Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ranboo is grateful for a lot of things, but sometimes, the one thing he treasures most is the fact that his tiny office in the new L’Manburg White House has a window. It’s in the wall that his just-barely-tall-enough desk is pushed up against and provides him with an ample view of the happenings down below. On sturdy wooden stilts, the city state stands above the dark waters and jagged cliff faces of a man-made lake, boardwalks adorned with colorful banners. Quaint wooden houses and stout apartments are wreathed in well-kept flowers: poppies, daisies, and alliums. 

It’s hard to believe that the area was nothing but wreckage two months prior. Ranboo’s done his best to learn the history of Mainland Essempi since he woke up in its woods with nothing but a name to call his own, and from what he’s heard, the damage caused by the bombing was thought to have made the lands of L’Manburg unsalvageable. However, through Tubbo’s pure grit, Tommy’s undying loyalty to the former, and a whole team of very determined people (who now make up the L’Manburgian Cabinet), they managed to defy the legacy of utter destruction Wilbur Soot left behind. Ranboo came around when it had only been one month since the end of the war, and even then, construction was well underway. 

All in all, the hard work has paid off. Though Ranboo doesn’t have much to compare it to, he can safely say that L’Manburg is the most gorgeous place he’s ever seen.

It’s even more breathtaking on this night in particular. Down in the city, the weekly Stars Market bathes the wooden streets in a soft golden glow from the floating lanterns drifting through the air, and the citizens meandering from stall to stall add their own vibrancy. 

Ranboo’s tufted tail swishes about the legs of his chair. Something about the night always stirs something in him, makes the pearl in his chest hum with contentment. From that, he knows it’s his Ender side that draws him out to the city streets and apartment rooftops after sunset, especially during the Stars Market, where darkness is celebrated with such delight. Any other time, he would head down there, but…

...It feels wrong to go down to the market in light of recent events. 

Exactly two weeks ago, Tubbo was forced to make the executive order to have Tommy Innit exiled from L’Manburg. It wasn’t an easy choice, but the growing obsidian walls around the city’s borders had been threatening enough. L’Manburg was not (and still isn’t) in a state to go to war. In fact, they’re barely in a state to handle Mainland Essempi’s winter rains, which threaten to flood the lake or cause a mudslide along the explosion-disturbed slopes. 

Saying that Tubbo is... stressed is an accurate word by definition but doesn’t quite quantify exactly how tremendous his burden is - how harshly the responsibility weighs upon his shoulders, his mind.

And Void , Tubbo is just around Ranboo’s age (probably. He’s not too sure on that front.) Ranboo doesn’t know a lot of things, but he’s pretty sure that seventeen-year-olds aren’t supposed to run nations. 

What he does know is that he’s Tubbo’s secretary, his minuteman. It’s his job to do what he can to help Tubbo handle the workload and keep things in order when Tubbo can’t; so if that means skipping a Stars Market or two, then so be it.

But beyond the professional standing of their work, Ranboo considers Tubbo… something like a friend, maybe. Tubbo, along with Tommy, were the ones to find Ranboo stranded at the edge of the woods and show him to L’Manburg. Tubbo was the one who gave him an apartment, a job, a purpose. Tubbo was the one to suggest writing things down in notebooks when his memory loss became a known ailment. 

Therefore, as a sort-of friend of Tubbo, Ranboo believes he has his own responsibility to do what he can to support Tubbo in these uncertain times, especially considering that the person who would have done that originally is...not present at the minute. At the very least, it would be repaying all the kindness that Tubbo has shown him since his arrival. (And maybe, it’ll be a way to start repaying Tommy for having his back when the charges for George’s ruined base threatened to put him behind bars.) 

Ranboo just wishes he knew something he could do to soothe Tubbo’s anxieties, if only for a little while. He hates to see him so worked up, perpetually distraught. That - really can’t be healthy, can it?

Yeah, probably not. 

Ranboo lets out a mournful vwoop - mournful for the worries of one companion, mournful for the absence of another, mournful for the loss of a market night - and turns back to his paperwork.

Only to find that his inkwell is empty. Again. (Man, he needs a bigger inkwell, considering all the writing he does. Perhaps he should invest in graphite pencils for his official writings. Or a fountain pen. Or maybe he’ll jazz it up a bit and just - full on do his paperwork in crayon. Yeah, that’ll make Tubbo so incredibly happy.) When rifling through his desk drawers for an ink bottle proves fruitless, Ranboo heaves a totally-not-melodramatic groan and presses his inventory charm. From the portable pocket dimension, he produces his enderchest. A twist of the eye-like charm expands the box until it can fit semi-comfortably in his lap. The chest gives a distorted, smokey whisper as he pops it open. 

As he searches for his spare ink bottles (or there should be ink bottles in here, unless he - surprise surprise - forgot to replenish his stash), his hand brushes over something tucked against one of the walls of the box.

He looks at it, and an idea pops into his head - a plan in three parts. It’s possibly stupid, it’s definitely cheesy, and it’s something that Ranboo thinks he would never do under different circumstances. However, as said before, the night stirs something in him, and he’s willing to try anything if it means making Tubbo smile for the first time in weeks.

Ranboo has long since forgotten the color of the top of Tubbo’s desk. He could make the assumption that it’s the same color as the rest of it, the chocolatey brown of finely polished dark oak wood, but Ranboo wouldn’t know. For as far back as he can reach into his fickle memory, the desk has always been covered in things: papers, blueprints, concept sketches, agreements, mandates - every possible governmental documentation you could possibly conceive. 

