Archive of Our Own

“Mind if I flip on the radio, big man?” 

“Go for it.” 

Tubbo’s hunched over his desk in his and Tommy’s shared room, pen in hand, ink smeared across his fingers. He’s had this assignment due for two weeks now– only today is he actually going to do it. It’s half done already, and he takes a moment to straighten his back and stretch, twisting over the back of the chair to peer over at Tommy. Tommy, who’s gotten up from his own desk in order to flick through the vinyls, kept in a box on his side of the room. He’d gotten the record player as a present two Christmases ago as a conjoined gift from both Techno and Wilbur before Techno had officially gone off to university, and in the years since had amassed a good amount of records for the thing. It’s sat neatly at the end of Tommy’s bed on his side of the room, Tubbo kicking out with a foot and rubbing absently with one socked toe at the faded tape down the center of their room. 

“Are you done with maths yet?” He asks, watching as Tommy shuffles through discs until he pulls one out, sliding the record from its casing and putting it on the player. 

“Nah,” Tommy shrugs, messing around with buttons. “I figured I could copy off you, if you’re done.”

“I was just about to offer,” Tubbo says, turning back to his desk in order to shuffle through papers. He’d left it on here somewhere in the mess, under pens and graph paper and engineering assignments and English papers–

The music kicks in. His shoulders stiffen.

“Hand it over, Tubs,” Tommy says casually as the record player scratches for a moment, the music skipping. Tubbo is silent; hands frozen in their search for the maths. Fuck the maths, he thinks, whipping his head around to stare at the slowly turning disc and the crooning music coming from it now. Tommy is moving to sit in his own desk chair once more– he pauses, gaze catching on Tubbo’s look. “...you alright, big man?” He asks. 

“I–” Tubbo struggles for a moment as The Doobie Brothers keep singing, the music whirling around his mind and soul. He can smell gasoline and cigarette smoke. Tommy is still looking at him, face warping from mildly interested to a little worried. Brows drawn together, pausing with a hand on his chair. 

“Tubbo?” Tommy prompts. Tubbo shakes his head lightly, hair flopping. 

“Where did you get that?” He asks. “The record?” 

“Wil showed it to me,” Tommy says evenly. “Like, last week. When we went out to the mall, we stopped and shopped.” 

“Oh,” Tubbo says.

“I can… turn it off if you want?” Tommy offers lightly. “‘Cause like, it’s clearly bothering you.” 

“It’s nothing,” Tubbo says. 

“Clearly not, ” Tommy says, huffing lightly and plopping down in his chair. 

“Just leave it,” Tubbo says, although his chest is itching and he wants to get up and pace and everything is kind of closing in and– 

“Tubbo,” Tommy is saying. He’s in front of him now. When did he get there? Huh. He snaps his fingers in front of his face gently, and Tubbo focuses on his fingers, the calluses and dirt under his nails. Gross. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Open the window,” Tubbo gasps out, “please.” 

The music is still crooning. Tommy takes a step back and, still frowning, shuffles over to the window between their beds and carefully unlocks it, opening it with a grunt. He pauses, and Tubbo breathes, cool air flowing through the room. Outside the day is grey– it had rained earlier, walking back from school the drops had stained their shirts and backpacks, Tubbo stomping through a few puddles as they had made the short dash home. 

“You alright?” Tommy asks. Tubbo’s chest is still tight, but the cold air makes it better. Tommy’s also turned down the music a bit, watching as Tubbo sits there and breathes. He hasn’t had anything like this in years– why now, he laments, counting evenly as he breathes out his nose. Slowly, his heart rate pulls back down, and Tommy waits patiently across the room, watching him intently. 

“I’m okay,” Tubbo says after a little bit, when he really does feel okay. It’s weird. “It’s– I haven’t heard that song in a while, I guess.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy glances over at the record, spinning innocently on it’s stand. “I mean, it’s some classic stuff.”

“No, I know,” Tubbo cuts in, picking absently at a piece of string on his chair. It unravels a bit and he keeps going, staring down at his hands and breathing in carefully. “I just– I think the last time I heard it I was tiny. It kind of just… flooded back. Caught me off guard.” 

“But you’re alright?” Tommy asks. “Not gonna freak out if I ask for a hug?”

Tubbo wrinkles his nose. “I hate hugs. Fuck off.”

“There he is,” Tommy says with a grin. “Alright, so you really are okay. I can still turn it off, if you want.” 

“I said it was fine,” Tubbo repeats, rolling his eyes. Tommy doesn’t listen, stupid idiot. He keeps picking at the thread on the chair, watching as it unravels more and more. Satisfying, he thinks to himself, looping it around his finger and tugging until it leaves little red lines where it sat. “Did you want my maths or not?”

“Oh, sure,” Tommy says, shuffling around, and Tubbo turns back to his desk, and that’s that. The Doobie Brothers sing. Tubbo quietly remembers, pushing the thoughts to the back of his head for now as he searches for his math homework in order to hand it off to Tommy and try to relax.

He ends up seeking out Phil that night, after supper and after he’s helped Wilbur with the dishes. It’s their week for dishes, Tommy’s for laundry, and he’s escaped upstairs with the laundry basket full of their things fresh out of the dryer. Wilbur disappears too, following Tommy and relentlessly teasing and bickering as they both head up to their own rooms, the fighting still occasionally picking back up whenever Tommy delivers some article of clothing or whatever.

Phil’s at the kitchen counter, like he always is at around seven pm on a school night. A cup of tea, his laptop in front of him. Tubbo lingers, taking his time drying off the last pot on the rack. The kitchen still stinks of the curry they had for dinner, plastic containers in the fridge holding the leftovers for tomorrow. Tubbo hangs about so long debating with himself that he jumps when Phil clears his throat– startling, leaning against the counter as Phil peers over the breakfast bar and raises a brow. His glasses are on. His hair’s tied back.

“You alright, mate?” He asks. Tubbo bites his lip. It’s Phil. It’s his dad, the guy who bandaged his knees when he scraped them and who hugged him when the nightmares got bad and who said he was proud when Tubbo came home with a B in English despite his struggles. It’s Phil, who got him a therapist from ages nine to thirteen and worked with the school to help accommodate Tubbo’s issues with learning. It’s Phil who adopted four kids and practically the whole neighborhood on top of that, scooping out ice cream and hosting movie nights and– and–

It’s Phil. He should be able to talk to him about anything. 

“Why’d you adopt me?” He asks brashly. Phil blinks. 

“That’s a heavy question for seven pm,” he says jokingly. Tubbo just stares at him, anxiety rising in his stomach, and Phil clearly catches onto it because he backtracks in a way that doesn’t feel like backtracking. “I adopted you because you needed a home and I was more than willing to be that home, Tubbo. I adopted you because I love you.” That’s the normal answer, Tubbo knows. He’s heard it been said to Techno a thousand times over, Wilbur as well, and Tommy once or twice.

“But I had a dad,” Tubbo says, and he notes the way Phil’s shoulders tense with mild interest. “I can remember him. He wasn’t mean to me. He didn’t hit me, I know that.” 

The therapist had talked to him about this, sometimes. Adopted kids coming from abusive families. She’d treated Tubbo like one of those kids, despite him denying it firmly every time. It was one of many reasons he’d stopped going when he was thirteen. 

Phil sighs, and shuts his laptop with a gentle click. Tubbo’s standing in the center of the kitchen, gradually coming over to the counter as the conversation moves on. “Sometimes people aren’t meant to be parents,” he says as a way of explanation. It’s not good enough, though. Tubbo’s stomach itches.

