Chapter Text
The air smelled of gunpowder.
Particles of it floated around Tubbo, catching in his nose and burning in his lungs. The enclosed space felt hot and humid, sweat beginning to drip down from his hairline and down to his forehead. The apron messily tied around his neck and waist suddenly felt too constricting, knots harsh against sensitive skin and much too reminiscent of a suit and tie.
It was so dark. Distantly, he registered the sound of scuffling, grunting, and yelling, the faint silhouette of two humanoids grappling backlit by dimmed torches, alongside a sliver of overworld light. Were he in a sounder state of mind, he might’ve been able to discern what they were yelling about, but a strange state of muted-ness had descended onto his ears. They seemed to function like an una corda , softening all the sounds entering his mind and disembodying their shape and origin.
The air smelled of gunpowder. His lungs burned.
Around him, the world seemed to ripple and warp. His head spun and struggled to make form of what he was seeing, a camera unable to decide on a focal point. Swirls of garish yellows bordered his vertical vision, blocking out his range and trapping his senses. The enraged yelling now seemed to be accompanied by triumphant gloating, the small space seeming to stretch on like an auditorium. He could’ve sworn there were glints of eyes flashing mutedly beyond his vision. Terror flooded to his veins. His feet were glued to the ground. He didn’t want to die.
Where were his friends? They were here, weren’t they? They would help him, surely. They were his friends. Friends helped each other. They wouldn’t leave him. He was sure they wouldn’t leave him.
The air smelled of gunpowder. He couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly, a warm hand clasped his shoulder. Tubbo startled, nearly leaping off of the pressure plate and heart catapulting in his chest at the thought of it. He turned, and was met with an unfamiliar form. They were towering and slender, leaning down to look him in the eyes. Something about that gesture touched him, despite knowing it would be unprofessional not to meet someone in the eyes when speaking to them. That much had been hammered into him. Though, technically, the figure hadn’t spoken yet.
You aren’t supposed to be here , His mind protested worriedly. You aren’t supposed to see this .
He still couldn’t see the stranger’s face. He squinted.
Ores in the dark. Redstone and emerald. The day chased by the dusk and the night chased by the dawn.
The air smelled of gunpowder. His lungs were full of it.
The figure didn’t have a face. He could still see their mouth moving.
“What?” He asked, sounding more like he was begging. What an odd thing to beg , he noted to himself.
The figure blinked at him. They still didn’t have a face.
“Tubbo, you need to move,” He could finally hear them say, the figure’s voice familiar and grounded in his mind. Their sentences embraced him, settling his buzzing skin like a weighted blanket.
The figure took a certain, assured step, placing one foot on the pressure plate alongside Tubbo’s. The mechanism pressed further down into the ground, promising stability. Tantalizing safety.
The figure was wearing dress shoes. The warm hand still rested on his shoulder, connecting now to a golden-buttoned cuff and a pressed suit jacket sleeve. Tubbo looked back up to their face and still recognized nothing. Only the offer of freedom.
“What about you?” Tubbo couldn’t help but care for this stranger, his heart lurching with worry.
“I have a plan,” They reassured him. Gently, they reached down with their free hand, grasping Tubbo’s own and releasing the death grip he’d been holding on his wrist.
“But-” Tubbo vocalized, doubt taking a firm hold on his gut. This didn’t feel right. Something was wrong.
“Do you trust me?” The figure asked, voice deep, strands of hair lightly drifting across their face.
“Of course I do,” Tubbo murmured, without hesitation. He didn’t even know their name.
Gently, the figure nudged his shoulder, directing him off of the plate as they stepped on with their remaining foot. He let himself be pushed off, wincing at the faint clicking sound the plate made upon the shifting of their weight.
Tubbo’s whole being screamed at him. The air smelled of gunpowder.
He remained beside the figure, peering up at them, reluctant to leave. How could he leave them alone? It felt wrong. So much of this felt wrong. They were risking their life for him.
“Good,” They said. Tubbo could’ve sworn they were smiling. At least, they sounded like they were smiling. “Now get out of here, ‘Bo.”
