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The sun is high and bright and the air is still as Tubbo treks across the mostly-repaired path into L’manberg - or what was L’manberg, L’manhole - peering around the lump of blanket in his arms as he walks.
Ranboo’d sent him a comm earlier, stating a time and a location and a request. “Bring that checkered blanket, the one we tried to play chess on that one time.” Not much detail, but Tubbo is more than willing to play into the distraction.
His tension eases slightly upon spotting Ranboo, who waves, in turn, when he sees Tubbo. Tubbo tries to wave back, but gives up when the stuff he’s carrying starts to slip and just increases his pace.
“Surprise!” Ranboo exclaims, once Tubbo’s in range. He’s got a basket and a small fire pit set up, right in the center of the immortalized L’manberg ruins.
Tubbo has to bite back some thought about how Wilbur never could’ve foreseen this happening - his soldier, married, using the remains of his country for ambiance - because that, honestly, goes for pretty much everything that’s happened.
He drops the blanket unceremoniously on the ground. “What’s this?”
Ranboo moves to spread it out, tugging at the corners so it lays flat, “You told me - sorry if I got this wrong, I had it written down - that today’s the day you got here. It’s your server anniversary. Severser... y’know?”
He’d mentioned that ages ago. An offhand comment about the day he arrived being soon; how he can’t escape the date no matter how much time passes by.
It’s like his birthday, but worse; a permanent, scarlet stain across every calendar for miles. Tubbo didn’t think Ranboo would remember, much less set something up for it.
Ranboo seems to catch the hesitance in his eyes, grabbing his wrist and tugging him to sit. “Now get ready for me to spoil you!”
Tubbo crosses his legs and Ranboo starts digging around in the basket, pulling out a mismatched bouquet of roses, alliums, and tulips, setting it flat between them like some kind of centerpiece. Tubbo touches a petal and something in his chest un-knots at the plush softness of it, the familiarity.
His other palm meets the cool glass beneath them and Tubbo looks down. Sitting on a clear surface is disorienting. Wilting vines and the recreation of the flag - Wilbur’s original flag, of course, not his - sit at the bottom of the pit, as though they’ll be there to catch him when he falls.
“Why here?” Tubbo asks, eyes fixed on the yellow ‘x,’ the first loss.
“Well,” Ranboo says, tapping his shoulder and handing him a covered plate. “My first thought was Jack’s restaurant.”
“Oh?”
“But turns out Foolish tore it down.”
“Oh.”
“So then, I thought of McPuffy’s-”
“Oh no,” Tubbo groans.
Puffy’s brief stint in the food industry was something they all tried to encourage - follow your dreams and all that jazz - but she was a bad cook on a good day and her burgers would probably make for better building material than food.
Ranboo nods gravely, crossing the blanket to throw some wood into the stone pit. “My thoughts exactly.” He strikes a match into the pile with careful hands. “I’m glad she decided to go into therapy, because oh Prime.”
Tubbo laughs at the horror in his voice. The flames flicker into orange and Ranboo steps back when he seems satisfied, gesturing for Tubbo to look at the food.
He peels the foil off to reveal a small pile of uncooked potatoes. He raises an eyebrow and Ranboo brandishes two sticks triumphantly. Tubbo stifles a laugh - he looks like Tommy when he does that, weirdo - and nods as if he knows what’s going on.
“I thought we could roast them,” Ranboo explains, pointing at the fire. He spears a potato on the end of his stick as if to demonstrate.
“This is so…”
“Perfect?”
“Not what I was gonna say.”
Ranboo shrugs, handing him a bottle without comment. Tubbo carefully sets it down next to him.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminds.
Leaning back slowly, Ranboo presses his hands into the blanket, fingers outstretched across boundary lines of red and white. He looks young in the lighting, younger than both of them surmise he is, at least. Weariness melting away in golden glow; it’s a bit like being taken back in time, even though they didn’t know each other that long ago.