“You were,” Tubbo points out. “Why not him? I can’t–” He squints, gnawing on his lip for a second as he tries to recall. “I can’t remember everything, but I know he was nice. And I know he said he’d come back. And– and it wasn’t like he was–” 

“Tubbo,” Phil says. He sounds sad. Tubbo looks up, surprised, and Phil’s face is terribly open with how clearly he’s pitying Tubbo right now. “Parents can love kids and still do bad things. Your dad– he– well, he struggled with a lot of things, including you. I took you in a few times when you were a baby, as a favor, but my job took me here. Your dad wasn’t that bad when I left, but by the time I saw you two again. Well.” Phil sighs. “Your dad was a good man, but he had his vices, ‘kay, Tubbo?” 

Tubbo wrings his fingers, leaning against the granite countertop. It gleams. 

“Today Tommy played a song,” he admits, voice low so no one who might be sitting on the stairs can listen in. “It reminded me of him. He said he’d come back for me. When– when was the last time you…?” He trails off, and by the way Phil sighs again, he’s clearly understood the question.

“Ten or more years ago, bud,” Phil says gently. “When I had to go to court in order to adopt you.” 

Right. That had been a long and arduous process. Tubbo can remember the long corridors of the courthouses, the fuzzy seats and the people who would come and ask him questions about living with Phil. He’d been six, maybe seven when it had started, and the papers hadn’t been finalized until he was nine. The therapist had been a part of that deal too, he knows. The process to adopt him had taken so much longer than Tommy’s or Wilbur’s or Technoblade’s– more complexity in the paper, more visits to the courthouse and interviews with strangers.

“He was there?” Tubbo asks, feeling fuzzy. “Really?” 

“Once,” Phil says with a nod. “To relinquish guardianship of you, officially.” 

Tubbo’s heart drops. 

“Is he still out there?” He asks. “Do you– can you–” 

“I don’t know any way to contact him,” Phil says. “The phone number he gave me stopped working years ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tubbo waves one hand, fingers shaky. “No, no, it’s… it’s okay. I guess I was just curious, after… after today, and hearing the song. It’s fine.” 

“You sure?” Phil’s face is gentle and kind when he looks at him again. Always patient, that’s their dad. Sure, he can be a bit of a menace sometimes, but Tubbo thinks it just runs in the family at this point. “I can try and find you some things about the case, if you want.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s alright. Really. Just, uh.”

Phil cocks his head, waiting. Tubbo forces himself onwards.

“What was his name?” He asks. “I never knew, or I can’t remember, or–”

“Oh,” Phil says, with a sort of relief in his voice. His shoulders sag for a second, a smile creeping over his lips. “That’s an easy question, at least. His name was Schlatt. Johnathan Schlatt, I think.” 

Johnathan Schlatt. Tubbo stands there for a second, committing the name to memory, and then nods.

“Thanks,” he says. “I was just curious.”

“It’s no problem. I knew you’d be curious at some point,” Phil tells him, reaching out and snagging Tubbo’s elbow with two fingers over the counter. He has to stretch to reach him, and Tubbo smiles absently in his direction. “Hey. You know I love you though, right?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, nudging his elbow back at Phil’s fingers. His dad smiles. “I know. You’re my dad.” 

“Good,” Phil hums. “Now go help Tommy with your guys’ laundry.”

“Absolutely not,” Tubbo snipes back, snickering as Phil laughs. “Tommy folds them neater anyways.” He darts away as his dad opens up his laptop again, taking the stairs two at a time and mulling over the name bouncing around in his head as he goes. 

That night, he’s sitting on his bed and watching as Tommy folds their clothes. He’s currently debating over two black socks, staring intently for a moment and holding them up to eye-level. Tubbo leans his back against the wall and watches, one eye on his phone as he scrolls Twitter aimlessly. 

“Oh, fuck this,” Tommy grumbles, tossing the socks into a pile. “They’re all black anyways. Why bother trying to match them in the first place. Fuckin’ dumb.” 

“Not sure why you tried, boss man. I never do.” Tubbo says casually. His thumb hovers over the screen of his phone for a moment, fingernail picking lightly at one of the cracks in his protector. Tommy continues pulling socks out of the laundry pile in comfortable silence– across the hall, a guitar strums. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo says. The window’s still open. “I want to find my dad.” 

“Phil’s downstairs,” Tommy says easily, tucking a shirt against his chest and folding the arms in.

“No, my real dad.”

“...Phil’s downstairs?”

“ Biological, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Tommy’s not looking at him. “Why do you want to do that?”

Instead of answering, Tubbo gnaws on his lip and gives the answer to a different question. “His name’s Johnathan Schlatt. Phil told me earlier. Do you think I could find him online?” 

“Techno says you can find anyone online if you look hard enough,” Tommy says casually, like he hadn’t just alluded to Technoblade’s stalker-like behavior from the infamous Potato War in his junior and senior year of high school. Poor Squid. “Plus, court records are usually public.” 

“How did you know about the court records?” Tubbo asks, watching as Tommy gets down on the floor and struggles to open the dresser with one hand, the other holding a pile of folded shirts. 

“I went with you, duh,” Tommy says. The nonchalant way he talks about this shit– well, it doesn’t ease Tubbo’s mind, but it makes it all a bit easier to talk about. Surely that’s something. “Remember? We used to run around in the hallways in our socks. Marble ‘n shit. Like a slip and slide.” 

Tubbo blinks, and oh shit, right, he does remember. The cool, long hallways Phil had dragged them to on occasion, Tommy by his side with bandages on his knees and missing teeth. They had been what– six? Maybe seven? The memory’s hazy, but the afternoon comes back sweetly, pushing away gossamer curtains from his mind and watching as a tiny version of himself skids across the floor alongside Tommy, their shoes missing and arms flailing. 

“Right,” he says, and Tommy’s fingers snap in front of his face once more. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Tommy scoffs, shaking out a pair of jeans with a sharp thwap. “Court records. Public records. We can call Techno to help, if you want.” 

“Nah,” Tubbo says, ignoring the way Tommy’s face falls and how he struggles to cover it up. Tommy’s hero-worship of Techno is anything but a secret– even now, Tubbo knows Techno’s his fucking idol. Makes sense. Technoblade is pretty cool. “We can do it ourselves, I bet. Hand me my laptop.”

“Get off your fat ass and get it yourself.”

“No. Hand me my laptop,” Tubbo whines. Tommy rolls his eyes, tucking his fingers under the corner of the jeans and flipping them over on themselves before giving up and just shoving them into the dresser drawer. The sleek silver top of his computer is tossed his way, and Tubbo reaches out to pull the thing to his chest and open it up. It’s cold on his fingers, unused all afternoon, and it takes a second to boot up.

“Any reason why this came up today?” Tommy asks. When Tubbo glances over, he’s the picture of innocence, staring at the blue jeans in his hands and pointedly pursing his lips with the question.

“....no,” Tubbo lies. Tommy raises a brow. “Well. Earlier.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. Tommy was there.

“Okay,” Tommy says, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Google his name, then. Let’s see what shit we can dig up on your old man.” 

Tubbo snorts, and casts his fingers across the touchpad as the computer finishes booting up. Google Chrome makes itself known, and he doesn’t hesitate to type in the name Phil had given him less than a half hour before– Johnathan Schlatt.

The first few entries are definitely not his dad. There are some Google Images, too. Apparently, his dad shares a name with some politician in Eastwoods, California. Tubbo gnaws on the inside of his lip and tastes copper as he scrolls down, passing a few Linkedin links, a Twitter account here, a Podchaser connection there. One obituary. Thankfully, it’s not his dad. He keeps scrolling– University of Michigan Law School? No, that’s the politician guy again. Tubbo keeps looking, and finally, there’s a Facebook link. That should be easier, right? Old people like Facebook? Phil sure uses it a lot. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo says absently. “Old people like Facebook, right?” 

