Chapter Text
America, Tubbo thought, was just as horrid as he’d always imagined.
The sun beat down on the expansive field with such intensity he could almost imagine the grass yellowing before his eyes, steaming with evaporate and crunching beneath the uneven thumps of his trainers on the jogging path. The air itself was heavy and wet, leaving nowhere for the sweat to go but pool in the pits of his arms, between his shoulder blades, and in the small of his back. It dripped down to the ground in salty rivulets, hissing as it hit the scorched earth. Pits of magma could form around him and he wouldn’t be surprised in the least. Running through the afternoon air felt like swimming, haze on the horizon clouding his vision and heavy air dragging his limbs down. Already two miles had passed like this, and his body felt about ready to give out.
After far too many minutes of hell, a distant row of trees took shape ahead of him. Tubbo’s breaths were haggard, his muscles burning, but he forced his heavy feet to jog the last couple hundred meters to the promise of shade. He could make out Ranboo already splayed underneath the oaks, looking just as defeated and sweaty as Tubbo himself felt.
It was day ten of overnight sports camp in upstate New York and the novelty of Tubbo’s accent and foreign origins had long-since faded. Ranboo had been the only friend to stick around past the initial crush of questions and barely-muffled curiosity of the other campers, so it was only the two of them who had been caught playing the Switch Tubbo had smuggled in his bag and, consequently, only the two of them who had been made to run an extra five miles in the middle of a heatwave.
Entering the shade was immediate relief, though in reality it couldn’t have dropped more than a few degrees below the temperature outside the relative shelter of the broad-trunked tree. “Seems like you have the right idea here, boss man,” Tubbo panted as he collapsed onto the cool earth.
Ranboo, who was leaning back and resting his weight on his hands, head thrown back and black and white mask pulled down below his chin, groaned in response. “This is brutal, man,” he intoned.
Tubbo had already discarded his own mask near the start of the run and had it hanging loosely around his wrist, so when he grinned over at Ranboo it was on complete display. “Worth it to play Mario Kart, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, no, actually, I would not say that. Not worth it at all, actually.” His face was flushed a patchy red with the heat and glistening with lingering perspiration. Strands of blonde hair stuck to his forehead and along his temples where it grew longest. He looked like Tubbo felt – like the late afternoon heat was melting him.
Tubbo’s shirt clung to his chest and he could feel the damp pooling where he sat, but his breath was already steadying. He pushed his fringe off his face, running fingers through his sweaty roots. If he hadn’t cut it just before the start of summer, he could’ve pulled it up and off the back of his neck, but as it was all he could do was hope to use his sweat as a makeshift gel to find some relief from the heat.
“Gross,” Tubbo muttered as he tried to wipe his hands on his shorts and found them just as damp with sweat and humidity. He scrunched up his nose. It never got this hot in the UK; he wasn’t used to the oppressiveness that was America in the summertime.
“Your country is uninhabitable,” Tubbo informed Ranboo as he attempted, instead, to clean his hands off on the grass. It went marginally better. At least he could be assured that if the grass was already wet it was with condensation, not his own body’s fluids.
Ranboo sighed. “And yet here you are inhabiting it.”
“Not by choice,” Tubbo replied, and if it sounded like more of a whinge than the justifiable complaint that it was, he would blame it on the weather. “Dude, I could be in the UK where it’s a respectable 25 degrees right now, on the beach by the ocean . Instead I’m–” he made some vague hand gesture to indicate their surroundings, “–wherever the hell this is.”
There was no immediate reply, and when Tubbo looked over at his companion, he found that he had pulled his knees up at some point while Tubbo was distracted, and was resting crossed arms along top of them, gaze fixed somewhere out over the field. Long fingers picked at a frayed hem of his basketball shorts. “The ocean sounds nice,” Ranboo finally acquiesced, but it sounded strained, like the words were a thin sheet pulled over some deeper emotion. A distraction.
“What.”
Ranboo turned back to him, and blue-grey eyes met his own. Sandwiched as they were between the grass below and canopy of leaves overhead, Tubbo could make out the faintest hint of dappled green reflected in his irises. “I don’t know. It’s hot, the ocean is cold.” Ranboo shrugged. “Sounds nice.” There was tension pulling at the corner of his eyes, and Tubbo wondered if he liked covering his face so much because it was so expressive.
