Archive of Our Own

When he spawns screaming from the burning pain, it takes a stuttered moment of beleaguered breaths and white-knuckled agony for Tubbo to realise that something isn’t right.

Namely, he’s not at all where he should be. 

What should be open space and soft red wool is instead a dense forest of towering dark trees and tall grass that stings the burns on his legs. Not that it’s a particularly noticeable pain in the grand scheme of things, at least while he’s standing still; all of his burns sting, so much so that it quickly becomes a white noise of pain in Tubbo’s head, a static overlay of the remnants of his execution. His execution. 

It had all gone so wrong. So, so wrong. And he can’t even think what to do now, can’t even reflect, because his bloody burns are clogging up his headspace and making it too difficult to form any more than the simplest of observations. 

But he’s always been a logical thinker, the rational balance to Tommy’s hot-headed emotional drive. He can take stock of things and make a plan, even in this state. He has to. 

He needs to take the pain away in order to do anything; that’s his first goal. The question is, how can he possibly do that when he doesn’t even know where he is? He must be — he must be nearby, right? He just needs to focus, to focus on something else other than the — he needs to focus. 

Start simple, he thinks. What can he see, touch, smell — hear? He holds his breath, quieting himself as much as humanly possible as he strains to make out a quiet something... a telltale trickle nearby. Running water! 

Tubbo sags with relief. It has to be the river that runs through the SMP, or an offshoot of it. At the very least, the cool water should provide some desperately needed relief on his skin. 

His steps forward aren’t painful in themselves. His feet were well covered before he respawned, after all. But his legs are a different story. He feels the drag of each blade of grass setting his calves afire with each slow movement, and it takes only seconds before Tubbo bites the bullet and sprints towards the gurgle of running water instead. The pain is blinding but blessedly short-lived; as Tubbo reaches the break in the trees revealing the riverbank ahead, the tall grass gives way to a softer, shorter variant, and Tubbo can breathe again. 

There’s a wheeze to his breath, he notices, and not just from how winded he is already. But it’s an issue he’ll have to deal with later, and not now. He has more immediate problems to get through first.

Now, Tubbo stumbles his way down the admittedly shallow riverbank to the persistent stream at the bottom, sparing less than a thought to the remaining clothes he’s about to get wet. He’d been executed in this outfit. It could hardly get more ruined. 

He splashes into the river with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, considering there could be all kinds of driftwood in there, but it does the job. Something like a groan leaves Tubbo’s lips at the shock of the sensation, the heady relief of the cold liquid cooling his burns paired with the rough pains of the current rushing around him. 

He’s leaning further in to wet his arms as well when a rustle from somewhere upstream freezes him in place. His brain hasn’t even caught up to the thought, they’ve come to finish me off, when —

“Holy shit,” comes an impossibly deep voice. Tubbo whips his head around in time to see the owner of the voice fumble and drop everything in their hands to the ground. “Robin? Are you really — ?” 

Tubbo itches to look around to see if there’s someone he missed nearby, this ‘Robin’ character, but he cannot take his eyes off of the stranger. It’s as though there’s something compelling him to see. The most striking feature of theirs is the terrifying purple mask that covers a good half of their face, only softened ever so slightly by the black curls that spill over the top of it. They’re dressed in all black overalls and thick boots, only adding to their intimidating silhouette, yet the detail Tubbo cannot tear his gaze from once he catches it is the recognition so clearly etched into the eye not obscured by the mask. It’s looking straight at him. 

“Wh — who are you?” Tubbo stutters out, caution and something else keeping him frozen to the spot. 

Even from this distance, Tubbo spots the tremor that runs through the stranger before they answer. “I’m… I’m Corpse. Catt. Both. Uhh, and I use he/him pronouns.” 

Tubbo blinks. “Well it’s, it’s good to meet you Mister Catt. I’m Tubbo, and um, same.” 

That gets a wounded laugh from the man for some reason. “Just call me Corpse,” he says, and then, “What are you doing, uh, in the river?” 

Oh, Tubbo could have done without the reminder of the freezing water battering at him actually, pushing his white noise pain into a freezing numbness that can’t possibly bode well for him. 

