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Tubbo wakes up to the smell of smoke.
He inhales the stuff in his sleep before his senses register it, and as a result, it bleeds into his dreams for a few god-awful minutes that stretch into years. He dreams of fire, a home ablaze, then a shimmering netherite sword catching light on his skin as easy as kindling, then choking on gunpowder and heat and red and white and blue and red and white and blue and red and red and red and -
He dreams of smoke threading into his lungs.
He wakes up screaming it out.
He’s not sure where he is for a few seconds. His arms don’t move like he’s desperately trying to get them to, and it’s a few seconds of panic-stricken struggling before he remembers what a blanket is.
Gasping for air that doesn’t come, he shoves the comforter away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and burying his face in his hands. He still smells ash. He heaves, clawing uselessly at his chest and neck as his scars prick with searing memory.
He hasn’t had a nightmare this vivid in weeks. He’d hoped his days of shaking off the twitch in his hands for hours afterwards were over, but here he is, eyes watering into his pajama sleeves, coughing on artificial -
Artificial -
Tubbo straightens up, rubs his eyes as best he can, and breathes. It burns the inside of his throat. He coughs, tries again, willing his vision to focus.
The room is still hazy, no matter how hard he squints. Each intake brings after it a more forceful wheeze, and he pulls his shirt over his nose in a fit of desperation. The aftereffects have never been this strong. He entertains the idea that he hasn’t yet woken up, but his room looks entirely normal down to the minute details, and everything around him, everything touching him threatens to overload his brain.
It’s only when his hearing comes back, piece by piece, that he finally hears the shouting coming from downstairs and realizes with an awful jolt that he isn’t dreaming anymore.
He shoots to his feet, adrenaline spiking him into motion. There’s smoke in his room, slowly filling it up, very real and just thick enough to be worrying. Where there’s smoke, there’s another strand ripped out of the braid of Tubbo’s life, or however the fuck the saying goes - plus, his wings flutter weakly in the clogged atmosphere, and he can feel his brain slowing with each rise and fall of his chest. He’s got to go. Now.
He’s glad he had the foresight to keep copies of his important documents in his bedside drawer. If the house burns down, at least he won’t have to start from scratch. If he burns down, well, it’s a half-crocked plan but he shoves the papers under his shirt in the vain hope that the flannel could save them, and thinks for a split second he should look into enchanting his pajamas.
Shaking his head clear, Tubbo coughs into his shirt and opens the door into the hallway. He takes a few stumbling steps before he breaks into a run, skidding around the corner so fast he almost slips down the stairs.
One short flight of spruce later, the source of the smoke becomes clear.
Ranboo stands in the door to the kitchen, sunglasses sitting crooked over his eyes, coughing as he fans the polluted air out of the room with a book. From inside the room comes the sound of Fundy and Quackity squabbling, something about opening the window and putting out the fire faster and not waking up Tubbo -
“What the fuck,” Tubbo says, dropping his shirt away from his mouth.
“Oh, hi,” Ranboo says, then turns to look behind him. “Hey, Tubbo’s here.”
Quackity’s head appears around the doorframe. “Shit!”
“I told you!” Fundy’s shriek is muffled through the walls. “The vent is right under his room! You let it burn for far too long, you fucking smoked him out -”
“What’s going on?” Tubbo asks, feeling a little light headed. “Is the house on fire or not?”
Quackity snaps his mouth shut and vanishes back into the kitchen.
“The house was on fire,” Ranboo says. “It’s not on fire anymore, though, which I consider to be a win.”
“Shut up,” Fundy hisses. He stalks into view, tail swishing wildly around his legs.
“Why,” Tubbo says, then hesitates to rub at his irritated eyes. “Sorry. Why was the house on fire?”
“Somebody has the mental capacity of a goldfish -”
“Hey, now.”
“-and left the oven on overnight,” Quackity calls.
Ranboo stares at the floor. “In my defense, it was an accident.”
“An accident that could’ve killed Tubbo,” Fundy says. “He’s sensitive to smoke, you know that.”
“Alright, hey,” Tubbo interrupts, stepping forward. “It wouldn’t have - I’m fine, Fundy.” He registers the papers still protected under his shirt, and pulls them out with a trembling hand. “Nobody’s hurt?”
“Only my pride,” Ranboo says.
“Only my fucking kitchen,” Quackity mourns. “I’ll have to go out and get wood to fix it.”
Tubbo coughs into his sleeve again. He’s starting to come down, though his senses are still primed too high to be comfortable. Quackity must have opened that window after all; a draft breezes through the hall. It blows through his hair, cooling down the heat of his cheeks. He is mildly less aware of his heartbeat and doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. He reaches out an arm, bracing himself using the wall.
“Sorry to wake you so early, Tubbo,” Fundy says. He looks more upset than even Tubbo has the right to be, but mostly he just looks tired.