“No, but you’ve gone all quiet and sad on me,” Tubbo insisted, keeping his tone purposefully light. “Why’s that?”
Ranboo’s eyes widened fractionally before he schooled his face into nonchalance once again. “What? No, I didn’t.”
Tubbo pouted. “I’ve said something without realizing, haven’t I?”
Silence stretched as they stared at each other.
“Come on,” Tubbo continued to push, nudging his foot at Ranboo’s. A grin slowly crept up on his face. “You are my friend, and as my friend you are contractually obligated to tell me when I’ve fucked up.”
One side of Ranboo’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile, and Tubbo counted it as a win. “Oh, contractually obligated, am I?” He nodded along to his words. “I see, I see.”
Ranboo had loosened up somewhat, but he still hesitated. Tubbo let the grin that had grown across his face soften into something gentler. “I promise I won’t be cross.” He paused, then added, “Honestly, I would preemp … premature … no, what’s the word? Anyway – I would apologize ahead of time, but I don’t think it would mean much if I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.”
Tubbo waited expectantly, and after a moment, Ranboo sighed, glancing away again. “It’s nothing serious, or anything,” he started. “I just, I’ve been coming to this camp for years, right? And I’ve never really had friends here before.” His fingers interlaced over his knees, squeezing tight enough his knuckles had gone white. “So, I guess when you said you didn’t want to be here, I don’t know, it hurt, a little, to think your ideal situation was being somewhere else.”
Tubbo blinked, then said, “Oh, no, dude, my ideal situation would be being somewhere else with you.” The words were out of Tubbo’s mouth before he could even fully process them, tumbling forth unabashed and unrestrained. But he decided to roll with it, forging ahead before he could second-guess himself, immediate embarrassment at the admission aside, “Don’t get me wrong, running in this heat is the absolute worst way I could imagine spending my summer, but that’s despite you being here, not because of it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, dude. Really.” Tubbo’s smile was a small, embarrassed thing, and the flush on his face was no longer only from the heat of the steadily sinking afternoon sun.
Ranboo had his own small smile now, too. “And here I was worried you were only hanging out with me because no one else would.” The words had the tone of a joke, but Tubbo could hear the vein of truth running through them.
“Nope. If anything you’re the one who’s stuck with me. I can be quite demanding, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. For example, I demand you fan me right now.”
Ranboo laughed, his fingers unclenching and shoulders dropping.
Tubbo couldn’t help but grin at the sight. “Well? I’m waiting.”
“No, I’m not gonna do that, actually.”
“I feel cheated here. What good are those enormous hands of yours if not fanning your one and only friend?”
“Rude! Just for that, I think I’ll fan myself instead. So there.” Ranboo proceeded to do just that, prying both hands from where they hung above his knees and flapping them at his own face in a fanning motion.
“Hey! No fair. Give me those!” Tubbo whined, lunging forward at Ranboo and attempting to latch onto one of his wrists. He successfully made a grab for the hand closest to him, but he miscalculated, and his momentum pulled him further forward until he was pushing Ranboo back into the dirt.
“What the heck?” Ranboo exclaimed. “What was that for?”
They struggled for a moment, before Tubbo gave a triumphant shout, having managed to pin down Ranboo’s shoulder with his knee as he wrapped both his hands around the other boy’s much larger wrist and pointed it in his own face. “Now flap for me!”’ he demanded
“Flap for – Well fine! I will!”
As promised, Ranboo violently flapped his wrist, while pushing it toward Tubbo’s face. Tubbo couldn’t quite duck out of the way in time before the flailing hand smacked him straight in the nose, sending him jerking backward in surprise.
They both froze, Ranboo out of concern he actually hurt him, and Tubbo to process what had just happened. Both of them were panting hard. Their eyes met. Tubbo grinned, wide and wicked.
“No, no, no, no, don’t–”
Tubbo launched forward, and then it faded to black.
xxx
Back in Snowchester, Tubbo woke up in his own bed in his own house after a dream in a country he had never heard of with a person he had never met but knew was Ranboo, even though Ranboo didn’t have peach-colored skin or hair like beach sand, nor were he and Tubbo even on speaking terms, let alone friends.