“I don’t know,” Ranboo says finally. “I was thinking about what place would hold the most emotional value to you.”
“L’manberg,” Tubbo murmurs in agreement.
The name coils in the air, slips onto the ground like a pitfall.
This land was given to him with a bow and a rotten center. It should be dead, is effectively so, but he still sees it in everything.
Sometimes he wakes up and goes through his old motions, searching for a schedule that isn’t there. Snowchester doesn’t have an itinerary, there is no cabinet waiting on him anymore.
Ranboo’s still around, but Big Q’s been gone for a while, Fundy only came back only for a little, and Phil’s long-gone with Techno.
Phil, huh. Tubbo’s just a traitor to him. Who would’ve thought.
“They found me in a box,” he says aloud, abrupt. It doesn’t make sense, Ranboo doesn’t know who “they” are, but Tubbo doesn’t really like explaining away whatever it was they had all that time ago. Before Tommy and Wilbur decided to declare independence and the rest of that lived history. “Did you know that?”
“No?” Ranboo’s confusion colors his words vermillion, but his smile is soft. “I definitely didn’t know that.” He leans forward, as if invested, and his eyes flicker up to meet Tubbo’s, just for a second. Encouraging. Curious.
Something in Tubbo’s heart beats out of tempo, a stutter in an established rhythm.
That’s what Ranboo is. What he’s always been. Some kind of exception to the rule. A weakness, a strength; the metal bands they share check the box for “all of the above.”
So Tubbo gives in, bends and folds and forfeits in whatever small way he can manage.
He explains the bits of his childhood he can remember: the smell of wet cardboard, Tommy’s relentless energy. He dodges the parts about Phil; how the man’s name had lingered like ash in every doorway and haunted the footsteps Wilbur took.
Phil was never his father, so he doesn’t have a lot to say on the subject, but Tubbo does know how much it tore Tommy apart to see him. Killing Wilbur on the cliffside, standing atop a tree with Technoblade.
Morbid thoughts for a picnic. Tubbo clears his throat. “You?”
“Me?”
“Got any weird childhood stories?”
“I don’t remember what I did yesterday,” Ranboo says, in that tone that implies he thinks Tubbo’s said something odd. “You think I remember my childhood?”
Tubbo bites the inside of his cheek. “Does it ever get difficult?”
“Of course.” Ranboo leans over and nudges Tubbo gently. “But I make sure to remember what matters.”
Retracting his potato from the fire and placing it on his plate, Tubbo watches the steam waft up and dissipate. He wonders if it’d be easier to remember or to forget, and how much of a toll each would take.
Who would he be without the memory of metal against his temple, a sword against his chest, Dream’s grip around his forearm? Would he be happier? Would he stop ducking away from shadows? Would that be a good thing?
What are you if not where you’ve been?
Tubbo doesn’t know where his past starts and his identity ends.
Ranboo doesn’t seem to care. Not as much as he used to, at least. He’s looked more peaceful ever since L’manberg fell; another reminder of the failures of “President Tubbo.” Nice.
Tubbo scoffs and Ranboo’s hand rests on his shoulder. A question, a concern, an affirmation; Tubbo leans his head on it for a second before taking a bite of his food and Ranboo seems to relax again.
“I remember my first day,” Ranboo says as Tubbo eats. “Not well, but pieces of it. And obviously there was the whole Tommy thing.” He laughs, something bitter on the back end. “I just wanted to fit in, not help kick off… everything.”
The roof of Tubbo’s mouth feels dry and he fishes around for that bottle before realizing, upon wrapping his fingers around it, what it is. He holds it up to the light and turns it over in his hands, watching the amber swish around.
Liquid courage.
He’s never felt particularly lacking in bravery.
Other things, sure, but Tubbo left his trembling fears next to his dead body and he hasn’t gone back. He almost walked himself into his coffin; Schlatt never would’ve done that. They found him hidden in the van, a coward till his last breath.
