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The warm sunlight shone upon Tubbo’s freckled cheeks, dappled through the leaves of the oak tree he sat under.
It was a warm day, too warm for the hoodie he was wearing, its purple fabric a familiar comfort, one of the only things he tended to have left anymore.
Things hadn’t been the same recently.
He still saw Jack Manifold working at the corner store, still saw Sapnap at the football field with the rest of his friends, still felt the warm sun in his bones, still breathed the same air.
But Tubbo still felt trapped, as if stuck in a photograph while surrounded by those living in a video.
He saw Dream leave for college like Foolish before him two months ago. He saw Fundy finally achieve his dream of going to that STEM high school two hours away he’d always wanted to attend. He saw Quackity move to another town, Niki working at the community center, all while he watched from the sidelines.
He didn’t like thoughts like this, dragging him down like quicksand back into memories long gone by, memories from a different time, a different place.
Though he was still there physically, he wasn’t mentally.
It had started a few months ago.
Something had just been different recently, between the two of them.
It just started with sitting at a different table at lunch.
Calls stopped being answered.
Invitations to hang out left on read for the both of them.
Eye bags got deeper.
Meals were skipped.
He’d be fine though, maybe he just wanted his own space, he had other friends, it’d be fine.
Tubbo still felt hurt though. He’d the only one who had listened to Tubbo about his dad. He was the only one who Tubbo had thought understood him. They were so close, what had happened?
And it all culminated in that fight at the party, that fucking party. The worst night of his entire life. The one he relived every time he tried to sleep.
Tubbo finally confronted him, finally asked him what was wrong, why he’d been ignoring him, and yes, he wished he’d been less aggressive. Not drunk.
He wished he’d listened.
He wished that the other person had listened too.
Maybe it would’ve made those last moments just a little more bearable, a little better as a final memory.
If Tubbo had wanted any memory to be a final memory, it would’ve been them on the rooftop before, just laughing at nothing, gazing up at the stars. What he would’ve done to hear that laugh again, one more smile, one more look at those eyes.
Instead he got screaming, a cold realization in his gut as he realized what had happened to his friend. His friend hadn’t been able to get out of bed in the morning. He hadn’t been able to think anything but those horrible, horrible thoughts, the horrible things he’d said about himself. He hadn’t been able to eat, complete his homework, anything.
Tubbo remembered staring into the red cup he clutched like a lifeline, hands shaking at the information.
And in the worst regret of his life, he screamed back. He screamed those words he’d never take back, screamed his soul back. Because he had been hurt, and he knew it wasn’t the other person’s fault, but he had been hurt. It was nice to not have to deal with his shitty dad and the dysphoria alone. It was nice to not have somebody leave just like everyone else in his life did, just like his mom did.
And he could only watch as his friend ran out of the party, ran away from him, the very last glimpse he’d ever see of that familiar purple hoodie, running out the door, the last time he’d ever see him spent furious.
He was too frustrated to even go after him, and trudged home, head pounding from the music always blasted at those parties he didn’t even know why he had attended.
Those parties he hadn’t gone to since it happened.
Tubbo had gone back up to his house that was not a home, the house in which his father had been passed out drunk in the living room, some sitcom still blaring on the TV.
He’d gone up to the bathroom, splashing his face with water, thinking about how he’d apologize in the morning, how he could help his friend. He’d listen more. He’d come over to his house in the morning, something he always loved when Tubbo did.
He still felt like shit, and still felt hurt, but maybe things would be better in the morning.
That was until he heard his phone buzz on the bathroom counter.
Every night Tubbo thought of things he could’ve done differently. He would’ve never picked up that phone, and somehow magically all of these horrible things wouldn’t have happened.
He saw the text from Jack Manifold, who’d been at that party, been the first to hear the news.
Seen the message that would be forever burned into his memory.
And he vomited.
Because despite everything that had happened, his father, gender dysphoria, his mother leaving, that was the worst news Tubbo had received in his entire life, and no goddamn words could sum up how much it hurt.
His heart felt like it had physically ripped in two as his puked up his guts into that familiar porcelain sink.
Seventeen year old Ranboo Beloved had been pronounced dead at the scene after being hit by an SUV on his way home from a party, authorities had reported. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head from the impact.
So that was why Tubbo sat in a cemetery that day, picking at the familiar purple ribbon of the bouquet of alliums, wearing a dead friend’s familiar violet hoodie.
He stood up, gazing down at the headstone, a simple one engraved with a butterfly on one side with Ranboo’s name and birth and death dates. Tubbo didn’t know why they had picked that. Ranboo didn’t like butterflies.
And as he always did, he dropped the bouquet in front of the headstone. Alliums had been Ranboo’s favorite. Said they reminded him of strength.
And as he always did, he hugged the headstone, muttering but a simple, “I’m so sorry, ‘Boo.”
And as he always did, he left the cemetery, the sun still bright as ever.