At the moment, the tabletop is nothing but a lumpy plane of white, a mess of the previously mentioned documents and paperweights. They’re shuffled up here and stacked over there, even spilling off the desk in some places; and the rest of Tubbo’s office gives the phrase ‘buried in paperwork’ meaning. 

Of course, in the center of it all is Tubbo, who’s mechanically glancing between a leatherbound book and a spreadsheet. His quill, which has dried, is tapping soundlessly against the side of one of his fingers while his other hand has his chin nestled in its palm. There’s a bit of ink smeared just below his cloudy eye, and his brows are drawn taut with concentration. 

Ranboo hovers in the doorway, not exactly sure how to announce his presence, but he settles with a simple, “Hi Tubbo.”

“Hey…” Tubbo responds absently, the word dragging out a bit as he taps his quill to his lips. His eyes hardly seem to stray from his desk as he flips a page in the notebook, tilts his head, and flips back.

Ranboo pauses, expecting perhaps some other kind of acknowledgement; he soon realizes that that’s all he’s getting. (Oh Void, this is going to be difficult, isn’t it?) “Hey! So, like... I think I’m gonna just - head out for the night, go down to the Stars Market, and I - ”

“Oh, have fun with that,” Tubbo cuts him off. It’s a pleasant tone he uses - genuine, as far as Ranboo can tell - but it’s a dismissal all the same.

“I was, uh - actually...”

Ranboo trails off as he watches Tubbo tap his quill into his inkwell and write something down on the spreadsheet, the quiet scritch-scratch against the paper filling the gap in his words. He considers just abandoning his idea altogether, perhaps ending off the conversation with an amicable ‘good night’ or ‘see you tomorrow’. Tubbo just looks so concentrated right now. It feels rude to interrupt him.

But then Ranboo steels himself - he’s doing this for Tubbo. Before the false pleasantries crowding the tip of his tongue can tumble forth, he forces out, in a bit of a rush, “I was actually wondering if maybe you’d like to come to the Stars Market with me…?”

He can’t quite stop the questioning upturn of his voice and the apprehensive flick of his tail, but at least he got the words out. Wooh! He did it. One point to Ranboo.

But even still, Tubbo waves it off. “I’m kinda busy tonight. Maybe another time.”

Alright, at this point, he’s not backing down. It isn’t just an idea now, it’s a mission to get Tubbo out of this office. “Uhm - then what if I said that I was, like…abducting you and dragging you down to the market?”

Okay, maybe that’s a bit much. At the very least, it seems to get Tubbo’s attention, as the president flicks his head up and oh wow those sure are eyes boring straight into his own oh geez - 

Ranboo lets out an unnerved vocalization in the back of his throat as he tilts his head towards the ceiling. As fast as he is to look away, though, he still gets that icy twinge in his chest that he often gets from direct eye contact, and he can feel Tubbo’s gaze lingering on his face like two dimes pressed to his cheek. Not the best feeling, no sir. “Ah, could you maybe - ?”

“Right, right, sorry.” The ‘dimes’ slide away, and Ranboo tilts his head back down to see that Tubbo has settled his gaze safely on his shirt collar. He continues, “So you’re what , Ranboo? …Abducting me?”

“Yes,” he answers, deciding to roll with it. “This is an abduction. I’m forcefully removing you from your office. A-And not in an ‘I should probably call security’ kind of way but more of a nice way…? If that makes sense.”

“It...doesn’t, not really.” Tubbo sighs, massaging his closed eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Sorry, I’m lost, bossman. Should I be worried?”

“No!” Ranboo scrambles. “No, actually, that’s - the opposite of what you should be doing right now - geez, I’m just making this worse aren’t I?” He flaps a hand around his face, as if to erase his mistakes. (Remember what you’re trying to do, Ranboo: step one, get Tubbo out of this office-prison.) “Look, my point is that it’s a nice night out and, well, gonna be real with you - can I be real with you?”

Tubbo blinks. “Sure?”

“Right, so, gonna be real with you: I think the last time I saw you outside your office or, like, not doing any official government stuff was when you and Tommy originally found me out by the woods. That was a month ago. Some of us around the office are kinda concerned. I mean, I know I am, that’s for sure.”

Ranboo lets out a laugh at that point, but whatever form of deprecating humor he was trying to go for falls flat immediately. He swiftly carries on: “Anyway, I was just thinking... Don’t you think you should get some fresh air or something? Just for a bit, maybe?”

Tubbo lets out a huff that sounds like it’s caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. It’s not a very mirthful noise, regardless of what it’s trying to be. “I don’t think I can spare the time to do something like that, to be honest with you.”

Still, Ranboo pushes. “But Tubbo, you’re - you’re seventeen and running a whole nation. You need to take a break at some point, right?”

“Ranboo,” Tubbo says, setting down his quill at last, and suddenly, he’s managed to look about thirty years older. “I’ve lived through two wars, died twice, and played spy against my own country.” He waves a hand over his cluttered desk. “This is hardly the most challenging thing I’ve had to do.”

(And Ranboo knows it’s not. It’s not by a longshot , if the events of two weeks ago have anything to say about it.)

“I-I don’t doubt that,” Ranboo backpedals, just in case he’s offended Tubbo somehow because oh man is that the last thing he wants to do right now, “but how about - what if…” He racks his brain, searching for an argument. 

A moment later, he finds one. “Then - then how about if I asked you to come with me...as a friend?”

Tubbo pauses - seems to give it thought, like he hadn’t been expecting that. “...As a friend.”