Tommy drops the jeans he’d just folded into a neat pile, the fabric spilling across the floor as he bends over at the waist and wails in laughter. Tubbo blinks.

“What?” He asks, staring as Tommy crumples to his knees with the force of his howling cackles. “What did I say?” 

“Nothing, big man,” Tommy chokes out, scrabbling to pick up what he’d dropped. “Yeah, old people like Facebook.” 

“All you had to do was answer,” Tubbo grumbles, scrolling through the list of Johnathan Schlatt’s that populate the world and trying to see if any of their profile pictures look familiar. None of them really do, but he clicks on each profile with care and scours their pages quietly as Tommy snickers in the background. “This is hopeless.” 

“You’ve barely been looking for five minutes,” Tommy says, and the bed dips as he scoots up against the wall with Tubbo. “Let me see. Nah, don’t use Facebook. Try the Yellow Pages.” 

“The Yellow Pages?” Tubbo asks, watching as Tommy snatches the laptop away and types furiously. His fingers pound into the keyboard like he’s trying to break the damn thing. “Aren’t those obsolete?” 

“It’s all just online now, Tubso,” Tommy says with a click of his tongue. “Techno showed me how to– you know what, I’ll refrain from saying.”

“He was so freaky with Squid,” Tubbo groans, leaning back against the wall and slumping until his shoulders ache with the angle he’s at. Tommy snickers. “He was!”

“Yeah, but it’s helping us now,” Tommy reminds him, and turns the computer towards him. “Schlatt, right? There’s one here in our area.” 

“Only one?” Tubbo asks, leaning in and staring at the bright screen. Tommy nods. 

Johnathan Schlatt stares back at him, a phone number lit up beside his name. Tubbo reaches out, copypastes it, and then plonks it into the search bar.

A more definitive profile comes up this time. Facebook again, Tubbo notes, and the profile’s not private. The picture on it is some baseball cap– no actual pictures of the guy, but plenty of a cat and some old text posts about a wrestling match and–

“Well,” Tommy says, staring at the screen. “Explains where you get the stupidity from.”

“I hate you,” Tubbo shoots back, because this guy, this dumbass, has posted a picture of his apartment’s front door and a good bit of the street around it. Tubbo has to click on the picture and take it to a different tab in order to zoom in, but in the background–

Yep. The street sign. If he squints right and then hands the computer to Tommy, they can make it out. Faint green, one of the E’s faded out, but it’s readable.

“I hate you,” Tubbo whispers again, and then scrambles for a scrap piece of paper and a pencil to get the address down.

It takes a few days of planning.

See, Tubbo doesn’t just want to call the guy. And he actually did. He did that night in their shared bedroom, Tommy at his side as Tubbo had plunked in the number and called. The voicemail had been full, and no one had picked up. He tries once more, but gives up after that. No one’s going to answer spam calls on their cell phone, not in this day and age. And Tubbo knows– no, he needs to see his father in person. 

So they plan.

It’s honestly very stupid of them. It’s the most sincerely teenage thing to do. They come up with the plan in school on a Monday and by Wednesday, Tubbo is packing his school backpack with his wallet and a snack and things that are very much not his school books. At the very, very bottom of his bag, he tucks a worn and patched up bumblebee plush that has had the place of honor on his bed for eleven years.

“Good morning,” Phil says lightly as the two of them plod their way downstairs, extra cash in their pockets and headphones around their necks. “Ready for school?”

Tubbo does not look at Tommy when he says: “Sure am.” Tommy does not look back and simply just salutes their father. The car ride to school is normal. Phil drops them off at the entrance, Tubbo waves him goodbye as he pulls away from the curb. They watch as Phil’s familiar soccer-mom van peels around the curve, just out of sight, and then they start the five-minute walk to the bus stop in the opposite direction.

To get to his dad’s address, it’s about two and a half hours by transit. They’d mapped the route out religiously last night, staring at a confusing map of colors and lines before deciding to put their route in manually, fingers tracking over a printed sheet of paper. The very same paper tucked into Tubbo’s back pocket as they make their way onto the orange line, the one that heads downtown, and pay their fare.

Tubbo’s very glad, he thinks, that Tommy is here. The bus is less scary alone, playing soccer with balled-up garbage between the seats until other passengers clamber on. No one gives the two of them a second glance with their backpacks– the school districts around here are few and far in between. And Tubbo makes sure not to look suspicious. He tucks his earbuds in when more and more passengers get on, as downtown spreads out below them, as Tommy stares at the map in his hands and traces their path delicately. It’s color-coded, at Tubbo’s own insistence and the markers borrowed from Phil’s study.

Speaking of Phil, about a half hour onto the first bus ride, Tommy gets a call. The school’s number glares accusingly up at them, and Tubbo blinks. Tommy lets it ring once, twice, and then picks up the phone.

“Hello,” he says, lowering his voice just a tad. Tubbo can practically hear him entering “impersonating-dad-mode.” And he can hear the secretary too, on the other end, her tinny voice floating out through the speaker. He slaps his own hands over his mouth in order to keep from giggling.

It’s nerve wracking. It’s terrifying. Tubbo’s been riding the logical high for the past few days– the need to get somewhere and the analytical way they need to pull this off. He’s good at analytical. He’s good at the brainy stuff– emotions have always been Tommy’s strong suit. Tubbo had been the one to suggest they swap out Phil’s number for Tommy’s on the emergency form in the front office early Tuesday morning, and that Tommy could easily pass himself off as Phil, albeit with a slight cold. But now they’re actually here– the sun is shining, it is 8:21 in the morning and Tubbo is on the highway downtown, watching the city pass by and people go to work at each stop. They shift and move with the traffic, horns honking not too far off, and the morning is just beginning. They’re actually doing this. His stomach rolls. 

This is just the first key to unlocking the rest of the day.

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy says apologetically. “Totally forgot to call. Bit of a hectic morning, if I’m honest with you. Boys are sick. Throwing up, fever, whole shebang. Mark them absent for the day, mate.” Tinny female voice on the other end. Tubbo presses his fingers to his mouth harder. Tommy grimaces. “Yeah. Thanks so much. Hopefully it clears up by tomorrow. Have a good one.” 

Click.

Tubbo meets Tommy’s blue gaze. The city whirls by in the background. His headphones blare around his neck from where he’d tugged them off when the phone rang– the murmur of electric guitar and drums. 

Door, unlocked.

They get off the orange line at some point, waiting in the sun for the next bus. This one’s the shortest of the trip– only fifteen minutes, connecting to the A line and then they’re on that one for another hour and fifteen. It’s by far the longest and emptiest bus of the whole trip. Some people get on and off, but most leave after a stop or two. The driver eyes them the whole time, but doesn’t complain when Tubbo unplugs his headphones and lets Rockin’ Down the Highway play as they literally rock down a highway, guitars pitching high and Tommy wildly flailing his arms to the music from his seat as they careen across the pavement. If anything, the lady smiles.

Skipping school is a thrill, Tubbo thinks wildly, cackling alongside his brother and linking arms as they tangle their legs together and scroll through Spotify to find another good song on the playlist.

Eventually, though, the journey comes to an end. It’s clear when things start to shift– Tommy checks the map and reminds them both of the stop they’re getting off at. Tubbo’s starting to forget the thrill of doing something mildly against the rules (mildly is one way to put it. This is downright dangerous) and instead, is remembering who they’re here to see.

His dad. 

The bus pulls away from the pavement with a shriek of rubber on hot asphalt, and the two of them glance around. The bus stop is littered with gum and torn posters. There’s a few half-empty bottles in the corner. Tubbo notes down the location they’re at, on the crosswalk of two streets, and then plugs in the street his dad’s apartments are on.

