Chapter Text
The sun shines directly in Tubbo’s eye as he opens them for the first time that morning. It’s a bright light (maybe not brighter than the fireworks hitting his face), reflected off the walls and ricocheting into his view, and he shakes it head as he wakes from his slumber. There’s a heavy feeling on his shoulders, and he acknowledges it to be a blanket someone put over him while he slept.
Michael isn’t in bed. Ranboo isn’t here.
He’s alone in Michael’s room with a blanket shrugged on his shoulders. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and rises, looking around to see it in the same condition as yesterday. He doesn’t remember falling asleep here yesterday. Welp.
He doesn’t know what time it is, but he figures Ranboo must’ve left by now. He… doesn’t know where Michael is, though.
He doesn’t know where Michael is.
The thought wakes him up, immediately holding the blanket around his shoulders in place as he quickly climbs down the ladder in a hurry, and—
Oh.
Ranboo didn’t leave.
Instead of that, the smell of toast is right under his nose, and the feeling of warmth that isn’t only caused by the burning of wood in the fireplace, but more so the feeling he gets in his chest upon seeing the moment right in front of him.
Most importantly, Michael is safe. The thought passes through after he processes exactly what feels like some sort of weird dream, or maybe he’s been transported to some… alternate universe or something. Whatever this is, doesn’t exactly feel real. It’s far too good to be true. Too peaceful, too… really any positive adjective he can think of.
“Morning, Tubbo,” Ranboo greets after a few beats of silence, grabbing a plate that seemed to just be lying around and putting a piece of two slices of toast and heavily burnt eggs down and handing it off to him. Tubbo cautiously takes the plate to the table and sits down next to Michael. “Sleep okay?” he eventually asks, finally taking his seat as well at the table.
“Uh… yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Tubbo replies quietly. Truthfully, he doesn’t even remember falling asleep, it’s more of a daze than anything. A blur. Nothing more than some fleeting moments that have since left his mind, giving the present more attention.
He vaguely remembers putting Michael to sleep with Ranboo beside him, both of them watching to make sure he does actually fall asleep before they leave, words being whispered in the small space between them he can’t remember and thoughts floating in his mind that yell at him.
He looks down at the eggs and swallows hard. Maybe Ranboo isn’t the best cook. Oh well, he’s gone longer only eating MREs, how bad could these be, right?
You’ve eaten much worse, Tubbo. What’s a burnt egg or two?, he tries reasoning with himself. First time eating Ranboo’s cooking. He, by no means, can he throw this up or show Ranboo just how rancid it looks. He looks at Michael, who’s enjoying his pre-made (not at all made by Ranboo) food, and he finds himself just a little jealous that Michael is spared from this.
He looks up at Ranboo, who has the biggest smile on his face, seemingly proud of his cooking and unknowing that he just made eggs that Tubbo swears are charred are disgusting and Tubbo is currently questioning his life decisions all over a pair of eggs. Which is questionable in itself.
This wasn’t exactly on his bucket list for today, nor the rest of his life.
He gulps as he picks up his fork and pokes at the egg for a moment, using his knife to cut off a small sliver (more than he wants, truthfully) and hesitantly brings his fork to his mouth, taking a small bite and swallowing hard.
Yep. Charred. Bad.
He forces a smile. “It’s uh— really good, Ranboo.” He pauses. “Yum.”
Somehow, this might just be worse than the MREs eaten during the L’Manberg wars, alongside in the Pogtopia ravine where it was one of the few things they had to eat. And yet somehow, he almost thinks he’d prefer it to this.
“I’m glad! So, you slept okay? I was gonna move you to, uh, your bed—“ he takes a sip of his coffee, “—but you looked peaceful. Didn’t want to disturb you, you know?” Ranboo says, almost casually, but there’s always that anxious edge in their voice, and all Tubbo does is look up from his plate to meet their eyes, silent. He pretends he feels nothing about it.
There is nothing about the way Ranboo speaks. There is nothing that makes his heart flutter, that has for around a month now, because they are nothing more but acquaintances. Old coworkers. Friends.
“Anyway—” Tubbo snaps out of it, blinking as Ranboo’s mouth begins to move.
He rambles fast, about Michael for the most part. Random things. Tubbo stares at him as he sips on his coffee, quiet.
There’s quiet in the coldness of Snowchester. Arctic foxes running around outside, the snow lightly falling how it would months before in the familiarity of New L’Manberg, and it reminds Tubbo of all the times before this.
The time when they did eat breakfast just like this in Tubbo’s house is peaceful. At least this time he isn’t President.
No more President Tubbo, he’s just Tubbo. For once, it’s nice.
The waves hit the snowy beach gently, the open window letting the sounds and ambiance with nature bleed into the small house in the midst of it all. Michael sits next to the two of them, splatting his food around with his hands. Tubbo chuckles as he grabs a napkin placed next to his plate, cleaning up both the table and Michael’s hands as well as any stray bits of food.