Can I really leave you alone right now?
The burden of hindsight clouded his mind. Like he already knew how this was going to end.
Nevertheless, Tubbo complied, because no one could rewrite history, releasing the figure’s hands and scrambling towards a ladder that hadn’t been there seconds earlier. He started climbing the rungs, and was about half-way up when curiosity prodded at his mind, like it always did. And yet, it was more than just curiosity - an ache, deep in his chest, pulling his heartstrings down as if he were a kite, tugging him, begging him to look back towards his anchor. Keeping a firm hold of the wooden bar, Tubbo turned and gazed down at what he left behind, at his martyr, and found them looking back.
A familiar, kind face looked back up at him, redstone and emerald eyes glowing in the dim light. His face was split black and white, the dusk chasing the day and the dawn chasing the night. Ranboo was smiling at him.
Tubbo smiled back.
His head spun again, and he groaned, turning to lean onto the run he clung to. It dug into his forehead as he took a burdened breath. Where were these head-rushes coming from?
Shaking it off, and wanting to look back at his husband ( that’s what he was!), he turned around, only to find the world more out of order than before. Ranboo didn’t have his apron on, though he knew he should have. Muted cries of distress melted from the walls like ghosts, plaguing his ears, and he fought the urge to clamp his hands over them to drown the sound out. The triumphant gloating was back full-force, close enough to be breathing down his neck.
There was no one. He was alone on a ladder.
Around him, the cavern walls swirled, engulfed in the garish yellow he’d seen earlier. They didn’t even seem to be made of stone anymore, taking on a gleaming quality. Yellow concrete dust mingled with the gunpowder in the air.
Ranboo was still smiling at him. He was trapped in a box, his towering stature hunching over to accommodate the loss of space. The pressure plate creaked under his feet, the near silent sound echoing through the cavern like a sword swing.
Tubbo’s heart jackhammered in his chest. No, no, no.
“Wilbur! Quackity!” Ranboo called, peeking out from his entrapment and up to the viewing deck, voice firmer than Tubbo was used to hearing. It still sounded like a cry for help.
His heart rate pounded in his ears. It was all he could hear, alongside the horrible wailing in the walls and the gloating of an adversary long lost to time, but not to dreams. Not to nightmares.
Ranboo continued to speak, but Tubbo could no longer hear him. He no longer clung to the ladder of the viewing platform. Instead, he was on a rooftop overlooking the cavern, hands gripping the edge as he itched to jump down and save his best friend from his own fate.
A blond-haired boy was crouched beside him, a green bandana tied around his neck and his left hand gripping a crossbow. His face was contorted in horror.
Tubbo reached for the boy’s hand. The boy reached back, squeezing it desperately.
Distantly, he registered the sound of a firework whizzing into the air.
The pressure plate popped up under Ranboo’s feet, as if he weighed nothing at all. And with that, the explosives detonated, starting under Ranboo and flooding the cavern with billowing displays of red and orange.
The air smelled of gunpowder and yellow concrete and burning .
Tubbo clung desperately to Tommy’s hand. The air smelled of gunpowder, ignited and sparking.
He couldn’t breathe.
He lurched upwards, clutching his throat and gasping for air, desperate to rid himself of the acid on his tongue. Hand on his heaving chest, he blinked, the shift from bright, overwhelming light, to almost complete darkness making his vision swim.
He closed his fist around his shirt. It draped around his fingers, large and loose-fitting on his frame. He blinked away the stars in his eyes, and yet a clump of them still remained like a muted nebula after a moment. He blinked a few times more, only to find that squared-swath of night sky lingering still.
A window, He realized.
Only then did it register that he was covered in blankets from the waist down, the sound of muted wind flowing through evergreens and the hooting of owls outside.
I’m in Snowchester, He exhaled, untensing his shoulders. It wasn’t real.
He breathed a sigh of relief, something deep within him relaxing at the notion of safety. He didn’t bother to smother the “ jesus christ ” that slipped out upon him catching his breath, hanging his head and relishing in the feeling of lucidity.