It’s a two minute walk. They walk silently, music tucked away, phones clutched in their hands, backpacks heavy. Tubbo’s heart is starting to pound a bit now, as they cross a street and find the one the apartment’s on. It’s not hard to find the complex– it’s the only one on the street at all. A big, ugly red-brick thing. Tubbo stares at it and tightens his grip around the backpack straps on his chest.

“Are you sure about this?” Tommy asks quietly, standing at his side. It’s the first words they’d spoken to each other since they’d gotten off the bus. Patient, determined, brilliant Tommy, Tubbo thinks absently, glancing over. His hair’s in his eyes as he tips his head back, bringing a hand up to his forehead in order to block out the midday sun. “This place is a shithole.” 

“I’m sure,” Tubbo says, looking back towards the apartment and then fiddling with the scrap of paper he’d written the address on. The place is kind of a shithole– trash in the courtyard, a few bikes locked against a rusted fence, the paint peeling and chipping on the parts of the complex that aren’t concrete. There are stains all over the sidewalk, old pieces of sun bleached gum strewn everywhere, and more than a few cigarette butts. A dog is barking in the distance somewhere, harsh yelps against the background hum of city ambiance and cars. 

“Are we going to go in?” Tommy prompts after a second, nudging Tubbo’s sneaker-clad foot with his own. “Or are you just gonna stand here like a pussy?”

“Fuck off,” Tubbo shoots back, but there’s no real bite to his tone. Not when he’s this nervous, this keyed up– he’s too on edge to push away any source of comfort, even if it’s Tommy being a dickhead. He glances at the apartment number one last time and then nudges open the rusty gate, wincing at the shriek it makes in protest. “Let’s go in. Look for apartment 4C.” 

“On it, boss man,” Tommy says, but there’s a sort of subdued tone to his voice as they walk through the complex that’s hard to ignore.

“And let me do the talking,” Tubbo reminds him, staring at the numbers on the doors. More than a few are missing them– it seems to go by building, so he follows a concrete sidewalk around and towards the next one. “He’s my– well, he’s my dad, after all.” 

“Phil’s your dad,” Tommy corrects. “This guy’s your sperm donor.” 

“Oh, come on,” Tubbo sighs, eyes flicking between numbers. 2B. 3B. 4B. “He’s my dad, technically. In the literal sense of the word.” 

“Yeah, but he didn’t raise you,” Tommy says, a rock skittering ahead of them both when he kicks it. And then another. “Phil did.”

Tubbo thinks about the little bee plush tucked away in his backpack, faded and worn and stitched together again and again. “Maybe,” he admits. “But he’s still my father, Tommy. Give it up.”

“If you insist,” Tommy scoffs, falling quiet. Tubbo turns another corner, gaze catching on the letters and beelining for the row of doorways. 

“This way,” he says, stomping through an overgrown patch of garden in order to get there quicker. Maybe it’s someone’s, maybe it’s not, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s so close, and after the whole trip with Tommy and the trouble they’ll be in when they get home– well, this has to be worth it. It has to, or Tubbo’s not sure what he’s going to do.

A minute or so later, they arrive at the next building. Tubbo stares down the faded door, the chipped paint of golden letters staring at him almost accusingly.

“This is it,” he says, sneakers thumping softly as he goes up to the door. “4C.” 

“And you’re sure?” Tommy asks, following close behind.

“According to Facebook, yeah,” Tubbo says. “Anyways, if it was wrong, we can just catch the next bus home.” 

“Okay, so knock,” Tommy says, nodding towards the door. “Meet your father, or whatever.” 

Tubbo turns, staring down the faint red of the door. It’s got scratch marks on it, weathered by both the sun and rain, the golden numbers similarly chipped. He stares. The door stares back, two empty eyes, and Tubbo swallows. 

“Well?” Tommy asks, a moment later. “Gonna knock?”

“Yes,” Tubbo says, insistently, but he still can’t bring himself to do it. The door stares. Somewhere, a dog barks. Tommy is absently standing behind him, a shadowy presence in the corner of his eye. Behind that door is answers– answers about a father he can hardly remember, answers to memories of a truck and music and the wind in his hair. Answers about the bumblebee in his backpack. 

Eventually, Tommy steps forward and wordlessly knocks. Tubbo is silently grateful, standing there with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“You’re welcome,” Tommy says casually, as both of them wait. There’s no sound from beyond the door. No curtains shift, no footprints, no sound of life. They stand there and wait. Tommy heaves a sigh, fidgeting again, and then reaches forward to knock once more as Tubbo’s stomach sinks–

The door flies open, Tommy’s hand an inch from its surface.

Oh, Tubbo thinks, tipping his head up a bit, his hair looks like mine.

“I’m not buying the fucking popcorn,” his father says. The man is taller than both of them, Tommy by only an inch or two, but Tubbo has to properly look upwards. He’s got a scruffy sort of beard on his face, hair long and pulled back by some sort of fabric headband, and bags under his eyes. Sweatpants, a stained t-shirt, and Tubbo can already smell the cigarette smoke.

This is what you knew would happen, he thinks stubbornly to himself, staring up at the man who once left him on the front steps of a stranger’s house. This is fine.

“We’re not selling popcorn, bitch,” Tommy bites out. “Don’t you dare close that door, it took ages to find you.” 

“Oh, great, the government’s finally caught me,” Schlatt says, rolling his eyes and moving to shut the door on them anyways. “And then they sent two babies to hunt me down. Bye, have a nice day.”

“Wait!” Tommy sticks his foot out at the same time Tubbo throws a hand out, and the door stops a few inches from closing. Tubbo’s throat is raw as he says: “I’m your son!”

Utter silence. The door doesn’t shut, though. 

“I don’t have a son,” Schlatt says coolly. “You have the wrong apartment.”

“Johnathan Schlatt, right?” Tubbo says, words coming faster than he can properly think of them. “Phil told me your name, and gave me some of the papers from the adoption–” Liar. “–we found you on Google. I’m your kid. Tubb– Toby. My name’s Toby, Watson now, but before the adoption it was S–” 

“Stop,” Schlatt says, and the wood of the door presses against Tubbo’s fingers as he desperately tries to keep it open. “I don’t have a son. Wrong. Apartment.”

“I just have a few questions. Please,” Tubbo continues, pleading. “We have the same hair!” 

Schlatt inhales behind the door, and Tubbo can’t see him anymore. Just hear him, hear the labored breathing, and the soft panting from Tommy too. His foot’s still in the door, keeping it open a few inches, and Tubbo’s own fingers are in dire danger of being crushed if it keeps closing. But it doesn’t. After a moment, the hinges creak as it opens a few inches once more. Schlatt’s eyes are rimmed red as he glances them both up and down, taking in the backpacks and the phones in their pockets and the looks on their faces. Tubbo is utterly grateful in this second that Tommy is here with him– he doesn’t think that he’d be able to take this scrutiny without him here, fingers tangling with his own and squeezing gently. 

“Fine,” Schlatt says after a moment, and the door opens further. “Fine. You have questions. Ask away.”

“I–” Tubbo stammers for a second, and Tommy’s palm is sweaty in his own. Schlatt raises a brow. 

“Can we come in or what?” Tommy asks then, brash. “Not to be a bitch, but it’s hot out here. And he’s your kid for fuck’s sake.”

“And you are?” Schlatt turns. “Some blond fuck?”

“I’m his brother,” Tommy says with a scowl. 

“One of Phil’s brats?” Schlatt sneers. “Didn’t you have brown hair too?” 

“That’s– no,” Tommy says, raising a hand to facepalm. Tubbo exhales, then lets go of Tommy’s hand and shoves forward. Past Schlatt, over the doorstep, into the apartment.

