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Tubbo doesn’t think he’ll ever be more than scar tissue. Scar tissue, an old piece of leather you’re too attached to and can’t manage to get rid of, a favorite toy that lost its shine, used gunpowder. Scar tissue, remnant of something once essential but now useless that you can’t quite leave.
Tubbo told his husband of his execution more times than he was able to count. Exchanged whispers in the middle of the night, meaningful conversations on the roof of the mansion, sunset watching after painful conflict, raw throat following panic attacks, warm arms and loving eyes and saddened reassurances. A part of him was always glad Ranboo forgot in the morning. Another part of him wanted to pull his skin off until there was nothing left but blood and broken bones, something akin to what he really was under smiles and empty promises.
He’s a compulsive liar, he knows it. Be it about inconsequential or actually important things, he’ll find a way to lie: no, I haven’t seen Jack this week. Yes, I got Michael’s favorite chocolate from the store. I had steak today. I don’t know where your armor is. I don’t mind. It’s okay. They don’t hurt anymore.
Tubbo isn’t sure why. Why does he lie, that is. Maybe it’s a learned habit, months of lying to guarantee his own safety bleeding through his fingers and staining his already tainted skin, or maybe it’s just for fun. Maybe he’s just fucked up like that. Maybe it doesn’t matter. No one mentions it, and maybe it’s for the best.
Yet he can’t lie. Not to Ranboo, not during the thousandth time he finally gathers enough courage to ask about the scars that cover his body and make it unlovable, because he has lied about it too many times and tonight Michael showed him a drawing he made of his parents and there was an ugly pink blotch painted over his face and the sight made him burn all over again. Michael would never know unscarred, un-sad, not unlovable him, and that hurt.
He wanted to be able to show his family old pictures and have them recognize him easily, and he wanted to be held. He wanted the worried looks and the lingering touches, he wanted all of it, all of the things he’d been depriving himself of under the demise of not needing it, not deserving it.
So for the first time in months — hell, years, even —, Tubbo cries. He falls into the love of his life’s embrace and lets his body break into wet sobs and he lets Ranboo pick up the pieces and he can’t quite breathe but he can’t quite lie, either.
“I’m tired, I’m so tired,” he whimpers, holding onto the tall enderman with a death grip, “I always say it doesn’t matter. I say it’s okay. I say I’m over it, I say it wasn’t that bad.”
He sobs and his lungs crumble under the overdue, overcarried weight, tearing through years of repressed feelings and leftover hurt. He doesn’t have enough words for it all but Ranboo lets him fall apart either way.
“It was, Ranboo. It was that bad and it still hurts and I can’t—,” he chokes, desperate tears leaving his eyes and he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I love you. It’s okay.”
“I just want it to matter,” he sobs again and Ranboo holds onto him just as strongly, heart beating forcefully, “I want it to matter. I want people to look at me and I want them to be sorry, Boo. I want their pity. I crave it. I thought I was above that. I’m not. I’m really not, I wish—” his voice breaks at the end, emotion over every bit of it, “I wish people cared about me in the way they care about Tommy. I wish they’d tell me to go to therapy, too. I’m so jealous of him, of the hesitancy people have towards him, and I feel so bad over being jealous of my best friend who’s gone through such pain and never deserved to. I wish everyone knew— I don’t have thick skin. I’m weak and pathetic and sad and broken and it hurts.”
“You’re not weak or pathetic, my love,” the enderman whispers and it’s supposed to be comforting but it only makes him cry harder, “you’re incredible, and beautiful, and strong, so strong.”
“But I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be strong, Boo. It’s tiring. I don’t want it anymore. I want— I want to be like Wilbur’s old teacups, the ones we are too careful with because we’re afraid they’ll break.”
Tubbo pauses.
“Is that selfish? Am I being selfish, Boo? Is it selfish to want everyone to be careful with me, too? Is it too much? Should I—”
“It’s not selfish,” Ranboo interrupts, fingers lovingly weaving through his husband’s hair. His words are wet with heartbreak, an aching poison in his bones as the one he loves most stops hiding behind pleasantries and well thought out jokes.
Ranboo feels like he should’ve known better, should’ve noticed faster. He doesn’t think he’s ever asked Tubbo about his scars before and that fact makes him want to cry, as well. He never wanted his love to suffer like this, to lock everything so deep like this until he had no choice but bursting open.
“You’re not selfish, Bo. You could never be selfish. You’re the best person I know,” he mumbled seriously, somehow trying to translate all the love he felt for the shorter, smarter, better boy into delicate but firm touch.
“I just wish,” Tubbo sniffs quietly, chest finally starting to rise and fall somewhat consistently, hyperventilation slowly dissipating at the relaxing feeling of fingers on his scalp and welcomed pressure on his entire body from the taller boy holding onto him, “I just wish I could be sad without feeling guilty over it. I wish things were easy and I wish I wasn’t this— this fucked up. I wish I wasn’t this fucked up, Boo, but since I already am, I just wish it was okay for me to be like this.”
“It is okay,” Ranboo lets his nails scrape lightly at the nape of his neck and Tubbo sighs in relief, “it is okay, love. It’s okay.”
“I want to be okay, too,” he adds hesitantly, attentively listening to his husband’s calming breathing, heart clenching painfully yet full of relief. “Someday, maybe. Really okay, though, not the okay I tell everyone I am.”
“You will. You will be, I promise. We’ll be okay together.”
“You’ll be okay with me?”
“I’ll be anything with you, as long as you have me.” Ranboo almost whispers and there’s so much love in it that the former president has to stop himself from sobbing all over again, unable to process the amount of emotion infiltrating his body.
“I’m okay with that, I guess. That’s okay,” Tubbo’s voice is weak, resting his head on the enderman’s chest, tears slowly drying. “That’s okay. I guess I can be okay with that,” he lets out a shaky breath, “promise not to let me break again?”
“No,” his husband squeezes him tighter, careful, so careful, “I promise to be here every time you break until you don’t feel like you have to anymore. Can you be okay with that as well?”
He hums in response, heart warm, exhaustion seeping through scar tissue as he closes his eyes and melts into the embrace.
“I suppose, yeah. I... I suppose I can.”