“Actually, big man,” Tubbo says, his vision already blurring, “I reckon I might need some… help…” 

The last thing he hears before he blacks out entirely is Corpse’s alarmed yell, and the crunching of heavy boots on gravel. 

He comes to a soft awakening, blurred at the edges where it feels like he’s been asleep for a hundred years and also barely a second. His foggy return to surface thought is cushioned by the dregs of what feels like healing potions and, well, actual cushions beneath him. He must make some sort of sound because Corpse is at his side in a heartbeat, a comforting figure despite his dark profile, hands hovering over Tubbo’s prone form but stopping short of actually making contact.

Tubbo’s grateful for it. His head is made of marshmallowy thoughts at the moments and he worries that if he so much as moves, this sleepy peace will disappear.

“You can sleep as much as you want,” Corpse says, low and reassuring. “And I promise it’s super peaceful here. No mobs for miles. They know not to fuck with me.” 

Belatedly, Tubbo realises he must have said something aloud, and he grins at his own slip-up. 

“The potion hasn’t worn off yet, I guess. I had to give you a lot for your — for your burns, so. That’s why it feels like that.”

Yes, his burns, there is something about those that’s important, Tubbo thinks. Something he should be remembering. 

“You don’t have to remember it now. You can just rest for a bit. Everything else can wait.”

That’s… new. But Tubbo quite likes the idea of going back to sleep, so he follows Corpse’s advice and settles back into that enveloping warmth. 

The next time he wakes, he wakes screaming. He thrashes wildly, trying to escape the box by any means, but it’s no use because he’s on fire and Technoblade really — he really — he can’t breathe —

There’s humming coming from somewhere to the left of him. There was no humming at the festival, only shouting and firework explosions so loud he’s sure the volume would have killed him had the impact not done the job, and that’s. Strange. Because Tubbo’s at the festival, isn’t he? Except he isn’t, he can’t be. He isn’t.

The day catches up with him very fast. Through it all the humming is there, weirdly familiar, and when Tubbo finally takes in his surroundings, it’s to see Corpse in an armchair next to him waiting patiently for him to calm down. He can breathe again, really breathe, not the wheezing he’d been doing before. Corpse really had healed him with who knows how many potions. When was the last time he met someone who would do such a thing for a complete stranger? Has he ever? 

The burns, too, fade in comparison to solid reality. The pains retreat with the knowledge that they were just nightmares, or memories, he supposes. Tubbo isn’t there anymore, he isn’t there. In fact, he’s never been in this particular room before; Corpse’s living room, Tubbo assumes. If he’d had to make a guess upon seeing Corpse for the first time as to what his humble abode would look like, he might have come up with something closer to a bastion in appearance, but Corpse’s living room is downright cosy. There’s a fire crackling in a grate across the room, casting a warm light around the cottage and its contents. Tubbo even spots a cat tree in the corner before it occurs to him that he has been focusing on everything but his generous host, and that he’s probably being very rude. 

Corpse has stopped humming, but the single eye Tubbo can see is still directed his way, waiting without hint of impatience. 

“What were you humming?” Tubbo asks, in lieu of a greeting. “I thought I recognised it but I couldn’t tell.” 

Corpse’s hand twitches on the armrest of his chair, but paradoxically, the rest of him seems to relax. “It’s just something I used to sing for my… my kid. It used to calm them down when they had nightmares and shit. I hoped it might do the same for you.” 

Tubbo smiles at him. “Well, thank you. You didn’t have to help me, and still… I’m grateful, really.” 

Corpse waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Of course, of course, I couldn’t let you — you were in a state, Tubbo. How did you even…?” 

Tubbo breaks eye contact, dropping his head. His arms have been bandaged from shoulder to wrist, and he thinks he can feel bandaging around his torso and legs too. It’s typical, he thinks, how poor a job he’d done. The whole point of being a spy was stealth, and he’d gone and been found out by the one person who could do him — and their cause — the most harm. No wonder Wilbur seemed to hate him. He must have known what a failure to Pogtopia Tubbo had been. He just regrets that Tommy must have watched him die, and now he doesn’t even know where he is, let alone where Tommy could possibly be in order to rectify the whole thing. 