“Woah woah woah,” Schlatt is saying, and Tommy is saying something too, but Tubbo’s head is kind of fuzzy. The whole place smells like cigarettes and beer cans and it’s– it’s familiar, in a weird way. Maybe add some gasoline and Tubbo can nearly picture a truck, red steel and rubber tires. Maybe a different apartment, one a little bit bigger than this one, on–

“Peacock Street,” Tubbo says quietly. “My name’s Tubbo, and we lived at 562 Peacock Street. You made me repeat that to you just in case I ever got lost.” 

“Huh,” Schlatt says. The door shuts, and Tommy’s inside too, so Tubbo figures it’s fine. It’s his dad. “Guess you are my kid. You mentioned Phil too, so.” He makes his way across the room, a small living room with a dented metal table and folding chairs. The kitchen’s through another door, yellowed tile, a futon unfolded and covered in sheets. Schlatt shuffles over to the table, collapsing into one of the chairs and gesturing. “Come sit, kiddo. Blondie, too.” 

Tommy and Tubbo exchange looks before making their way over, Schlatt pulling out his phone and absently tapping at the screen as they slip off their backpacks and sit. The chairs creak and shift on the carpet, and Tubbo glances around more as Tommy similarly pulls out his phone. 

“So,” Schlatt says, after an uncomfortable amount of silence. “How old are you again?”

Tommy’s scowl deepens from where it already had been a crevasse in his face. “He’s your fucking kid. Shouldn’t you know?”

“Tommy,” Tubbo interrupts, swallowing. “It’s fine. I’m– seventeen. Since December.”

Schlatt’s gaze is disinterested at best as he looks at Tommy. “And you?”

“Seventeen too,” Tommy says with ease, holding his head up high. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Schlatt asks, raising a brow, and Tubbo shrugs.

“I wanted to come find you,” he explains. “By myself. It was…” 

He could’ve asked Phil. He should’ve asked Phil. Phil wouldn’t have said no to something like this, but Schlatt… Schlatt might’ve said no. Because Phil would’ve insisted on contacting him and asking. 

“It was important,” he decides. “We tried to call you first, anyways.” Schlatt looks down at his phone, almost surprised. “Yeah. Empty your inbox.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, kid,” Schlatt says with ease, glancing back up. His eyes are sharper than they originally looked at the door– like there’s a film across them, curtains to be pulled over the backstage in order to hide whatever’s going on behind the scenes. “So you stalked me and tracked me down.” 

“It wasn’t super hard,” Tommy says casually, although the threat in his voice is anything but hidden. “Easy, really.” 

“Great,” Schlatt mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Next thing you know, you’re gonna be sayin’ you doxxed me.” 

“Well, no,” Tubbo says.

“You haven’t given us a reason to, yet,” Tommy points out, and Tubbo finally reaches out to whap his arm from across the table.

“Shut up,” he hisses. Tommy glares.

“He abandoned you. I’m not gonna be nice,” Tommy hisses right back. And well, if that statement doesn’t hang in the air like a loaded gun on the table. All three of them go quiet, and after a second, Tubbo leans back and pulls away from Tommy. 

As the silence echoes between the three of them, he gets a chance to look around the living room once more. It’s small, like he’d noticed before, the futon pulled out and unmade. A few articles of clothing here or there. The walls are noticeably bare of any pictures, anything that makes the apartment feel like a home. If anything, it feels like a motel room, not an apartment. There’s just a distinct lack of personality, Tubbo thinks, swiveling his head around and meeting his father’s gaze head-on.

They stare at each other for a moment. Tubbo’s mouth is cotton-dry. 

“I saw your Facebook,” he says after a second. “You– you had a cat?” 

“I did,” Schlatt says, similarly hesitant. Tommy is staring at his phone like he glares hard enough, it’ll shatter. Tubbo pays him no mind. “He died.”

“Oh.” Well, shit. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Schlatt sighs, leaning backwards and kicking his feet out against the carpet. “Wouldn’t expect you to know.” 

“Do you like cats?” Tubbo asks before he can stop himself. Schlatt raises his eyebrows.

“Would I have gotten one if I didn’t?” He challenges. Tubbo gnaws on the inside of his lip, then shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what to think.” 

Schlatt regards him for a second, and then inhales. Exhales. 

“What’re you doin’ here, kid?” He asks bluntly. Tubbo blinks.

“I wanted to find you,” he says, drawing out the words for a second. A memory– just a flicker of it, but vibrant in it’s recollection. “You said you’d come back,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “I can remember you saying you’d come back. And you didn’t.” 

“Kid,” Schlatt says, a cloud of gentle exasperation around him. “Hey.”

“You said you’d come back.” Tubbo grits his teeth. “And yet I had to come find you.” 

“There’s a reason I didn’t–”

“Well it better be a damn good one then!!!” The anger in his own voice surprises him, fists slamming down against the table. Tubbo finds himself half-standing, hovering above the creaky metal chair and staring at his father. His actual father– the one he can remember on bad nights, the one who left him on another man’s front steps. After a second of stunned silence, Tommy reaches out–

“Toby–”

“Don’t,” he says, sitting back down with a clang, reaching down and pulling his backpack into his lap. He digs into it for a moment, hands searching until they find their fuzzy destination. Schlatt looks surprised. Maybe a little scared. He pulls out Bee.

“This,” he says, shaking the stuffed animal a little bit. “This is all you left me with.” 

Schlatt is silent. Tubbo swallows, then shakes it again.

“This and a tiny green backpack, and some jeans and a shirt. This, and the idea that at some point, you were gonna come back.” 

“I meant to come back,” Schlatt says finally, opening his mouth, licking his lips once, twice. “I did.” 

“But you didn’t,” Tommy points out. The other boy is leaning back in his chair, blond curls hanging low over darkened eyes. He’s pissed, and Tubbo is suddenly so, so grateful Tommy is here with him. He presses his hands to his backpack to keep them from shaking. 

“I couldn’t,” Schlatt says. “They wouldn’ta let me. Plain and simple.”

“Did you even try?” Tommy asks, fury clear with every syllable. “Not that I don’t love Tubbo, but hell man, did you even want him back?”

“Of fucking course I did!” Schlatt slams a hand down on the table and both of the teenagers flinch– Tubbo fights the urge to crawl under the table and hide. Schlatt seems to recognize his mistake, a tired, apologetic glint in his eye as he leans back in his seat and sighs. “I wasn’t ready to be a dad. I wasn’t a good one.”

“Bullshit,” Tubbo says, raising his arm and wiping furiously at his face. “I can’t– you–”

“Tubbo,” Schlatt says, and his voice is quieter now. “Look at me, kiddo.” 

Tubbo looks at him. Schlatt is staring right back, eyes hooded and sad, face mostly blank. 

“Do you want to know the truth?” He asks.

Tubbo nods.

“All of it,” he says. “I want to know why.”

“Why’s not as simple as that,” Schlatt says. “I just wasn’t a good dad–”

“Was it me?” Tubbo asks simply. He’s so scared of the answer. Schlatt’s face immediately falls and he leans forward, hands clasped, looking desperate for a moment.

“No,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. Ever. Get that goddamn idea out of your brain, okay? Kick it out, evict it. You’re the landlord of your own mind. And that is not true. You were four.” 

“I was six,” Tubbo corrects him. Schlatt falters for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “Four. Tiny. Just a baby.” 

Tubbo’s heard Phil call them all that, before. Of course they’d never been his actual babies, all of them coming to him in some form of adolescence (save Tommy), but he’d called them all his babies just the same. My baby , he’d coo to a smaller Tubbo, sobbing from a nightmare. My babies are all grown up , he’d teased Wilbur and Technoblade on their first day of senior year in high school. I’ll miss when you guys aren’t my babies anymore , the night before Tubbo and Tommy went to high school and had curled up in bed with him, both of them shaking with nerves. 

