Work Text:
“Come over,” Tubbo demands, shifting to scrunch his phone between his ear and his shoulder.
On the other side of the call, Ranboo laughs at him in response. That’s rude. That’s so rude. Tubbo is going to call his lawyer.
“That’s so rude,” he tells Ranboo, picking up a knife from the pile beside the sink. “I’m going to call my lawyer.”
“Sorry,” Ranboo says, still sounding amused, the bitch. “Listen, you know I’m grounded. I’m probably not even supposed to be talking to you.”
“Whatever,” Tubbo says, batting at the faucet until it turns on. Water sprays up his arms, and he realizes belatedly that his watch is still on his wrist. “Fuck. Whatever, Ranboo, just sneak out and come over.”
“Sneak out,” Ranboo repeats. “You want me dead.”
Tubbo fanagles his watch off his wrist with one hand, throwing it to the side and wincing at the loud clack it makes against the granite. “You talk like it’s the end of the world.”
“It would be,” Ranboo says.
“He’s not even home!” Tubbo grabs a sponge from the counter and begins scraping three-day-old dried basil flecks off the knife in his left hand. “You’re so stupid. Literally just leave, what - has he got people watching the fucking house?”
“You don’t get it,” Ranboo grumbles. “He calls me every night to make sure I’m okay.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “So you hang up on him and say you’re taking a shit right now but everything’s fine. Or just don’t tell him you’re not home.”
“Okay,” Ranboo mimics dryly, “so he just calls me back an hour later when I’m - hopefully - not still…doing that. It’s pointless. And I don’t know how to lie.”
“Not pointless,” Tubbo says, shaking the excess water off the blade. His reflection glares back at him in the polished silver. “You’re just no fun. And you despise me.”
“Mhm. I hate you.”
“Come over,” Tubbo says.
“No.”
“Die, then,” Tubbo says, and grabs the next dirty knife for emphasis.
“Yeah, okay,” Ranboo says, blind to his threats. The effect is lost on him.
Tubbo stabs the air a few times - oh shit, the faucet is still on. He’s wasting so much water. Dad would be proud. Fuck the turtles.
“Are,” Ranboo starts, then stops with a small, hm.
Tubbo can practically hear him frowning through the phone. “What, bitch?”
Ranboo breathes out very hard, directly into the speaker. The crackle almost makes Tubbo dump his phone into the wet sink. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says immediately. “I’m washing knives. Life’s good.”
“Mhm. So why’d you call me?”
“‘Cause you’re coming over tonight,” Tubbo says.
“Okay. Enough.”
“Pack a bag. I’m holding you hostage with my many clean knives.”
“I’m not coming over,” Ranboo snaps. “Stop.”
Tubbo winces. “Calm down, dude. I’m just joking.”
“I know,” Ranboo says.
“Alright,” Tubbo says.
The water’s running again, with one more knife to go. Tubbo doesn’t move to fix either of these problems.
“Sorry,” Ranboo says, because he’s a bitch.
“Yeah,” Tubbo says, because he’s his daddy’s boy, and fuck the turtles, and shit, his watch might be broken.
Shit.
“Dream comes home tomorrow,” Ranboo mumbles. “I can - I’ll ask, okay?”
“It’s fine,” Tubbo says. Knife in one hand. Sponge in the other. “Don’t push it.”
“Worst he does is ground me more,” Ranboo offers. “Well, no, actually. Worst he does is take my phone. I hate that.”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. This knife has a very stubborn splotch of spaghetti sauce on it and Tubbo does not even want to know how that got there. “Don’t push it. It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry,” Ranboo says again. “For yelling. You were just joking.”
“Please don’t,” Tubbo says.
“Okay,” Ranboo says. “S-”
He interrupts himself with a cough.
“Okay,” Ranboo says.
“I’m not okay,” Tubbo says suddenly. He can see himself in this knife, too, a splotch of color that moves when he does and has no eyes.
Ranboo breathes into the speaker again.
“I want - I - I want out.”
“Out?” Ranboo asks softly.
“Out,” Tubbo says again.
“Out of…out of -”
“I don’t know,” Tubbo says. It’s weak. “Forget it. I don’t know.”
“No, I think get it,” Ranboo says.
Tubbo turns the water off. Sponge down. Sponge back up. Wring it out. Sponge down. “I miss you.”
