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Through downturned blinds, the new morning sun casts warm light on their wedding rings. The matching engravements on the rings– symbols which hold enchantments of unbreaking and memories of little laughs echoing under the stars– glow a faint violet.
Tubbo’s eyes flutter open slowly, calmly. The room is tranquil, unmoving; as he sits up under his bedsheets he finds himself smiling fondly. This quiet is peaceful.
See, Tubbo is closely acquainted with waking to a tense silence and a pit of dread that sinks from your chest and digs its way almost to your stomach but not quite, then uncomfortably makes a home somewhere in between. This morning, under this soft light, he does not wake with that burden.
Slowly, he begins to know this peaceful quiet better. And as he begins to know, he begins to love.
To his left, his husband peacefully sleeps. The night before was nothing short of tumultuous; it is fresh in his memory, last night, yet he can’t seem to keep the memory in his head long enough to cause trouble. No, it’s all drowned out by this image of Ranboo, morning light cast onto his cheek in yellow-orange stripes, holding on to his wrist as if he hadn’t moved the slightest bit since they’d fallen asleep.
Judging by the brightness of the light that fills the room, it’s likely closer to midday than to dawn. And so, despite how displeased he is to do so, Tubbo must wake up his husband. The act itself is easy; what comes after may not be so pleasant, considering the events of the night prior. But this is a routine they have, and it works.
So Tubbo begins by taking Ranboo’s cold hands in his own warm ones and gently squeezing. It’s then he begins with words– softly, he repeats a few combinations of “hey” and “wake up.” even occasionally throwing out his name.
After a moment, Tubbo can see the red eye open and subsequently widen with panic. So he repeats “hey” once again in a firmer tone, and it is then that Ranboo sees his husband’s face and the panic lessens. It does not disappear entirely– Tubbo cannot and would not ask for so much– but it dwindles. And there is pride to be found in that, on both ends.
“Good morning,” Tubbo says as Ranboo sits up, locks of pin-straight, black and white hair draping over his shoulder. His expression is laced with what seems to be worry, though his face is subtly twisted in what might be… confusion, perhaps?
Tubbo doesn’t receive a response in a language he knows. He does receive a hushed chirp and a shrill, but it doesn’t sound like confident enderspeak. Tubbo has heard Ranboo tell legendary stories in his mother tongue, and this sounds nothing like it. It’s uncertain, scared, perplexed.
“My name is Tubbo,” is what he says gently, while pointing to himself. Then he moves his hand and points to his husband, “Your name is Ranboo.”
“We are in Snowchester,” Tubbo continues with their routine, briefly remembering one of the first times they did this, and they had gotten through the entire thing before Ranboo had meekly asked where they were. So it’s been added in without a problem.
“You and I are married.” Tubbo can’t help but grin at the memory of the night they eloped in Church Prime as he turns, grabbing both their matching rings off the bedside table.
Ranboo gazes in wonder as Tubbo slides his own wedding ring on. Unsurely, he holds his own hand out like they’re passing around ancient, sacred relics. Ranboo holds the ring between his index finger and thumb and studies its engravings, stares at the symbols as if he were not the one to put them on the little piece of obsidian.
“You usually wear your ring on your horn,” Tubbo says and taps his own horn, too short and downturned to hold a ring without it falling off. Then he taps his ring and adds, “Or you can wear it on your hand. It’s your choice.”
Tubbo emphasizes those words; sometimes Ranboo forgets the Common words for the little things, and that’s fine. He isn’t expected to be perfectly fluent one-hundred percent of the time, especially between two languages that are so vastly different. So Tubbo reminds him that they’re called horns and hands.
For now, Ranboo timidly slips the ring onto the same finger he’d seen Tubbo put his on. And that is enough.
“You and I have a son. His name is Michael. We love you a lot.”
There is silence.
So Tubbo raises his warm hands, and they both take a place and make a home on each side of his husband’s face. The gesture is familiar. It is known.
With a toothy, giddy grin (much like the one he donned the night they freestyled their wedding vows) he mumbles, “Hey, I love you. Know that.”
Then, there is a small shrill that dies in the air. It’s tiny, but it’s there.
Gently, Tubbo puts their foreheads together. There’s no resistance on the other side; in fact, the bonk (as Michael likes to call it) is welcomed. Perhaps even reciprocated.
Tubbo will be the first to admit that days like this– where it feels a little bit like they’ve been reset– can be a little discouraging. This has happened before, and it will inevitably happen again.
But it gets better every time. They always bounce back, again and again and again. They always find each other again, and they always look upon the home they’ve made– the “hey sexy” doormat, the air freshener that smells like Niki’s famous pumpkin pie, Michael’s favorite jigsaw puzzles and dice games, the matching hand-knit cardigans that hang in their closet as a wedding gift from Tommy, their enchanted obsidian wedding rings.
With their foreheads pressed together, Tubbo promises to fall into this routine again and again and again, as many times as it takes for it to come back to Ranboo.
This promise arrives in the form of a hushed, “good morning.”
It is a good morning indeed.