Tubbo looks up at Ranboo staring at him.
He doesn’t say a word.
——
Tubbo kneels down, tying his shoes skillfully, as any soldier with no time to waste does. He rises and pulls his coat off its hook, pulling it over his shoulders and zipping it up. Footsteps tread behind him, fancy shoes clicking against the wooden floor Tubbo laid down himself. He huffs as he looks back at his companion, head almost hitting the ceiling. He sure is a tall bastard if you ever asked Tubbo. “I have work to do. You know how it is.” Ranboo nods, because he does know how it is. They both remember New L’Manberg, it wasn’t like it was years ago, it was too recent for Tubbo’s liking, in fact. The constant hustle and bustle of the country was always too much for him. He does know, however, that he prefers manual labor to the mindless signing of papers and mental stress, staring at the wall with nothing to do but think. That was one of the worst parts of his day.
(Parts with Ranboo were the best.)
And he chooses not to question why he prefers it to paperwork.
He chooses not to dwell too long on L’Manberg summers, gathering wood with Tommy in the forests and pretending to be bears or other creatures that would pose a danger just to mess with the other, snapping twigs and asking if the other heard, coming back in a sprint and dropping wood, giggling to themselves and trying to stifle their laughter, dumping it all in one spot for a campfire Wilbur or Jack would start, which would turn into ghost stories and stupid jokes during the night. He’s never thought of rolling up his pants and fistbumping Tommy before jumping into a river, trying to catch fish with their bare hands for food, while the rest of them either watched them amusingly or on occasion joined in, but they typically left it to the two to do on their own. He doesn’t think about setting up camps in parts of the world, with Wilbur insisting they try to find the best spot possible for the country he sought to form, and although Tubbo was always exhausted, lugging around their things and setting up tents and helping the construction of the walls, chopping down trees when he got older, general things that he would then complain about, but Tommy always complained far more.
So, no. It most certainly does not cross his mind. Ever.
“What?” Tubbo asks, a response to Ranboo’s prolonged gaze.
He looks down for a moment, flustered. “I can help, you know. If uh– if you don’t mind? It’s not a big deal, I swear.”
Tubbo staggers a moment, before sighing once more. “Ranboo, no–”
“Tubbo, I’m serious. I don’t mind. I’ll help with whatever it is you need help with,” he states, walking closer to him and grabbing his wrist gently.
He forces his arm away, before crossing them. “Fine. Go bundle up, I’ll be out here, ‘kay?” Ranboo nods and turns around to his things that are here from the past night or so, getting dressed as Tubbo open the door to the freezing cold air, shoving gloveless hands into warm pockets as he takes in his surroundings, something he does every day as he walks into the wilderness, whether it’s the kind that is the loveliness of Snowchester if he dare say so himself, or the forests on the small plain that he’s chosen to leave untouched. He didn’t cut down many trees, only what was necessary, he left plenty to continue growing and planted new ones in any extra space.
His footprints imbed in thick snow, trudging with ease, he’s quickly adapted to the biome. Grown used to picking his foot up one after the other, trying not to get stuck in the snow, just move forward. He hates getting stuck in the snow.
He grabs an axe, it laid against a chopping block and then up and into his grasp, hoisting it over his shoulder, walking up to a nearby tree. He slams the axe into the tree and hacks at it with force, having done this so many times before.
He gets about halfway done on one side of the trunk before his back is hit, assuming it’s a skeleton that must be under a tree in daylight, and has decided to make his job much harder than need be. He swiftly turns around, subconsciously facing the direction of the attack, when he sees Ranboo before him.
He looks ridiculous. Too many coats on him, scarves, hats, gloves, the whole lot of it. He looks like a dork. “Wha— what the fuck?!” Tubbo shouts, already having his axe raised in expectation that he’d have to fight. It flings out his hand, gesturing in annoyance with them.
Ranboo stares before bursting out into laughter, keeling over and covering his mouth with a hand that probably has at least three gloves on it. Tubbo pauses.
Before he knows it, he’s laughing too and kneels down to the snow to roll up a ball, chucking it at Ranboo’s head, hitting him dead center. “Oh you’re on, asshole!” He shouts, hiding behind the tree and trying to assemble snowballs quickly.
Last time he did this was a L’Manberg winter, in the midst of a war to get morale up. It’s something he’ll never forget.
As he and Ranboo run across Snowchester, the memories rush in. Ranboo will never be Tommy, but he can only think of the blond haired boy he hasn’t talked to in who knows how long.
(He does remember. Maybe not the best circumstances.)
“You fucking suck!” Tubbo yells, shielding himself with buildings, running around as if they’re kids playing tag.