“Oh, I miss you too,” Ranboo says on cue. “But I mean, I was at school yesterday, and at Purpled’s the day before -”
“Fuck,” Tubbo says. “Whatever.”
Ranboo pauses. “Did - Tubbo.”
“What,” Tubbo says.
“Are you…okay?”
“I already -”
“Physically,” Ranboo says. He sounds awkward and scared of both the question and the answer.
“Oh,” Tubbo says. “Oh, no. I’m fine. Nothing happened.”
“Convincing,” Ranboo says. Tubbo wipes his hands on his jeans to dry them.
“Really,” Tubbo tries. He rescues his phone from its precarious spot on his shoulder. “I’m just being - just being hormonal, or whatever. Teenager shit.”
Ranboo laughs, hollow and miserable. “Teenager - teenager crap, yeah. Okay. Well -”
“I love you?” Tubbo says - asks. He doesn’t really know why, but the kitchen rings with it, folding him up into a tiny little square.
It’s almost funny, the way Ranboo’s brain audibly short circuits.
“I love you,” Tubbo says, determined.
“I - love you too, Tubbo,” Ranboo says. If it were any more robotic, Tubbo would have him do a captcha.
“Good,” Tubbo decides. “Good enough.”
Ranboo bluescreens again. Tubbo can taste it through the airwaves.
“Stop that,” he tells Ranboo.
“Stop - stop what?”
“Error 404-ing,” Tubbo says, which makes Ranboo snort.
“Okay,” Ranboo exhales. “Fine. I have to go, Tubbo.”
“Mmkay,” Tubbo says.
“I, uh - go to Purpled’s if you want to,” Ranboo says. “Tommy might be free, too.”
I love you.
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “I will.”
“Have fun with your knives,” Ranboo says, and then hangs up laughing at his own fucked up sense of humor.
Tubbo gives the empty air the finger.
Phone in back pocket. Dish towel to the counter. Knives handle-up in their holder.
Alright.
The house is so fucking quiet.
~
The next morning, Tubbo wakes up to the sound of yelling.
His eyes snap open the minute he registers he’s not dreaming. Weak sunlight filters into his room through the blinds. The clock beside his bed reads a miserable seven o’clock in the morning.
Somewhere in the house, something slams against the wall. Something big.
Tubbo rolls out of bed and rushes for his closet.
It takes him five minutes to pull on his school uniform, and then another five to take it off when he picks up his phone and sees the Saturday plastered under the time. It takes him two minutes to pick out something casual, and then three to put that on.
Seven-fucking-fifteen on a Saturday morning, and Tubbo opens the door to his room just in time to see his dad come home for the night.
They freeze in the hallway, staring at each other like hypothetically suicidal deer in the proverbial headlights. His dad looks like he’s still dressed for work, fancy clothes and watch to boot. He also looks like someone dragged him to the freeway and ran him over nine times. He clearly needs a shower.
Tubbo is not surprised. He’s not. He’s not disappointed, either, he’s not - he’s not much of anything, actually.
Schlatt moves first. He straightens up as much as the miserable haze in his eyes will let him, and this may have worked on Tubbo when he was fucking ten years old, but now it’s just embarrassing. “Hey, kid. You’re up late.”
Tubbo clenches his hand around the doorknob. “It’s okay. I slept in.”
Schlatt nods, furrowing his eyebrows at Tubbo’s clothes. “Y-you got school?”
“No,” Tubbo says. “It’s Saturday.”
“Saturday,” Schlatt says, then with no warning, raises his arm to his face and coughs, violently. Tubbo snaps his gaze to the floor.
At the end of the hallway, a figure skids to a halt, a flurry of bright colors and a twisted-up expression. Tubbo pointedly does not look at him. Schlatt doesn’t notice, clearing his throat casually, like he hadn’t just coughed up a lung.
Quackity stays frozen and doesn’t interrupt them, but Tubbo can feel him staring.
“Here,” Schlatt grumbles, digging in his pocket and tossing something at Tubbo. “Go, uh - get yourself something nice with your friends.”
Tubbo barely catches it. It’s a wallet. There’s two twenty-dollar bills inside. “Thanks.”
“You -” Schlatt burps, then winces - “you do have friends, yeah?”
“Yes,” Tubbo says.
“Good,” Schlatt says. “Great. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” Tubbo says.
