Chapter Text
The first sensation Tubbo acknowledged through the grogginess was the sound of shuffling and grunts. His sleep-addled brain could only determine it was the wind, or maybe just the mansion being weird.
He curled up further, his head pressing into his husband’s chest, a disgruntled groan coming from the other. Pushing further, Tubbo tried to will himself back to sleep, the sun not even up high enough to reach the window and bathe them in the glory of a new day.
As he was just about to return to the release of sleep, the blanket shifted over his legs. He scrunched his face and kicked out in retaliation, hitting Ranboo.
“Huh?” the enderman hybrid’s sleep-roughed voice sounded at the (deserved) hit, confused at the rude wake-up call, but refusing to open his eyes.
“Stop taking my blanket,” the other mumbled, struggling to pull up what had been pulled off of him.
Another grunt from somewhere in the room.
“-m not,” Ranboo mumbled.
“You are, you b-”
Suddenly, a weight landed on his feet, and a familiar shriek of victory reached his ears.
“Oh,” he muttered, horrified. It was one thing to have his blanket stolen by his husband, but completely different if it were being stolen by his beloved child.
However, he did not feel like dealing with it, and by the evened-out sound of Ranboo’s breathing, the bitch had gone back to sleep.
The rustling of blankets alerted him to the zombie pigman moving around, the frantic jerks and grumbles telling him all he needed to know: Michael was in the bed and stuck, but only for so long and someone was going to pay for it.
Tubbo just didn’t want it to be him.
A hum reached his ears from the foot of the bed, which meant Michael had gotten himself free and the first person to make a noise would be his target.
So, he did what any other sane person would do, wiggling a hand out from under his cocoon, and lifting it in the air. He reached toward where he’d heard Ranboo’s voice earlier, hoping he wouldn’t miss because he knew that if he did, he’d react vocally. Completely blind, he brought it down, trying to grab Ranboo’s attention, maybe wake him up again.
“Mmm?!” a startled noise arose from higher up on the bed once Tubbo’s hand connected with something that suspiciously felt like a nose. A squeal the only notification before Michael struck.
The tiny pigman quickly scrambled up the length of the bed before pouncing on the prone figure of his dad, “Up!”
“Oof!” was the only response the taller could give as a small body landed on his stomach, still reeling from the strike to his face.
“Up! Up!” Michael repeated, excited grunts and squeals escaping him as he pulled at the fabric of Ranboo’s night shirt, “Dad! Up!”
“Your son is awake,” Tubbo hummed, smirking as prepared to get more sleep, finally able to pull the blanket over his shoulders again.
With Michael’s pulls becoming more insistent, Ranboo opened an eye and looked out the window. Noticing that the sun was hardly high enough to barely color the sky, he slowly brought his hands up to grab at the child.
The resulting high-pitched shriek was closely followed by distinct laughter as monochrome fingers wiggled into sensitive sides.
“Stop!” his son giggled, and so he did, content to just keep his hands there for a second before he began to lift Michael into the air.
Tubbo felt Ranboo shift on the bed, internally gloating at the thought that his husband would get to suffer the cold air before him. He started to roll over, you know, to give them space, like the great dad he was, before the weight of a giggling child landed on his chest.
His eyes snapped open to glare at the offender (his husband, always his husband, never his son).
Ranboo’s face was adorned with a smirk of its own, different-colored eyes gazing right back at him, tiredness evident in how they’re half-lidded and slowly closing, “Before sunrise, he’s your son,” the faint thump on the bed letting Tubbo know that his tail was flicking in amusement.
“Bitch,” Tubbo said half-heartedly, slowly sitting up and cradling his excited son close.
“Betch!” Michael tried to imitate.
At the sound, Tubbo no longer felt sleepy, all too happy to hear his son try to cuss, while Ranboo’s tail stopped moving and the owner letting out a drawn-out, miserable groan.
“Yes!” Tubbo celebrated, squeezing the zombie pigman to his chest and placing an exaggerated kiss to the exposed skull, “I got his first curse word! Before Tommy!”
“Noooooo,” Ranboo whined from the bed, “That’s it, I want a divorce!”
“Nope!” the denial was simple as he continued to pepper kisses all over his son’s head.
Tubbo pulled back when a tiny hoof touched his cheek to push him back, small giggles accompanying the movement, “Papa! Papa!”
“Yes, my piggly wiggly?” Tubbo cooed, slightly moving his fingers to tickle him.
Michael squealed and batted at his hands, “Pahh-taay!” he announced slowly, but confidently.
This made Tubbo pause for two reasons. One: he’d been too tired to remember what day it was and Two: his baby saying ‘party’ that way could only mean one thing: Tommy.
Tubbo was about ready to cry. Not only did he forget how important today was (even if momentarily), he had confirmation that Tommy “I don’t like babies, especially Ranboo’s” Innit was spending time with Michael!
He sniffled, “You like your Uncle Tommy, Michael?”
“Big Man! Poggahs!” he nodded resolutely, expression as serious as any toddler’s could be.
Giving his son another squeeze, Tubbo kicked off his blanket, hitting his almost-forgotten husband again. As the other grumbled, the brunet chirped, “No sleeping in, big guy! It’s the big day!”
“Wha?” Ranboo groggily questioned, giving up on sleep as he sat up. “Oh!” he brightened up, tail swishing along the sheets, “Michael’s birthday!”
“Mm-hm!” Tubbo nodded, standing up from the bed, “Or as close as we can get to it, what with it being the first anniversary of bringing Michael home.”
“You know,” Ranboo paused to yawn, “that also means it’s Valentine’s Day.”
The shorter hummed noncommittally as he moved to the door, focused on Michael as he asked, “So, what do you want for breakfast?”
As the ensuing grunts and laughter quickly faded away as the door closed, Ranboo scrambled up, calling out to his husband, “Are we valentines this year too? Tubbo?! Come on, man!” and he followed them to the kitchen, looking forward to the party they’d have later in the day with the rest of their friends.