“Yeah. As a friend, what if I said that I’m - really worried about you and I genuinely believe that you need to stop thinking about politics and go run around the streets and be stupid for a few hours? It doesn’t have to be with me, i-if you’d rather go with someone else, or by yourself, or...something. But I just happen to be on my way to do just that, so maybe you could come along?” 

Ranboo offers an uncertain smile. “I mean, I think it could be fun. No pressure, though.”

Tubbo tilts his head, and there’s something like a smirk in the twitch of his mouth. “What happened to abducting me?”

“Ah, that was - I have since rescinded that statement due to the fact that I can be very arrested for saying something like that to the president,” deadpans Ranboo, pointed fingers fiddling with the bottom hem of his suit jacket. “Also, if you’re actually doing something that’s super important right now - like, ‘the health of the entire nation depends on the fact that I finish this tonight’ important - then I don’t want to drag you away from it… But at the same time yes I would very much like to drag you away from it,” he admits a beat later. 

Tubbo considers this for a moment. While the president isn’t making direct eye contact, the unconscious edge to his gaze as he turns things over in his head is almost enough to make Ranboo squirm. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. The fact that Tubbo hasn’t yet tried to dismiss his attempts entirely means that something in Ranboo’s cobbled-together argument has actually struck a chord with him. Don’t ask him what it is, though. It’s sheer luck as far as Ranboo is concerned; he doesn’t think he’s exactly the most well-spoken of the L’Manburgian cabinet.

But perhaps it’s enough.

Tubbo’s eyes flicker down to the notebook and spreadsheet, then shift from side to side as he takes in the mounds of paperwork around him with a scrutiny that makes Ranboo wonder if Tubbo is trying to count each individual paper. 

Then, a hand slips into the right pocket of his slacks where Ranboo knows for a fact Tubbo keeps the compass Ghostbur gave him. He rarely ever takes it out, but Ranboo caught a glimpse of it once, saw the little red needle fluttering back and forth and the short message engraved on the lid. 

Your Tommy .

It isn’t difficult to discern where Tubbo’s mind is at the moment. Ranboo wonders if it’s a good thing or a bad one, and he finds that he isn’t sure. 

A few long seconds later, Tubbo heaves a weary sigh, runs both of his hands down his face (scrubbing his exhausted complexion like it’s the solution to all his problems, more like), and steeples his hands before his lips. His gaze is back on Ranboo’s chest. Hoo boy, looks like it’s decision time.

“I think...” Tubbo begins, words stilted as he muses aloud. His eyes are drawn down towards his work again as he pauses, but he snaps them back up with a hint of determination behind his gaze. “I think I’d like to head down to the Stars Market with you.”

Ranboo flicks his tail, blinking. Wait did - did Tubbo just agree to leave behind his work for the night? Like, actually ? Holy moley, this is working - 

“Only problem is that - ” And there’s the caveat. Dang. “ - technically speaking, if I want to go anywhere besides my house, I’m required by the Hit List Protocol to go with security personnel.”

...Right. Ranboo forgot about that. Ever since the end of the Manburg-Pogtopia war, Technoblade has been pretty high on the nation’s ‘hit list’, and it’s believed that new L’Manburg is fairly high on his. With the warrior harboring known ill intent towards any and all political figureheads and L’Manburg still being on the mend, Tubbo is most definitely a primary target. An assassination attempt is not off the table.  

Ranboo fumbles, mind scrambling to make adjustments to his plan as he takes this into account, and he finds that it won’t really work if they have guards breathing down their necks the whole night. “Uh, that, well - but what if - t-technically speaking, that is - you never went to the Stars Market? You just...decided you were tired enough tonight to turn in early and went straight home? No detours of any sort?”

Suddenly, he feels the urge to hide his face in his hands. Oh Void, did he really just suggest what he thinks he suggested? Hinting that they should break protocol meant to protect the life of a very young, very important president? Geez, he’s just gotten himself into a world of trouble, hasn’t he - 

“You know, I like your thinking, bossman.”

Haha what.

“As much as Quackity insists that Technoblade is a national threat, we haven’t heard from or seen anything of him since the end of the war - and we’ve been consistently sending out scouts since day one.” One of Tubbo’s woolen ears flicks pensively. “I don’t think going one evening without a hoard of guards hovering over my shoulders will be much of a danger to my life.”

Ranboo stifles the uncertain warble in his chest. “A-Are you sure, Tubbo?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure. The thing that Quackity doesn’t understand is that, if Technoblade really wanted me dead, he would have attacked when L’Manburg was still trying to get over the shock of the war - you know, before we had defenses and an organized Guard.” He grins, a morbid edge to the curl of his lips. “That man is not one to waste an opportunity, let me tell you.”

“We’ll be careful anyway,” Tubbo adds pleasantly, “if only so that we’re not noticed by anyone who can get us in trouble. I think Quackity would have my head on a platter if he found out I broke protocol.”

“That sounds kinda counter productive to me, man,” jokes Ranboo. “Isn’t he trying to protect you?”

“Ha!” laughs Tubbo, his cloudy eye winking shut for a moment. “Nah, Quackity’s just scared of big bad Technoblade. Doesn’t want to give him a reason to come around here.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing?”

“Maybe!” Tubbo stands abruptly, the legs of the chair grating over the wooden floor as it's pushed back. Hands planted firmly on his desk, he leans in towards Ranboo and gives him a smile. “So are we heading down there or what?”

Though Ranboo is loath to look someone in the eye, he can’t miss the glimmer in Tubbo’s gaze, mischievous and uninhibited, at the prospect of bending a few rules, of having fun.

And Ranboo is certain - he’s certain - that that spark hasn’t been seen since the exile order.