“Tubbo, your bandages,” Corpse entreats, resting a veiny hand over where Tubbo has been fidgeting anxiously with the wrappings at his wrist. The grip is barely there, only enough to try to help Tubbo without restricting him. Tubbo can’t remember the last time anyone but Tommy touched him with anything close to the same amount of kindness. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” Corpse continues, but that only reassures Tubbo that he is someone worth trusting with this. 

He keeps his voice strong as he looks Corpse in the eye and declares, “I was executed.”

Corpse takes a deep breath at that, seems to struggle with the idea. “For something you did do, or something you didn’t?” he asks eventually, voice low with restrained anger. It strikes Tubbo as an odd question. 

“For something I did,” Tubbo answers. He reckons it’s best to be honest, both with Corpse and with himself. And frankly, if Corpse was at all invested in Manberg and its politics, he would have recognised Tubbo to begin with anyway. “It was… it was the right thing to do, I think. Even if I didn’t enjoy doing it. I uh,” he smiles wryly. “I committed minor treason.” 

It’s the first time he’s said that without being rocked to his core with fear. 

Corpse tilts his head as if considering this. “You know what? Good for you,” he decides. Tubbo’s smile stretches into a full-on grin. “I’m sure they had it coming, if they’re the kind of people who go around executing fucking kids.” 

Tubbo thinks of Schlatt and everything he’s had to go through at the president’s own hands since the election. “I did the right thing,” he repeats, and means it. 

Corpse removes his hand, and Tubbo mourns the contact for a second, wondering what he had done wrong, before he sees what Corpse is actually doing. Corpse brings out several bottles of glowing potion and sets them on the wooden table next to them. He waits until he’s caught Tubbo’s eye again before he explains. 

“These will be here and they won’t be moving. If you feel any pain at all, I want you to take a drink of one of them, no arguing. The type of burns you have are difficult to heal, so I’ve mixed fire resistance into the healing to help it work. It will still probably take a while to fully stop hurting, and even then there will be scars.” Corpse speaks like an authority on the subject. 

Tubbo grimaces before asking his next question, but goes ahead anyway. “You have a lot of experience with this type of thing?” 

“Executions or full-body burns?” Corpse returns. 

Tubbo knows his own reputation. Things fly over his head all the time, references and euphemisms alike. But he’s pretty certain he understands this subtext, so he holds Corpse’s gaze, unflinching. “Both,” he says, and knows the answer from the huff of bitter laughter the man gives. 

Corpse gestures to his mask. “Burns everywhere. It was a pit of lava that they executed me in,” he says, “for a murder I didn’t commit. Orphaned my kid for the second time. And in the time it took me to get back, everyone in the village was already dead, including — ” Corpse chokes off and doesn’t continue. 

Tubbo goes out on yet another limb. “Robin?” 

Corpse nods. “I never saw him again. For all I know, that was his last life. I thought, when I saw you…” 

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says quietly. He can’t imagine what it must have felt like for Corpse, to have that kind of hope dashed so harshly. The closest relationship he has is with his best friend, with Tommy, and losing him is unthinkable . For Corpse to have lost his literal child? Tubbo can’t even comprehend it. 

“Don’t apologise,” Corpse says. “I’m glad I found you, anyway. I’m glad I could help. You uh, you really needed it.” 

“I really did,” Tubbo agrees. 

“You can stay as long as you want to, too. I mean, you don’t have to, but it would probably be better. For resting and healing.” 

Tubbo nods, but he can’t help but think of Tommy and Wilbur and the rest of Pogtopia. “Do you know our coordinates?” he asks. 

Corpse glances away, and Tubbo thinks he sees resignation flash across what little of the man’s face is visible. “I can find out. I have them written down somewhere.” He gets up to find them, and Tubbo panics.

“You don’t have to get them now!” he squeaks, and then flushes, embarrassed. “I mean, I think… you’re right, you know? I should probably stay a while to heal and stuff.” 

Corpse laughs, low and warm. “Alright,” he concedes easily, and sits right back down. Tubbo’s racing heart calms some, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out a hand to hold. He winces at his own clinginess, but thankfully Corpse decides to humour him, and he settles back down into the couch, relieved. 