Schlatt looks like the phrase is on the tip of his tongue. Just a baby. My baby.

But Tubbo’s not. He’s Phil’s now, legally and everything. They both know it.

“I was six,” Tubbo reiterates. “And a quarter.” 

“Whatever,” Schlatt says, leaning back and away once more. “You were small. So it wasn’t your fault. It was– and still is– all mine.” 

“At least you can admit that,” Tommy grouses, still staring at Schlatt in anger. 

The phone rings. It startles all three of them– Tubbo flinches, Tommy jumps, and even Schlatt jolts a little bit in surprise. Some indie band croons out across the airwaves, and Tommy fumbles in his pocket before pulling out his phone. It’s vibrating. He stares at the screen, then at Tubbo.

“It’s dad,” he says by way of explanation, and Tubbo swallows.

“Fuck.” 

“Wait,” Schlatt says, like he’s just cluing in on the fact it’s a weekday afternoon. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“We told Ranboo,” Tubbo says, leaning forward as Tommy stares at his phone with a panicked look. “He was covering for us. Shit.”

“What do I do?!?” Tommy asks, fingers hovering over the screen. “Do I answer it??!?!” 

“Does he normally call you at school??” Tubbo shoots back. Tommy scowls, and then looks back down at his phone. Phil sits neatly on the screen, and then Schlatt reaches out above both their arms and hits the green ‘answer’ button.

“What the fuck,” Tubbo hisses angrily as Tommy fumbles the phone to his ear, too busy about to answer to properly curse Schlatt out like he wants to.

“You are in so much trouble,” Schlatt says simply. “You snuck out to get here, didn’t you? Little bastards.”

“Hey, dad,” Tommy says weakly. “What’s up.”

Tubbo can’t hear Phil’s voice on the other end of the line, but he can imagine the older man’s tone. Stern, probably a little angry. Maybe confused, or hurt. 

“It was my choice to make,” Tubbo shoots back, lowering his voice to a whisper so the phone won’t pick it up. “I wanted to find you.”

“What if I was some kind of serial killer??” Schlatt asks, throwing a hand to the air. “The fuck!” 

“Well, you’re not,” Tubbo hisses. “I think.” 

“I’m at school,” Tommy says, waving a hand in between Schlatt and Tubbo’s faces both, looking panicked. He does not sound convincing. Tommy is a terrible liar. “Yeah. I’m at– uh, llllllunch. Yep. Lunchtime.”

Tubbo wants to slam his head into the table. Schlatt is sighing, and then he’s reaching out.

“Give me the phone,” he says, not quiet at all. 

“Haha!” Tommy laughs, far too loud and far too enthusiastically. “That was Tubbo! Yep! Look at him, wanting to talk to you. Give me the phone, he said!”

“Tommy,” Schlatt says again. “Give me the phone.” 

Tommy scowls, but after a second, he brings the phone down from his ear and hits the speaker icon. 

“–tell me what is going on,” Phil is in the middle of saying, and Tubbo winces. “Tubbo’s phone says he’s in the South Bend, and Tommy, your location permissions are off so when the school called–”

“Hi, Phil,” Schlatt says, cutting him off. Tubbo looks down at his own phone and– yep, goddammit. He’d forgotten to turn off his own location permissions. Stupid plan, failing them. Fuck. “It’s Johnathan Schlatt. Tubbo’s, ah. Tubbo’s–”

“Schlatt.” Phil sounds relieved and terrified all in one breath. The tinniness of the phone makes him sound a little bit like a robot doing a bad impression of a human. Plus, his accent gets worse when he’s upset. “What the hell is going on?” 

“It’s my fault,” Tubbo cuts in quietly. “Hi, Phil.”

“Tubbo.” Phil sighs again. “Someone, explain.”

“It was my idea,” Tubbo says. “I wanted to… find Schlatt. So we did, on the Internet, and then we came to find him. It was pretty easy.”

“You skipped school?”

“A necessary evil.”

“A blessing in disguise, more like,” Tommy says nonchalantly, picking at his cuticle. “I had a math exam today.”

“ Tommy ,” Phil says, sounding scandalized. “What is wrong with you two?? Oh, my god.”

“They’re safe, Phil,” Schlatt cuts in again. “If that’s what you’re worried about. They’re holed up here with me. And I am not letting either of them out of my sight.”

“I’m already on my way,” Phil says politely, although there’s an undertone of something there. “Schlatt, can I talk to you for a moment? Off speaker?”

“Sure,” Schlatt says, reaching out to snag the phone. He pushes up and away from the table with it, his low voice murmuring as he walks a little bit away and into the messy living room. Tommy is watching him intently, and Tubbo is watching Tommy in turn. 

His stomach is rolling, tides of an angry ocean eroding every edge inside of him. Something has been dulled down– whatever fire he was feeling earlier has subsided a bit. He’s gotten no answers, but he’s seen where he got his temper and his hair. 

“We’re in trouble,” Tommy says, tapping his foot and finger in time. Tommy’s always been fidgety– Tubbo can sit still when he needs to, but he finds himself picking at his hoodie anyways. “Dad sounded mad.”

“Of course we’re in trouble,” Tubbo reasons. “We got caught. He’ll probably ground us. Take away phones and stuff.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tommy says, throwing a hand in the air. “We were just trying to find your dad, man!”

“My biological dad,” Tubbo corrects him. “He can’t ground me, after all.”

“Maybe we should just stay here,” Tommy grumps. “I don’t want to lose my phone, I’ve got streaks to uphold. Streaks with women. How will I be a ladies man if I don’t send my streaks, Tubbo?” It’s a bit of joking to lighten their sour mood, and Tubbo’s lip twitches for a moment. Tommy’s does too. 

“If I’m gonna be honest, boss man,” Tubbo says lightly, “I don’t think you even have Snapchat installed.”

“I do too,” Tommy cuts back, vicious as a blade and twice as sharp. “I use it to watch Wilbur’s story.” 

“Right,” Tubbo nods. “Sure.” He doesn’t have Snapchat installed. It’s stupid, and Tommy and Ranboo are his only friends, really. Well, other than Jack Manifold, and Niki sometimes, when she’s around. And Aimsey, from chemistry. And Bill– well, okay, he’s got a lot of friends. But he doesn’t use Snapchat to talk to them.

“You think Dad’ll still let me go to Wil’s concert?” Tommy asks after a second. The lull in conversation had let Schlatt’s low, rumbling voice fill both their ears. But Tubbo is keen to block that conversation out and instead turns to Tommy. 

“Dunno,” he says, still picking at his hoodie. “When’s it on, again?”

“Next Tuesday–”

“Hey.” Schlatt’s back at the meager excuse for a kitchen table, eyes crawling across both of them. Tubbo can feel his gaze like a swarm of bugs. “Your dad’s on his way,” he says, holding the phone back out to Tommy. Tommy, who takes it and hits the speaker button again. The ambient sounds of cars can be heard over it, as well as Phil’s voice.

“You two aren’t going to move until I get there,” he says. Tubbo sinks into his seat, shoulders up by his ears. “Understand?”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, and Tubbo gnaws on his lip.

“Tubbo?” Phil asks. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No moving.”

“Not an inch,” Phil insists. “See you guys in a bit.”

“See you,” Tommy says absently, and then jams his index finger into the end call button like his life depends on it. He keeps pressing the screen after it’s changed, staring as buttons and numbers come and go. 

Silence hangs around them, a stifling cloud of fog in the air. 

“So,” Schlatt says after an eternity. “You guys like takeout?”

