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Crossing borders was common for Tubbo, and he couldn't help but take note of the oh so clear distinctions.
In Manberg, it was all paper-thin panes of glass, conversations laced with bitter honey, barely-there threats in each spoken sentence, desperation concealed as arrogance.
In Pogtopia, it was jokes when they had nothing else, genuine laughter echoing off cobble, meals eaten hastily but together, calloused hands reaching to help a wound, outward or inward.
There, it was a hand on his shoulder, fingertips warningly digging tight, a stern glare paired with a curse because he didn't do something right, a tilted smirk as plans were conceived.
Here, it was an arm looped around his shoulders, pulling him close to laughter, a soft reassurance that he was okay, he didn't need to apologize, a big smile on his face as the others groaned at a stupid pun he made.
There, it was a single bed in a plain room, a wary patrol watching his every step, a chilly bathroom to silently cry in, a single blanket.
Here, it was wool and bodies warmly tangled together together, feet leaving together for a risky jump across the ravine because why not?, a chest to ugly-cry on, brief cuddles to soothe him.
Though his time with his family was now limited, Tubbo made sure to treasure every moment. Because no matter where he went, they were his rock, and he was theirs.