Tubbo was no stranger to fucked up dreams, trauma related or otherwise, but that? That was something else. Watching Ranboo’s death all over again was the very last thing he’d want to relive, especially not mixed with…
The sound of shifting covers and a muffled snore sounded to his right, and he twisted to find the source of the noise.
Sprawled out by his side was none other than Ranboo, drowning in covers and positioned out like a man on a caution sign. His left foot hung precariously over the edge of the bed. Under a large shirt, taut bandages were visible criss-crossing along his arms and neck.
Well… some of it wasn’t real, at least.
Tubbo sighed, hunching over from his alert position and rubbing at his temples. God, that sucked! What was even the point of that?
He took deep breaths in a feeble, yet admirable attempt to settle his heart. His breathing was better, but that would change if he didn’t get a grip on himself soon.
Tubbo turned his gaze back to his husband, who was still twisted up in their sheets from all of his aggressive tossing and turning. For all of his considerate mannerisms while awake, Ranboo was a menace when it came to blanket hoarding. If Tubbo was any lighter of a sleeper, he didn’t think he’d ever get any meaningful rest. The enderman hybrid could mine for hours straight and still find a way to do a whole jazzercise session in his sleep.
For a moment, Tubbo debated waking him up. It wouldn’t be the first time that Ranboo would be awakened by Tubbo’s nightmares, whether by his outward signs of distress or purposeful rousing. Despite Tubbo apologizing for his many nights plagued by night terrors or flashbacks, and how disruptive he could be, Ranboo always reassured him, making him promise to wake him if ever he needed the company. No exceptions , he’d murmur.
Tubbo glanced at the gauze wraps across Ranboo's body, and his eyebrows furrowed. No exceptions, huh?
…No. No, Ranboo deserved the rest. He was the one who had just gone through hell, not Tubbo. And while Tubbo had done almost the exact song and dance as far as recovery, and while he was still haunted by the events of the festival in both his waking and his resting hours, the immediate priority was Ranboo.
Tubbo remembered how horrible it was, recovering from those fireworks with no one but Tommy by his side. Wilbur was much too paranoid and lost to his own spiraling mind to help him. And, well… Technoblade was out of the question.
During that time, any moment awake became one to grit his teeth against, silently wincing at skin that still felt as if it were seering despite weeks having passed. Mornings after rough nights, waking up and feeling such bone-deep nausea that he could barely function. He didn’t want to see that kind of taxation carried in Ranboo’s kind eyes, especially not if he was the reason for it.
Tubbo sighed, leaning back on to his pillow and bringing the one fourth of the remaining covers over his torso.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Ranboo needed his support during this. And that’s exactly what Tubbo was going to give him.
—
He was going to burn down the kitchen.
“ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, ” Tubbo hissed under his breath, fighting the urge to drop and leap away from the frying pan he was currently carrying towards the sink. In said frying pan lay three lopsided pancakes, all of which had gone up in flames. How they’d done so was beyond Tubbo, he’d only gone away to make the smoothies for a second , but hindsight didn’t douse developing housefires - water did.
Dumping the pan in the sink, Tubbo flicked the faucet on, leaping out of the blast zone in case any hot butter decided to leap out and scald his skin. He’d had his fill of burn injuries, thank you very much.
Huffing out a breath, Tubbo rushed over to the window over the sink, somewhat assured that no butter would leap out to attack him, unlocking and sliding it open. After doing so, he started waving his hot pad wildly through the air, cutting through the accumulating smoke and hoping that opening the window would prevent the fire alarm from going off.
The thought of Ranboo, recovering from burn wounds , waking up to a fire alarm of all things, was horrifying. It was all he could hope that his husband wouldn’t wake up with the smell of smoke in his nose.
Wiping his forehead, he jogged over to the blender, continuing to blend the fruit smoothie he’d started to make before the pancakes had caught on fire. Despite feeling like anything could catch fire again at any moment, Tubbo left the blender to do its job. He returned to the sink and shut off the water, pancakes successfully extinguished.