(Tubbo wonders what Ranboo would have been like as a child. He doesn’t know that Ranboo wonders the same thing. He wonders if they would have been friends.)
They shout back and forth, and eventually Tubbo has managed to make an entire artillery of Snowballs, and pelted Ranboo with all of them before eventually, he fell to the ground on his back, laughing and clutching his sides. “Okay! Okay fine, I give up!”
Tubbo comes to face him and holds out a hand. “Good game. Maybe next time have me on your team instead of against you,” he jokes, pulling Ranboo to his feet. “C’mon. Let’s go warm you up, bossman.”
“That was— that was just not fair at all, actually.”
“You threw the snowball first! You asked for it! Not my fault you threw a snowball at a literal soldier,” Tubbo claims, and Ranboo nods in agreement.
Tubbo stomps his boots on the stairs, shaking off the snow as he lets Ranboo enter first, as always. He can chop wood another day. Maybe there are more important things to tend to. Maybe he’s more okay with that than he is working his ass off. Ranboo takes his coat off his shoulders, before even bothering to take his own array of warm clothing off, and drops it onto the hangers. Tubbo would be a liar if he said Ranboo didn’t look fucking stupid. “I’ll check on Michael,” Tubbo says, climbing the ladder to find the boy still asleep, tucked in his bed from earlier, holding onto a sleeping chicken and Tubbo smiles to himself.
He fixes the blanket, pushing it over his shoulder to make sure Michael is warm enough, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He looks at the empty picture frames. He needs to figure out what to hang up. Not like he has many pictures.
(That’s a lie. He does. They stay in the basement. It’s not like they’re big enough for the frames Ranboo brought over, however. No reason to take them out.)
He shrugs it off and quietly retreats back downstairs. Ranboo is almost free of the stupid amount of layers, and he silently laughs to himself. He moves into the kitchen, instinctively brewing some hot chocolate, a favorite of Michael’s, whether because of the heat of it or just the fact that it’s chocolate, and what kid doesn’t like chocolate? By the time Ranboo comes into the kitchen, Tubbo is just getting to putting cocoa powder in it. “You really gotta learn to pick your battles, bossman,” he pokes, winking at Ranboo.
“Next time, go easy on me.”
Tubbo may know it’s unlikely, but regardless, he lets himself reply as if there is. “Oh please, in your dreams,” he says.
For a while, they sit in the kitchen, sipping mugs of hot chocolate together, playful insults and dumb conversations fill the air, spilling of drinks, and calmness.
He knows he should be getting work done. He has so much to do. Even when Snowchester is significantly less of a hassle, less to do, less citizens, less busywork. Even though he isn’t signing papers and looking over laws, trying to figure out a plan about Technoblade, too much to do. He needs to be outside right now, doing his chores, and yet he isn’t. He internally berates himself for the decision, because it’s less work for the future if he just gets it done now. Except he doesn’t. He sits in the space with Ranboo, soaking in the moment.
Eventually, Ranboo rises and sets his mug down on the table. “I… should probably get going. It’s a, uh, long walk back.”
Tubbo pauses, and absentmindedly nods. Ranboo approaches the door and grabs his things, slipping his shoes back on (which are damp from the snow, he really needs to get snow boots) and coat.
“It’s cold out there,” Tubbo says without a second thought. He feels like an idiot. Of course, it’s cold out there, it’s called Snowchester.
Ranboo squints at him a moment in confusion. “Yeah, it— yeah, it is— it’s uh… it’s very… snowy.”
What a fucking idiot. Good job, Underscore.
“I can put the fire on.”
And with that, Tubbo Underscore is officially the biggest idiot to exist in this current time. It’s more of a reflex, than anything. Before he knows it, Ranboo adorns a dorky smile on his face and shrugs his coat off. “Yeah, I— okay, I can uh…. the fire might be nice.”
Tubbo nods, “I’ll, uh… I’ll get the wood. You check on Michael,” he instructs, and Ranboo nods as they part paths. He doesn’t bother putting on winter gear or anything, it’s not like it’ll take him very long, and the fire will warm him up. As he walks into the snow, and it’s becoming dusk, he pauses.
The sky is lit with various colors, northern lights dancing to illuminate his country, and Tubbo lets himself stop to stare for a few moments, after all, he’s already slacking off so he might as well enjoy himself, right? What’s the harm? He might as well. He forces himself to move forward, because he’d rather not get hypothermia, which he views as a stupid way to die, and if he’s going to die it will not be because he freezes. He grabs a stack of wood, and goes back towards the cottage type house, opening the door with his foot and letting some snow come in, before walking to the fireplace and dropping the wood into it.
He arranges it neatly while Ranboo is still upstairs, lighting it with a flint and steel before standing back.
Ranboo comes down the ladder and he looks back at him. He likes his eyes.
He wonders how anyone couldn’t.