Tubbo could still feel the heat of the sun on his skin, the damp of the grass between his fingers. The echoes of laughter bubbled in his chest, his cheeks aching from a grin that had never happened. Somewhere, in a different world, he was still wrestling not-Ranboo to the ground, elation lighting up his veins, gleeful and buoyant. But this Tubbo – the real Tubbo – was lying in an empty room long since gone cold, dark and alone and reeling with motion sickness like he had just traveled thousands of miles in a millisecond.
Vivid dreaming was nothing new to him; gory nightmares were commonplace, both ones grounded in reality and those that were entirely a creation of his own mind. But that hadn’t been a nightmare. No, it had been … nice.
And far too real for comfort.
Tubbo allowed himself a few minutes to stare at the distant grey-scaled blur of his ceiling and relish the last bits of warmth before they dissipated into the cold air. His heart beat against his ribcage as his body resituated itself into reality as it often needed to after an abrupt awakening, before he finally pushed himself up onto shaky legs and headed down onto the main floor of his home.
The sun hadn’t yet risen above the snowy hills, but the sky had begun to go grey with morning light, the first hints of it illuminating the small room as Tubbo pushed open his shutters. He was greeted by a pair of birds on his windowsill chattering back and forth in a twin melody, the intricacies of the tune lost through the thick glass panes.
“Good morning,” Tubbo murmured with a small smile, afraid of raising his voice lest he startle them away. They hopped back and forth as they chatted and Tubbo leaned his elbows on the windowsill to watch them with tired eyes. He wondered if they were old friends reunited or if they were daily companions, if they were discussing the latest gossip or arguing about their plans for the day. It had been a long time since Tubbo had someone to exchange a morning conversation with; he wasn’t sure if the twinge at the thought was longing or jealousy.
Tubbo finally tore his eyes away from his window with a sigh and made his way across the small room to his makeshift kitchen. Other than the hob and the bit of counter space next to it, only a low table and single chair took up the corner of his house he called the kitchen. The burner clicked on with ease, his banged-up iron kettle set atop it in the next moment. Tubbo lingered by the flame in an attempt to absorb some of its warmth, the air icy and his skin unusually unaccustomed to it. His fingertips tingled with cold. Across the room, a fireplace sat empty, a smear of ashes on brick and a pile of charcoal the only proof of its recent use. In ten minutes’ time Tubbo could have a roaring fire in place, a warm, hospitable home in twenty more after that. But he didn’t bother. He wouldn’t be staying for long anyway.
Tubbo’s whole body felt unsettled and maladjusted, like he was a puzzle piece that had warped and couldn’t quite fit back into its designated spot. He could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at his temples, but when he sunk his head into his hands in some attempt to chase relief, his fingers ran across the two bumps that had appeared a few weeks prior at the top of his skull, and he flinched away.
Fuck . Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut, hands closing into fists so tight he could feel the painful press of his fingernails into his palm, and took a shaking breath. It stuttered on the way out, catching in his lungs like a stone skipping down steps.
The scream of the kettle cut through the cold air, and Tubbo started, eyes blinking back hot tears. His hands trembled as he turned off the hob, movements mechanical in their search for his tea. Without much thought, he put together a drought to help stave off his headache, staring into the depths of the slowly steeping tea as if it held the answers to his problems.
What problems did he have, though? There was the simple matter of the Snowchester defenses, which he was chipping away at more each day, like an itch deep in his chest he couldn’t quite get at. But beyond that, Tubbo was fine. He was free of the responsibilities of the presidency, free of worrying about the fate of a country, free of chasing after Tommy and of trying desperately to please the voices harping at him from all sides. Tubbo’s life was finally, blissfully peaceful.
So why did he feel so aimless?
By the time Tubbo finished his tea and made his way out of the house, the sun was just starting to peak over the horizon. He could spot the lingering signs of mobs gathered at the edges of the trees, away from where the berry bushes kept them from coming too close, and readied his ax as a precaution.
The walls of Snowchester, as Tubbo approached them, were half-built intimidating stone structures suspended over the ocean. He hated the sight of them, hated that they clashed with the otherwise peaceful village aesthetic of Snowchester, hated how blunt and obvious they were as a defense mechanism. Yet, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from building them in the first place. The sight of those stone bricks might taste like bile in the back of his throat, but stronger still was the compulsion to build them higher yet.
