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The stars smiled down from the vast black sky as Ranboo stared up at the infinite galaxy, breathing in the brittle silence of midnight as it held him in a calming embrace.
Snowchester was often host to snowfall that frosted the fields; the sky familiar when slate and pale with the overcast of pregnant clouds to freeze the grasses and glisten the berries in ice and snow, so much that the intricate patterns of the starscape were rarely seen.
Ranboo tilted his head back, listening to the wind as it teased his hair; whispering in his ear with forgotten words and bringing with it the faintest touch of smoke from the hearth fire behind him, enclosed in stone walls and wooden floors where Tubbo and Michael were still sound asleep.
He had been with them, not a moment ago, tucked up in peaceful sleep with his family only for that peace to be shattered by a stray phantom that had shrieked and screeched as it hunted atop the snow-dusted forest.
Ranboo knew Michael had been the one to drawn it in; his nightmares often leading to fitful, sleepless nights for the three of them, and Ranboo had been quick to slip from the bed before it’s piercing cry could interrupt his son’s dreams.
He had slipped on the barest layers of his armour, pulled on his snow boots and paced out into the snow, armed simply with his bow to take his irritation out on the night-haunter. It had been an easy kill; no more a challenge than shooting an ambling zombie approaching in a straight line.
Yet, once done, Ranboo found no urgency to return inside when the annoyance had passed and he’d cast his eyes beyond the ghostly wings to the diaphanous moonlight and the captivating beauty of the stars.
Rather than returning to the house, Ranboo had found himself a ledge near the path, insouciant of the cold dampness that soaked into his clothes as he lay down; head pillowed on folded arms as he stared, mind touched with shattered thoughts like the fractured light of stars.
Before Snowchester, before L’manberg, before everything that has become familiar to him, Ranboo would often stargaze. There was something comforting about laying beneath the stars, staring down into the sky and the certainty of knowing it would catch him should the earth let go and allow him to fall.
There was no fear of that (even in the practical sense), as Ranboo blinked idly at the starlight, imagining what it would be like to float along the breeze like a boat adrift at sea; stars reflected upon the ocean surface with such clarity that it would seem almost as if he were a part of the stars himself, not simply dreaming to be with them, but existing alongside them.
It reminded him of before and after. The beginning of his story; the end of the realms; the overlapping reality of his kind and those that lived bound closely to the Overworld, the Underworld; their realms unending and complete, where Ranboo stood out like a sore thumb.
And yet he had been welcomed—albeit hunted when he crossed the border not a day within Dream’s dominion—and faced with so many would-be-one-day friends that didn’t fit the mould themselves, was accepted.
As his mind wandered and his half-complete memories danced in and out of the spotlight in the forefront of his mind, Ranboo was unaware of the world around him. The lanterns on the walls kept out the groaning undead and the rattling of animated bones as his mind drifted; having drifted far enough that he didn’t hear the soft press of feet in the snow until Ranboo blinked up at the vanished nightscape to find the stars replaced with a bright smile, far more precious than the moonlight.
“Did you forget where the bed is?”
Ranboo’s smile shine back, his rebuttal caught behind a sudden, unexpected yawn. He didn’t realise he had been slowly falling asleep.
Or maybe he already had been, drifting in and out of sleep for an unmeasurable time, he thinks, taking Tubbo’s outstretched hand with another mouth-stretching yawn, catching sight of the pale lavender horizon through the spruce trees; his easy smile squished into a frown.
Perhaps it hadn’t been as early as he thought when he had woken in the night.
Tubbo himself looks like he hasn’t had as much sleep as he should’ve; breathing shallow and fast like he can hardly stand the cold; his fingers having been twisted into his coat before held out in invitation to the idiot still laid in the snow; a little tip of his head in place of words where his voice catches.
Ranboo frowns again, not having thought the night was particularly cold, but then such doesn’t affect him where he isn’t a progeny of the Overworld and perhaps tonight’s chill bites his husband more painfully than he thought.
