Chapter Text
By the time the Uber driver pulls up to the brightly lit doors of the hotel, Ranboo's frayed mind is hanging on by a thread. He can barely think over the pounding pain in his eye and the way his legs have cramped in the past twenty minutes making each step agony.
He forces himself out of the car, mumbles a thanks and one more reassurance to the driver that he is fine, thank you, don't worry, and pushes himself over to the glass doors. The overhead lights make his eyes water and he wishes he had his glasses on.
Coming into a hotel wearing a mask and sunglasses likely would have been a bad idea, all things considered, but unfortunately walking up to the front desk with a swollen eye and bruises forming on his cheek is not much better as the concierge widens her eyes immediately.
"Hi," Ranboo says wearily. He's on his last rope, exhausted, soaking wet and in pain, and he knows there are a million emotions threatening to come to the surface but all he feels now is a tired shame. "I… have an online reservation?"
He gives his full name and hopes to God that Dream set this up correctly. The woman takes in his disheveled appearance and injuries for a long moment before his dead stare forces her eyes to her computer to type in the information. She seems to find his reservation just fine and fumbles through the process, glancing every so often at his face.
Ranboo just braces himself for the inevitable. The room key card is in the woman's hand before she hesitates, gives him a soft and pitying look, and asks, "sir, are you alright?"
He shuffles a little on his feet, nodding. "I'm fine. Really."
"Do you need medical attention?"
"No," he gives her a look he hopes is reassuring and not pleading. "It's okay. I just… I'm gonna put some ice on it, it's no big deal, just. Had a bad night."
That's an understatement. Ranboo is frankly terrified that she is going to question him further, that she is going to know he isn't 18 and call the cops or something and Ranboo can't deal with that right now. Everything is going to be fine. He's safe now, he's out of the cold, he's got a plane ticket to his friend's place and people who will help and -
"If you're sure," she replies. "All of our phones are equipped to dial 911. Or contact the front desk if you need assistance."
"Thank you," he says, because he knows how to be polite, and accepts the key card and the paper receipt and manages to listen as she explains that his stay includes free breakfast and a shuttle to the airport at his chosen time and all he can really pay attention to is the room number written on the back of the card holder. "Thank you."
By the time he gets to the room, nothing feels real. The soft lights on the ceiling, the hum of the heating system, the white bed and clean bathroom and flat-screen TV mean nothing.
Ranboo has no recollection of showering, or of visiting the ice machine and bundling bags of ice in towels to press against his eye and his sore chest, he just finds himself under the blankets of an achingly soft bed with coldness on one half of his face and hot tears on the other.
He's in so much trouble.
Exhaustion has him in a dreamless sleep for hours, dead to the world until morning when images start to invade his slumber, indistinct places and a pressing anxiety surrounded by fog until a face appears in his vision and their touch renders him unable to move and Ranboo wakes with a start, his heart pounding and sweat tangling him in unfamiliar blankets. When he sits up, something drops into his lap and the cold shock nearly makes him yelp.
It's just the makeshift ice pack from his face, now a damp towel crinkling with the plastic underneath. Coherence settles in slowly; he's in a hotel room. He's safe. He's fine.
He's in pain.
He can at least see through both eyes, more or less - the left one is still swollen and it probably looks terrible by now but the ice has definitely helped. His chest hurts more now, though, each breath a little tight. He doesn't want to know how his legs will hold up when he stands.
There isn't even a reason to get up. Not yet. He slowly lies back down, shoving the now-useless ice towels out of the way, and finds himself staring at the ceiling.
Without the sheer exhaustion clouding his mind, the events of the last forty-eight hours start to trickle back in with clarity. It's really happened. Ranboo is technically homeless, broke, cut off from his life until further notice. The conversation with Dream feels like it happened in a fog of hysterical, panicked tears. Not an ideal look for one's idol to see. But Dream had helped him. He was here because of Dream and without him he wouldn't have a single damn plan of where to go next.
Except he's made things worse, and thrown an absolute wrench into all the plans that Dream made for him, because he may be here at the hotel and he may have a ticket waiting for him at the airport but he has no way to contact the one he needs to meet him at the other end. His phone is gone. His money is gone. He has nothing.
Panic starts to grip him tightly. What is he going to do? He doesn't know Tubbo's number. He doesn't know anyone's number, except of course his parents', which is useless. How is this supposed to work, now? Tubbo won't know he's coming. Dream won't know he has no phone. He will be at Heathrow Airport alone with nothing but a backpack of clothes and an empty wallet.
It couldn't possibly get any worse from here.
Ranboo allows his mind to spiral until the thoughts dissolve into incoherence, until awareness leaves him entirely and eventually he comes back to himself with an aching head and burning eyes and a stomach that has finally made its emptiness known.
When he rolls over, the clock says 10:39. Breakfast… the woman had said breakfast was available until eleven. If he can get up now, then he can get there in time at least to eat something. It's been… he isn't even sure how long it's been since he last ate. He'd been afraid to use the tiny bit of money he had, but of course that had been pointless anyway.
Somehow, he had barely noticed the weakness in his limbs from hunger.
He finds a mask in his bag, still damp from the rain but usable, and his glasses. The two manage to fully cover the mess his face is in right now.