So he returns Tubbo’s smile. “Yeah, let’s head down!”

“I don’t think I’ve actually gone to the Stars Market before,” Tubbo notes a beat later as he shrugs off his suit jacket and undoes his ruby red tie. Both are shoved haphazardly into his inventory; from there, he produces his fur-lined cloak and throws it over his shoulders. “Never had the chance.”

“Oh, well, you’re gonna love it,” promises Ranboo, pulling out a cloak of his own. At the same time, he takes a glance through his inventory, making sure his ender chest is still right where he left it (it is).

Side by side, they step out of the office and start to make their way out of the L’Manburgian White House, Tubbo’s ears flicking with excitement.

Mentally, Ranboo crosses the first step off his list. One down, two to go.

Here’s the thing: during the Stars Market, Ranboo doesn’t actually spend that much time in the market itself. Like, don’t get him wrong, it is beyond pretty and the music playing in the road intersections puts a skip in his step as he traverses the streets of L’Manburg - but boy, the crowds sure do suck. Feeling every single gaze that passes over him as he makes his way through is a one-way ticket to a funky Ender-style panic attack and/or sensory overload that he is by no means looking forward to. 

At least the cloak he wears helps some, as it makes him blend in with the shifting masses a bit more, and he’s known for a very long time now how to stoop his shoulders and bend his knees so he can take a few inches off his incredible height. He’s lucky that L’Manburg attracts so many non-human and hybrid people since it means he’s not the only one rocking an eight-foot-plus figure, even if those who can look at him directly at eye level are few and far in between (and he can count the number of people he has to angle his head upwards to talk to on a single hand). 

What’s important is that no one seems to be recognizing Tubbo despite the scars splashed across his complexion. With his suit jacket and tie gone, he slips into the crowd seamlessly, cloak swishing about his calves as he almost power walks to keep up with Ranboo’s strides. 

Tubbo doesn’t seem off put by their pace, however, as he’s too busy staring up at the floating lanterns softly swaying overhead and surveying the various stands of food and wares. Ranboo, meanwhile, is stuck on ‘keep Tubbo from crashing into something’ duty, which is exactly what it sounds like. 

But to see that easy upturn of Tubbo’s mouth like his smile has decided to make its home on his lips once more? Yeah, it’s worth it.  

Then Tubbo stops dead in his tracks, and Ranboo nearly trips over him. “No way. No fucking way.”

Ranboo clicks his jaw, heart rate spiking as his eyes dart around. “What, what is it?” Where’s the threat, where’s the danger, all these people are staring at them, he’s sure of it - 

Then, Tubbo sniffs the air. Like, actually sniffs it, goat-like nose twitching as he angles his head upright. “Do you smell that?”

...What? “N-No?”

Tubbo’s nose flares again, and Ranboo swears there are stars in his eyes as he whispers, “Oh my gods, Ranboo, it’s fucking pumpkin bread .” The sheer reverence with which he utters the name of the food is - well, ‘interesting’ is one word for it. ‘Startling’ is another.

Ranboo lets out a confused laugh. “Yeah, the bakery on the corner of Dove Street and Spruce Way sells pumpkin bread sometimes wOAH - !”

“ Pumpkin bread, pumpkin bread, pumpkin bread... ” Tubbo chants as he drags Ranboo along in a vice-like grip, scouring the crowds and stands for the revered loaf. 

Despite Ranboo’s legs’ best efforts to trip him up and send them both sprawling during their hunt for pumpkin bread, they eventually find where the bakery has set up their stand for the night. They both fish their emerald purses out of their inventories to buy themselves a small loaf each, and Ranboo suddenly remembers oh yeah! He’s got a whole three-part plan he needs to execute. As of right now, he’s supposed to be on step two. He guesses he got a bit sidetracked with Tubbo and the crowds - and pumpkin bread too, as it would seem.

It’s fine, though, as the sheer jubilance on Tubbo’s face as he accepts the bakery item from the vendor is equal parts endearing and hilarious. You could hold a diamond under his nose and he’d only have eyes for the bread. Ranboo’s half convinced Tubbo might just cry from pure joy. Sure does look like he could.

“So I take it you like pumpkin bread,” Ranboo remarks as they stroll away from the stand, stooped around so he can watch Tubbo tear into his loaf like a starving man.

“Ranboo, it is literally the best invention of man-kind,” Tubbo answers around a mouthful. “Like, the wheel pales in comparison to the greatness that is pumpkin bread.”

Ranboo laughs again, tail swishing. “If you say so, Tubbo.”

“I do say so. Because I’m right.”

Ranboo takes a bite of his own loaf, though he also spares a moment to pull out his memory book and jot down, ‘tubbo loves pumpkin bread. ask niki for a recipe.’ before he can forget. 

However, with Tubbo busy worshipping the pastry in his hands and Ranboo with his head ducked down in his book - well, they aren’t exactly looking where they’re going. Ranboo stumbles into someone and nearly trips, faintly taking note of the oddly reverberating quality to the passerby’s voice as they let out a yelp of surprise.

Once he rights himself, Ranboo looks up to meet the empty gaze of L’Manburg’s resident spirit man. “ Ack - h-hey Ghostbur. Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright, Ranboo!” he chirps, brushing his hands down the front of his yellow jumper, as if to get rid of the wrinkles that don’t exist. “I should really be paying more attention to where I’m going. Now, where’s my - oh, thank you.” He accepts the crinkled paper bag Tubbo holds out to him and unrolls the top to peek inside, most likely checking the contents for spills. There seem to be none, as he rolls it back up and tucks it behind his back in a casual manner. “It’s nice to see you two! What brings you out here? Aren’t you usually working at this time of night, Tubbo?”