“There was a phantom,” Ranboo starts—stops, when he trips on sleep-heavy feet. But Tubbo is there and although Ranboo towers over him even when his head is bent and his shoulders slouched, he’s strong enough to keep him standing upright, moving with the deft precision of a seasoned survivor, using his shoulder to hold most of Ranboo’s weight until he can situate his feet properly amid chuckled apologies.
Tubbo is patient and waits for Ranboo to wake up before leading him back to the house, one arm slung around Ranboo’s waist that, at first glance, might’ve been mistaken as simply lending him a hand. But Ranboo can feel the way Tubbo’s fingers curl into his clothes even through the meagre armour he wears; the weight of another mistake suddenly crushing and Ranboo nearly stumbles again with the guilt of having put his husband through undeniable panic.
“Sorry for scaring you,” he says, his voice soft to accommodate the quiet between them. Even in the dim light of the moon, he can see the false curiosity that Tubbo laces in his smile, making sure his mask was firmly in place before glancing up. “Scare me? You didn’t scare me.”
“Then I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Because Ranboo knows his husband better than he knows himself: how he worries when he wakes in the night, either from the sound of the phantoms beyond the window, Michael’s nightmares or his own, or a stray mob having braved the lantern light to wander Snowchester’s walled lands; the bed beside him cold and empty; duvet torn backwards in desperation to escape and Ranboo can’t count how many times he’s crept downstairs in search of his husband, heart jack-hammering, mind filled with vicious fears of blood and broken bones and Tubbo’s body and Dream—
“Y-yeah,” Tubbo says, voice choked by an emotion Ranboo forces him to relive, even if only for a split second and Ranboo hates himself all the more—
“I mean, I don’t think sleeping in the snow could be comfortable for anyone, and you’re so cold—” he says even when they both there’s no risk, because Ranboo has enderblood; he is unaffected by the cold and the heat to a certain degree; ties stronger to the End, “—and what if a creeper managed to get past the walls? They’re still not entirely complete, Michael can’t even play outside safely yet, and I know you have your bow on you and you can teleport if things get really bad, but that doesn’t just mean you can lay in the snow and fall asleep. Even you have your limitations.”
He’s rambling; tripping over his words as they fall from his lips, caught between the need to explain and the want not to; the fear of losing another heart-wrenching in the small hours when the line between nightmares and reality is blurred.
Ranboo knows the fear of an empty bed. For Tubbo it is worse.
Too many times has Ranboo lost himself in panic and the need to remember; forgetting himself in the process, only to be brought back to himself somewhere in the wilds, or on the path, or somewhere far from home that it takes him days to figure where he is, let alone get back. Worse still is when he ‘wakes’ to Tubbo standing before him, his grip like a vice on his arms; eyes red-rimmed and puffy from unshed tears; voice taut with worry; hoarse with how many times he has called Ranboo’s name only for him to be ignored. Unheard.
Ender-walking, he calls it, but even Ranboo doesn’t truly know why his mind turns inwards and his body continues to search for something within the two realms. It’s why he has his memory books. It’s why he has Tubbo to rely on, when the days are fractured like the shattered remains of a mirror and the reflection he sees is wrong and unrecognisable.
In his attempt to hide his worry now, Tubbo continues his rambling.
He knows he’s doing it, Ranboo knows he’s doing it, but neither address the matter as they two of them retrace their footsteps, Tubbo’s arm still snug around Ranboo’s waist with more than just a touch of worry to steady him; Ranboo reaching down to thread their fingers together in want of a stronger anchor, his own steps stunted to keep in time with Tubbo’s shorter stride as they follow the path that leads back to the house.
The front door stands open wide; the golden light of the hearth-fire shining like a beacon to draw them in. And above, the gentle flickering of the bedroom lantern casts shapes through the windows, outlining the silhouette of a familiar sight pressed up to the glass; palms leaving smudgy marks against the panes as Michael stares out at the snowscape, having felt the cold of the empty bed without his dads to keep him warm.