“It’s okay,” Tubbo says.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” Ranboo interjects. “I know - I know you don’t have to let me stay, but I really like it here, so, I won’t let this happen again.”
“It’s okay,” Tubbo says.
“You better not,” Quackity threatens with no real fire, or maybe there is - it’s hard to tell, anymore. “Prime. What a fucking disaster.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says, unprompted, and then he breaks against the wall and starts to cry.
“Oh,” Ranboo says, quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Tubbo sobs, half into the wallpaper, half into his arm. He’s still holding onto those goddamn papers in his other hand, bending them in his fist, probably tearing them. He should let go. He shouldn’t -
“Hey,” Fundy mutters, closer than Tubbo remembers, and he can’t help but flinch away. “Shh. Hey. I can take these.”
Clawed fingers brush against Tubbo’s hand. On reflex, he loosens his grip, breathing hitching around his horrible, ugly crying. Fundy takes the documents from him, silently backing out of the room and disappearing up the stairs.
“Tubbo?” Quackity asks like he’s afraid. He says it with a warped vowel, something he hasn’t done in weeks. It makes Tubbo want to smile, but he’s too busy trying to keep himself upright. “What’s wrong?”
Tubbo tries to answer, but suddenly he remembers he can’t breathe, and the only response Quackity gets is a painful, shuddering inhale.
“Ranboo, shut the kitchen door,” Quackity orders. “Hey, Tubbo. Can you hear me?”
Nod. A simple move, but it’s the final straw for his shaking legs. He lowers himself to the ground, chest still fucking heaving.
“Okay. Good.” Quackity shuffles above him, seemingly unsure about the next step.
Ranboo sits down in front of him, crossing his gangly limbs under and around each other. “Was it the fire?”
Tubbo shakes his head, then pauses, hiccuping pathetically. He feels his face flush with embarrassment - here’s the President of L’Manberg, wailing on the floor like a toddler, all because of - because of -
Because of what?
“Was it…” Ranboo frowns, thinking. “Was it the smoke?”
He shrugs up his shoulders. Prime, he can’t even talk, this is humiliating, but he just doesn’t fucking know -
He tries to stop crying, tries to control his breathing again, but it’s useless. All he can tell is that his stomach is starting to hurt, and there’s only so long he can stay protected in his sleeves before they start to get worried.
Fundy appears again, back from putting the papers away. He probably put them in Tubbo’s office. They shouldn’t be there, they’re emergency copies; Tubbo raises his head to tell Fundy that but instead he lets out a fucking whimper, and it’s back to hiding in shame.
“Sorry,” Tubbo gasps again. “So sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You’re alright, Tubbo,” Ranboo says. There’s a telltale rustle that means Quackity and Fundy have also sat down.
“Don’t be sorry,” Quackity says firmly. “It’s alright, man. Take your time.”
Prime. Fuck it all. His throat hurts.
“Ranboo, maybe get him some water?” Quackity mumbles, reading his mind.
Without any audible indication that Ranboo had moved, Tubbo hears someone rustling in the cabinets for a glass.
Trying to regain a bit of his dignity, Tubbo forces himself to breathe to a count, wiping the water off his face. He blinks, and suddenly Ranboo is back to sitting in front of him, one gloved hand extended with a glass of water.
“Thank you,” Tubbo says, taking it with unsteady fingers.
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you alright?” Fundy asks.
Tubbo makes a noise into the glass, body shuddering as he swallows.
“What does that mean?” Fundy asks.
“It means yeah,” Tubbo whispers.
“Okay.”
There’s a few minutes of silence as Tubbo recovers, aftershocks fading slowly, water eventually finished off and the glass teleported via Ranboo back to the kitchen.
“Look,” Quackity starts, sounding as awkward as Tubbo feels. “You - you don’t have to tell us anything, okay?”
“Yeah,” Tubbo rasps. “I know. I’m alright, really.”
“Sure. But if you want to talk, just - we’re here. Anytime.” Quackity looks around as though he needs to confirm - Ranboo nods emphatically, and Fundy’s ears flatten to his head when he smiles.
Tubbo stares at them, his Cabinet, his - his friends, and feels so awfully empty inside.
“What time is it?” he asks, begging for things to go back to normal.
“About six a.m.,” Ranboo says.
“Thanks.” Tubbo runs his hand into his hair, pulling out a tangle.
“You’re lucky I was awake, Ranboo,” Fundy says pointedly. “If I hadn’t smelled the smoke when I did, things would have been a lot worse.”
“I’m sorry,” Ranboo says, sounding genuine. “I should’ve known better, honestly. You know what they say about wood houses and furnaces.”
“Why is our house made of wood?” Quackity wonders out loud. “You’d think we’d arson-proof as much as possible, what with L’Manberg’s track record.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Fundy grumbles.