“Ranboo convinced me to take the evening off,” he answers after swallowing another mouthful of bread. “I’ve never had the chance to come down to the Stars Market before.”

“You haven’t?!” gasps the spirit, like that in and of itself is a tragedy. “Oh, well then, you’re in for something quite special, let me tell you.” He drifts a few paces away from them and motions them forward. “Come on, you have to get yourselves a couple lanterns! We’re selling them over here.”

Ranboo nearly smacks himself in the forehead at the reminder. Right! Step two! He and Tubbo have to buy a floating lantern each sometime tonight. “Let’s follow Ghostbur,” Ranboo tells his companion, and together, they dip and weave through the crowd, trailing after the wispy man. 

Ranboo has made his way over to this part of L’Manburg enough times to recognize the streets and houses almost immediately despite not living in the area, as he often finds himself seeking the easy, companionable company of kindly old Philza and, by extension, Ghostbur. Though the latter has been more absent as of late, spending much of his time with Tommy (wherever he’s ended up), the winged man remains in the cottage-style house on the edge of town, dutifully tending to the baffling amount of flowers and vines crawling over the home.

And each week, without fail, he sets up a little spruce wood stand on the corner by his house and sells hand-crafted, balloon-like lanterns with sails painted the L’Manburgian colors.

“Hi Phil!” greets Ghostbur as they draw near, drifting ahead in a swirl of blue-tinted smoke. “I’ve got your curried rice!”

“Thanks, mate,” Philza answers as he accepts the paper bag, which he sets aside for the moment. “You were taking a bit longer than you usually do. Did you run into trouble, or…”

Whatever else Philza is about to say trails off as Ranboo and Tubbo approach the stand. The man’s gaze immediately locks onto the president’s, and his enormous black wings give a subtle twitch, almost as if puffing up. Tubbo is equally still, stalling in his movements.

Ranboo is...quickly starting to recall that Philza is technically under indirect observation by the Hit List Protocol due to suspected past (or present) affiliations with Technoblade. Hoo boy. 

(Honestly, Ranboo can see why he might’ve forgotten this little fact. Philza’s amiable personality and warm demeanor make it very difficult to remember that he’s a suspect of potential future treason. Ranboo can’t imagine Philza doing anyone any harm. All he does is water flowers and look after the ghost of his late son. Geez, Ranboo’s pretty sure that the guy is still in mourning, for Void’s sake.)

(But then he also remembers the snippets of conversations he’s heard murmured in office doorways and city streets - whispers of an Angel of Death that took the life of his only child, whispers of an old Empire in a snow-crusted biome that ate entire factions for breakfast - and those massive midnight wings are suddenly a lot more foreboding than they were a moment ago.)

And while Ranboo is oh-so-helpfully remembering this after the fact, Tubbo is fumbling through something like a greeting. “Heeeey Philza... How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” the man replies curtly, wings carefully lowering and puffing back up like he’s still not sure where this interaction is going. “You?”

“Uh, fine as well. Busy too, very busy.”

“Presidency not treating you well?”

Tubbo snorts humorlessly. “I don’t think it’s supposed to.”

At the lapse in silence that follows, Ghostbur floats over and whispers to Ranboo none-too-quietly, “This is quite awkward, isn’t it?”

Ranboo gives his jaw a little click. (Yeah. Yeah, he knows.)

Man, this is not the direction he wanted this evening to go. Tubbo is supposed to be forgetting about his worries for a bit, not stumbling over new ones. So, with the grace of a horse crashing through a window, he jumps in, “H-Hey, Philza - uh, think we could buy a couple lanterns from you guys?”

Philza looks to him, and Ranboo just nearly angles his head upwards in time to dodge the stiffness left lingering in the man’s stare. “Er - yeah, of course. Come on up.”

The next couple minutes while they pick out and purchase lanterns are about as uncomfortable as they come. Ranboo can feel the tension writhing in the air like it has a gaze of his own, and he starts to wonder if the unspoken something that lies between Tubbo and Philza has to do with a matter other than just the Hit List Protocol - perhaps something that occurred before Ranboo was even in the picture. (His mind immediately falls back onto the Manburg-Pogtopia war, but there are a multitude of things that could cause whatever this is.) What’s worse is that diffusing social strain is most definitely outside of his wheelhouse, so there isn’t a thing that can be done about it.

Thankfully, it seems like there’s at least one person here with the conversational wherewithal to attempt to fix this mess. “Tubbo said that this is his first time at the Stars Market, Phil,” Ghostbur remarks as he floats on his back next to the black-winged man.

“Really?” says Philza, sounding genuinely surprised. He looks at Tubbo: “You’ve never been down to the Stars Market?”

“Well, like I said - been busy,” Tubbo answers with a shrug. “Lots of paperwork to be done. The only reason I’m down here tonight is because Ranboo convinced me.”

Ranboo manages a snort. “More like ‘dragged you away from your desk,’ but alright.”

“Do you know how long it took me to get myself to finally pick up that spreadsheet and fill it out? The stonemasons have been practically begging me to get that signed off since last week.”

“Yet you’re still down here.”

“Yeah, because spreadsheets are fucking boring. Like, want-to-tear-your-hair-out boring. And they take forever .”

“So what you’re saying is Ranboo over here rescued you from spreadsheet purgatory?” jokes Philza with something like a smirk.

