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Tubbo and Quackity had been friends, once.
It started as a relationship formed from a dual necessity to belong with someone like themselves - Shifters are rare, very rare, and to come across someone else like himself had been euphoric for the longest time. Then had come Schlatt's presidency, with the man finding himself with the opportunity to gain two Shifters in his cabinet and snatching it up before either person could realize. Those had been bad times. Difficult to think about some days. After that had come Schlatt's death and Tubbo's own presidency, along with Tommy's exile, the Butcher Army, and Doomsday. Doomsday. The two of them had held hands that day, Tubbo in his torn and ratty president's suit that had once belonged to Wilbur and Quackity in that blue tracksuit that he liked so much, beanie holding back his hair as always, and they'd sang the anthem of the country they'd fought over and for and against for the final time as the last of the bombs went off. That had been a Bad Day. Not the worst, because Tubbo is paranoid and sure the worst is yet to come, but it had definitely been up there. Tubbo's memory of the event is fuzzy. He thinks that's perhaps his only saving grace.
Tubbo hasn't seen Quackity since Doomsday, when everyone had gone their separate ways. It's something that had haunted him for the several weeks that he spent building Snowchester, completely alone and numb, sewing new clothes and gathering materials. Had anyone been badly injured during the destruction, had anyone died, would he ever know? The crater where L'manberg had been was empty the next day. Silent in a way he could never explain the irrational fear of, blood pounding in his ears. Anyone could have died and Tubbo would never know.
He learned who had survived and who hadn't later, of course. But he hadn't seen Quackity until today. The fact that their first interaction in months is a legal dispute over whose land is whose and who can build what where is hurting him, but he'll never say it. Not to Ranboo, not to Tommy, and certainly never to him.
"Your so-called cookie outpost looks more like a military base than anything else," Quackity says calmly, so calmly. "It's not that I don't trust you Tubbo. I do! But you can understand, you of all people can understand, why that is something that might make me anxious."
I thought I knew you, is what Tubbo is thinking, itching to scream into the empty expenses of golden sand that the Las Nevadas tower overlooks. We were friends and now you speak formally and smile unnaturally and dress weirdly and your footsteps sound like Schlatt's. Do you know that? Would you care if I told you? Your shoes look the same as his and you have a red stain on your right sleeve. I'm not sure where it came from, but every option I'm weighing in my mind is bad.
"I have every legal right to build whatever I please on land that does not belong to you," Tubbo says instead, just as composed, although his hands tremble slightly from where they're folded behind his back. "I need to have enough space for farms and storage of materials, hence the wall. I'm doing no harm to you."
Quackity's lip twitches, and his hand jerks up to his neck where Tubbo can see a string tied, disappearing into the collar of his cream coloured shirt. The man's working eye is fixed on Tubbo. The other one is an unnatural blue instead of the dark chocolate brown Tubbo is used to, and the glass eye never looks in the same direction as the other, giving Quackity a rather lopsided appearance. His hair is longer, too. It tumbles out his beanie, brushing his shoulders and covering half his face on his left side. He doesn't hide it under his hat anymore. His wings are tucked away, as they usually are, but Tubbo knows they're there somewhere, clipped messily months and months ago on one of those Bad Days that he'd rather forget. Tubbo swallows. The silence is painful, reminiscent of the day after Doomsday when Tubbo had scavenged for food and survivors and had come up with nothing but emptiness and a deep, ominous unknowing. Quackity gives him this same feeling. Did I lose you too, Q? Where's the man I called my brother?
Shifters were pack creatures, something Tubbo had learned through books found by Wilbur years ago on his outings to woodland mansions and far away villages. They had travelled in groups, sometimes blood families, sometimes not, but always together, there to defend and protect each other. Tubbo understood why. Shifters were all born with wings, blessed by Angelus Viridi - one of the original three Admins - thousands of years ago. They needed others to preen for them. Tubbo, however, was usually alone. It had been a while before he'd trusted Tommy and Wilbur enough to allow them to be family - even longer before he'd fully revealed his powers in shapeshifting. Shifters are cautious and alert. Tubbo is no exception.
Quackity had been his family too.
He wonders what changed.
"We can come to a compromise," Quackity says quietly. His face is set. "We can figure this all out."
"Just expand in a different direction," Tubbo argues. He's tired and wants to go wherever home is and not think about this anymore. It's too reminiscent of the day Tommy had come back from the dead the first time, back in snowy New L'manberg, waltzing up with Techno in matching icy capes and full netherite. It's like a puzzle piece being jammed somewhere it doesn't belong anymore.
