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It was nearing the end of summer, the leaves of the trees were starting to fall to the floor in methodical ways; the birds were making the most of it. Using it as a place to sleep, treating it like warm bedding on a winter's night. Whereas the lonely boy who walked through the woods treated it as nothing but a nuisance to him, crunching loudly under's feet and hurting his delicate ears.
It isn't often that he gets to go for walks, especially in the evenings. The evenings he loved. He appreciated them it gave him a moment to close his eyes. It was the time of day where it wasn't obnoxiously hot, with the sun blaring down on him and coaxing him back to the safety of shade. Instead, it was nearing night. When the sun was setting and finally resting in the bed, and his beloved moon began to rise. He liked his moon more than he loved the sun. He favors the time when it was full and there were no clouds. He could see it perfectly. He liked the way he could see the millions of tiny suns in the sky sparkling like glitter. In all honestly, he didn't like his sun specifically. But the stars, they were a little different.
Maybe it's because they were smaller, maybe because they didn't have him soaking his green-colored shirt with nothing but the sweat that would make it stick to his back uncomfortably. And maybe it wouldn't be causation for his more frequent showers. Yet, during the night that moon doesn't shine bright. It doesn't rain on him and it doesn't make him feel icky and gross. In actuality , it calms him. It makes him feel at peace. Because he can look up at the moon and not have to worry about his retinas getting demolished. He can look at the moon and be coaxed in a nice cool light that won't hurt him, that can't harm anyone in any way.
The boy likes the moons’ colors and how if he looks close enough and squints his eyes through his eyelashes, he can see the freckles. Although their dim and hard to see their marks remind him of himself. One that may not be one for very long. It's bittersweet, really, and sometimes he hates the moon. And sometimes he loves the moon. Sometimes he can't wait to see it. And sometimes he locks himself in, dreading to go out to look at it.
What about right now?
Right now, he wants the moon to remember him. He wants to look up at the moon and not be worried that one day those gorgeous features won’t belong to him anymore. Dreading those memory exercises where he touches each tip of their fingers, repeating words back, interlacing their fingers, and hoping that everything will be okay until the day comes where something changed. A day where hope isn’t enough.
He tries to choke back. He's discovered he can't even break a tear. Nothing but dry heave, sobs that wreck his throat and make it hoarse for days on end. He can't even bear to witness some things anymore.
He can't even enjoy music. Music reminds him too much of the early days. Early days where his once little star, now a burning bright sun, would sing to the plants and hope that they would grow a little faster. Back when famine was rampant. Back before his moon came along. It was true. Sometimes, It wasn't. Days on days with some never-ending spirals and conversations with himself, and he finds that his opinion sways on more days than most, and he isn't sure where he could even start if someone asked him how he felt about some of his stars and constellations. He would get upset. He would probably go on long rants about how none of it matters. Such a storyteller could spend hours upon hours telling of guitars and violins strums, telling of nothing but beauty and grace, telling of blonde hair and locks, laughing at the strands of hair glittered upon his clothes like blades of grass. Those green-stained knees and purple bruises along his arms and eyes were worth it, even the hours of staring at the scars and battle wounds in the mirror and cringing included.
Although, there is only one reflection he's been able to look at is the water. Because it distorts the image and lets him believe there's someone else there. Someone who doesn't have rivers of fire etched along his skin. Someone whose skin is still perfect, unpaved. The lonely boy wished he could go back before his hair looked like a field of wild grown grass, one that desperately needs a trim.
Other times he yearned, whispering truths and withheld thoughts to the moon. Occasionally, the moon would listen, other times the moon wasn't even there. The moon might be obscured by a cloud or just gone as a whole, or the moon was only a crescent; One that was there, but wasn't enough. Often he found himself calling himself selfish because of what he wants.
Now as he continues to walk through the fields of leaves that begin to stretch his old country, he can't help but wipe his rosy red cheeks absentmindedly, feeling wetness, moist. It made him stop in his tracks and let out a gasp. Once one came, the rest followed, falling one by one and then in streams to waterfalls to rapid waters. He was crying. He was crying!
Haunted by the person of who he used to be and haunted by the stars, haunted by the moon who couldn't even remember his name, and haunted by the sun that would inevitably explode. Haunted by the sun that would shout his name along with a string of something obscure and arrogant. Whether it was an innocent question or something obscure, something funny, something that made him laugh. His moon and sun are both fleeing.