“I suppose so. I mean, he’s not exactly the knight in shining armor I was expecting , but I guess he’s the one I needed all the same,” Tubbo finishes sweetly, batting his eyelashes at Ranboo.

Ranboo narrows his eyes. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or touched.”

“Whichever you want, bossman,” sings Tubbo.

Philza gives a snort. “Aw, you wholesome fucks.” He finishes bagging up their goods and passes them their purchase by the thin papery handles. “Alright, your lanterns are in here, and there’s a small cardboard box at the bottom with a few matches to light them up. Try not to commit any arson, accidental or otherwise.”

“No promises,” Ranboo quips back as he flicks through his inventory for his emerald purse. “How much do we owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” declares Ghostbur with a wispy smile.

“Ghostbur - ” Philza starts, but the spirit man doesn’t let him: “Oh, c’mon, Phil, it’s Tubbo’s first Stars Market! Also, Ranboo is a loyal customer if I’ve ever seen one. I’m pretty sure he comes around every week!”

Philza looks like he’s going to put up an argument, but under the gaze of Ghostbur, he folds like a house of cards. “Alright, fine. Only because I’m feeling nice.”

They thank Philza and Ghostbur for their generosity as Ranboo picks up the bag and slings the handles over the crook of his arm; just as they say their goodbyes and turn to leave, Philza says one last thing: “...Good luck with whatever it is that you’re trying to do, Tubbo.”

For some reason, that gives Tubbo pause. “...Yeah,” he returns. His eyes flicker to Ghostbur for an instant. “You too, Phil.” 

A second later, they depart. As Tubbo once more tears into his pumpkin bread and sings its praises, Ranboo puzzles over what he’s missing out on between his companion and kindly old Philza. 

Well, considers Ranboo, smiling down at Tubbo as he chatters on about bread and how floating lanterns actually work, maybe it’s best that those buried words remain unearthed for now.

Step three is...well, in all honesty, Ranboo is considering bailing on it. It feels silly, perhaps a bit much. Tubbo seems to be having a good time already, munching on pumpkin bread and roaming the city with Ranboo at his side. 

But the way he, seemingly unconsciously, trots and skips each time they pass by a performer strumming on a street corner, or how he briefly closes his eyes and twitches his woolly ears towards the occasional jukebox tune drifting out of an open shop door tells Ranboo that what he has planned might just be appreciated.

Besides, they've already bought the lanterns. If Ranboo is going to go through with the lantern part of step three, then he might as well do all of it. Go big or go home.

Which, ironically enough, step three involves heading to Ranboo’s apartment building. (Man, he’s just hilarious.) He subtly leads Tubbo towards his home over the course of their meanderings through L’Manburg until they’ve practically ended up on the building’s doorstep. 

It takes Tubbo a second to realize where they are, eyes narrowed in confusion and then scrutiny when Ranboo stops walking all of a sudden. “…Waaait a minute - ”

Ranboo chuckles and beckons him towards the apartment building’s front door. “C’mon, I wanna show you something.”

Together, the two of them step inside, the din of the Stars Market cutting off as the door swings shut behind them. For a little while, it’s just their twin pair of dress shoes clicking on the wooden floors as they make their way up three sets of stairs to the roof access. Ranboo fishes a ring of keys out of his inventory, silently thanking his past self for having the foresight to put little tags on each of his keys so that now he doesn’t have to stand here and awkwardly test each key in the roof access door. (He doesn’t remember when he put the tags on, but boy is he glad for them.) When he gets the finicky lock to cooperate, Ranboo pushes the door open.

Now, apartment buildings in L’Manburg aren’t particularly tall - reaching at most three stories up in total - due to the fact that a majority of the nation is built on stilts. (Very structurally sound stilts that are frequently checked and maintained, but stilts all the same.) However, in comparison to most buildings’ two-story norm, the apartments seem to tower above the rest.

Which means that the apartment building rooftops offer a view to rival the White House’s. This is especially true during the Stars Market, for while the White House - nestled on the top of one of L’Manburg’s bordering slopes - offers a top down view of the nation, the apartment roofs are a little more…intimate, or so to speak. 

“…Holy shit …”

The door opens to a mostly barren rooftop, a platform of wood and stone, and beyond the paved edge is an eye-level sea of lanterns painted the L’Manburgian colors, wreathed in a tranquil golden glow. The waves of floating lights seem to ripple and dip with every nighttime breeze that chances through the air. Up here, the cacophonous drumming of the city is muted to a hum, and between the lanterns, you can catch little glimpses of the commotion below.  

Ranboo warbles pleasantly in the back of his throat, enjoying the sight as well. (Now this . This’ll never get old.) “Pretty cool, right?”

“Fucking crazy is what it is!” Tubbo jogs out onto the roof and plants his hands on the ledge, leaning as far as he dares. He extends a hand to poke at one of the nearby floating lanterns, and he laughs as he watches it lazily drift and bump into another. “Ranboo, this is awesome . How - How did you find this?”

“Uh, I dunno,” he answers with a shrug, because that’s the truth. He wanders over and continues, “Probably just got bored one night ‘n came up here. I definitely remember seeing it for the first time, though. It’s pretty nuts.” 

“ Yeah ,” Tubbo agrees, still staring out into the rolling ocean of lights. The flicker of the lanterns twinkles in his eyes like constellations, elation and child-like wonder cradled in his gaze.

Ranboo gives a soft smile and pulls the collapsed lanterns they bought out of the bag. Then, he offers one to Tubbo. “Wanna try?”

