Work Text:
Ranboo sits quietly in the armchair, memory book in hand.
He runs his thumb over the old, battered leather of the cover, turning the small object over with contemplative slowness. At one time, writing in this book had been a daily ritual; before bed, throughout the day, sometimes as soon as he woke up from his enderwalk, demanding answers with frantic questions.
Not anymore.
As days went by, and life got calmer, the memory book fell into his hands less and less frequently. More often than not, it stayed tucked into the back of his inventory, a steady but almost-forgotten presence some days. Issues came, were dealt with, and forgotten, and the longer time went on, the fewer he had to face alone. ‘Til death do us part. Everything else is just a bump in the road.
Now, he sits. The armchair Tubbo made for him is custom, designed with his gangly proportions in mind, with enough space for a certain spouse to curl into his side as they watch the fire burn itself to embers. The deep green material is worn in certain places, aging with himself and his family, and the home they built together. It feels like a microcosm.
“Ranboo?”
Though sudden, the voice doesn’t startle him. He’s used to his husband’s strangely-silent way of moving, and he’s stupidly fond of it, the way he is with almost everything Tubbo does. Looking up to greet him, he smiles when he sees the sleepy eyes and blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His beloved must have gotten tired of waiting for him to come to bed, then, and seems to have taken matters into his own hands.
“Evening, Tubbo.”
His husband hums to show he heard, before clambering into his spot on the seat, the whole length of his side pressed against him. Ranboo raises an arm to accommodate, wrapping it around his waist once he’s settled into the familiar curve.
“What’cha doing?” Tubbo asks, slipping his eyes closed as he does so. Ranboo distantly wonders if he recognises the book he’s holding.
“Thinking,” he tells him, vague. He receives a flick to the stomach.
“About what?”
Ranboo hums, wondering how to word it.
“I don’t know. Life. Us. Memories.”
Tubbo snorts quietly. “Memory boy,” he hums fondly. “Deep thoughts.”
“Mhm,” Ranboo agrees, “you remember my memory book?”
Opening a single eye to regard the thing in his hand, Tubbo nods.
“It’s right there, bossman, I haven’t had a chance to forget it yet.”
“Yeah, well,” Ranboo sets it down on his lap, sinking further in the seat and turning his full attention on his husband. “I was just thinking- I don’t use it so much anymore. Was thinking about what that means.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And what’s that?”
Ranboo considers. Considers the warmth of the fire, and of Tubbo at his side, and the softness of his sweatpants. The wool of Tubbo’s blanket and the laundry they need to do later and the dishes they’ll wash tomorrow and the eggs they’ll fry before that, because sunny-side up is Michael’s favourite. He thinks about their garden, and Tommy’s visits, and Niki’s pumpkin pies and Techno’s awkward birthday cards and Jack’s offer to buzz Michael’s hair when it got too long.
He thinks about all the little mundanities that make up his life, and his husband and son and his house and his armchair, and he thinks about how easy it all comes to him now. How normal it is. How blindingly wonderful normal can be.
“I’m… happy.”
Tubbo giggles at him, and he can’t help but join in. The joy that spills out of him is contagious.
“Not exactly a revelation, there,” he teases, raising an eyebrow at him. “Unless…Don’t tell me I’ve been making you miserable all this time, Boo.”
And both of them are in another fit of giggles, teenagers again as they sit wrapped up in each other.
“You know it’s the opposite,” he croons, cupping his husband’s jaw with his free hand. Tubbo sticks his tongue out at the sappy affection. “You know it is.”
“Fuckin’ better be,” he laughs, craning his neck to press a quick kiss to his mouth before slouching again. “I’m a delight. A pleasure to have in class, if you will.”
“You are, you are,” Ranboo agrees, smile making his eyes crinkle up. Decades later, he’s still a lovesick fool.
Tubbo makes a small sound of approval, before burying his face deeper in his side and staying there. It must be late late, then. He raises a hand to brush a stray strand of hair behind his ear, as gentle as possible while Tubbo’s breathing becomes slow and even. His heart feels like it’s glowing.
Part of him wants to stay here, quiet and warm beside the fire, but he knows it’ll be murder on both their backs in the morning. They’re not quite as young as they used to be, in spite of their protests against the passage of time, but he’s still more than capable of carrying his small husband to bed when the need arises.
He shifts, a little stiff from being sat down for so long, and manages to slip his arm under Tubbo’s knees with relative ease. He’s small and light as ever as he lifts him, tiny smirk making it obvious that he’s awake.
“I see you smiling,” he whispers, closing the drawing room door with his foot as he leaves.
Tubbo just presses his lips into a thin line, trying and failing to hide the giggles that want to bubble out of him at the callout.
“You’re laughing! I’m carrying you to bed, out of the goodness of my heart, and you’re laughing.”
Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut, bringing the blanket up to cover his face as he finally laughs aloud, muffled but the thick material.
“Shh, shh, Michael’s sleeping!” Ranboo whisper-yells, speedwalking up the stairs to their room, passing by their son’s door quickly.
“I’m quiet, I’m quiet,” Tubbo insists, not quiet at all. “It’s your fault for making me laugh.”
“Mhm, mhm, shifting the blame I see,” he huffs, walking backwards as he opens their door with his shoulder, kicking it closed. Their bed stands messy in the centre of the room, sheets still unmade from the night before because they’re both too lazy to fix them. He sets Tubbo down softly on the bed, watching out the corner of his eye as Tubbo immediately starts gathering the blankets around himself. Christ, even being a bed hog is endearing to him now, what the heck.
He draws the tall curtains and gets into bed with little fuss, smiling to himself as Tubbo curls himself around his back like a koala.
“Night, memory boy” the human murmurs.
“Goodnight, Tubbo.”
Ranboo shuts his eyes.
As they sleep, the mansion goes still. The fire in the drawing room has died down to a barely-there glow, casting hazy shadows over the embossed cover of a forgotten notebook.