Setting about the work of building the walls was familiar. Tubbo clambered up the stones stacked in some semblance of a staircase and made his way over to the most recent patch of construction, the beginnings of a watch tower built another four blocks higher than the already massive wall. In only minutes, Tubbo had reassessed his work from the previous day and picked up where he’d left off, crafting and placing stone bricks with practiced ease.
Hours passed like that, broken up only by the occasional trip to his furnaces to fire more cobble into stone. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky, reaching its peak just as Tubbo placed the finishing touches on the tower.
Tubbo was twitchy, as a rule. If he were to phrase it with some sort of elegance, he might say that war had taught him to be vigilant. But, in reality, it had left him liable to flinch at his own shadow, or, in this instance, to stop every few bricks laid to scan the treeline for potential threats.
That was how he spotted it: a hostile mob that had somehow survived until nearly noon on a sunny day, sheltered in the shade of a tree, and exactly what Tubbo had been looking for for the better part of a week. It was a zombie villager, close enough to home that it would almost be too easy to cure him.
An excited grin broke out across Tubbo’s face as he scrambled down the wall, searching hecticly through his inventory for a boat, or, at the very least, some wood to craft one. One appeared in his hand as he reached the bottom of the wall and he shouted in triumph, rushing over to the small copse of trees where he’d spotted the zombie villager. As he approached, he slowed down, creeping quietly around it so as not to draw it out in the sun where it would burn to death in a matter of minutes.
Tubbo’s heart beat in his chest as he padded silently across the snowy forest floor. The boat was posed in his hand, grip tight on the wood, ready to place as soon as he was close enough to trap it. With one last exhale, Tubbo stepped out from behind his tree and straight into the zombie villager’s eye line. Before it could take even a single step forward, Tubbo placed the boat between them, watching with bated breath as it immediately fumbled into it, trapped and safe.
Tubbo let out a whoop of triumph, jumping up into the air and pumping his fist. The shout echoed through the trees, sending a handful of birds flapping through the spruce branches and up and away into the sky. His cheeks ached from grinning so wide and adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, but for the first time in a while, Tubbo felt satisfied with something.
Maneuvering the boat and its contents back to Tubbo’s house and down into his workshop took the better part of two hours. The terrain was thick and uneven, and the boat’s occupant non-too-willing to cooperate. By the time Tubbo was able to disembark for a final time, his body was aching from bruises he was sure would appear over the next few days, but even that wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits. This was something to work on – This was a project .
Tubbo grinned one last time at his new roommate, the zombie villager’s face slack and body slumped over in the battered boat, before making his way over to his wall of chests in search of the necessary materials. A minute of searching unearthed half a dozen golden apples sitting dusty and forgotten at the bottom of his enderchest. He grabbed one and gave it a half-hearted shine on his sleeve, taking a moment to study the glint of it in the light before setting it on the edge of his workbench.
The quest for potions did not go nearly as well, however. With all the free time he had now, you’d think Tubbo would have a stockpile of various potions at his disposal, yet after twenty minutes of searching, all he could find was a handful of harming pots, two potions of healing, one levitation potion, and a dozen fire resistance potions, of all things.
Luckily, he did have an abundance of spider eyes from hours spent in the spider spawner, so brewing his own weakness potion was simple as waiting for it to happen. Tubbo set up his old brewing stand with practiced motions, days passed with Tommy brewing “drugs” in their little hideout preparing him well for moments like these. The spider eye was crushed to a pulp easily with his mortar and pestle, and moments later, he was funneling the mixture into the potion stand, filling the reservoir with water, and leaning back in his chair to watch the magic happen.
Tubbo hadn’t been this excited in days. The prospect of a new villager to set up and trade with was something to fill at least another three days ahead of him, not to mention the long process of healing them slowly with the golden apple and weakness potion. Just as much as the protection of the wall settled the constant itch in his chest, having a plan to work toward for the next few days cleared the fog of his brain and sent new thoughts and ideas speeding through it.
Tubbo watched the steady drip of the potion in front of him. The pinkish-purple liquid hit the bottom of the glass jar in an unsteady rhythm, each drop echoing slightly as it hit. As time passed, the exhaustion of the day hit him in unsteady increments, taking over his body in waves. He became more aware of the heavy weight of his limbs after a day of lifting stone bricks and the stinging of the various bruises and scratches on his body from the zombie villager attacks.