They peeked back up at him, sad, charcoal-like discs that would likely sound even more tormented than “11” were they to be shoved in a jukebox. Tubbo shrunk in on himself at the sight.
He’d started this whole venture in an attempt to help Ranboo. Neither of them were the best of cooks, Tubbo for his affinity with explosives (purposeful and otherwise), and Ranboo for his affinity with monstrosities (all purposeful, unfortunately). But Ranboo always tried to cook for them when he could. When he wouldn’t cook, he’d sometimes bring something from town, single-handedly ensuring on multiple occasions that Tubbo didn’t miss a day’s worth of meals holed up in his workshop. Tubbo wanted to return the favor, especially considering the circumstances.
Not to mention that Tommy had done the same for him when he’d earned his own burn scars. While he did wonder on more than one occasion if Tommy had unknowingly poisoned him with his cooking, the thought mattered far more than a couple of suspiciously bloody steaks did. And, suspicious steaks aside, Tommy was scarily good at making chicken nuggets specifically.
But not even Tommy would serve him pancakes burned enough to act like a frisbee. No, he’d curse god for a couple minutes and be overall incredibly melodramatic about the situation, but he’d throw that shit away and start over. Tommy would bounce back like he always did.
Tubbo sighed. He had some leftover batter, at least. Maybe not enough for three, but enough for Ranboo and Michael.
And so, Tubbo set back to work, cleaning and re-buttering the pan before setting the pancakes down to brown, keeping a very, very close eye on them. They were flipped over the second the centers stopped bubbling, and, despite the rocky start, Tubbo ended up with two decently sized, nicely browned pancakes. Smoke still lingered in the air, and upon closer inspection, his smoothies had way too much ice blended into them. But it was better than no breakfast at all, right?
Tubbo still wondered what he was going to eat, though. Maybe he could say ‘ fuck it’ and go eat grass or mud or something. Rocks, maybe, just for the extra challenge. He knew Tommy would be proud of him.
Right as Tubbo finished pouring smoothies into three cups and setting out pancakes with syrup and fruit for his family, he started to hear shuffling around upstairs. He looked around the space hurriedly, giving the hazy air a couple more broad swipes, before rushing to put dirty dishes in the sink.
The air smelled of smoke. The realization stopped Tubbo in his tracks, feeling like an ice cube had been dropped down his back. His heart flipped in his ribs, heat prickled at his skin.
The air smelled of smoke.
He couldn’t breathe.
Behind him, a yawn sounded, a gravelly voice warmly saying, “Good morning, ‘Bo. What’s all this?”
Fighting the urge to materialize his sword from his inventory and stick it on whoever snuck up on him, he opted instead to do a frantic little spin, eyes looking a little too wild to be normal. But he was himself, so maybe they wouldn’t think much of it.
Walking dopily through the door, and still likely weighed down from sleep, was Ranboo, eyes half-lidded and immediately meeting Tubbo’s. In his arms was Michael, tucked against his chest and rubbing his big ol’ eyes with his tiny little hands. The image was so disgustingly domestic that Tubbo had to fight against visibly stalling like an old monitor.
“Hi! Uh,” Tubbo started, sounding a little less organized than he would’ve hoped to sound. “Breakfast.”
Ranboo lumbered up to him, leaning down to lazily bonk his forehead into Tubbo’s hair, perfectly between his horns. “Aww, that’s very sweet. Thank you.”
Tubbo recoiled from the light impact of the gesture, snorting. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome.” He ignored the smile beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth, silently celebrating that he’d been able to do something Ranboo constituted as ‘sweet’. Unless the pancakes ended up tasting like shit, or the smoothie ended being too icy. He winced at the thought.
While he wouldn’t describe his fears as unfounded (he’d lived through enough to know that no fear was ever truly unfounded), they did turn out to be in vain. If Michael’s syrup covered fingers and a Ranboo happily sipping at his smoothie were anything to go off of.