Schlatt grunts in response, and shoves open the door to his room with no further fanfare. The resulting slam makes Tubbo cringe into his own doorframe.
Wallet in front pocket. Phone in back pocket. Next: walk.
Tubbo remembers how to walk, at least. He pushes off the doorknob, and it’s one foot in front of the other, again, and again, and again.
“Shit,” Quackity says when he finally makes it to the end of the hallway. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t wanna wake you.”
He’s cradling his left arm weirdly. Tubbo stares at it. “It’s fine,” he says, because it is. It’s just fine.
“I thought he might be dead,” Quackity snaps to no one in particular. “But, no. Just - blacked out at Connor’s. Took me forever to get him here.”
Tubbo makes a face. “Connor knows to call.”
“Connor isn’t home,” Quackity says. “Business trip season. Schlatt has a key, I guess.”
Tubbo runs at one eye. “Fuck business trip season. Ranboo can’t come over ‘cause both Dream and Punz had to go on one.”
“Ranboo,” Quackity says, narrowing his eyes.
“He’s not spying on us for his brother, Big Q,” Tubbo says tiredly. “He’s a shit spy, if so - he can barely remember his own address. And you guys don’t even sell the same things.”
Quackity doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, okay.”
A silence. Tubbo thumbs at the wallet in his pocket.
“I should head home,” Quackity says.
There it is. Tubbo sighs. “Okay.”
“Will you be okay?” Quackity asks.
“Mhm,” Tubbo says. “I bet he’ll be out for a good ten hours.”
“You should,” Quackity makes a weird stirring motion with his hand, “do what he said. Go out. Have fun.”
Tubbo is tired. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”
“Wish I could stay,” Quackity says. Tubbo squints at him, and somehow, he looks sincere. “Karl’s got a doctor visit today, though. My turn to take him.”
A perfectly valid reason. “It’s fine.” Because it is.
“Call me,” Quackity says, shooting one last dirty look at Schlatt’s door. “If you need.”
“Thanks,” Tubbo says. “For bringing him home.”
“No problem.” Quackity turns to go.
“And sorry,” Tubbo says quietly. “About your arm.”
Quackity scowls, then quickly schools it into a neutral shrug. “It’s fine.”
“See you,” Tubbo says.
“See you,” Quackity says, and then he’s gone.
~
“Romeo!” Tubbo shouts. “Romeo!”
He picks up a rock from the small garden bed. It’s heavy in his hand.
“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?” Tubbo calls upwards, kicking the beige siding of the house.
The window stays firmly shut. Tubbo narrows his eyes at it.
“One last fucking chance, Romeo,” Tubbo says, and hoists the rock baseball-style behind his head.
The window snaps up so fast the glass wheezes in protest. Ranboo pokes his head out, eyes wild.
“Knock!” he screeches. “At the front door! Like a normal - like a normal freaking person!”
Tubbo laughs.
“You’re insane!” Ranboo continues. “Put the rock down, Tubbo! Put it down!”
Tubbo cackles, and throws the rock up once and catches it.
“Oh, my God,” Ranboo huffs. “I’m coming, okay? Front. Door. Do not throw that at the house. Or the window! Or -”
“Start running!” Tubbo says cheerfully, decidedly not dropping the rock.
Ranboo yells, vanishing back into the house.
Tubbo laughs some more.
~
“I am going to take Tommy to the mall,” Tubbo says, kicking his legs over Ranboo’s front porch. “I talked to him earlier.”
Ranboo snorts. “Is this the nineties?”
“I have forty dollars,” Tubbo says proudly. “We are going to buy fries from every place in the food court.”
“You’re gonna die,” Ranboo says.
“Heart attack, probably,” Tubbo says. “It runs in my family, I think.”
“Please don’t,” Ranboo says.
“No promises.”
“Tell me how he is, by the way,” Ranboo says. “Tommy.”
Tubbo nods. “Yeah. I think he’s fine, just a rough spot.”
“Techno missed my last few tutoring sessions,” Ranboo says quietly. “Hope he’s okay.”
“I can ask,” Tubbo frowns.
“No, no,” Ranboo’s quick to says. “Just - I hope everyone’s - uh. Okay.”
Tubbo knocks his shoulder into Ranboo’s. “Softie.”
Ranboo chuckles. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I said I’d be at Tommy’s at noon,” Tubbo says, lifting a hand to look at his watch. “Oh?”