The drip of the potion turned into a hypnotic lullaby, like a slow and steady marimba melody, simple and entrancing. Within minutes, Tubbo’s eyes began to droop, blinking closed and open again in longer intervals. He tried his best to stay awake, wanting to start curing the villager tonight before going to bed. But with the remnants of the adrenaline fading fast and the exhaustion of the day catching up with him, it didn’t take long before he was losing that fight. Despite his best efforts, Tubbo’s eyes slipped closed one last time, and he was asleep.
xxx
The distant thunk of a door closing was what woke Tubbo. He came to surrounded in the orange glow of his work lamp, head buried into his arms on his desk. As he pushed himself up, head heavy with grogginess, something slid down and off his back, bunching at the back of his chair. Curious and still half-asleep, he reached behind himself and pulled out the red throw blanket from their couch, the one that Tommy had somehow managed to knit together for them a few months prior. A small smile pulled across his face as he ran his fingers over the soft material. The stitching was tighter in some places than others, and there were small gaps where Tommy had obviously dropped a stitch or two in the process, but it was one of his favorites, nevertheless. And there was only one person who would’ve tucked Tubbo in at his workbench.
As if on cue, footsteps approached from the direction where the door had closed, and a moment later a black and white haired head popped around the doorframe.
“You’re awake,” Ranboo said, seemingly unsurprised. He emerged fully into the room, dressed in his axolotl pajama pants and a T-shirt printed with a bee that was a few sizes too small and very clearly Tubbo’s. Either his memory had failed and he’d grabbed it unknowingly, or he’d made the conscious decision to wear a shirt that was the barest of centimeters away from being a crop top. Either way, the sight brought warmth to Tubbo’s chest.
“I’m awake,” Tubbo agreed as he stood up, stretching out his stiff limbs with a groan. “You put Michael to bed?”
“Yeah. He wanted to wait for you, but I got him to settle down eventually.”
“You could’ve woken me up.”
“And what? Gotten my fingers bitten off in the process? I don’t think so.”
“Oi. I only would’ve smacked you a little. Probably.”
Ranboo didn’t look assured. “Uh huh.”
“Okay, maybe a swift kick to the testicles, too, but only out of principle, you must understand.”
“What? The principle of letting you tuck your own son into bed?”
“Yes, right, exactly.” Something warm settled in Tubbo’s stomach hearing the words your son . It had been almost a year since they’d rescued Michael and still the thought that he was helping to shape a young life was mind-blowing to him.
“Are you coming to bed now, then?” Ranboo’s voice interrupted Tubbo’s sentimental thoughts.
“Hm?” Tubbo blinked up at his husband, mind processing the words a moment too late. “Oh, erm,” he glanced over at the work still laid out on his desk, scrawled notes scattered haphazardly and disturbed by his sleep and brewing stand slowly dripping out a potion into waiting viles below in the corner. “Maybe in a bit. I want to finish some things up here first.”
Ranboo sighed, and Tubbo prepared himself for the familiar argument.
“You’re overworking yourself again.”
“Not over working, just working ,” Tubbo replied, as expected. The lines were rehearsed and well-practiced, repeated over many a late night in Tubbo’s workshop. At the look Ranboo gave him in response, Tubbo continued, “Listen, I just want to finish this one trial run with this potion, then I’ll be down. Promise.”
Ranboo walked over to Tubbo’s desk and peered at the brewing stand. Tubbo watched him take in the full upper reservoir and the three potion bottles that were filled with only a few centimeters’ worth of liquid. He saw the moment Ranboo realized he was only on step two of the brewing process, frown deepening and brow lowering in disappointment, and knew in that moment that he had lost the argument for tonight.
“Tubbo–” Ranboo started, but Tubbo didn’t let him finish.
“Yes, alright, fine.” He rolled his eyes, but secretly he wasn’t all that upset. Tubbo could grumble and groan all he wanted about being pulled away from his work – and grumble and groan he did, whining and complaining the entire way to their shared room – but the exhaustion pulling at his limbs and making his eyes go dry and grainy was undeniable.
