever thought to stop and appreciate something so simple.
It’s almost a perfect day. Almost a perfect moment. Almost, but not quite. It can’t be. It might feel like it is, but it’s not. No matter how nice the trees look or how good the apples taste.
If a day like this had come earlier, had come before, maybe then it would have been perfect.
But now it’s too late.
“Wake up apple boy!”
Tommy is roused from his thoughts before they can spiral by a cheerful singsong voice and the dull thud of something heavy being dropped next to his head. He sits, realizing a half-eaten apple is still clutched in his hand, already browning where the inside was exposed to the air.
“What?”
“You can nap later, Ranboo wants us to go chop some more firewood.”
“I wasn’t napping, I was apple picking.”
“While laying down?” Tubbo leans to look at the wide basket discarded at Tommy’s feet. It doesnt even hold enough fruit to cover the bottom, tossed to the side after Tommy had been easily distracted by a passing crow.
Tommy rolls his eyes. “I was apple picking. Now I’m laying down.”
“Well get up then. The wood’s not going to chop itself.” Tubbo kicks the object he had dropped a moment ago closer. Tommy picks it up with a frown.
“You nearly dropped the ax on my head. This thing is heavy.”
“Yeah but I didn’t. And if I did it would have been on purpose. Now come on, I’m leaving without you.”
“Can I at least ride in the wagon?” Tommy gestures to the rusting trough Tubbo is starting to tow away. They’d found it stashed under the deck a few days after moving into the old cottage, seemingly forgotten. It’s old and beaten down, dull green paint peeling and too-loose squeaky wheels that shudder and twist when the wagon is pulled. Still, it’s reliable. Surprisingly sturdy, it works well for lugging heavy objects from place to place, or pulling each other around as fast as they can to speed up slower days.
Tubbo shoots a look over his shoulder.
“Absolutely not.” Tommy leaps to his feet with a grin, running to try and jump into the wagon anyways. Tubbo seems to anticipate his plan however, sprinting off into the trees, rickety squeaks and whines shadowing his steps.
Just like that, the chase is on. Weaving through a maze of trunks, ducking under low hanging branches, jumping over sticks and rocks.
Tommy is faster. He has always been, even since his and Tubbo’s footraces back and forth from tree to rock to the top of the hill and then tree again when they were young. Since the time they used to play tag outside for hours on end before they were even teens, never seeming to tire. And then the years they had spent running side by side from whatever mischief or trouble or life threatening situations they had become tangled up in together, long-legged Tommy always pulled ahead.
But at this moment, Tubbo takes the lead, and Tommy just can’t keep up. He keeps tripping on obstacles scattered along the forest floor, sending him sprawling onto his hands and knees in the dirt a few more times than he’d like to admit. He manages to get his foot stuck under a stray root arching out of the ground twice, nearly twisting his ankle both times. If you asked him, he’d tell you he was unbalanced from having to carry the ax.
While Tommy is fast, Tubbo is agile. Tubbo is always the one able to squeeze into tight positions or spots that are hard to get to on the duo’s frequent heists and adventures, and always the volunteer to pull Tommy out from the unlikely places he’s bound to get stuck in. His hooves and goat-like lower half were made for climbing, and the forest is his terrain.
Even while dragging a noisy old wagon that bounces and lurches and threatens to topple every time it hits so much as an anthill in its path, he manages to maintain a solid lead throughout the majority of the race. Tommy does manage to catch up eventually, hopping on and sending Tubbo tumbling to the ground from the sudden added weight. By this point, they’re already in sight of the chopping stump, so he throws up his hands and leaves a very sulky Tommy to pull the wagon the last few meters on his own.
The chopping stump is a spot in the woods just a short walk from the house. An oak tree the perfect width for hacking into kindling lies on its side, and the boys had all decided it was more efficient to make use of it before attempting to mess with the still-standing trees not that much closer to home.
The tree must have been blown over by a storm not too long ago, since it’s not all that big, and it hasn’t started to decompose yet. It’s still impressively tall however, nearly a third of the trunk remaining after working away at it for several months. The chopping stump itself is the remain of a much larger, older tree that had fallen long ago. Tubbo had spent some time working at it to create a flat platform for them to chop wood before bringing it back.
Ranboo can’t stand to use the ax, so Tommy and Tubbo take turns, one chopping the wood and one pulling the wagon.
“Hurry up, we’ve been here for hours!” Tubbo calls after fifteen minutes of listening to Tommy grunting and panting and shouting angry curses at everything he can see.
“It might go faster if you helped out a bit!” Tommy shouts back as he swings the ax with all his strength, missing the stump and nearly hitting his own foot.
“I’m busy!” Is the distracted reply. Tommy sets the ax down, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He certainly doesn’t miss having to do this on much hotter summer days.
“You’re in a tree. You don’t look very busy.”
“I’m birdwatching.”
“I’m pretty sure we scared off all the birds in a fifty mile radius with all the noise you were making with the wagon.” Tommy wanders over to Tubbo’s tree, trying to get a glimpse at what his friend is so focused on.
“They’re baby birds, they can’t leave the nest yet.”
“A bit late in the year for baby birds, isn’t it?” Tommy asks, struggling to pull himself up onto one of the lower branches.
“I think they’re almost grown, they just haven’t learned to fly yet.”