Corpse keeps him company for the rest of the day, and he falls back asleep to that same familiar humming tune as before. 

Several weeks go by fast, taken up mostly by Tubbo getting back up to full strength, and also getting to know Corpse better. 

The man’s appearance is deceptive. He’s edgy, sure, but he’s also sweet and awkward and funny. And he cares about Tubbo as an actual person, not a soldier or simply Tommy’s friend. It’s strange, being without Tommy. Most of the people he knows met Tommy first, and still see him through that lens. He misses Tommy deeply, but there’s a kind of freedom here in these four walls, in this flower forest he’s found himself in, where he doesn’t have to fit into that mold of child soldier and sidekick; himself, rather than just an extension of Tommy and his cause. 

And of course, there’s no Schlatt. There’s the reminder of him daily of course, with all his healing scars. But the man himself is no longer breathing whiskey fumes down his neck and lashing out at him whenever he slips up, and he’s more grateful for that than he can truly verbalise. He’s had slip-ups already, like having dropped a glass on accident on his third day here, but instead of getting angry, Corpse had simply comforted him when he went into a panic and reassured him that it was okay. 

He likes Corpse a lot. More than a lot. 

He no longer sleeps on the couch. Corpse had made up the guest room for him so he has a real place to himself in the house, though he’d lost all of his things when he respawned. Corpse has since helped him gather things to make the room his own, including flowers for vases at his window (with a significant amount of roses, Corpse’s favourite) and a few simple tools so he doesn’t feel quite so helpless. 

Tubbo wants to repay the favour somehow, so he starts scheming in the quiet moments when Corpse isn’t around, and soon, he’s found the perfect way to pay Corpse back for his care.

The day he’s nearly done with it, Corpse is out fishing again, in time for the local trader to come by in the morning. While Tubbo could spend the time with him, he’s instead drafting the ideal construction of a bee farm, as it’s one of the few things Corpse hasn’t yet managed to build around his cottage. It’s been his passion project for the past week or so, and the goal has helped him get past feeling useless while resting up. 

He grins to himself as he draws up the finishing touches on the paper he’s kept secret this whole time, certain by now that Corpse won’t mind the disappearance of one sheet — or much else, really. Bees are the one subject he can call himself an expert on, and he’s near giddy at the prospect of sharing it with Corpse. 

He pushes his chair back from the dinner table and runs to the stairs, taking them two at a time on his way to Corpse’s room. He hasn’t been inside it yet, but he’s only going to leave the paper on the man’s bed to make sure he’ll see it and then head back out again. The door is unlocked, and Tubbo steps over the threshold just in time to hear the front door being opened downstairs, signalling Corpse’s return. He’ll just be quick about it so he can go say hi. 

Corpse’s room is well-lived in, with a similar aesthetic to the rest of the house but with a lot more black, which Tubbo knows by now is Corpse’s favourite colour. There are also several instruments in the room, which Tubbo will have to ask about — but he’s getting distracted, and Corpse is literally right downstairs. 

He places the design gently on Corpse’s black duvet, completely unmissable, and turns to leave when something catches his attention. 

He thinks it’s a mirror at first, which is weird because it’s propped up on a shelf rather than on the wall like Tubbo would expect. But when he looks again, he finds it’s a photo in a frame. Of a boy who looks… exactly like him. Down to the last detail. In fact, the only difference is that the boy’s hair is red rather than Tubbo’s blond, and Tubbo knows for a fact he’s never dyed his hair red, which means that is in fact a completely different person. Identical to him in every other way. In Corpse’s room.

“Surely not,” Tubbo murmurs, frowning. Confused. 

The photo is old, that much Tubbo can tell, but it’s also been looked after with great care. It’s been strategically placed so the light from the window can’t reach it and therefore can’t fade the colour from it, and next to the frame is a singed and ruined version of the straw hat the boy in the picture is wearing. He can barely tear his eyes from the photo, as if something is keeping him there, glued to the spot.

“... you up here, buddy — fuck.” 