Ranboo felt another pang in his chest; guilt plucking on his heartstrings, taut like piano strings; sharp like his sword’s edge.
Whereas he was untouched by the night’s frozen chill, Michael was still getting used to the cold of the Overworld, even though it’s been months since they found him wandering the nether alone. Snowchester’s extreme climates must be harder to deal with when the ground remains frozen and blanketed year-round.
Even with the hearth-fire heating the house from the first floor, the cold must’ve creeped in, rousing Michael from his sleep if Tubbo’s own initial panic hadn’t been the cause to wake first.
Tubbo is still rambling: an ode to how the severity of how severe Ranboo had scared him this time; the Ender-half trying not to imagine how Tubbo had likely woken, a furrowed brow to the other half of the bed, worry creeping in when he hadn’t heard him pottering around downstairs. He had probably come downstairs having expected to see Ranboo pouring over his memory book in front of the fire, or reordering the kitchen, or cataloguing their potion supplies , instead finding the rooms empty and Ranboo’s body armour missing.
If he closes his eyes, Ranboo can practically see it as if he had witnessed first-hand; the way the colour drained from Tubbo’s face as he realised, the way that he had dashed to the front door, flung it wide and barely held himself back from shouting Ranboo’s name in case there are undead near the perimeter or someone unwanted within the walls.
And oh, how painful it must’ve been when Tubbo snatched his coat of the hook, jammed his feet into this snow boots and tore down the steps with panic in his lungs, having followed the tracks in the snow to be greeted with Ranboo’s body laid supine and motionless in the fresh snow.
What thoughts had filled Tubbo’s mind in the moment, Ranboo could only guess, but with the way their fingers are knitted together, and how Tubbo can’t stop fiddling with the red handkerchief firmly tied around his wrist, he has a pretty good idea of what they might entail.
He is still rambling; his voice soft for the gentle night yet layered with emotion he cannot hope to hide from someone who knows him as well as his husband; Tubbo deliberately keeping close enough to keep his face hidden and keep at bay the inevitable apologies they both know Tubbo doesn’t want, but Ranboo will say eventually.
They leave the path, side by side as they climb the wooden steps that lead to the front door that stands wide from where Tubbo hadn’t closed it in his panic; another invitation for the cold air to draw out the warmth and smother the fire.
Tubbo doesn’t unfurl his fingers from where they’re threaded with Ranboo’s until both of them have kicked off their boots. Its awkward and slow-going because they can only use one hand each where Tubbo still needs that firm line of touch, and Ranboo will never be the one to pull away first; instead, digging his fingers into the groove of his laces and focusing on the puzzle of freeing his feet; only the sound of their movements and the crackling fire filling the quiet.
The clasps that keep his armour in place are a different story —he’s only wearing his chest plate; having hunted a phantom and needing little more than a bow to strike it down, while the chest plate had been a precaution against the threat of a stray creeper— but again Ranboo waits for Tubbo to withdraw first. He does, but his hands go to the little metal clips; quick and precise in their movements as he helps shift the heavy netherite plating before turning to his own coat buttons. They’re skewed and misaligned; Ranboo watching quietly as Tubbo’s fingers slip, like they’re frostbitten; his bottom lip pinched between his teeth; brow furrowed—
“Here. Let me.”
Ranboo keeps his voice as gentle as the lambent firelight, hands up in mock surrender where Tubbo’s stiffen against his mis-matched buttons, giving a stiff nod and dropping his hands so that Ranboo’s can replace them. His chin is pointed down and his fringe covers his face, but the tell-tale hiss of burning skin gives away the tears.
“Shit—fuck—Ranboo I’m—”
“It’s fine,” Ranboo tells him with all the authority he can muster, not having flinched in the slightest as his husband’s tears burnt him. The guilt of him being the reason they trace silver down his cheeks is far more painful, but he’s smart enough to let Tubbo scrub his face before bending down to wrap his arms around his shoulders; the movement practiced so that their height difference doesn’t hinder the way they fit together.