Quackity shakes his head, just as stubborn as he used to be. "I'm not going to do that," he says firmly. "My country is right here, and I'm not going to allow you to take this land as your own."
When Tubbo had grown horns and slit-pupil eyes during Schlatt's presidency, Quackity had hugged him and made him tea and gently preened his wings, brushing callused fingers across each feather to shake the dirt off, and he had calmed the boy down to a point where he could shift back to his normal state and fall asleep in the older man's arms, confident in the knowledge that he wouldn't be hurt while his friend was protecting him.
"Ok," Tubbo nods blankly.
Quackity's lips thin, or what's left of them does. Half the left side of his face is torn, a chunk of skin missing around his mouth, teeth and gums exposed even when his lips are drawn. "So is that how you want to take it, Tubbo?" he snaps, too loud - Quackity knows Tubbo can't stand being yelled at, or he used to know, used to give a shit. "Is this what you want to do? How you want to play this?"
When Tubbo had learned his old friend was confirmed to be alive and had set up the roots of a country in a desert to the north of Snowchester, he had been delighted to visit, going so far as to clumsily bake a cake for the man to bring to his doorstep in his excitement. It hadn't been until he'd gotten there until he'd sensed the bad vibes, the darkness, the silence. It had been showing. Tubbo had left and set up his citadel in a mountain across the river, spinning the story of a cookie shop to Ranboo, preparing to keep a close eye on Quackity until he understood what was going on.
"Big Q," Tubbo says, not breaking eye contact. "What's happened to you?"
Quackity, for a moment, looks younger. Tubbo wonders if he's shifting to look like that on purpose - wonders if it's another tactic to get him to back down and leave Las Nevadas alone - or if the shock of the words is enough to make him soften for even a second, into a man he knew better.
Tubbo doesn't take his wall down.
Neither does Quackity.
They've always both been good at standing their ground against the things they were fighting against.
It's snowing when Tubbo arrives home that evening. Snowchester is beautiful at night when the torches are casting golden light across the ice, white flakes lazily spiraling into heaps on the ground. Tubbo watches it as he climbs the steps up to his house and then sits on the top one, cold seeping into the seat of his trousers from the wet wood beneath. He doesn't care. He barely even notices. After a moment he even lies back completely and squints up at the falling snow as it lands on his face, uncaring as to what it does anymore. An angry little part of Tubbo wishes it would bury him.
Puffy's been looking after Michael, Ranboo having organized a playdate between him and Puffy's own daughter that day, and he's now on his way to her base in the main Greater SMP to get him. Tubbo's momentarily enjoying the silence. He's not like Tommy - Tommy, who can't go a minute without some sort of noise, who always has to fill the quiet with his own voice if nothing else. Tubbo likes the lack of sound. As much as he loves his family, they can sometimes be overwhelming.
He wonders what changed Quackity, if it was that day in December where he lost his first Life or if it was something more. Quackity had called him out for not having been there for him after he'd staggered back into L'manberg with blood streaming from his eye into shaky hands as though Tubbo hadn't been collapsed at the foot of a tower from which he could see Tommy jumping from, again and again in his mind, his fault each time.
Quackity had been there for Tubbo in Pogtopia after he'd lost his wings during his execution and had been rendered useless when the burns across his skin made his magic harder to access, goat horns sprouting from his skull that he couldn't will away no matter how long he spent staring at his reflection trying to will them gone with tears in aqua eyes that didn't look like his own anymore.
He feels rather unwell.
Ranboo arrives home with Michael about half an hour later. The boy is on his shoulders, gripping his horns and snorting with laughter as his father weaves back and forth, pretending to throw him off. "Bobo!" Michael shrieks when he sees Tubbo, now getting to his feet in preparation to go inside. "Bobo, Boo Bobo, ah, ah!"
"Yeah, that's your dad," Ranboo laughs, and a grin breaks Tubbo's face despite everything. His son lets go of Ranboo and reaches for Tubbo as they get closer, and Ranboo nods as he hands the boy over to him. Michael's hands are small and cold and grip Tubbo's shirt tightly, a little weight in his arms. Ranboo's eyes sparkle. He's smiling beneath the mask. "Hey, Tubbo."
The smile fades the longer the two of them keep eye contact, and after a couple seconds Ranboo's eyes flicker to the ground, his hands coming together. "Are you… ok?"
Tubbo's face heats up, because he's now remembering how he'd told his husband about the incident with Techno a few months back on a complete whim, too overwhelmed and angry to keep it quiet, almost daring Ranboo to say the wrong thing so he'd have more of an excuse to snap. He had hoped he would forget. "Let's get Michael to bed," Tubbo mutters instead, clutching his son close to him to hide his face. Michael snuffles in agreement, becoming a dead weight in his arms. "Then we can talk."