There was something so baffling about watching a nearly seven foot tall enderman hybrid sat at his kitchen table, hunching over to nurse on a fruit smoothie in a large cup that still managed to look small in his hands. And alongside that enderman hybrid was a zombie piglin boy, dressed in bee striped pajamas and glimmering with maple syrup. And , of course, there was the knowledge that they were father and son. Just to sweeten the pot.
Tubbo grappled with the word “endearing” in his head as if it were a stray silverfish. Pesky thoughts.
Tubbo turned away, making the decision to clean up their mess of a kitchen by way of distraction. As he set to work, Ranboo asked. “Wait, what about you?”
“Hmm?” Tubbo hummed, giving his friend a confused look.
“You didn’t get food for yourself,” Ranboo stated, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Oh, I already ate,” Tubbo lied easily, turning back to watch the skillet in his hand as he scrubbed it. “Don’t worry about me, bossman.”
The suspended pause that followed his words was enough to tip Tubbo off to his own failure. Ranboo sighed, the exhale followed by the screeching of a chair against the floor.
Tubbo never considered himself to be a good liar before Manburg. Truth be told, he never had much reason to lie, so maybe it’d be more accurate to say it wasn’t a skill he’d needed yet. That “yet” only manifested when Tubbo found himself wedged within Schlatt’s cabinet, unceremoniously thrust into the role of spy and conspirator for his exiled companions. He had to get good at lying, and get good at lying fast . Which he did, miraculously, but not enough to avoid being executed via rocket launcher at a festival he’d planned and decorated himself.
No, the more skilled lying came when he was president.
They weren’t grandiose lies. He spoke as truthfully as he could, really, but dishonesty laced every mannerism. The confident stride in his step, the authoritative tone in his voice, and the set posture to his shoulders - it was never malicious, never, but it all seemed like a ruse. There were times where he himself felt like a walking fallacy. Like he was truly just a boy running around in a war hero’s suit, and calling himself a president for it. How could anyone look at Tubbo and think he knew what he was doing?
Well, that was where the lying part came in.
Tubbo had always been good at playing his part for other people, but he was usually something of an underling when he did so. He’d carry out the tasks that had been asked of him and he left the big decisions to the big guns. There was always some form of guidance, no matter how cruel that guidance could be. There were parameters to be met, and Tubbo could work with that. Enjoyed it, even, for the problem solving it would allow. But as president? He had no one to answer to but himself, at least hierarchically speaking. He’d always thought that Wilbur, Schlatt, and Dream were so invincible because of their positions, so safe in their influence and power. But Tubbo had never felt more exposed than he did when he was president.
Ideologically, he knew what he had to do. Prioritize his country and his citizens and nothing else. Protect the people he was tasked with protecting, never value the few over the whole. But knowing his objective was very different from knowing the path to getting there. And even if he did the right thing in the name of his country, it could all go to shit anyways. Which it did, if Exile and Doomsday was anything to go off of. He was sworn to protect L’Manburg as its president, but how could someone without any medical knowledge swear the hippocratic oath and not be a poser? An oath wasn’t enough.
So, what the hell was he if not a liar in golden epaulets? The road to hell was paved with good intentions, and as far as he was concerned, he was about eight circles deep.
Something Tubbo had always loved and hated about Ranboo was his uncanny ability to read him, even in the early days of their friendship, despite what Tubbo said and did. He’d be able to look past Tubbo’s upbeat tones to see the tremble in his fingers, or see past the steely eyes he’d adopt whenever he talked about Tommy. He’d somehow always know when to pick up a shovel and lend a helping hand, without even being asked, or when to gently grab Tubbo’s shoulder and tell him to take a break. Tubbo could fool Quackity with his false cheer, or Fundy with his stronger tone, but never Ranboo.
He was the only one he felt like he wasn’t tricking. And, despite seeing the fraud he was on a regular basis, he never turned away from him. Instead, he’d take his hand and hold it firm, an unspoken I’m not going anywhere.
At times, it was scary, feeling truly understood by someone no matter what air he put on. In a way, it felt dangerous. Like he was out of control. Safety was keeping his cards and insecurities close to his chest, building up his defenses until the only thing anyone could see was what he was supposed to be: a strong leader with no doubts and a certainty of the path ahead. Someone worthy of the title that he’d been given.