He can feel Ranboo’s gaze on him.
“You don’t have to,” Ranboo says, painfully sincere. “I just thought it’d be fun.”
It’s stupid, because he knows that it means nothing. He’s had alcohol before - namely after finding that damn pillar in the plains - so obviously the taste isn’t gonna magically sprout him ram horns and staple a red tie to his neck. But the feeling is there. Just under his skin.
Tommy’s voice and Quackity’s voice and Schlatt’s own; long nights in the office, paperwork under his hands, shoulders hunched. He’d looked like a mirror image of what he used to fear.
Schlatt’s dead. He’s been dead for a long time.
The cap cracks as Tubbo twists it and he tilts it toward Ranboo, who scrambles a little before following suit. The clink of glass against glass bounces around the empty space where their home once stood and Tubbo breathes in before taking a sip.
Sweet and sharp, much more mild than Schlatt’s whiskey, it stings at his throat on the way down and settles, warm, in the pit of his stomach. Ranboo watches him with thinly veiled concern and Tubbo rolls his eyes.
“A little isn’t gonna kill me.”
Ranboo holds up a hand in a gesture of surrender. Faint mirth dances across his features, just behind his ever-present worry. He acts like Tubbo’s a second away from shattering, sometimes.
Maybe he’s right.
It’s been a long time since he was allowed to sit and think like this. Especially with someone he trusts - Ranboo’s taken his armor off, piled it carefully just off to the side, the sight makes a part of Tubbo go quiet - without any immediate consequence.
It’s been nonstop ever since everything started, even more so since Ranboo’s arrival.
Because Tubbo was a supply-runner, first. He collected blaze rods for Wilbur and sand for Tommy and potions and armor when Dream came to his house with a vendetta.
His house was the one to burn, he was the one to pay for their crimes. But it was fine, because they were in it together. They were L’manberg. A togetherness.
Then he was under a calloused thumb. Then there was smoke around every corner.
Tubbo leans slightly toward Ranboo and sighs. Thinking about it makes him dizzy. Schlatt-Wilbur-Tommy, president-traitor-revolutionary, yes-man, right hand, never just Tubbo.
Except in his little spruce cabin, the most fragile of victories.
“I’m feeling all nostalgic,” Tubbo says softly, instead of any of that.
He feels a bit like grainy film, a desaturated polaroid of times long-past. No one wants to talk about it and it’s not like Tubbo wants to go book an appointment with Puffy, but it still sits in the center of his chest. Festers like a firework-shot wound.
“You’ve been here a lot longer than me,” Ranboo suggests, attentive as always. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
All of the stories that come to mind are ones that burn and sputter - tail-end gasoline fires and cigarette-byproduct tar painting his lungs - but he tries to push through; there’s no way it’s all bad. It’s been ages, not every minute was a nightmare in the making.
There’s an iron wall in Tubbo’s mind, laced with obsidian. Tommy wasn’t thinking logically and the logical thing is to disregard stuff like feelings and Schlatt doesn’t want him to speak, except for at the festival, and Wilbur doesn’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.
Tubbo retraces his footsteps as far as he can go, searching for a memory worth preserving, and audibly laughs at where he arrives. Ranboo waits, patient.
“Did I-” Tubbo fights off another fit of laughter. “Did I ever tell you about the L’manberg space program?”
“You- you had a space program?”
“Yup. We called it LMFAO.” Tubbo raises his arms as if to write out the words, once-hung on a wooden sign. He doesn’t even remember where the building was, but he remembers the way the light filtered through the windows. “The L’manberg Flight and Aeronautical Organization.”
Ranboo tilts his head. “But that’s not-”
The walls were still up back then. Jack Manifold had just started to build his house and Niki was the newest member, introduced as Wilbur’s old friend.
Tubbo smiles. “That was only the beginning, big man.”