“I’m sorry I made you worry,” he says, taking the advantage of Tubbo’s face pressed against his chest, meaning he can’t fight back. He tries of course, but Ranboo just squeezes him just a little tighter and continues.
“I didn’t think. I wasn’t lost inside my own head, but maybe I was on the edge of it. I don’t know why I stayed outside, I don’t remember why—” the words burning his tongue as they leave his mouth, because how many times has he spoken those words, and why do they have to feel like an excuse even when they are true because he can’t remember, he keeps forgetting, why does he have to keep forgetting— “but I’m sorry that I did and I’m sorry that I made you worry.”
There’s a pause, before Ranboo hears a muted “bitch,” (and it’s Tommy’s go-to insult, something pinching in Ranboo’s chest) and he can’t help the laugh that breaks free from his lips, curling tighter as Tubbo leans up into the hug.
Outside the window, the first bird of the morning chorus begins its song; a tiny little grey thing perched on the window sill that shakes off the cold; his song piercing, far too strong for his small body and Ranboo has the half-formed thought of tapping on the glass to scare the little fluffball away; wanting to drag the morning back into the quiet, calm, easy peace that Ranboo had found beneath the stars.
Even with the scare and the painful way Tubbo trembles in his embrace, this, too, is familiar. They’ve both woken too early enough times to have formed a routine, meaning either he or Tubbo will move to the stove to warm some milk and coco beans to help ward off the chill of the cold house; to stoke the fire and coax it into roaring while the other tends to Michael; he often being the usual culprit for an early morning.
Although sometimes it is the nightmares; both of them as haunted as the other; waking before the dawn with a name on their lips or a scream in their throat; hands reaching for an anchor to remind themselves that they’re safe; all three of them are safe; the walls are still standing—
“Boo?”
The pair of them shift in unison, turning to the sight of pointed hooves lowering themselves through the trapdoor and an inquisitive face peering down to the first floor.
“I’ll make the drinks,” Tubbo says, unwinding his arms; Ranboo not quite letting him go until he can see that there’s a genuine smile poking up at the corner of his lips. They both might be broken in places; stuck together with glue and tape like porcelain dolls, but they’re used to this. It’s routine for them.
Tubbo takes the lead, shaking himself off, sparking his tiny smile into a mouth-stretching grin more for Michael’s sake than any need for a mask, and disappears towards the stove as Ranboo sidles quickly to the ladder. He doesn’t reach up to grab Michael, but instead hold his hands up, prepared to steady him should he need it. He does take his son’s chicken plushie to help free a hand so he can use the ladder properly, but other than that, Ranboo is learning to let his son traverse the ladder.
It’s been a discussion between him and Tubbo on more than one occasion, following Philza’s last visit, where he’d got caught up with telling stories of Wilbur and Techno when they were children, (logically avoiding mentioning Tommy. Regardless, the evening following had been sleepless for the pair of them,) and Ranboo is learning to cope with his protective tendencies from hindering Michael’s growth. He needed to be able to fend for himself.
It wasn’t like he was going to give him a golden sword or a netherite set and send him out to fight a horde of skeletons, but it wasn’t fair to keep him cooped up inside the house on his own for hours while he and Tubbo worked to keep their little family safe.
The reason they were focused on working on the perimeter wall was for the sole reason of providing a safe space for Michael to play outside, and to keep out anything, or anyone that would think of hurting him.
So Ranboo keeps his hands a hair’s breadth away and coos gently as his son slowly works his way down the steps. When he finally has his hooves on the ground, only then does Ranboo scoop him into his arms, burying his face in Michael’s stomach as he laughs, hands fisting lightly into his hair with cute squeals and oinks and only the faintest trace of worry. Just as Tubbo and Ranboo know one another so well, Michael can see when one of his parents aren’t feeling quite themselves.
