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when it first starts, ranboo is eighteen and tubbo is nineteen.
"...i'm sorry, who are you?" ranboo asks, the two of them still in bed, tubbo barely awake. "i... i know you won't harm me, because we're in bed together, but... i can't remember you. did we… do anything?”
tubbo smiles a bit ruefully. he rubs sleep from his eyes and pushes himself up, marveling at how the sunlight turns ranboo’s eyelashes into sparkling, delicate strands. he’s been warned about this, knows ranboo will forget him someday, and yet it hurts all the same.
“i’m tubbo,” is the explanation he offers, “we didn’t do anything.”
how am i going to tell this to michael? tubbo wonders, along with a million other concerns tubbo has, but he doesn’t say any of them, and never will.
confusion is still painted clearly in ranboo’s features, so tubbo lets him push off the bedsheets and leave.
🍯
“i’m, um, i’m sorry for leaving abruptly the other day,” apologizes ranboo, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
he’s moved out of their home; michael had been heartbroken.
ranboo’s taken off the suit and opted for more of a messy outfit; a black sweater with his white shirt peeking out at the collar and the bottom, clearly untucked. both sleeves are rolled up.
tubbo thinks he looks good, but he can’t say it—he can’t say anything. the ring still glints on his white horn, though, a matching one on tubbo’s left horn, and it may be a bit selfish to not tell ranboo about it.
it matches the outfit, though.
they’re talking over coffee in a sunlit meadow where the grass turns golden and alliums are scattered everywhere around them. tubbo wonders if ranboo remembers about alliums. “it’s quite alright. i understand. how are you settling in your new house?”
ranboo considers this question, his eyebrows creasing slightly. “surprisingly? it’s all gone pretty smoothly. and i can’t remember a lot of things, but… techno and phil and nihachu has been pretty great.”
“yeah. of course. i’m glad they’re helping you,” tubbo says, trying his hardest to ignore the growing pain in his chest. “if you ever need my assistance, let me know. i know you don’t remember me, but we were friends.”
friends.
“oh! well, um, i hope we can be friends again,” smiles ranboo, and tubbo feels like he’s going to cry. that’s the smile he’s fallen in love with, slightly crooked but entirely sweet. “you remind me of someone i used to know.”
“i do?” tubbo asks, and it takes everything in him to prevent his voice from cracking.
with a nod, ranboo takes a sip from his coffee. “he’s… i think—no, i know i love him. we saved a zombified baby piglin on valentine’s day as a date. i think we owned a hotel with pretty terracotta tiles as the floor and built pillars together for a mansion. he’s a bit chaotic, but i love him all the same—he’s very smart and pretty good at building. i can’t quite remember who he was—ah, sorry, i’m rambling.”
tubbo exhales shakily, gripping his cup of coffee a bit too tightly than he should. “no worries,” he says, and if his voice wavers a little, no one needs to know, “he sounds like a great person.”
“yeah,” ranboo responds, a bit ruefully. “we’re married, i think. i don’t know if i can find him again.”
“i’ll help,” promises tubbo.
tubbo doesn’t need to say that the person ranboo’s looking for is right in front of him.
🍯
“i think i’m in love with you.”
ranboo has never been so bold before; they’re laying down in a sunflower plains biome with flower crowns around their heads, their rings both kept in enderchests. tubbo can’t stand looking at it without breaking down and ranboo can’t remember.
tubbo tugs at the straps of his overalls, knowing that the grass stains on the baby blue denim is worth this moment of peace. his yellow t-shirt matches ranboo’s shirt, sleeves rolled up ever-so-slightly, and the fact that they’re connected even in this small way grants tubbo a bit of peace.
maybe the warm sun’s got something to do with it. “you are?” tubbo asks, intertwining their fingers. he smiles a little. if it’s tinged with sorrow, no one needs to know.
“i am,” answers ranboo, and he turns his head a little to meet tubbo’s eyes. “i’m sure i am.”
“me too,” is what tubbo whispers as a response, using his free hand to tug off ranboo’s flower crown and run his fingers through ranboo’s two-toned hair. they’re close, so close that if tubbo moves closer they’d be kissing. “...can i?”
a slight nod from ranboo. tubbo leans in, and ranboo’s lips feels soft and tastes like mint—he always has—and if tubbo can taste his own salty tears, no one needs to know.
bittersweet. everything about this is bittersweet.
tubbo chooses to focus on the sweet and pulls away to catch a breath; ranboo’s gotten better at managing not to get burnt by water, thanks to a potion tubbo’s developed. faintly, at the back of his head, tubbo thinks it’s good, he still remembers how to brew it.