He feels as though his sun is going to go out like a candle. Going out like an unfortunate bird shot down by a fortunate hunter. Gone out like a fish in the water caught between a current and a hard place. So unlucky, like a crab getting caught in a crab trap, like someone getting stuck in something they'll never be able to get themselves out of, like putting himself in a box and taking the key, losing it because he swallowed it whole, thinking everything would be fine later and that he would never want to reveal it again only to want to desperately pry it open with something like a crowbar, but every time he tries, he just can't. When he finally does, there's nothing there. It's nothing but dusty. Maybe a dead bug. There's nothing for him there and there's nothing here for him anywhere.
And sometimes he wonders why he was spared. The boy wishes that it was his time and that no one stepped in. He wishes he could stand aside because here he is. All of his glass was broken except for one bottle. One that is balanced perfectly on a thin string strung between two paperclips, held 100 feet in the Arctic air.
Not to mention it doesn't help the boys so unknowing, maybe he's scared of the unknown and maybe he had found comfort in it. Maybe there's a reason he can't choose. Can't even choose sides between what he likes more, the sun or the moon. An odd urge to measure both sides. Maybe he prefers both.
He wouldn't be able to grow up without the moon, he’d never have another birthday without the sun. And yet here he is. Maybe they work hand in hand. Maybe the moon and the sun, both being miles and miles away, just out of his reach is a good thing. Maybe one day he wants to be an astronaut and touch the moon one more time before it disappears. It's constantly gravitating farther and farther away from Earth, and one day it will go too far. He's watching it fade.
His sun is growing smaller and smaller and it feels like it's shining a little less. Who even enjoys the idea that the sun is not constantly blaring down on them, and they enjoy the idea that the sun is just dissipating, fading into nothing, welcoming the end, but everyone needs the sun.
He finds pure joy in it. He finds a sense of childlike curiosity. Who doesn't? He finds the moon perfect, being more productive when he's around the moon, he finds that he can do everything easier. When he's running he can rest. He could wake, he can work, he can play. But without the sun, he would never see his friends. He will never be able to go out and see the stars. He would never be able to watch the animals come out in the morning. He would never have that blissful morning sit on that once beautiful bench, once carved with blistered and calloused hands, one that a young naive child who had no clue what the future is going to be made with those very palms.
Their only worry is, “How are we going to get to the bench tomorrow? Will you make it in time to listen to our sweet sweet melody and disc as we watch the sunset?”
Once a silly thought about who wouldn't be able to watch the sunset and rest. Finally, just to lay his head down against a N=nice welcoming embrace, looking over a once beautiful country. Without the sun, he can't enjoy any of it.
Without the sun is without the moon, and without the moon is without the stars, the sun is his stars. So why does he hold such prejudice against it? Because he has seen the sun more than the moon? Because he's always been around out in the sun? Because when he woke up in the morning, he always knew the sun would be there. And now it's there. It's different, but it's there and he loves it regardless, so maybe his preference for the sun or moon doesn't matter.
Because maybe it's the preference for the earth. Everyone has different preferences from him. And theirs influenced his own. He knows that many stars that hate this particular sun. He loves it; basking in its warmth when it's time and enjoying it while it's there, even if he doesn't show it. Even if he is constantly against it and hates it for it at the moment, he knows that when he's home, he's alright and maybe he talks to the sun about how much he likes them and maybe he tells the moon how much he hates the sun. Maybe at times, it's the opposite, but he knows that regardless, both of them will always be there.
Given the opportunity, the moon and the sun rise and fall at different times and different speeds.
The little bird sits in the tree, the birds rely on that sun and moon to get what they need. Possible, he's nothing but a little bird when that needs both the sun and the moon to get what he needs. He likes that, he finds comfort in it, as he lays his sore back against the tree stump and falls to the floor, brushing up the leaves from underneath. Graceful and beautiful, like a wave, a gentle caress of water at the heel. Tubbo can rest his aching feet and take a break. He falls asleep, feeling the warmth of sleep wrap itself around him. He wouldn't be surprised if the full moon was out and was willing to take him home to where it's warm. Home, where the sun would eventually come. So, he could wake in the morning and be promised another day. As time moves slowly, but it is limited. He will invariably cherish it, mindless of when it comes. Even if it isn't in the moment.
Tubbo loved both his sun and moon along with every single star regardless of how bright or how dull with every single atom in his body, from the tips of his toes to the very strand of hair on the top of his head.