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Hbomb is plastered out of his fucking mind.
They find him on their way back to Snowchester, sprawled out on the Prime Path with his face in the grass. He’s drunk, completely and totally. It looks like he can barely breathe on his own, let alone make it to anywhere safe.
Tubbo snorts and keeps walking. Ranboo does not.
So maybe he took it upon himself to take care of a (usually) perfectly capable adult. What can he say? He’s sick of people not doing anything for each other, himself included - what better way to start than making sure Hbomb didn’t die here, wasted to all hell, mumbling about seeing double?
Ranboo doesn’t think he’s interacted much with Hbomb. The man’s something of a hermit, up until recently spending most of his time sequestered in Eret’s castle or fishing, when the weather is nice enough.
There is, however, a vague memory rattling around in Ranboo’s head of that pond. He remembers sunlight bouncing off the water, fish darting by, friendly conversation. He remembers keeping his hands and legs very, very still so there’s no chance of capsizing his boat.
Plus, written down in his book is the simple sentence, fishing with Hbomb, so objectively Ranboo knows he’s met the man before. It can’t have been too significant, though, or there would be more for Ranboo to grab onto than fishing and whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“You never cashed in your voucher,” Hbomb says, eyes narrowed at him in accusation.
“My what?” Ranboo asks, trying for the voice he uses on Michael. “Careful, buddy.”
Hbomb only just avoids faceplanting into the Nether portal, stubbing his foot on the obsidian with a small whine. “Your voucher. For me. To come over. And actually help, cause y’reahm’nor.” The last part trips over itself, chased by an unflattering burp.
Ranboo hauls Hbomb up and into the fire. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember what you’re talking about.”
They come out on the other side, cool wind blowing through the acacia trees. Hbomb doesn’t elaborate, gaze unfocused, looking rather green.
“He’s gonna puke,” Tubbo grumbles from beside Ranboo.
“Sorry, Tubbo,” Ranboo half-apologizes, keeping one hand on Hbomb’s back to steady him. “Look, I didn’t want him to pass out somewhere and get killed, okay? We’re almost to his house.”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says.
“You okay?” Ranboo asks.
“I’m great,” Hbomb slurs, focusing all his energy on not throwing up.
Tubbo scoffs. “I’m fine.”
Unlikely. He looks stiff, uncomfortable, hands jammed into his jean pockets like they’re itching to fly to a sword handle.
“You don’t, uh - you could go home, I can take it from here,” Ranboo says. Beside him, Hbomb bends to prop his hands on his knees, muttering indecipherably to himself.
Tubbo’s jaw twitches. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Ranboo nods, feeling guilty; he’s not quite sure what the problem is, but it’s most likely his fault for taking on this chaperone act.
This isn’t the time to bring it up, though, so he sighs and pulls on Hbomb’s arm. The most he can do now is attempt to expedite the process and get Tubbo home as soon as possible.
The walk is agonizing. Drunk Hbomb is very easily distracted and very clingy, hanging off Ranboo’s arm and constantly poking at Tubbo like a kid stuck in a car for one hour too many. Tubbo only gets more and more annoyed the further they have to drag him.
There’s a squabble over the keys to the house. Hbomb refuses to give them up until Ranboo rattles his own set in front of him. The man’s eyes dilate like a fucking cat, and before long Ranboo is unlocking Hbomb’s front door at the small cost of his own house keys.
Ranboo pushes open the door. Tubbo kicks free of Hbomb’s foot wrapped around his ankle, trying to trip him up. “Get off me, man!”
Hbomb laughs, stumbling forward and into his house. He looks around, eyes wide. “Oh! I’m home.”
Tubbo crosses his arms, looking around Hbomb’s foyer with an unimpressed raised eyebrow.
“I need my keys back,” Ranboo says, gently prying at Hbomb’s hand.
Hbomb snaps to him and grins.
“No,” Ranboo warns.
Too late. Hbomb bolts upstairs before Ranboo or Tubbo can stop him.
“Fuck,” Tubbo groans.
“I’ll get him,” Ranboo sighs, and takes the stairs to Hbomb’s second floor two at a time.
Tubbo hesitates for a minute, then breaks into a sprint and follows him into what must be Hbomb’s room.
Hbomb is sitting down now, sunk into his couch. The keys lie forgotten on the floor - Tubbo snatches them up before any further damage can happen.
Ranboo gazes around the room. “Nice, uh - decorations.”
Hand-drawn posters are tacked up on the walls. They don’t have words, but the message is clear - alcohol = bad.
Clearly, Hbomb has a problem.
“Reminders, yeah. Not supposed to drink.” Hbomb’s face drops. He looks sheepish. “I get angry when I drink, sometimes.”
Tubbo grabs onto Ranboo’s arm. That’s a surefire exit cue. “Really.”
Ranboo looks away from Hbomb. He hopes he’ll be okay, but Tubbo is his priority. “Okay, well - we’re gonna go home now.”
Hbomb nods, eyes drifting closed. “Yeah, yeah. Bye, Tunboo. Ranboo. Tub- whatever.”
Tubbo walks out of the room. Ranboo gives a final, weak wave and shuts the door behind them.
“Hey,” Ranboo says, taking a few long strides to catch up with Tubbo. “Hey, I’m sorry - are you okay?”
“Let’s just go home,” Tubbo grits, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I just want to go home.”
“Okay,” Ranboo says, awkward. “Sorry.”
It stews between them the whole way home. The silence pushes down on Ranboo until he can barely remember what it is they’re being silent about - he clings to the smell of Hbomb’s breath, Tubbo’s white knuckles, those kinda sad posters on the wall.