“are you crying?” ranboo asks, the concern and worry piercing through tubbo’s distracted mind. “did i do anything wrong?”
ranboo pushes himself up, concern in his heterochromatic eyes, and tubbo follows suit. “no, no, i’m fine,” tubbo says, wiping his face with his sleeves. “i’m just… happy. i am.” and he is, lost in this turbulent storm of joy and sorrow and anger, and tubbo doesn’t know how to feel. “a bit overwhelmed too, if i’m honest. but i love you.”
“do you want to elope at church prime?”
“yes. yes, i do.” we’ll elope again. we can make the marriage official now that we’re not underage.
carefully, ranboo stands up and scoops tubbo up into a bridal carry, grinning so widely that tubbo can’t help but laugh, too, no matter how much it hurts. “then let’s go.”
the second time it happens, ranboo is twenty-one and tubbo is twenty-two.
it happens over alcohol this time, quickly evaporating liquid leaving only stains on ranboo’s white shirt. at first tubbo thinks it’s just the whiskey (what were they even drinking?) kicking in, the sting of the liquid dulling to a warm, fuzzy feeling. but maybe tubbo should’ve known better; he really should.
“...do i know you?” ranboo asks, holding a drink; his eyes are slightly unfocused, but tubbo knows the difference between alcohol’s dullness—he’s known it ever since he turned sixteen—and ranboo’s memory loss.
not again. god, not again. “you don’t,” says tubbo softly, coaxing the glass from ranboo’s fingers. he rolls up his sleeves. “but you’ve had a bit too much to drink. let’s get you home.”
had ranboo been sober, tubbo knows ranboo would’ve put up some kind of resistance. but the dregs of his memory and the drunkenness drives ranboo to trust the smaller as tubbo pays for both their drinks and leads ranboo out of the bar.
they walk in silence. ranboo’s too shitfaced to realize that tubbo’s crying quietly, a blessing and a curse for the both of them.
no matter. tubbo just has to get his husband—his no one, now—back home safely.
“how do you know my house?” questions ranboo, his voice unnaturally quiet and slightly slurred. they’re in front of ranboo’s old house now. tubbo always comes here every week to clean it, just in case, and this is in case. “do you know me?”
“i know you,” tubbo confirms, “get some sleep, ranboo.”
ranboo throws tubbo a questioning glance before stumbling in. tubbo watches and makes sure ranboo’s disappeared upstairs before turning away and making his way to technoblade and philza’s houses.
there is news he needs to break, favors he needs to ask.
🍯
“hangover?” asks tubbo, offering ranboo a cup of coffee. his ring is gone from his finger, tubbo notices. faster than before. tubbo wants to just curl up in his blankets and cry himself to sleep.
in the haze that had made his mind foggy when he was getting ready, tubbo hadn’t paid attention to what clothes he’s getting dressed in. thank god tubbo hadn’t grabbed one of ranboo’s sweaters, instead a simple cream colored one that really shouldn’t be worn around coffee.
when ranboo nods slightly and takes the cup, tubbo immediately toys with his own ring; a painful reminder that he’s been forgotten again. “so… ranboo… why did you ask to meet me?”
ranboo swallows half of the cup’s contents before placing it down on the fence they’re both sitting at and responding, voice still a bit raspy. “you’re tubbo, right? i wanted to thank you. for bringing me home yesterday. techno told me about it.” awkwardly, ranboo shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.
“anytime,” tubbo says, “anytime.”
he means it.
even though it hurts, being forgotten again and again, tubbo will push through it—he’s gone through loss and pain, he can cope with this. though it feels like a thousand little cuts every time it happens, at least it’s not physical. at least it doesn’t leave scars. tubbo subconsciously rubs his thumb against the scarred side of his face.
they fall into silence. the kind that feels awkward, so far from the comfortable quietude of early mornings and late nights that they used to share when ranboo still remembered tubbo’s name.
“could i ask you a question?” ranboo queries, breaking the silence.
a nod from tubbo. “of course,” he answers.
“i don’t know you,” states ranboo, recounting the facts through a headache (judging by how his brows are slightly furrowed; tubbo’s picked up on ranboo’s mannerisms over the years), a hangover, and amnesia, and doing surprisingly well. “but you know me, enough to find my house. am i missing something?”
ranboo’s given up using books to write things down. if he hadn’t, tubbo thinks they both won’t be able to cope with it.