Tubbo startles when Corpse comes in behind him, and suddenly he’s terrified that he was never meant to see this, that he’s finally crossed the one line Corpse won’t forgive him for, even though that’s him in the photograph, except it’s not? And Tubbo is simply confused, and guilty, and scared, and —

“Tubbo, Tubbo sweetheart, calm down — ”

“Who is that?!” Tubbo blurts, backing away from Corpse so that he’s just out of arm’s reach. Corpse holds his hands out and stays entirely still. 

“I need you to take a few deep breaths first,” Corpse says, gentling his voice, and though normally that would help, Tubbo just can’t listen right now. 

“Just tell me! Please,” he begs. He just wants it to make sense.

Corpse shakes his head, bringing up a hand to scrub at his eye before dropping both hands to his sides. “That’s — that’s Robin,” Corpse admits, and looks away. 

Tubbo swallows, wide-eyed, and looks back at the photo. 

Robin, Corpse’s child, the one who died. Who looked, apparently, exactly like Tubbo does. 

“No wonder you thought I was him,” Tubbo says, somewhere between wonder and horror. “This whole time — ?” 

“It’s not what you think,” Corpse interrupts quickly. “Initially… yeah, I was horrified to see someone who looked exactly like Robin hurt so bad. I had to help. But you’re nothing like Robin in a lot of ways, Tubbo, and I still — fuck it, I still love you like my son, I still care for you, you have to believe me!” 

Tubbo hesitates. “What are… what are some of the differences?” 

“What?” 

“Please,” Tubbo entreats, and Corpse slowly nods. 

“Okay, okay. Uh, you like bees. Robin was always terrified of bees, ‘cause he got stung once on his face and it really hurt. And you’re really into how things work, like redstone, where Robin couldn’t care less and thought it was just enough to know things worked in the first place. You’re talkative, you sing, you like to come with me on my morning walks — ” Corpse breaks off, sniffs. Croaks out, “You’re alive.” 

Tubbo’s mouth twists, then. He can’t help it. Suddenly he’s throwing himself at Corpse, holding him in the tightest hug possible, though he can’t tell which of the two of them he’s trying to comfort, nor who really needs the hug the most. But Corpse is holding him back just as tight, and he thinks Corpse is actually crying now, and Tubbo just hopes it’s the good kind of crying that makes you feel better afterwards, because he’s never wanted to make Corpse feel bad ever. 

“Why does he look like me?” Tubbo whispers.

He’d thought that Corpse’s humming had been strangely familiar, that something about the tune had a meaning he couldn’t quite remember. And he’s a trusting person, but the way he felt intrinsically protected with Corpse from the very start wasn’t… wasn’t natural, surely not. But he can’t bring himself to say anything about it now. It might actually break Corpse, and Tubbo cares about him too much to do that to him. 

Corpse had said he loved Tubbo. 

“I don’t know,” Corpse whispers back. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re not Robin. I know that. And you’re just as important to me for being who you really are.” 

Tubbo thinks he’s crying too.

It’s the good kind of crying. 

It stops eventually, because all tears eventually run out. Corpse takes him downstairs to get some water and rehydrate, and that’s that. Their lives continue, but there’s more of a… question mark there, because his resemblance to Robin is unmistakable and out in the open now, and as Corpse later reluctantly reveals, as many differences as there are between Tubbo and Robin, there are also many similarities too. 

Tubbo returns to full health, though a significant amount of his scars remain, which Corpse had prepared him for. They build the bee farm Tubbo had designed together, and then spend another few days after that actually catching bees to populate it. Tubbo doesn’t get stung once — never has — but he thinks of Robin the first time a bee lands on him and feels something in the air resonate with rightness, with a space for potential closure. 

But they find, eventually, another difference between Tubbo and Robin too: Tubbo has obligations and a guilty conscience that he cannot ignore. 

His friendship with Tommy means too much to him to completely abandon, and now he’s fully healed, he can’t excuse himself any longer from his duty to return and help Pogtopia, or at the very least make sure Tommy and Wilbur are okay. 

Corpse understands, when he tells him, though Tubbo can see the sadness in his acceptance. Corpse asks him to stay one more day, and Tubbo won’t deny him that. He doesn’t really want to leave, either. He just has to. 

He doesn’t see Corpse for most of the day that he stays, and instead packs his things on his own. When Corpse returns that evening, he looks tired but accomplished, and he glues himself to Tubbo’s side until they fall asleep on the couch, neither willing to be the one who separates to go to bed first. 