They continued to bicker as they went about their nightly routines. Ranboo, already in his pajamas and more or less ready to pass out, watched from his perch on the bed as Tubbo pouted his way through changing, washing his face and brushing his teeth. Still grumbling, Tubbo blew out the last of the lanterns and slipped under the covers, curling into a ball and facing away from Ranboo.
“Oh, come on. Really?” This time it was Ranboo’s turn to whine. His voice was heavy with the need to sleep, rough and gravelly in his throat.
Tubbo let his legs drift backwards, pressing his cold feet against Ranboo’s exposed shins in retaliation. He chuckled in triumph when Ranboo yelped, jerking back away from Tubbo.
Tubbo turned around then, finding Ranboo’s vague outline as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Ranboo joined him in lying horizontally, red and green eyes each casting a faint glow onto the sheets between them. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, but it was said warmly, affection laid thick over each syllable like a blanket.
Tubbo hummed. “So much,” he mumbled, sleep pulling at his mind the more he sunk into the mattress. He shuffled forward, patting his hand around haphazardly until it found Ranboo’s, and laced their fingers together. The rough pads on Ranboo’s palm were warm against his. “But you love me anyway.”
Ranboo exhaled a laugh through his nose. “For some reason, yeah, I do.” He used their joined hands to pull Tubbo closer, tucking him into his chest and sliding his free arm beneath Tubbo to pillow his head. Ranboo would undoubtedly wake in the middle of the night with his arm completely numb, and Tubbo would have to shift them around again, half-asleep and grumbling all the while. But it was hard to worry about that now when the weight of the comforter and his husband’s arm beneath him were enveloping him completely in warmth.
“Love you, too, big guy,” Tubbo breathed, receiving no more than a rumble that he felt more than heard from deep in Ranboo’s chest, before sleep pulled him down into its embrace.
xxx
Tubbo opened his eyes to the grey light of his workshop, the air silent and empty. His neck ached from sleeping hunched forward on his workbench, his arms stiff with the cold. In front of him, the potion continued to drip down into the waiting bottles, now about half-full.
Neither fully asleep or awake, Tubbo drifted along the path back upstairs. The stone walls of his lab didn’t chastise him for overworking. The hollow echoes of his footsteps through the corridors didn’t tease him for falling asleep at his table. His house was perfectly, deafeningly silent when he entered it. Not even the birds remained at his windowsill, and even if they had, they wouldn’t think to lay a blanket over his shoulders in case the chill caught up to him in his ill-advised sleep.
The fireplace was cold and empty as he’d left it that morning, the rocking chair next to it no different. The creak of old wood when Tubbo sat in it was ear-splitting.
The same motion sickness from that morning plagued his gut, his whole body tingling with the feeling of not-belonging. Earlier, it had been easier to shake, but now it felt like he was living in two realities side by side; he could feel just as clearly the warm roughness of Ranboo’s palm pressing into his own as the sting of the cold night air on his nose.
The dream faded in increments, sloughing off like skin shedding from a snake, and reality turned once again stark around him. Outside his window, the night was dark. Without the faux warmth of the bedding around him, Tubbo shivered.
Here, outside of his dream, Tubbo was alone. He pulled his knees up onto the chair and buried his head down into them, arms wrapped tight around his shins for fear that, if he didn’t, he might come apart like a marionette and tumble to the ground in pieces.
Most days, Tubbo was grateful for the loneliness. It was a constant, satisfying ache, like pressing a weeks-old bruise or stretching the morning after a long day’s work. It was a reminder of Tubbo’s freedom from his past attachments and obligations, of his newfound sense of individuality.
But, tonight, he’d pulled the stitches on old injuries and what had been a healing wound was now gaping open and bleeding out. It hurt , deep and viscerally, the illusion of domesticity yanked away from his clawing grasp like a knife from his gut.
Because the truth of the matter was that Tubbo was alone, but if he had to choose, it would be searching for flowers in the summer fields with his adopted brothers– It would be the harrowing breath between the moment the music discs left his hands and landed in Tommy’s – It would be before wars full of explosions and fireworks, before Wilbur got airs of revolution, before they ever accepted Dream’s invitation to join this server.
Tubbo was alone, and he was better for it, but if he had to choose, he would be living in his dreams.