“i’m not sure,” tubbo lies, the fib slipping past his lips as easily as compliments and pet names used to. he tugs at his sweater’s sleeves. “i’m sorry.”
disappointment leaks into ranboo’s eyes, clear as day. the sun continues to shine, the grass is still golden, and the alliums prosper. nothing has changed. everything has changed. tubbo swings his legs.
the fact that he can’t step on the ground when perched on the fence used to be cute. now it’s just a reminder of how utterly helpless he is.
and tubbo lets himself bask in the beauty of ranboo’s features. under natural lighting, the scars carved by ranboo’s own tears are almost invisible; eyelashes and hair turned flaxen as if the scene was plucked out of a fairytale.
if ranboo had remembered him, tubbo would’ve asked for his hoodie.
but now he just worries about their son. what will he say to michael, again? the boy’s ten now, and much more clever than anyone his age is expected to be, but will honesty work?
“...normally this would sound suspicious, you know?” ranboo says, his tone of voice more teasing than grave. “but i trust you, cause… you remind me of someone. he’s kind, too, like you, and way more intelligent than i can hope to be... can i, um, pay you back for the drinks and the coffee?”
“aw, you don’t have to,” replies tubbo with a smile, feeling some of that old familiar awkwardness of crushing on each other and dancing around it return. he purposely ignores ranboo’s description of him in another lifetime. it makes him feel giddy. it makes him feel sick. “but if you really want to…”
ranboo grins. “can i take you out for coffee sometime?”
“just to pay back?” tubbo says playfully. he really shouldn’t let himself fall again, he knows that. but isn’t it worth the pain, the few years of joy and peace? doesn’t love always hurt—isn’t it why people say fall in love ? will michael come to think that this is how love is?
“maybe,” and a smile is what ranboo responds with. “it depends on you.”
“we can go out for coffee,” agrees tubbo. “i like your company.”
the grin on ranboo’s face widens into something that makes tubbo’s heart ache. “are you free tomorrow? three pm?”
“yeah,” nods tubbo. hopefully tommy will be free for babysitting then. “yeah, i am.”
🍯
sometimes, tubbo wonders how skilled ranboo really is in crafting. those nimble pianist’s fingers look much more well-suited to playing a musical instrument and weaving flower crowns than they are to creating weapons and engraving runes, but tubbo has held those hands and felt the calluses.
tubbo owns swords and pickaxes and armor adorned with runes that ranboo’s personally carved in the metal by hand.
so when ranboo gets down on one knee, pulls out a velvet box and shows a simple golden band that tubbo knows he’d labored over for weeks trying to get right, he wonders again. how many rings will they go through?
“will you marry me?” ranboo asks, a smile on his lips. they’re in that same meadow where tubbo had kissed him when they were younger, surrounded by flowers and golden fields, and though tubbo’s heart is more than beaten up by now, how could he say no?
“of course,” says tubbo, tears spilling out of his eyes and dropping into the ground as sparkling beads thanks to the warm sunlight. “of course, boo, yes, i will.” i’ll have a husband again. michael will have a father again, until you forget.
if he’s crying for more than one reason, no one needs to know.
ranboo plucks the ring from its box and a chain trails from it; tubbo lets his fiancé clasp the necklace around his neck and admires the way the ring dangles from it and catches the sunrays. “i love you.”
“i love you too,” tubbo says softly, gazing into ranboo’s eyes.
he’ll hold this moment close in his heart for the inevitable day that ranboo slips away from him again.
the third time it happened, ranboo is twenty-four and tubbo is twenty-five.
it’s unexpected, this time, slow. though the other times were unexpected, too, tubbo thought he’d gotten better at anticipating it—but the gradual decline hadn’t been obvious until ranboo flips his pancakes thoughtfully and turns to tubbo.
“...sorry, i think i should know you.”
they’ve long outgrown the dream smp. now they have an apartment together and a kitchen with white tiles and counters they picked together at ikea as a date, michael is thirteen and off at another server for a week, and tubbo wonders, where will ranboo go now?
“yeah,” is all that tubbo can offer. will his mind break if tubbo explains further? “it’s alright. my name is tubbo.”
ranboo set down his pan on the stove and looks at his flour-covered black apron. he takes it off, brushes down his graphic t-shirt that matches tubbo’s, and tries to do the same to his sweatpants. ranboo fails in getting rid of the flour that clings stubbornly to his pants and so looks up towards tubbo. “were we… making pancakes? cooking?” he asks, frowning.
as much as tubbo wants to yell about the sheer unfairness of this all, he doesn’t. he can’t, can he? “we were,” tubbo confirms. he rolls up his sleeves and picks up a spatula. “i can… finish everything. and i’ll explain after that.”