In the end, all he’s left with is another sentence in his book - Tubbo and you helped an intoxicated Hbomb back to his house - and the knowledge that his husband is upset.
Addendum: his husband is upset because of his decisions.
Married life, Ranboo thinks, is harder than he thought it would be.
Michael’s sleeping when they get home, but Tubbo beelines for his room anyway. Ranboo gives him about fifteen minutes to diffuse before he creeps to the ladder, poking his head into the attic.
Tubbo sits crosslegged beside Michael’s bed, arms resting on the mattress. He stares at the sleeping form of their son, who’s snoring out little pig noises every few seconds. Ranboo warms a little bit at the sight.
Tubbo looks over when Ranboo closes the trapdoor behind him. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Ranboo says quietly. Michael sleeps like the dead (ha), but it never hurts to check the volume around a kid with claws like his.
Tubbo sighs, resting his head on his arms. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get pissy.”
“No, no.” Ranboo shakes his head, moving to sit next to Tubbo, legs pulled to his chest. “I’m sorry. I should have been more, uh, considerate.”
Tubbo hums. “It’s - you were being kind.”
“Yeah, well. I didn’t know he’d be that far gone.”
“Hbomb’s a good guy,” Tubbo says like he’s reminding himself, not Ranboo. “He’s - I just didn’t know he, uh, struggled with that.”
“What, drinking?”
“You saw the posters.”
“I did see the posters, yeah.”
Tubbo scoots ever so slightly towards Ranboo so they're hip to hip. “It was...surprising.”
Not in a good way, then.
“I’m sorry,” Ranboo says. It’s stale by now, probably, but he really doesn’t know how else to express the knot in his chest. Feels like he’s always guilty, these days. Feels like he never quite knows what for.
“You -” Tubbo stops, clears his throat, tries again. “I mean, lots of people drink, here. It’s not a - it’s not like it’s, not like it’s bad.”
Ranboo thinks Tubbo is lying through his teeth. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knows he knows something that would throw this whole situation into focus, but -
Tubbo leans his entire weight into Ranboo’s side. “Fuck. I shouldn’t - I don’t know why, but I think I was scared.”
Ranboo’s no therapist. If he were, he’d be the most hypocritical one in the business. And he doesn’t have it all together, hell, Tubbo can attest to that on nights where he’s half convinced he should tie himself down to the mattress, when Ranboo begs him to lock Michael’s door and not give him a key.
Tubbo’s admission is strained - ashamed - but it’s there. It’s progress, probably. Ranboo thinks they should aim towards more of that.
“I was scared,” Tubbo says lowly, “of fucking Hbomb, Ranboo. That man can’t even fish without feeling bad.”
“To be fair,” Ranboo starts hesitantly, “he was very drunk.”
Tubbo laughs, soft, muffled by his sleeve. “Yeah. And - ‘I get angry when I drink,’ like - no shit. Who doesn’t?”
Oh. That - okay.
“Mhm.” Ranboo brings a hand up to Tubbo’s back, rubbing lightly at the tension in his shoulders.
“It’s - he’s just, I don’t know. I felt all wrong. I’m sorry, you were just trying to help. I don’t want you to feel bad.”
“No, it’s okay, it’s - it’s okay,” Ranboo reassures. “You - you come first, yeah?”
Tubbo breathes out, raising his head to shake his bangs out of his eyes. Ranboo’s eyes trace over the burn scars splattered across his nose and remembers -
And -
And remembers -
“Oh,” he says out loud.
Tubbo turns to look at him. “Hm?”
“Uh,” Ranboo says, debating whether or not he should bring this up. Would it just make things worse? Is he remembering things wrong?
“You okay?”
“Did it remind you of Schlatt?” Ranboo blurts.
Tubbo freezes up under his hand. Fuck.
“Sorry,” Ranboo says, “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered, and I -”
“You just remembered?” Tubbo squints at him.
Ranboo moves his hand away from Tubbo, cringing. “Didn’t mean to, uh -”
“Boo,” Tubbo says, “I thought you knew the whole time, I’m not like - mad -”
“Okay! Okay, just - just making sure. I’m - yeah. We’re on the same page, now.”
“Rub my shoulders again,” Tubbo orders, dropping back into his arms. “I’m not mad, okay? You’re right.”
“I’m sorry,” Ranboo says. Again. He’s nothing if not consistent. “How are you now?”
“Fine. Better.” Tubbo’s gaze drifts back to Michael, who’s still sleeping peacefully.
Ranboo slumps down to rest his chin on Tubbo’s head.
“He’s been dead for a long time,” Tubbo mutters. “I don’t know. Feels like I see him everywhere, sometimes.”
Ranboo gets that. “I get that.”
Tubbo shifts further into him. “We’re fucked, huh?”
Ranboo exhales a laugh. “Yeah. Yep.”
“Man.”
Michael snores particularly loudly. Ranboo jumps, which causes Tubbo to laugh, which devolves into poorly muted giggles as the two of them bounce off each other, a shitty echo chamber of “we cannot wake up the fucking child if we want to sleep tonight.”
Ranboo doesn’t know how he got here, both metaphorically and partially literally. He knows today will vanish eventually, lost in the mud of his head. That’s alright, he thinks, pulling Tubbo into a hug.
“Love you,” Tubbo sighs into his shoulder.
“Mhm,” Ranboo hums. “Love you.”
He doesn’t deserve a friend like Tubbo. But he’s got him.
Yeah, Ranboo thinks. That’s alright.