In the morning, with Tubbo all ready to leave (and frankly over-prepared for the trip due to Corpse’s diligence), Corpse rushes back inside for one last thing. 

He returns with an enchanted compass, his eye crinkled with his grin. 

“Whoa,” Tubbo says, staring at the beautifully crafted item. “What’s this?” 

Corpse presses the compass into his hands. “I wanted to make sure… I know you have your friends to help, but I wanted to let you know that if you wanted to let go of all that, or even if you wanted to take a break… you can find me. It will always point to me,” he explains. “And I will always welcome you home. Always.” 

Tubbo tears up despite himself. He’s not a crier, never has been, but he loves Corpse. He might have loved Corpse before they ever met; the universe is weird like that, he’s accepted. “Corpse, this… it helps more than you know,” he manages to say, before hugging Corpse for the last time. 

No, not the last time. Just the last for a while. 

Corpse waves him off until Tubbo can’t see him through the trees anymore, and Tubbo tries not to feel the loss too deeply. After all, he has the compass now, and he knows in his heart that he’s not going to stay away forever. No matter what happens with Pogtopia and Manberg, he has Corpse now, and that will remain true regardless of anything. 

He returns to Pogtopia, but he remembers where home is.

The giant crater is the final nail in the coffin. It only cements what he’s been feeling for a while now.

L’Manberg is gone, destroyed by Dream, Techno, and Phil. TNT and withers, just like last time but oh so much worse. But it doesn’t matter anymore. 

Tubbo hadn’t managed to save much from his scattered chests, but he does at least have two compasses. Your Tommy and simply Catt. 

He’d heard what Dream had said up on the grid, about not being done with Tommy. Dream intends to play with him over and over like a true sadist, a monster, and Tubbo isn’t here for it. 

So he suggests to Tommy that they take a holiday. Tommy isn’t ready to fully let the discs go yet, but Tubbo is willing to bet that he’ll get there. For his own part, he’s ready to go and not look back. He leaves his presidential suit in the ruins of L’Manberg and feels lighter for it, telling only Ranboo where he intends to go. 

The compass points in a different direction than it once did, Tubbo notices. It had changed some time ago and continued moving, but it had stopped recently, so Tubbo figures Corpse has settled down again. 

Throughout the journey there, Tommy keeps asking where they’re going, and making fun of him when he won’t answer or gets a weird look on his face. He can’t really describe the building excitement he feels that he’s about to see Corpse again, the same way he couldn’t describe to Tommy why of all the things to keep on his person, Tubbo kept another compass and a stack of read and reread letters, even when his inventory got too full for it to be practical. 

The excitement really hits when they reach a biome where the earth is cloaked in white as far as the eye can see, and the compass starts to move ever so slightly. They’re close, and the compass knows it. He’s running through the snow before he can really control himself, with Tommy shouting at him from behind to slow the fuck down, but he can’t help it. (Tommy’s taller than Tubbo anyway. He can keep up if he really wants to.)

He sees the smoke trail above the snow-laden treetops before anything else and panics for a hot second before he recognises it for what it actually is: a chimney fire. He runs faster then. 

There’s a well-worn path cleared free of snow for transportation that he joins up with mere seconds before he reaches the cottage, bigger and sturdier than the last one Corpse had owned, and then there’s Corpse himself standing outside piling logs in the shed. 

He stops at the gate, buzzing with elation and nerves both as Corpse turns around at the noise. Corpse spots him and drops the logs in his arms at once, moving without hesitation. 

“Tubbo!” 

He’s swept up into a warm embrace faster than he can respond but he doesn’t mind one single bit as Corpse spins him around in the air, holding on for dear life and then some, ecstatic that he can really hug Corpse in person again. He’s grinning from ear to ear when they separate, and even despite the mask he can tell Corpse is doing the same. 

Tubbo sways with dizziness from the spinning, and he laughs, and Corpse laughs, and something in him starts to heal again. 

They have a lot to catch up on, of course, and even before that Tommy to introduce. But for now, all that matters is that they’re here together.

“Welcome home,” Corpse says. Tubbo finally is.