Ranboo saw through all of that and still stuck around. Tubbo wondered on a daily basis at what point he’d finally push the envelope enough for Ranboo to give up on him, but they never reached that point. It reassured and relieved and confused and terrified Tubbo to no end.
So, upon hearing that chair screech against the floor, and upon hearing the soft footsteps approaching behind him, he accepted the fact that his lie wasn’t very convincing. It had probably been foolish of him to think it would work, anyways.
He pointedly focused on drying the pan he’d washed, setting it to the side and picking up a syrup-y plate to begin washing. He remained unreasonably invested in scrubbing it down, even as he felt Ranboo place his elbows on Tubbo’s shoulders and rest his chin in between the ram’s horns. His bandaged forearms brushed against the back of Tubbo’s neck, equally abrasive and comforting.
Ranboo sighed, his breath rustling Tubbo’s hair, before saying, “You burned your first batch, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tubbo replied curtly, ducking his head and scrubbing the plate intensely. Ranboo easily followed the motion, chin still resting on his head.
“Mhm, mhm,” Ranboo hummed, not sounding convinced at all. “Then why does it smell like it?”
“You’re just smelling things,” Tubbo retorted.
“Yeah. Smoke .”
“That sounds like a you problem, dude.”
“Hmm, okay,” Ranboo replied, straightening up and beginning to reach around to the cupboard under the sink. “I hope you won’t mind if I check the trash can, then-”
“Do not check the rubbish bin,” Tubbo whirled on him, fully aware that he was incriminating himself by doing so.
Ranboo seemed to think so as well, if the smug smile on his face was anything to go off of. “Okay. Okay, I won’t.”
Tubbo huffed, shaking his head as Ranboo replaced his chin between his horns. “You’re such a dick.”
“Mhm,” Was his only self-satisfied reply, and Tubbo let himself deflate a little. So much for breakfast running smoothly.
He washed dishes for a little bit, Ranboo still leaning on his shoulders and watching the world outside of the window above the sink. He could still hear Michael scraping happily at his plate of pancakes, and while sharp metallic noises usually gave him reason to start, Tubbo found the sound very comforting.
Once Tubbo reached his last utensil, Ranboo sighed again, and said. “You really do need to eat, though.”
“Yeah, I know,” Tubbo replied, sounding a bit more petulant than he was meaning to.
“I can help, if you want?” Ranboo offered, his still sleepy voice vibrating against Tubbo’s head.
“ No , you don’t have to do that, big man,” Tubbo replied, sincere. “It was my fault the pancakes set on fire. Granted, I don’t know how I did that, but-”
Ranboo snorted, leaning into his head, before asking incredulously. “Wait, they caught on fire ? Dude -”
“ Stop laughing at me ,” Tubbo whined, placing down the fork and replacing his damp dish towel with a dry one, whacking his husband with it in retaliataion.
Ranboo continued to wheeze, bending his noodle of a torso away from the attack. “ Oh my god, how did you even manage to do that-”
“ You’re such a dick ,” Tubbo repeated, squirming away from Ranboo’s hold to hit him with the towel two more times.
Ranboo continued to laugh, shying away from the offending towel and giving his friend a grin. “Now I have to help you, I can’t have you burning the kitchen down.”
“ Nooooo, the whole point of doing this was to make your morning easier,” Tubbo groaned, hiding his head in his hands. “I’ve failed my one objective!”
Ranboo continued to laugh at his embarrassment, walking up to wrap his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders, chuckling into his hair. “It’s okay, Tubbo. Spending time with you is only a slight inconvenience.”
“ Why are you so mean to me? ” Tubbo complained. “What example are we setting for our son? Are we just going to stand by as he grows up in a toxic environment? You are being so toxic to me right now.”
“No I’m not ,” Ranboo whined back, chest bouncing with laughter under Tubbo’s head. “I’m literally offering to help you cook, do you want my help or not?”
Tubbo let out a sad little petulant noise, before nodding reluctantly and giving his friend a squeeze.