Ranboo nods without a word, expression unclear, and together they bring the boy upstairs and tuck him into his bed, sitting beside him to wait for him to drift off. It doesn't take long tonight - Michael's clearly already tired, and slips into sleep within two minutes before Ranboo can even pick out a story to read him. Tubbo watches his husband's fond expression at the sight of him. "He was pretty tired," he comments, as way of starting conversation. "Puffy must have had him running about all day."
Ranboo laughs softly and gets to his feet, making his way over to the window that Michael likes to sit at with his chicken, who's asleep in her pen next to Ranboo's feet. Shadows cast across his face, the faint scars under his eyes more prominent in the lighting.
"I met someone on the way home today," Ranboo says quietly. The only sounds in the room are the silent cracklings of the fireplace and the wind howling outside. The snow is picking up into a blizzard, unusual for this time of year. "A Player. I'm not really sure where... it came from. Or how it got here. They just started talking to me and I'm gonna be honest, they freaked me out."
"New person?" Tubbo perks up, pulling his legs up to his chest. Michael snuffles in his sleep beside him on the bed. "We haven't had someone new join in a bit apart from, like, Mcchill. And Gods know what he's doing."
Ranboo nods. "This guy was pretty odd. They kept saying weird existential stuff and talking about people turning to dust. Michael liked him. But I do think it might be working with Quackity. It was wearing a Las Nevadas uniform."
Tubbo pulls a face. "Snatched up the new guy. Course he did."
There isn't any malice in his tone. Tubbo is never able to stay angry at anyone.
Ranboo turns to look at him, and the softness in his eyes makes Tubbo tense, expecting something to happen for a brief moment. Then his husband walks over and holds out a hand. Tubbo blinks before taking it, letting Ranboo drag him to his feet. "What?" he mumbles, sagging against Ranboo and burying his face in his chest. "Why are you being all soft all of a sudden?"
Ranboo hums, holding both Tubbo's hands in his own. "Are you ok?"
Tubbo doesn't respond. There isn't much to say.
"It's just," Ranboo begins, swaying on the spot and guiding Tubbo with him. "You told me a few, uh, concerning things today. And it's important to me that you're alright. And… I want you to know that you're always ok to tell me whatever, whenever. I don't want to go another several months without knowing some big, important event that happened that clearly you aren't completely over, or - or anything like that."
"There's nothing else," Tubbo says quietly, muffled against Ranboo's tie. "All my secrets are out in the open now."
"That's not true," says Ranboo, and he's right, and Tubbo hates that he's right. "You can't always pretend everything is ok."
Tubbo's tired, more so than usual. Arguing makes him sleepy, and his brain still feels like fog despite the way his skin tingles from the snow outside and the fire blazing beside him. Quackity's face is still fresh in his mind. His scar has healed over. No longer red and scabby.
"I just miss how things used to be," Tubbo whispers, blinking rapidly against the sudden prickling in his eyes. "That's all. We don't need to talk about it."
Ranboo pauses, then leans down and kisses the top of his head. Tubbo doesn't know when he removed his face mask, but when he glances up, his husband no longer has it on and he's frowning, gaze fixed on the smaller. "I'm here for you, though," he says certainly. "Always."
Tubbo snorts, hiding his face again and gripping Ranboo's jacket tighter. "You're a big fucking sap."
Ranboo laughs. "Well, I know that. I guess I'm just… feeling a little… like I should let you know that I love you. You know? Existential talks do that to a guy. It's important to me."
"What did that new guy do to you?"
"Nothing. Just reminded me of some stuff."
Tubbo relaxes again, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like a weight's off his shoulders, eyes fluttering closed. Safe. Ranboo's fingers hooked between his. Safe.
Safe in a way Tubbo hasn't known in a long time.
"Can I tell you about me and Quackity?" he whispers, almost hoping his husband won't hear him. "Just like… y'know. Some stories about how shit used to be. You don't really have to listen, I just kind of want to talk and if you're here then -"
Ranboo cuts him off by pressing another kiss to his hair between his horns.
"I would listen to you talk until the world was dust, Tubbo," he says against his head. "You know that?"
Tubbo wills the tears away. "I know that, bossman. You fucking simp. Can we make hot chocolate?"
"But of course. Don't tell Michael, he'll be upset he missed out."
"Silly guy. We'll make some for him tomorrow."
"Yeah. We've got time."