They get Chinese. It’s not Tubbo’s favorite and he tells Schlatt as much, but apparently the guy got a bandaid in his pizza once from the Dominoes three blocks over and Taco Bell is for “drunk college kids and sad people.” So Chinese food it is, and Schlatt even folds up the futon into a couch for them to all sit on. The TV is small and there’s a crack in the corner but it works, and they cycle through channels until they find reruns of I Love Lucy. 

“I love this broad,” Schlatt says through a mouthful of pad thai, gesturing with his chopsticks. “All the black and white shit? That’s good TV. In a bad way, you know?”

Tubbo nods along, Tommy arguing occasionally. They find out that Schlatt likes video games, but sold the rest of his consoles a while ago. He complains about the Wii and it’s fitness programs, and Tubbo hesitantly brings up Mario Kart. That conversation quickly devolves into an argument about the best starter to race with, and the objectively best character in Smash. Tubbo doesn’t understand Smash at all, so he lets Schlatt and Tommy duke it out as he eats his dumplings in the far corner of the couch.

Tommy and Schlatt bicker, but it’s not with any true malice, Tubbo thinks. He watches as the younger teen kicks a foot out and lands a solid hit on Schlatt’s thigh, but his dad hardly flinches and instead kicks him right back (if not a little gentler). 

“Dickhead,” Tommy is wheezing anyways, nursing a spot on his shin. “You kick like an ass.”

“And you kick like a tiny little My Little Pony ,” Schlatt throws back at him. “Go to the gym, bro.”

And then Schlatt’s teaching them how to box.

It’s all simple stuff. How to block, how to throw a proper punch. Both Tommy and Tubbo already know how to throw punches (thanks, Techno) but neither of them are good at actually fighting. So Schlatt dumps their containers in the kitchen garbage and shoves the futon back a little bit and starts to show them.

It’s nice. Dare Tubbo thinks it– it’s fun. He likes learning how to dodge and weave, how to use his frankly pitiful stature as an advantage instead of a weakness. They pull their punches for the most part, and by the time Schlatt calls it quits, Tubbo is breathing heavy and slightly sore from where Tommy had slammed his fist into his upper arm.

“Sorry about that,” Tommy says, slapping his hand right on the bruise. Tubbo winces. “That was kinda cool, huh, Big T?”

“Your old man’s got some spunk in him yet,” Schlatt says, raising a can in their direction. “I’d offer you two sodas, but I don’t have any.”

“It’s okay,” Tubbo says. He and Tommy sit back around the kitchen table, fingers picking at the cheap plastic where it’s coming up in spots. His breathing is settling, but he feels warm around the middle still anyways. They all go quiet. Schlatt drinks– Tommy leans back in the chair. At some point, afternoon had turned into evening.

Tubbo blinks. He’s staring at Schlatt again– he’d caught himself doing it a couple times during the few hours they’d been here. He tries to pick out any similarities he can in the other man’s face, in his shoulders. Maybe it’s just in the way the two of them hold themselves up against the world. There’s a certain aura around Schlatt that makes Tubbo’s hackles rise.

He wonders if others get the same feeling when they look at him.

But it doesn’t stop with just gut feelings. Tubbo can see himself in the slant of Schlatt’s eyes, in the color of his hair. They don’t share an eye color. Tubbo has bright baby blues to match Tommy, but Schlatt’s are dark brown. Tubbo wonders who his mother was and where she is now– it’s not a thought he’d ever entertained before. He has no memories of her at all. Only ones of the man in front of him, although he can hardly pair the two together. The Schlatt in his mind (papa, he thinks) has been a little brighter-eyed, had a few less wrinkles around his eyes, had smiled easier. Or maybe that’s just a smaller Tubbo looking at it through rose-colored glasses. His vision had been warped by his age, and while he can’t remember many bad things, there were a few that stuck out.

The smell of alcohol. Tubbo had sworn to never touch the stuff.

Cigarettes, too. Schlatt hasn’t had any since they’d gotten here, but there’s a pack on the kitchen counter.

Tubbo’s got sticky fingers. He’s not sure where or when he picked up the habit, but looking at Schlatt, he can guess. His shelves are decorated with tchotchkes he’d slipped into pockets. He’d lifted snacks from the gas station more times than he can count. Never enough to be caught, just enough for some fun.

That’s where the similarities stop, though. Tubbo scours Schlatt’s face for something, anything to betray their relation– but there’s nothing. Only a few scant traces. 

Maybe they aren’t related. Tubbo fancies the idea for a moment– he must’ve sprung out of the Earth fully formed, like Athena from Technoblade’s books. No dad and no mom, but there are memories that send that fantasy crawling back to the storybooks it emerged from.

He can remember Schlatt’s face. Faintly, but he can. He can remember standing on a concrete doorstep and feeling so, so afraid, and scared. And Schlatt, hovering above him and saying angry things. Then crying.

Tubbo remembers crying. He’d been teased for it, but Tommy had stood by his side with tears to match. And tantrums a thousand times worse.

The first time he remembers crying is standing on Phil’s doorstep. He can taste the summer air if he tries, thick with the sweet scent of flowery hydrangeas. He can feel the soft plush body of Bee in his hands, albeit newer and firmer. He can see Schlatt’s face, kneeling down to his height and promising: “I’ll come back.”

Schlatt is staring at Tubbo. Tubbo stares at Schlatt. Beyond them, Tommy is scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Tubbo came here for answers, but all he got was shitty Chinese takeout and the likelihood of being grounded. He opens his mouth to ask, to get an answer– 

And then– 

There’s headlights outside Schlatt’s window, the low hum of an engine cutting off abruptly as the lights stay on. It casts shadows across the room, the dull kitchen light not doing much to light the rest of the apartment. They’re like yellow stripes painted across the wall, and Tubbo lifts his head from his arms where he’d been resting it against the table. Tommy glances up as well. Schlatt sighs.

Not a moment later, there’s a knock at the door.

“That’s dad,” Tommy says before any of them can get up. Schlatt’s the first to move, getting off the couch and heading over to the door. It opens up towards Tubbo– he’s not able to see Phil just yet. Schlatt’s upper lip curls just the slightest, and he sighs, lifting his arms up off the table and turning in his seat as the two start to converse.

“Heya, Phil,” Schlatt says casually. "Long time no see."

“Schlatt,” comes Phil’s voice, hard and upset. Tubbo sighs, the sinking feeling in his gut even worse than before. “Sorry to be a bother.”

“Not your fault,” Schlatt says, opening the door a tad bit wider. Tommy shuffles, tossing Tubbo his backpack from across the way, his own already slung over one shoulder. They exchange gazes, Tommy looking sour and Tubbo’s sure his own face reflecting it. “Stubborn brats, aren’t they?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy calls out, not tearing his eyes away from Tubbo until heavy footsteps sound against the wooden floor. They both turn and there’s Phil, arms crossed, and while his face is neutral he’s so clearly pissed that both of them nearly wilt on the spot. Tubbo wants to– he’s never liked Phil’s anger, and worse is his disappointment. Worse is his worry as he takes in the state of both of them, reaching out with both hands to put a hand on both of their shoulders and run his thumb over Tubbo’s cheek, probably trying to get rid of the day’s dirt that has accumulated. 

“Watch it,” Phil says sternly. “You’re already in trouble. Don’t make it worse.” 

“We’re sorry,” Tubbo cuts in, trying to deflect. “It’s my fault, really.”

“We’re not talking about this tonight,” Phil says simply, lifting a hand to Tommy’s head and sighing. He glances back at Schlatt and Tubbo does as well– the other man is shadowed, eyes dark as he watches the three of them. “I’m sorry again, about them.”

“Like I said,” Schlatt says, stepping forward and shrugging. “Not your fault. Just glad they made it here okay.”