Ranboo squeezed back, before stepping away, cheeks red from laughter. “Okay, okay, I’ll help you. Can you go clean Michael up for me? I’ll start making more batter.”
Tubbo half-heartedly mumbled in affirmation, making his way over to their son and snorting to himself when he hears Ranboo laugh again behind him.
Tubbo couldn’t remember how long it took for him to start laughing again after his second death. Maybe the lingering betrayal and shock of the situation played a part in the seriousness in the days that followed. Maybe it was the bubbling pain that clung to his skin. The haunted look in Tommy’s eyes whenever he caught him staring at his healing scars. The awareness that one of his best friends and mentors was losing himself to his demons. The knowledge that he’d really, truly, lost his home at that point, exiled just like his friends had been months prior. And maybe even the fight in the pit stuck with him more than he acknowledged.
Regardless, it had taken a while. And yet, here he and Ranboo were, bickering and shoving each other around as if the explosion a couple days prior hadn’t happened at all. As if Ranboo’s two-toned skin wasn’t still wrapped in gauze, or as if Tubbo didn’t notice him hiding a wince with every footfall.
The morning might not have gone as smoothly as Tubbo had hoped, and didn't allow Ranboo to kick back the way he’d wanted for him. But seeing his best friend so carefree and animated, despite everything, made Tubbo feel like he’d succeeded. At least a little bit.
—
Truth be told, Tubbo didn’t expect the situation to affect him that much.
Sure, he still had his scars to show for his time as a burn victim, but really, he preferred to keep the past in the past. No point lingering on what had been lost. He’d seen what an anxious mind, spiraling in and in on itself, contemplating regret and downfall, could do to someone. Well, a couple people. But he was determined to keep forging ahead, looking to the future, taking care of what he had in the present. The past had no place with him. Not with memories, not with grudges, and not with trauma.
But maybe he’d overestimated his ability to compartmentalize his issues. Because, really, if he’d truly gotten over what had happened to him, would he be crumpled over on the floor, clutching his chest as if his heart were about to escape his rib cage, lungs too constricted to aid his aching muscles?
His skin burned. His lungs burned. He couldn’t breathe.
It was something stupid, too. He’d gone downstairs to their medicine cupboard, looking for some supplies to restock what they had in the bedroom. He’d opened up a container of burn cream, to see if it was new or not, and the smell of freshly opened burn cream met his nose. It smelled much too similar to the night of his execution, when he and Tommy opened up their first tub of it to treat Tubbo’s burns.
The memories of it overwhelmed him. The way his tears burned on his cheek, the pain that pounded relentlessly along his skin, thrumming with his heartbeat and making his stomach churn from the pain. It was the tortured looks Tommy would give Tubbo, the horrified looks he’d give his burns, and the medicinal supplies clutched in his wrapped hands. It was the first couple of nights he spent with his burns, unable to fall asleep and curled in on himself, as if making himself smaller would end the pain. It was, despite the torture of it all, Wilbur shooting him distrustful looks, as if he hadn’t just fucking died as his spy and now had permanent burn scars to show for it. It was Techno’s disinterest in offering an apology, shrugging off confrontations (mostly from Tommy) with talk of how he had no other choice. Almost as if it was destined to happen, no matter what they did.
Was I always destined for this? Tubbo would wonder, gripping at the gauze on his arms with a bad taste in his mouth. Even if I tried to do the right thing, was I always destined for this? Will I always be destined for this?
Tubbo never liked to call himself paranoid, a word he heavily associated with Wilbur. He only gave the self-descriptor merit, however, when he first started developing the nukes with Jack Manifold.
He remembers the moment very clearly, the cold sink of it almost relieving in his lava sea of a mind. He was sitting in his workshop, Jack chatting idly somewhere to his left, as he stared at his near completed creation. The nuke was slender and long, aerodynamic and dangerously sharp. The warning labels tattooed across its metallic shell burned in Tubbo’s brain, simultaneously exhilarating and apocalyptic. Knowing that so much volatility could be stored in one compact space felt like looking down a black hole, one he was already stuck in the pull for. He had a feeling he’d been stuck in that pull for a while.