“Oh?” Ranboo asks.
“Oh,” Tubbo says. “Oh, shit. Oh, no.”
“Why are you staring at your wrist?” Ranboo asks.
“There was a watch there yesterday,” Tubbo explains. “I - I think I left it on the kitchen counter.”
“At least you know where it is,” Ranboo says.
Tubbo thinks about the noise it made when it hit counter. Tubbo thinks about how that was an eighteenth birthday present and has more value than Tubbo’s life in the eyes of the man who gave it to him.
“Yep,” Tubbo says. “I’ve got my phone. It’s fine.”
Tubbo thinks: shit.
“You should start walking,” Ranboo says, checking the time on his own stupid-ass old person flip phone. “Tommy’s not gonna like it if you’re late.”
Tubbo groans and pushes up from the porch. “He can take it. He’s a big boy.”
“He’s a very small man,” Ranboo says. “Terminal.”
“If you think about it, big boys is just another name for small men,” Tubbo says, looking sad for dramatic effect. Ranboo laughs. Mission accomplished.
“Have fun at the mall, grandpa,” Ranboo says, getting up to go back inside. His socks scrape on the concrete. “If you saw me out here, no you didn’t.”
“No I didn’t,” Tubbo yells back at him from halfway down the drive. “Call me if you need help deleting the security camera footage!”
“I can’t pay you!”
“Never mind!”
~
Tommy’s house is loud, all the time.
Tubbo knocks on the door and hears approximately seven things fall over inside the front hall before it’s cracked open. A tiny amber eye peers up at him through the sliver.
“Hello,” Tubbo says. “Child.”
Fundy opens the door fully, looking very displeased. “Hello, bitch!” he announces for the whole house and neighborhood to hear.
“Oh, Tommy!” someone snaps from a faraway room. “Tubbo’s here, and when you get back, I’m beating you into the wallpaper for teaching my son to swear!”
Tommy’s familiar footsteps thud down the stairs. Fundy turns to look at him as he skids around the corner. “Uncle bitch is here.”
“Tommy!” Wilbur yells again. Tubbo pinpoints his location to be the kitchen using echolocation and the sinister shink of a knife being pulled from its sharpener.
Tommy pushes past Tubbo in a flurry, shoes half on his feet. “Wasn’t me!” he hollers, grin flashing. “Shut the door, Fundy! I’m makin’ my escape!”
Fundy laughs in that terrifying way only children can and says, happily, “don’t come home!”
Tubbo only has a few moments to stare in horror before Tommy’s grabbing him by the arm and dragging him down the street.
“Fucker!” he says once they slow down to a manageable pace. “It wasn’t me!”
Tubbo breathes in and out, crossing his arms over his chest. “You call me uncle bitch?”
Tommy splutters. “That - that was me. But -”
“Oh my God,” Tubbo whines, “what have I ever done to deserve that?”
“It’s endearing!” Tommy insists. “When I use it, anyway.”
“Are - is he actually mad,” Tubbo says, jogging a little to keep up with Tommy’s strides.
“Nah,” Tommy says. “Will knows he does it too. He’s just grouchy because he birthed a ginger.”
“And…holy shit, slow down,” Tubbo wheezes.
Tommy does. “Old bitch.”
“And Techno?” Tubbo asks, knowing he treads on tender territory. “How’s that whole situation?”
Tommy kicks a rock on the sidewalk. “Phil convinced him to go to therapy, too.”
“Ah.” Tubbo would give anything to live under Phil. “And you?”
Tommy puffs up his chest. “I apologized. Puffy gave me a bag of candy for it.”
“Your therapist bribed you into being a good person,” Tubbo says.
“No, she rewarded me,” Tommy says, “for doing the right thing.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “Sure.”
“Fuck you!” Tommy says cheerily. “C’mon, old fuck, we’re burnin’ daylight, here. The mall waits for no man.”
“The mall is literally not going anywhere,” Tubbo says, but it’s either catch up or get left behind, so Tubbo picks up his feet and runs.
~
When he comes home, one small bag of LEGOs heavier and forty dollars lighter, Schlatt is awake.
Tubbo takes his usual precautions - coming in the back door, making sure nothing slams, hiding away his purchase in his room immediately on the off-chance it was unsanctioned.
It never is. Tubbo almost wishes it would be.