“over breakfast?” ranboo asks, and tubbo can’t help but laugh a little.
“yes, b—ranboo, over breakfast.”
if tubbo slips up ever-so-slightly, no one needs to point it out.
🍯
time changes a lot of things.
for one, ranboo’s gotten much better at cooking and baking; but tubbo seems to just get worse. at his second failed attempt to use the spatula properly, ranboo smiles and offers to take over with laughter tinting his voice. tubbo lets him. if he closes his eyes, it almost feels like he’s just making breakfast with his husband.
but tubbo knows better. he always does, always has to, and when they both pull out the stools under the island counters with practiced familiarity, tubbo notices ranboo’s change in demeanor.
as much as his subconscious must trust tubbo, the anxiety overpowers it. tubbo can see the tension in his fiancé—his no one ’s shoulders.
“so,” ranboo prompts, toying with his fork, “you know me.”
despite the nervousness in ranboo’s voice, tubbo can still sense the result of years of work. ranboo’s gone from a timid, awkwardly tall teenager to a laid-back, awkwardly tall young adult, and tubbo feels something like pride. “i do, yes. and you used to know me.”
“ used , past tense?”
tubbo cuts off a piece of his pancake, then places his utensils down to brush off a bit of flour from the words on ranboo’s t-shirt automatically. he pauses mid-gesture and jerks his hand back as if burned. “sorry. yeah. you used to remember me, but you’ve forgotten. we’re engaged and we have a son.”
calmly, ranboo nods. none of them acknowledged tubbo’s slip-up. “engaged… a son… alright. has this happened before?”
“yes,” tubbo says, somewhat bitter, “and i’ve been trying to prevent you from forgetting again. clearly i’ve failed.”
“...i know you tried, though,” replies ranboo, brow furrowed. “i don’t remember you, but you remind me of someone. he’s—hardworking, and kind, and would… he would pull all nighters and lose sleep trying to figure out this potion. i think when we were younger i’d give him my tools and we’d go on dates in… another server. that was you, wasn’t it?”
tubbo avoids ranboo’s gaze. “yes, yes, it was.”
silence. the suffocating kind, not the gentle kind that carries them to sleep or the calming kind where they both know just being in each other’s presence is enough, nor is it the soothing kind that descends upon them in the late hours of the night after michael’s gone to bed.
“could you tell me more about… our son?”
a quick nod from tubbo, a confirmation that doesn’t give away how much he wants to scream himself hoarse. the second it gives him to compose himself is enough for tubbo to start; “his name is michael…”
🍯
“tubbo, are we still engaged?” ranboo asks one day. it’s been a while since ranboo forgot. he’s started getting new memories.
fuck, he wants to break it off, tubbo thinks, and he wonders how he’ll explain this to michael. how he’ll cope. how this sad story will end. “yeah. we are. we can always get it sorted out if you don’t want us to be engaged anymore,” offers tubbo calmly, but his voice betrays him and breaks at the last syllable.
“no, not at all!” is the rushed response that spills out of ranboo’s lips. “i—i was going to… i know it’s a bit sudden, but… i was thinking we could get married?”
“we legally are,” says tubbo.
he doesn’t know if he can go through this and make it out alive; his heart is so battered as it is and he loves ranboo, but at what point does he have to give up?
“i know. but… a venue and a real event would be nice, wouldn’t it?” ranboo asks, his voice turning wistful.
tubbo stares at his hands, folded over his lap. ranboo’s clothes has always been ridiculously big on him, drowning tubbo in fabric, so only the tips of tubbo’s fingers really show up through the sleeves. “yeah. i think we’re ready for that.”
a slight chuckle comes out of ranboo. “settling down in our mid-twenties, huh? taxes will get so much easier.”
“we got married for tax reasons when you were sixteen and i was seventeen,” tubbo reminds him fondly, “taxes has always been easy.” loving has always been easy.
ranboo smiles a little. “well, what do you think about getting married in that meadow we used to spend so much time in?”
“i think dream would let us,” tubbo agrees, and he knows he’s made up his mind. it’s worth it. it’s all worth it. no matter how many times ranboo forgets, tubbo will always fall for him, and so will ranboo.
the pain, blood, sweat, and tears. it’s all worth it in the end.