It takes a couple minutes and a few tries to teach Tubbo how to properly unfold the crinkly paper and smooth it out into its trademark balloon shape. They each take a match, strike it, and ignite the little candle in the bottom. Then, with a gentle nudge, they push their lanterns into the air. They watch the twin lights join their brethren, twirling around each other as they bump and jostle the other lanterns in the sky.

While Tubbo is entranced by the sight, Ranboo takes a silent deep breath. Alright - the rest of step three, now or never.

Ranboo sits down on the edge of the roof, and with a flick of his wrist, he opens his inventory and pulls out his enderchest. From there, he produces two things.

A small, portable record player, and Cat.

The first notes of the little tune trickle into the air like the pitter-patter of melodious rainfall. Tubbo’s ears swivel towards the sound first, and then his whole head turns to stare at the spinning disc sitting on the rooftop ledge as he seems to realize what it is. 

When Tubbo finally manages to pull his eyes away from the record player and look towards Ranboo, he almost seems like he’s going to say something, but...he stays silent. There’s something pensive held in the hunch of his shoulders, a quiet longing in the twitch of his fingers as he no doubt itches to grasp the compass that resides in his pocket. 

There’s one more thing Ranboo needs to do, and if playing the disc doesn’t make him nervous, then this certainly does.

But it’s for Tubbo. It’s for Tubbo because it’s what he deserves, what Ranboo desperately wants to do for him, and what Tommy would have done.

And the night stirs something in him - his friend stirs something in him: a boldness that was never there before but exists in Tubbo’s presence all the same.

So for the first time in what Ranboo can decently recall, he doesn’t think and simply does .

He stands, he takes a few steps backwards, and offers a hand. 

(See, Ranboo is grateful for a lot of things: his job, his home, his view from the office window; the Stars Market, Philza’s easy company, Ghostbur’s unwavering kindness. His most precious possession, however, is not something that can be held.)

(It manifests in the form of a memory - spotty, as many of them are, little more than a glimpse into his past with essentially no context to place it in a conceivable time frame. It could be a dream he had, for all he knows.)

(But what he does know is a weathered wooden path outside the city and a bench overlooking an eastern valley. He knows the way that the bubbly notes of Cat like to drift over sunbeams, the way dress shoes sound as they stumble around untamed grass, the way warmth seeps into his whole being as he’s pulled from his spot on the sidelines into an stumbling, goofy dance with two best friends who cling to each other like a lifeline. He knows what it means to be included, to be appreciated, and to forget the worries of the world, if only for a few moments.)

(He knows what youth is supposed to feel like.) 

(And it doesn’t feel like stuffy office rooms and entwined hands torn apart, two compasses miles away but always searching, always yearning.) 

An eternity seems to pass where Ranboo’s hand remains suspended, empty as can be. His tail whips around his calves as he begins to wonder if maybe he made a wrong move, pulling up memories that were once pleasant but are now soured by the present. Tubbo’s expression is as unreadable as a water-logged diary entry, emotions smeared across his face in a muddled mix of shock and remembrance and dashes of nuance that Ranboo can’t discern for the life of him.

But just as Ranboo is starting to lose hope - and starting to want to crawl out of his skin with how incredibly awkward he feels right now - Tubbo approaches, the click of his dress shoes muffled by the bubbly melody of Cat, and his hand slides into Ranboo’s.

Ranboo experimentally sways to the side, Tubbo follows, and before they know it, they’re dancing. 

It’s nothing graceful. Their ‘waltz’ is more of a lopsided box step that’s barely even in time with the music - if you could call anything about it ‘in time’. Ranboo trips over himself constantly, Tubbo leans a bit too far to one side or another, and their once glossy shoes are now all scuffed up from when they’ve stepped on each other’s toes.

Ranboo wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

One time, when Ranboo nearly ends up on the floor after tripping over his own tail, Tubbo lets out a snort and a laugh, a contagious, ridiculous sound that gets Ranboo chuckling even as his face flushes with embarrassment at his own clumsiness. They feed off each other’s laughter until they’re both giggling endlessly at - well, nothing . Ranboo has most definitely forgotten what’s so funny, but he can’t seem to wipe the stupid grin off his face and neither can Tubbo.

So they dance, lazily spinning around each other like two little paper lanterns bumbling through the evening air. Cat sends them in circles, and Ranboo is nearly dizzy from it all. They laugh and laugh and laugh…

Until, Ranboo belatedly notices as the song begins to fade, there are tears trickling down Tubbo’s cheeks, glinting softly in the candlelight, framed by the sorrowful crinkle of his once lax smile.

Ranboo comes to an abrupt halt, panic rising in his throat. “A-Are you okay?”

“M’fine, bossman,” Tubbo breathes.

“You, uh, you don’t look fine.”

“But I am,” he sniffs as he dashes the heel of his hand beneath his eye. “Gods, I don’t - I dunno why I’m crying right now.” He lets out an airy chuckle, sniffling again and wiping at his face with a growing vigor. “I-I’m having a great time. Been having a great time. Honestly, Ranboo, this is the most fun I’ve had since…” He hiccups, plays it off like a giggle (Ranboo catches it regardless). “...since forever , really, I shouldn’t - I shouldn’t be crying, I’m not sad - I don’t know why - I don’t know...”

The last notes of Cat finally drift into the night, replaced by soft static as the disc continues to turn, and Tubbo’s resolve cracks . The shake of his hands migrates up his arms to the rest of his body as the sobs seem to slam him with a physical force. He muffles the sound behind his dress shirt’s sleeves while he squeezes his eyes shut like it might stop the tears, but it just makes them pour down even faster.