“Tubbo?” Ranboo asks.
Tubbo keeps struggling to a standing position. “Yeah?”
“Where are you going?”
“To add that to the list,” Tubbo says, swaying on his feet for a second. He feels exhausted despite just waking up, and miserably wonders how he’s going to make it through today.
“You’re going to - no, Tubbo,” Quackity says, standing up to put a hand on his arm.
Tubbo wrenches away. “It’s a good idea. We shouldn’t - we should be prepared.”
Quackity blinks like he’s surprised. “I - thanks, but it’s early, man, we can sit down for a little longer.”
“I’ve gotta,” Tubbo protests, shaking his head. Why can’t he think? For Prime’s sake - “I’ve gotta get started.”
“I think Quackity’s right,” Ranboo says. “It’s been a stressful morning, plus, you should eat something before you start working.”
“I’m not hungry,” Tubbo says. Ranboo stands too, towering over him, and Fundy’s blocking the exit - Quackity’s feathers catch the light like so many particles, blinding him much more than they should.
“Well - you can help me salvage something from the fridge for everyone else, since Ranboo’s banned until further notice and I don’t trust Fundy either,” Quackity offers.
“I’d rather just go,” Tubbo says. He digs his fingers into his arms - he just wants to be able to breathe.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Tubbo?” Fundy asks; Tubbo looks at him, at the bags under his eyes and the gold strip around the fourth finger of his left hand that he still hasn’t taken off for some fucking reason and the always tense hunch of his shoulders, and -
“I miss Tommy,” he blurts out before he can stop it.
Shit.
That wasn’t even the fucking problem, but too late now - Quackity’s face is hardening before his eyes. Tubbo tightens his arms around himself in preparation for the inevitable lecture.
“Oh!” Ranboo shouts, body flickering with the sudden noise. “My God, I forgot to write back!”
“What?” Quackity snaps.
“I’ve been writing to Tommy,” Ranboo says. “I’ve got - well, I - Wilbur’s been bringing the letters to me.”
Fundy’s turn to whirl. “Excuse me?”
Ranboo’s been writing to Tommy. Tubbo takes this in like a potion of poison.
“He hasn’t stopped by in a while, though,” Ranboo says defensively. “But I’ve gotta have a letter ready for when he does.”
“He won’t,” Fundy says, bitter. “He won’t come within a mile of this place if I’m here.”
“Oh, don’t say that -”
“Why the fuck have you been writing to Tommy?” Quackity asks, still stuck on that, apparently.
“He doesn’t have many people to talk to,” Ranboo says, splaying his hand. “I dunno, I just thought -”
“Dream probably reads every word of those fucking letters,” Quackity says, hands coming up to fidget with his beanie, a feather or two catching Fundy in the face. “How many goddamn state secrets have you told him, fucking hell -”
“Quackity,” Tubbo says. It comes out high-pitched, awful. “Stop.”
He doesn’t think it’s much of an order, but Quackity stills like clockwork regardless. “Tubbo - Mr. President -”
“Do you think - Ranboo, do you think you could tell him I -” Tubbo reaches into his shirt pocket, feeling the warm metal and glass under his fingers, and wonders which way the compass is pointing.
“Tell him what?” Ranboo asks. It breaks halfway through. His mouth is pulled into a thin line, and despite his height, he seems to cower.
Quackity makes a strangled noise, hands picking at his wings, a bad habit he’d picked up under Schlatt.
“Never mind,” Tubbo says.
Fundy sighs. “Ranboo, if you’re just talking to him about whatever, I don’t see the issue.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Ranboo latches onto the lifeline. “I just tell him things about my day and a few jokes, and he tells me how - how, uh, how cripplingly lonely he is all the time.”
Tubbo faintly thinks that he might cry again.
“Prime, man,” Quackity mutters. He still looks uneasy. “I wish he knew we’re doing everything we can.”
What a fucking delusion; Tubbo can’t help but squeak out a laugh.
“You could try writing to him,” Fundy says over it.
“Well,” Ranboo frowns, “without Wilbur, you have to hand-deliver them, so -”
“We don’t have time for that,” Quackity sighs.
“Exactly,” Tubbo says. Not that Tommy would read a letter from him, anyway - he may be tearing apart at the seams with guilt, but he’s not stupid enough to forget the kind of person Tommy is.
“You’re shaking,” Ranboo says.
“What?” Quackity says.
“Tubbo,” Ranboo clarifies.
“‘M not.” Tubbo tries for a smile. Quackity backs up a step. “Look, guys, I - sorry, I just feel a little, uh, I’m having trouble processing, uh, all - everything - all of this.”
“You’re not alone,” Fundy says with a disgruntled exhale. Tubbo had forgotten he was there. “And I was just about to go to sleep, too.”