He comes back down to put his shoes by the front door and catches a glimpse of Schlatt sitting hunched over at the dining room table, a bowl and a glass sitting in front of him. Both are empty.
Tubbo knows a cue when he sees one. He leaves his shoes by the door and pads into the dining room like a man on death row.
Schlatt looks up when he enters, meeting his gaze with sharp, unfortunately sober eyes. “Welcome back.”
Tubbo swallows. “Thanks.”
“Siddown,” Schlatt mutters, gesturing at the chair across from him. Something glitters in his hand.
It’s the watch.
Tubbo sits down.
“You busted it,” Schlatt starts, sliding the watch across the table.
“Sorry,” Tubbo says immediately. “It was an accident.”
“It’s just the glass on the face. I can get that fixed.” Schlatt pinches his face into that expression he makes when he’s about to fire an employee and like it. “What’s up with you, Tubbo? Huh? Why’d you do this?”
“It was an accident,” Tubbo repeats, mind whirling, trying to think of something else to say.
“Accidents,” Schlatt says, “are excuses. How did this happen?”
It’s a loaded question. Tubbo understands it, and his blood turns to something the consistency of water. Tubbo hates - Tubbo -
Tubbo hates. He hates, all the time, really, and he hates hating, and he -
-still hasn’t answered his dad’s question.
“Carelessness,” he says, because that’s what Schlatt wants to hear.
“Ah.” Schlatt leans back in his chair. “I see. Is this the first time, Tubbo, that you’ve ruined something out of carelessness?”
“No.”
“So it’s a pattern,” Schlatt says.
“Yes.”
“Alright. What do we need to do to fix this pattern, huh, Turbo?”
Tubbo’s stomach is turning to molten lead.
Hypocrite. Bastard. Your pattern’s been broken for eighteen years.
“I’ll be better,” he says instead. “I promise to take care of what I own.”
Schlatt nods. He’s still staring at Tubbo, laying him out in little pieces, hating everything he sees because it’s all a fucking mirror and they both know it. “Good. You know, not everyone’s as well off as us. You shouldn’t take it for granted.”
“I know,” Tubbo says. There’s sand between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“Take responsibility.” Schlatt taps the table once, hard. Loud. Tubbo does not flinch. “I want that fixed by next week, alright?”
“Okay,” Tubbo says.
Schlatt raises an eyebrow. He looks sick.
“Okay, sir,” Tubbo says, throat burning with indignant embarrassment.
“Alright,” Schlatt murmurs. “Good boy. Did you have fun with your friends?”
“Yeah. May I go upstairs?”
Schlatt has the absolute audacity to look…disappointed, almost, if Tubbo didn’t know better. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be in my office.”
Tubbo shoves the chair back and stands, clutching the watch in his hands. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” Schlatt says. He turns back to staring at the table, and Tubbo runs upstairs, whole face on fire.
~
“I’m eighteen,” he hisses to Ranboo, fingers scrubbing at his eyes. “This is fucking rediculous. I’m fucking eighteen.”
Ranboo clicks his tongue. It sounds strange over speakerphone. “Okay, well - you’re also being talked to like you’re still ten, and, like - I know how frustrating your dad is.”
“I hate him,” Tubbo tells Ranboo, and then chokes on the rebound so hard he has to focus on not coughing. He can’t be loud. Schlatt’s office is right below his room.
Ranboo’s quiet for a little, letting Tubbo’s breathing even out. “I’m sorry.”
“I hate him,” Tubbo repeats lowly, “and I hate hating him, and I hate that I hate him, and I hate hating, and -”
“Tubbo,” Ranboo murmurs. “It’s okay.”
“No,” Tubbo says, because it’s not. “It’s not.”
Again, a silence. Ranboo doesn’t know what to say. He never does, but for some reason, that makes Tubbo feel better.
“I love you,” Tubbo finally says.
“I’ll ask about coming over,” Ranboo says back. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Okay.” Tubbo sniffs, wiping his nose grossly on his comforter.
“Tubbo?” Ranboo asks. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Tubbo says honestly. “But probably.”
“Okay,” Ranboo says. “I - I love you, okay? I gotta go ask.”
Easier, this time. “Bye,” he says. “I love you too.”
Tubbo hangs up on Ranboo, buries his face into his hands, and his ears ring with the sound of everything, everywhere.