There’s a different kind of guilt when it’s Michael pulling Ranboo out of his ender-walk.
“Boo?” he asks again, a hand coming to pat against his cheek in question where he struggles with the common speak; so far having learnt variations of both their names, Ranboo affectionately “Boo” and Tubbo affectionately “Bee” where neither had thought to teach him any variation of “dad” or “pa.”
Ranboo didn’t particularly mind. Parenthood hadn’t ever crossed his mind before, (and if it had he had forgotten about it) so to be “Boo” was an honour he had never thought he would appreciate.
To feel Michael’s hand cupping his cheek was almost enough to bring him to tears.
“I’m okay little man, I’m okay,” Ranboo assures him, carrying them both to the nest of blankets in front of the hearth as Tubbo shifts around near the stove, juggling three mugs of hot cocoa as Ranboo bundled Michael in the softest of the throws, tucking him in as he grabs his chicken plushie, snuggling in against Ranboo’s side before patting the empty space next to him, half-asking, half-demanding that Bee sit next to him, as if Tubbo had any other plan than snuggling in to waste the rest of the morning with his family in front of the hearth fire.
It takes a little effort to juggle all three drinks and a squirming Michael, who can’t seem to help his impatience, but this is routine for the three of them as much as nightmares and Tubbo is quick to settle; Michael climbing into his lap in the same moment, forgetting himself when he slips into Piglin, babbling, dragging one of Tubbo’s arms around him in demands for snuggles.
The three of them sit in companiable silence as they down their drinks, and although it’s only warm cocoa—milk heated on the stove and sweetened with crushed cocoa beans—and there’s no tell-tale bitterness of a ghast’s tear, Ranboo can feel himself calm like Tubbo snuck in a few drops of regen; the feeling of warmth moving through him like a tidal wave.
It reminds him how tired he is; that he’s spent the last, who knows how long laid out in the snow, staring at the stars and not sleeping; a fact that is quickly catching up to him. He pushes his nearly-finished mug out of reach and sinks lower into the cushions just as Michael finishes his own. Tubbo has faster reflexes, not quite as suddenly tired as his husband and he manages to grab Michael’s hot chocolate before it spills across the floor where the young piglin dives under the covers, snuggling into Ranboo’s chest.
A little hand comes up to bunch in his shirt, and he doesn’t need Michael to speak common to know what he’s asking; wrapping his arms around him, burying his own face into the crook of the boy’s neck where his soft baby hairs tickle his skin.
With heavy eyelids and a soothing hum that crackles like the fire, Ranboo feels his body growing heavy; the beginnings of sleep washing over him like heavy snow clouds that seek to bury the forest in perfect white. He lets his mind wander without thought; listening to the voice of the fire as it hums a lullaby, his hand carding through the soft fur of Michael’s fluffy hair to soothe him, encouraging a few more hours of sleep before the day can truly begin.
There’s the sound of a soft sigh and a weight against his shoulder. Ranboo opens his eyes, knowing the sight he will be met with but appreciating it all the same; Tubbo leaning into his space.
This close, Ranboo can see the shadows beneath his eyes, but he is relaxed completed; there’s no trace of pain or poorly masked furrow between his brows. He looks at peace, with all the lines of his face smoothed, his lips slightly parted in motion to the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the beginnings of snoring that he would firmly deny when he woke.
This version of Tubbo is a different kind of beautiful, a different kind of peaceful than Ranboo is familiar with, but he is grateful for the moments of peace he can find.
He breathes out a quiet laugh, slowly adjusting their positions with enough delicacy not to rouse him nor Michael, reaching across to pull the throws tighter around all three of them, one hand slipping around Tubbo’s waist, not quite encircling him entirely, but embracing him all the same.
And while Ranboo would happily forgo another few hours of sleep to hold this moment precious, he doesn’t fight the way he is lulled by the melodic rhythm of Tubbo’s breathing and Michael’s content snores.