“I’ll take them off your hands,” Phils says apologetically. “There were a thousand different ways to go about this, and they chose the most worrisome for everyone involved.” 

“I said sorry,” Tubbo cuts in. There’s a familiar sort of anger rising in his gut as he watches them talk over their heads– not literally, but the tone is so patronizing. He’s seventeen, not seven. He doesn’t need to get chauffeured home, not when they’d come so far for this. “This isn’t–”

“Tubbo.” Phil’s voice is quiet, but it’s the type of tone that says implicitly, don’t interrupt me. His mouth clacks shut so quickly his teeth jolt, pain lancing up his jaw. “We can talk about this tomorrow. The drive is a bit long, so let’s just go home.”

Home. What a word, Tubbo thinks, watching as Tommy stalks towards the door without so much as a goodbye to Schlatt. Phil trails him, Tubbo behind him, fingers fiddling with the strands of backpack. He knows he’s in trouble and yet– yet he hesitates to step over the doorway, standing with one foot inside of the apartment and one outside. Phil pauses, glancing behind him as Tubbo wavers, and then sighs.

“One minute,” he says quietly, looking over Tubbo’s shoulder and then turning back to the car as one of the back doors slams shut. Tommy’s head is visible inside, and Phil clambers in as well. Tubbo turns.

Schlatt stares back at him, eyes slightly amused as he leans against the door. 

“I–” Tubbo’s not sure where to even start. What do you say? 

“Don’t try, kid,” Schlatt says. His voice is quiet, like Phil’s, but instead of disappointed he just sounds… sad. “Not now. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“But I came here for you,” Tubbo insists, turning fully now to face him, still with one foot in the door so Schlatt can’t shut it. “I had questions, and you didn’t even answer any of them. You just danced around them and avoided the truth. I said I’m not leaving without answers– you didn’t give me any. I’m not leaving until I get one.” His voice cracks a little. He hates it, but forges on. The weight of the day is heavy on his shoulders. “At least one.” 

Schlatt’s half in darkness, half lit up by orange headlights. He looks conflicted, fingers tapping, itching for something. Tubbo can guess as to what. He opens his mouth and then closes it, once, twice. 

“One question,” Schlatt offers. “For one honest answer.” 

If it’s the best Tubbo can get, he’ll take it. He mulls over the choice in his mind for a moment, question sticking on his tongue and cotton in his throat. But eventually, he swallows his pride and spits it out.

“Did you love me?” He asks. Schlatt grimaces. Looks pained, visibly. Tubbo wants to take it back right then, reverse time so he’s able to get rid of the uncomfortable silence between them and just run away, or ask something less, but what’s done is done. Before he can take it back, Schlatt’s answering.

“More than anything,” he says. He sounds kind of choked up. 

“Then why’d you leave me?” Tubbo asks, the question slipping out before he can stop himself. Blood rushes in his ears, embarrassment and terror and upset flooding through his veins quicker than any flash flood he’s ever seen on TV. 

Schlatt looks tired. His fingers twitch. 

“‘Cause I loved you,” he says simply. “And I knew I couldn’t be what you needed.”

“Wasn’t loving me enough?” Tubbo asks, and oh shit, he’s crying now. Tears hot on his cheeks, ones he ignores and wipes away with his sleeve and fingers as Schlatt reaches out, patting his shoulder gently. “Wasn’t I enough? Was it something I–”

“No,” Schlatt says, and his voice comes out just as wet as Tubbo’s. “No, kiddo, no. It wasn’t you. And the love– it wasn’t– it wasn’t enough either. Sometimes it isn’t. Still isn’t, even now. I knew Phil would raise you right where I couldn’t.” 

Tubbo’s really crying now, and he hates it. He hates how his nose clogs and his tears run freely, too quick for his sleeve to keep up with. He hates how his shoulders shake and how Schlatt’s fingers grip his shirt gently, firm and reassuring despite the well of emotions overflowing in his core. It’s all so much, and he hates it, but he can’t hate Schlatt despite himself.

“And I think I made the right choice,” Schlatt continues quietly, thumb rubbing over Tubbo’s shoulder as he sobs. “He did raise you good. Real good. You’re so much smarter and braver and better than I could’ve ever done for you, kid. I’m so, so fucking proud of you.” Tubbo chokes, and Schlatt reaches out with his other hand and then Tubbo is too and suddenly he’s pressed against Schlatt’s chest, surely staining his shirt with snot and tears. They stand like that for a long moment, Tubbo halfway in the doorway and Schlatt holding him tight, arms around his shoulders and gripping his sleeves with a ferocity that’s impossible to break away from.

Then it’s over, and Tubbo’s pulling away and wiping his eyes and Schlatt is too, if not a little more subtly.

“I love you kid,” he says again. “Always and forever.” 

Tubbo coughs wetly into his sleeve, and then fumbles for a second. Pulls out his phone before he knows what he’s really doing.

“Once a week,” he demands, shaking the phone. He’s still angry, still upset, still– well. “I’m going to call you once a week.”

Schlatt looks surprised, rocking back on his heels for a moment and then nodding.

“Okay,” he says.

“You better answer,” Tubbo demands. “No running away without a goodbye this time.”  

“Okay,” Schlatt says again, nodding. “I promise.” 

Tubbo nods back. He’s not six anymore. No more big sobs that wrack his entire body, only the steady flow of tears and snot down his face that’s going to leave him red-eyed and exhausted. Schlatt’s quiet as they stand there for another moment, and then Tubbo takes a step back, fully over the threshold now.

“Bye,” Tubbo says. 

“I’ll see you,” Schlatt says quietly. Tubbo bites back the bitter reply of– that’s what you said last time – and just nods.

The door shuts, and Tubbo turns to go. He slips into the car silently, still crying, and Phil pulls out of the parking space as he clicks his seatbelt on, resting his head against the headrest and staring absently out at the yellow street lamps. They pull out of the parking lot and onto the streets, car thumping along the pavement as they pick up speed. Tubbo rolls the window down. Neither Phil nor Tommy complain when the cold air rushes in, painting chilly lines over his skin and following the lines of teartracks. Something warm bumps against his side and Tubbo shifts, tilting his head to look. Tommy’s there, shoulder against Tubbo’s own, eyes a warm offer.

He takes it, leaning his head down to rest against Tommy’s shoulder and the world fractal yellow as it passes by, wind whooshing. 

Phil pipes up, maybe ten minutes into the drive. Tubbo’s kind of surprised. He was expecting a lecture.

“Mind if I turn the radio on?” He asks quietly. Tommy’s silent, his head and torso a warm presence beside Tubbo, the gentle rise and fall of his chest indicative of his sleep. Tubbo sighs, meeting Phil’s gaze in the rearview for a brief moment and shaking his head. It flicks on a second later, static rustling as Phil messes with the dial and tunes into the stations, clicking through channels until he settles on some random late-night radio music reel, vocals crooning through the car and lowly settling in Tubbo’s stomach. 

For a second he’s six again. His papa’s in the front seat. The world is quiet and safe and Tubbo is left floating in this liminal space, wondering when they’ll stop next and what adventure remains for them to find in the world.

Then he’s seventeen, and everything hurts and is confusing, but he’s got a brother in the car next to him now and a good man in the front who he calls dad. 

“You alright?” Phil asks, when Tubbo chokes on a particularly loud sob. Tommy shifts, fingers scrabbling over the fabric seats and the rough jeans of their legs to find Tubbo’s hand, squeezing it tight. 

“Fine,” he manages to say through his tears. Tommy squeezes his fingers again. Phil meets his watery gaze again in the rearview. 

“We’ll be home soon,” he promises. Tubbo just nods, and then shuts his eyes so the rocking of the car can lull him to sleep.