Tommy finally manages to hoist himself into the tree, climbing up to a spot just below Tubbo’s perch. As promised, there are two fully feathered fledglings, rather large birds at that, sitting in the higher branches.
Their nest is an impressive structure, a couple feet in diameter, built in the fork of a limb splitting into two. One of the birds sits inside, nervously eyeing the uninvited visitors. The other is out on the branch giving a few experimental flaps of its wings every once in a while
“What’re they doing?”
“Shh, just watch,” Tubbo cuts him off in a hushed voice. They watch the fledgling hop around on its branch, peering at the sky above and flapping its wings every few seconds. After a few minutes, it lets go of the branch, flapping its way up to a higher point on the tree. The bird in the nest lets out an almost nervous sounding squawk. The other gives one last look back to its sibling, then takes off once again, testing its wings as it glides away over the trees. The bird left in the nest starts to make panicked sounds as it finds itself without its sibling for the first time in its life.
Tommy is dissatisfied.
“So that’s just it? It just leaves the other alone and doesn’t come back?”
“It’ll come back, don’t worry,” Tubbo reassures.
“How do you know?”
Tubbo finally tears his gaze away from the bird, meeting Tommy’s concerned look.
“They’re family, aren’t they?”
—————————
Against better odds, the pair makes it back to the house within a half hour, still plenty of time to spare before sunset.
In theory, Tommy knows they could make better time with a sharper ax. The old thing has been terribly dull even since they found it, and all the wear and tear of using it regularly only serves to further the situation. Sharpening the tool isn’t a difficult task by any means. All they would need is a decently shaped stone and a bit of time. Time is the main issue in this case, since no one seems able to sit still for more than five minutes.
At the end of the day, they still manage to return with a wagon full of roughly cut tree carcass to fuel their little wood fire furnace and stove.
“We’re baaaaack!” Tubbo announces loudly as he slams open the door of the cottage, weathered hinges screeching in complaint. Tommy marches in right behind, arms full with a small sample of their efforts ready for burning.
A tall figure peeks around the corner from the kitchen. An inhuman creature, half black half white wearing a polka-dotted apron and crouching slightly to keep his horns from scraping the too-low ceiling in the lounge. It would honestly be a daunting sight if it weren’t just, well… Ranboo.
“Oh hey! I wasn’t expecting you back for a bit.” His mouth makes itself visible only when he speaks, unusually bright multi-colored eyes meeting them with nothing but affection. “You can put the wood down. I just took the bread out, so I don’t need it right now.”
“How’d it turn out?” Tubbo asks, politely ignoring the smoky smell in the air as he follows Ranboo back into the kitchen.
“Better than last time.” Three pans sit cooling on the stove. Of the loaves within, one is nearly burnt to a crisp, the next only slightly better. The third actually looks pretty edible, save for a bit of charring on the top. That could be easily cut off though, and the bread inside is surely just fine.
Ranboo’s pastries always taste pretty good when they come out alright. Out of the three, Tubbo and Ranboo are the only ones with prior cooking experience and do most of the meal prep. Ranboo has been experimenting with baking for a while, though he’s still trying to perfect the whole thing with temperatures and timing and not forgetting he’s put something in the oven. Still, for all the trays of burnt cookies, he can’t be any worse than Tommy.
Tommy is banned from the kitchen.
While Tubbo informs Ranboo that the bread looks like late stage capitalism, Tommy sets the load of kindling down in it’s usual spot, the corner next to the furnace — within easy reach to toss in when the fire needs a boost, but out of the way of busy feet shuffling around the space. Practical, sensible, and probably not something Tommy would have ever thought of on his own.
Household organization is still somewhat of a new concept to Tommy. He’s used to throwing all of his items into the nearest available chest or storage unit, likely never to be seen again. Now he lives with a tall neat freak who’s always yammering on about “tidiness” and “shared spaces”.
You know what Ranboo? Tommy didn’t ask to have to share a space with two clingy bastards who like to argue about the collapse of various political systems in relation to sourdough. He’s used to having his own space to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, away from such annoyances.
Sometimes, you just want to leave your wet coat on the floor after hiking in the rain for two hours trying to find someone’s lost ring (which he did, for your information). Sometimes, it might be nice to be able to go to the kitchen for a glass of water in the middle of the night without running into a hungry goat child raiding the pantry or a sleepwalking giant who’s surely just trying to give him a heart attack at this point. Sometimes, you need a large area to keep the cow that you befriended whilst wandering the nearby fields. How was he supposed to know that the lounge is a “community space”? And sometimes, a man just needs a bit of privacy. Showtunes sung in the shower are not meant to have an audience. Just how thin are the walls in this place?
In an ideal world, everyone should have their own house. A space where they will not be bothered by unnecessary acts thievery, vandalism, property damage, or being told to pick your socks up off the goddamn floor one more time—
Quietly though, Tommy is relieved to be stuck in close proximity with these idiots he calls his friends. As obnoxious as they inevitably are, they’re all he really has. Chances are, being all alone right now would drive him over the edge.
Tommy leans against the wall, watching Tubbo chuck hunks of blackened bread at Ranboo, who is trying to deflect the attack with his purple oven mitts.
“Have a taste of your own political injustice, you terrible dictator!”
“How are you touching that? It’s still hot!”
Yeah, they’re both idiots, no doubt about it. Still, Tommy can’t think of any idiots he’d rather live out the apocalypse with. In the end, they have each other. It might not be much, but it might just be enough.