Creating the uranium core for nuclear fission had been a major obstacle in the whole engineering process, a hurdle that had taken weeks for the pair to solve. Now that they had, there was a lingering ‘ what now?’ haunting Tubbo’s mind. He’d always started projects with the intent of investing his life into them. The next thing to devote his time and mind and body to.
What does an inventor do when the work that has consumed their life for however long is completed? What’s next?
I should make a dead man’s switch, He thought idly, fiddling with the metal scraps in his hands. Just in case.
A voice that sounded a lot like Ranboo’s sounded back, incredulous and worried. Just in case? In case what? What good is a weapon of protection if it kills you? Do you really think I’d allow you to be making this bomb if I knew the thoughts that were crossing your mind?
That’s why I don’t tell you, Tubbo’s mind supplied back, ignoring the pointlessness of entertaining a fake argument with his figment-of-imagination-husband.
You don’t tell me a lot of things, Came the uncharacteristically bitter reply, and Tubbo stopped fidgeting.
He knew it was true, but thinking it felt like an ice cube had been dropped down his shirt. Was this really what he had become? He couldn’t lie to Ranboo by commission, so he’d started lying by omission?
If you were honest with yourself and him, you wouldn’t be up here making a weapon of mass destruction.
And that was when it hit. He never wanted to use the nuke offensively, and swore he never would, but that didn’t negate the fact that the sleek invention in front of him was capable of unleashing the horrors of war. The horrors that he himself had been subjected to. By Wilbur, by Techno, by Phil, by Dream…
A smudged image of Wilbur flashed in his mind. A man lost to his mania laughing at the crater below him. And Tubbo could only look up and watch as two of his homes crumbled to the destruction.
Everyone spent so much time comparing him to Schlatt that they never considered how similar he was becoming to Wilbur. A ticking time bomb. A ticking, paranoid time bomb.
Tubbo sent Jack home after that.
Tubbo, out of pure guilt, spent the rest of the night helping Ranboo with his late night mining excursion, trying to make up for a betrayal Ranboo had no idea about, and if he had it his way, never would. All Tubbo could do was enjoy his lanky, goofy, best friend, watching the way his unmarred face would twist and grin at whatever half-baked, inappropriate joke Tubbo’d been able to shoot his way.
He’s not unmarred anymore. In fact, he has very fresh burn scars. Ones you should be treating right now.
Tubbo clutched at his chest, the world sharpening around him, the panic of the thought worsening the jackhammering of his heart. He tuned into the feeling of wooden planks under his palms, the silent humming of the cabinet’s lights deafening above him. He took a breath and could actually hear the intake, rather than the ringing that had taken hold when he’d crumpled to the floor.
How long had he been down here, curled up on the floor? Had Ranboo been waiting for him long? Was he beginning to worry him?
He hadn’t had a panic attack that bad in months . Why the fuck was he starting again now? Right when Ranboo needed him the most, he was collapsing to the floor as if he were some Shakespearean damsel to be coddled.
Damn it, Tubbo, stop making this about yourself, He scolded. Ranboo’s the one with fresh burn scars, yours have long healed. Get over yourself. Get up there and help him!
Ignoring the shakiness of his hands, he reached over to the abandoned tub of burn cream on the floor, weakly replacing the cap and placing it in his inventory. Still trembling, with knees nearly knocking together, he dragged himself up the wall, taking purposeful breaths and shaking his head punitively.
He’d gotten over this. He was supposed to have gotten over this.
“Get it together,” He hissed to himself, trying to block out how shaky his own voice sounded in his ears. How young he sounded, even to himself. “This isn’t about you.”
After forcing out a few more breaths, after squaring and rolling his shoulders, and after setting his jaw, he pushed himself from the wall. He didn’t give himself the chance to sway, only to pivot and walk outside the cupboard, firmly shutting the door behind him.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Ranboo needed his support during this. And that’s exactly what Tubbo was going to give him.