Ranboo is left with his hands hovering uncertainly on either side of Tubbo. Oh geez, this is - less than ideal. He’s not entirely sure what he should do because, quite honestly, he’s never actually seen Tubbo cry before. Even during the exile order, the young president became at most misty-eyed when he watched Tommy be dragged away by Dream and Greater Essempi’s Guard. But not a single tear was shed.

So Ranboo is stuck feeling like he really should do something to try to calm his friend down but doesn’t even have a clue of what needs to be done.

He racks his brain. A hug would work. Hugs are good, right? Does Tubbo like hugs? Ranboo’s pretty sure he’s seen Tommy hug him before - he has the faintest memory of Tommy wrapping his arms tight around Tubbo (effectively pinning Tubbo’s arms to his sides) as he stares Ranboo down from over his friend’s shoulder - so maybe it won’t be entirely unwelcome. 

He’s careful, however, as he carries out his motions, giving Tubbo every chance to resist as he settles a hand on the president’s shoulder and draws him in. What results isn’t really an embrace, per se. Tubbo’s forehead bumps into Ranboo’s chest, and he idles there, so Ranboo is left with an arm wrapped gently around his shoulder blades while Tubbo just lets his hands hang at his sides. Tubbo doesn’t pull away, though, so Ranboo supposes that’s good.

And he’s fine with this, standing somewhat uncomfortably as Tubbo sobs into the front of his dress shirt so hard that Ranboo can feel the slightest prickle of a burning sensation on his chest as the tears soak through. If it’s what Tubbo needs (and after everything that’s happened, this is really what stoic-hearted, empty-smile Tubbo needs), then he’s willing to endure a little discomfort. 

A few wordless minutes later, when the shoulder-shaking sobs have subsided to a manageable degree, Tubbo pulls away. Ranboo lets him take a half step back so he can scrub at his face with his sleeves. “You good, man?” Ranboo asks.

“Yeah - sorry,” Tubbo mumbles with a shaky laugh. “Don’t know what that was. Think I’m just - really tired.”

“Probably,” he agrees simply.

“Lots of late nights at the office, you know?”

“Mm-hm, mm-hm!”

“Gotta admit,” Tubbo says around a stifled yawn, “I’m a bit dead on my feet. That was a lot of walking.”

“Yeah, it was.” Ranboo tilts his head to the side, thinking. “...You wanna crash on my couch?” 

“Please. I don’t think I could walk all the way home if I wanted to.”

So, Ranboo packs up his record player and disc, and with one last look at the sea of lanterns rippling around the rooftop, they head down through the roof access door, Ranboo just barely remembering to lock it behind him.

As they make their way down to the first floor, where Ranboo’s apartment resides, there is no mention of Tubbo’s breakdown nor the tears he shed. In fact, by the time that they get to Ranboo’s front door, his eyes are as dry as bone. The only evidence that remains that he’d even been crying just five minutes ago is a reddish tint to his nose and a slight puffiness under his eyes, and even that is barely noticeable. 

It could be handwaved as seasonal allergies or a rough night of sleep. Easily.

“That was a lot of fun!” Tubbo remarks rather brightly as they step into Ranboo’s apartment: a disarray of half unpacked boxes, haphazardly stuffed chests, and dusty second-hand furniture that he really needs to replace since hey, he has the income now but he keeps forgetting to actually order it because of course he would forget - “I had a great time, Ranboo, really.”

“I’m glad! I’m glad,” says Ranboo, shutting the door behind him as he ducks into the apartment; his horns just barely clear the ceiling.

“That view from the roof was super fucking cool, though. Like, seriously! That’s gotta be the best possible level to watch the lanterns at. Man, I wish I could see it again.”

“Well, we could always just head up there again during next week’s Stars Market, right?”

Tubbo’s grin disappears as his shoulders hunch at the suggestion, apprehension obvious in the twitch of his ear. “Yeah, I...I dunno about that one, bossman,” he mumbles. “You know how it gets up at the office. There’s...a whole lotta shit going on right now, so I don’t know if...this is...something I can do again…”

Ranboo can’t help the wave of disappointment that rolls through him at the words. Sure, while he originally dragged Tubbo out to the Stars Market for Tubbo’s sake, he had a lot of fun too. In fact, it was one of the best Stars Markets he ever had. Like, yeah, the market’s great on it’s own, but when you go with a (friend? Are they friends now? Does holding someone as they have a breakdown and letting them cry into your shirt officially put you into friendship territory? Yeah, probably.) Man, that’s even better. 

But Tubbo is the president of a whole nation. He’s busy. That has to be respected.

A moment of silence passes, and Ranboo gives his jaw a click. “...Oh,” he says at last, because he’s just so articulate like that.

“Don’t get me wrong, Ranboo, I’d love to, but really...I...” Tubbo exhales in the back of his throat and glances away, worrying his lip between his teeth as he seems to mull something over.

Another beat of silence. Tubbo draws in a sharp breath through his nose and turns back to Ranboo. “...Actually - Actually, you know what?” 

And Tubbo grins , young and wild. 

“Fuck it. I’ll go with you next week. The paperwork can kiss my arse.”

“Yeaaahhh!” Ranboo cheers, raising a fist in victory only to let out a startled VWOOP - ! when he accidentally slams his knuckles into the ceiling at full speed. Tubbo just laughs at his pain like the good friend he is, leaving Ranboo to pout as he cradles his poor wounded hand to his chest. It doesn’t take long for Ranboo to be laughing as well, though, his voice joining in with Tubbo’s giggly mess of gasps and snorts that’re as infectious as sunshine on a clear morning. 

(For a moment, it all feels effortless.)