“Fundy,” Tubbo says, throwing a hand into the air. “You’ve gotta fix your sleep schedule, man, I need you during the day, not at four in the morning!”
“Well.” Fundy stares at him. “I’m pretty awake, now.”
“Arson does that to you,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo is the only one who laughs at the ill-timed joke.
“Hey,” Quackity tries again. “We’re really sorry about the fire. I know you were, uh, shaken.”
“It’s fine,” Tubbo says, embarrassment creeping back up his face. All three of them stare - they don’t believe him, he realizes, and it sets something off at the base of his skull. “I’m fine. I’m not - I’m not fragile.”
Is he? He can’t be. He’s still here, after everything. He’s still here. He’s -
“Nobody said you were,” Fundy says.
“I don’t know why I cried,” Tubbo says, honest. He hates that it breaks.
Quackity sniffs, a sad smile accompanying his distant stare. “It’s like that, sometimes.”
“I,” Tubbo says, “I don’t know,” he says, “I’m tired,” he says, anticlimactic, and so much of an understatement it almost makes him laugh.
“That’s okay,” Ranboo murmurs.
“It’s not okay,” Tubbo says. There. He said it. “I’m the President.”
“You’re sixteen,” Fundy says.
“I’m not a child!” Tubbo shouts, realizing too late that it makes him sound horrible. “I mean - I’m not - just because I’m young, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be responsible -”
“But you are,” Quackity says earnestly. “Goddamn, you’re the best President this shithole’s ever had.”
“You don’t know that,” Tubbo exhales.
“I do,” Quackity says. “I fucking do, Tubbo.”
Tubbo opens his mouth to argue, but when he meets Quackity’s stare, he immediately clicks his teeth together and swallows down his words.
Quackity’s never looked at him like that before. He looks - he looks afraid.
“We’re your Cabinet,” Quackity says, shifting on his feet, but his wide gaze remains solid. “It’s not your job to do it all alone.”
“I ask for help all the time,” Tubbo whispers.
“With work,” Ranboo points out.
“I’m talking about shit like breaking down in the hallway at six in the morning,” Quackity says. “Tubbo, there’s - it’s understandable. It’s fucking - I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already, honestly.”
“You were expecting this?” Tubbo asks. His horror must show on his face; Quackity backtracks so fast it gives him whiplash.
“Think about it! The last two Presidents - one went batshit crazy and the other drank himself to death,” Quackity says. “This isn’t easy, man. All I mean - I just - I know it’s not easy.”
“No,” Tubbo says. “It’s not easy.”
It feels like a crime to say out loud. “I’m tired.”
He breathes in, and out, and in again, and, “it’s just hard.”
Ranboo nods, and even though his eyes are covered by the sunglasses, Tubbo can picture the sad stare he’s receiving. He doesn’t want anyone’s fucking pity, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight against it. He never did.
“Shit’s not fair,” Fundy mutters, absently twisting his ring around his finger.
“Shit’s not fair,” Tubbo echoes, something breaking inside.
“I’m sorry, Tubbo,” Quackity says. “This - I’m just so, so sorry.”
Tubbo doesn’t say anything back, but Quackity seems to like that outcome the best, visibly brightening. “I can get you some food now, if you’d like.”
Tubbo’s about to say he can get it himself, but he breathes in and is reminded of the uncomfortable remnants of smoke still stuck in his windpipe. “That would be nice, Big Q,” is what he croaks out instead.
“Great. Ranboo, come clean up your fucking mess, and don’t touch anything that hasn’t already been destroyed.”
“Let’s go sit down,” Fundy says, tapping lightly on Tubbo’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Tubbo says, and follows on his heels to the dining room.
“Are you feeling better?” Fundy asks, sitting down in tandem.
“I think so,” Tubbo says after a beat.
“Q’s right, you know. We do care about you.” Fundy’s eyes are always hard to look at, because they hold so fucking much. Tubbo forces himself to do it anyway and feels something stick in his throat.
“I don’t know why,” he breathes. “I don’t fucking know why.”
Fundy’s mouth quirks, reaching a hand across the table to curl his fingers around Tubbo’s own. “You don’t have to.”
“I,” Tubbo says. Fundy’s hand is warm.
“We’re your Cabinet,” Fundy says, “but we were your friends, first.”
“Were?” Tubbo asks, awfully small.
Tubbo knows nothing lasts. He’s all too aware that nobody means it when they say forever, that nobody ever lives up to the promises they make. The past curls and warps around both of them in the way that neither of them have any family left, in the way that time has made caricatures out of them that nobody recognizes.
But Fundy doesn’t say forever.
“Are,” he says firmly, and squeezes Tubbo’s hand. “Are.”
Here and now, Tubbo sits at a table in his pajamas, Fundy’s hand in his and Ranboo laughing at Quackity in the distance, and feels for the first time in a long, long time that things might be okay.