No one gives him much of a glance in the breakfast area, which is nearly empty of people and of food, but he's able to fill a plate with the last of it and quietly sit in a corner undisturbed. The food is much-needed, though his head aches enough that it makes him a little nauseous. He finishes the eggs and dry sausages, downs a glass of juice, and snatches a muffin on his way out. Thank God for free breakfasts, because he's not charging room service to Dream's credit card.
He winds up at the front desk, asking if - by some chance - they have computers for guest use. They don't, but as a small compensation the hotel has travel-sized bottles of ibuprofen, which is about the best thing Ranboo could ask for at this point. He also asks what is located in the hotel's area and is embarrassed to realize he had no idea where he was - and this particular place is near the airport, surrounded by long-stay parking lots, business headquarters and a handful of restaurants.
Nowhere that he could access a computer, at least not within walking distance.
The panic keeps threatening to rise again. He goes back to his room, sits on the bed and holds his hair as tightly as he can without hurting his already aching head, fingers curling together with sharp pains until he can breathe again.
He can't do this. He has almost a whole day to spend here before his flight and nothing to occupy his mind and keep his frantic thoughts from spiraling.
Ranboo turns on the TV, wraps himself in blankets, and watches pay-per-view previews and advertisements until his mind goes numb and at some point he slips back into sleep, lying the wrong way on the bed with the sound of the TV in the background.
Only to wake up hours later shaking and sweating from another vague nightmare.
He doesn't feel good. It's probably the lack of sleep and the stress, and the headache - the ibuprofen helped but a black eye is going to hurt no matter what - but he lies in the bed feeling miserable and sorry for himself. He doesn't cry, at least. He just stares at the television screen, shivering, watching the room slowly grow dark as the day sinks to evening.
At least he's getting closer and closer to leaving this behind.
Despite his best efforts the anxiety begins to swirl all over again with what-ifs and worst case scenarios. Is it worth getting on that flight at all, if no one will be there to pick him up? Should he just forget it, stay grounded in San Francisco? Any way he looks, he's screwed. He's going to be alone and stranded with nowhere to go and zero money.
Unless he can change his flight to Florida after all, except no one would be there to get him, either - and he doesn't know where Dream lives.
He knows Tubbo's address. He knows others, too, and it wouldn't be so bad if George still lived in London but he's in Florida, now. None of Ranboo's UK friends live in London anymore.
If he goes to Heathrow, even if he's alone… he could find something. Maybe a nearby computer or good Samaritan's phone could grant him access to Discord or if nothing else - he laughs bitterly - he could just wind up outside the airport panhandling until he gets enough to pay for a train to Bognor.
It's so stupid. All of this because he's a dumb seventeen-year-old wandering alone and crying in the dark making himself a target. If only the guy who jumped him had been after more than just money and valuables.
Surely he's overreacting. Dream would reach out to Tubbo, right? Someone would figure it out. He's probably worried over nothing, simply because he has no way of knowing.
He can't back out of this flight. He can't stay here in San Francisco where there is nothing but a locked door that his keys can't access and a pair of adults who are determined that he stay out of their lives.
It's pathetic, how he can't even be angry anymore. He's just a mess.
Time ticks by. Ranboo forces himself up to use the bathroom, eats the bland muffin piece by piece, drinks from the tap because the bottled water inside the mini-fridge is three dollars and charged to the room and he refuses to make Dream pay for more than he has. He walks himself down the hallway for more ice to hold against his eye. Watches the same movie previews all over again. Half-dozes in between shivering and sweating, and then finds himself wide awake and cycling through panicked thoughts once more.
He isn't going to make it to the UK at this rate.
When the alarm clock shows four twenty-six a.m., Ranboo forces himself into the bathroom. He's sticky with sweat and feels disgusting. His clothes feel damp and if he's getting on a plane he should probably avoid making others uncomfortable. He doesn't want to be that person whose body odour makes his seat mates miserable even if they're too polite to say anything.
As much as he hates his reflection, he looks at himself anyway in the bathroom mirror. His eye is pouchy and ringed in angry purple-red-blue, his cheek swollen and mottled in red and yellow and his jaw just starting to show blue discolouration. It makes his face more hideous than usual and that makes a bitter laugh cough it's way up his chest.
Under his shirt, the right side of his chest is also starting to show unpleasant mottled bruising. Ranboo is grateful that the painful pull he feels when moving and breathing is dull and mild - nothing to indicate a break in his ribs. It's just sore and aching.
His knees are bruised, too, from falling. It's to be expected.
He enjoys the second shower more than the first simply by being present - it soothes some of the ache, alleviates the intermittent chills he keeps feeling and washes away the sticky sick feeling on his skin.
It's still early. But they'll serve breakfast downstairs soon, and then the shuttle will drive him to the airport, and then -
He can't think about it right now.
Despite being much fresher than yesterday, the hotel breakfast goes down heavy in Ranboo's stomach. Nerves gnaw at his insides. Between the anxiety and the bruises, he struggles to keep his breathing even throughout the wait in the lobby and then the quiet drive through dark streets to the airport where he is dropped off at the terminal for international departures; he focuses his way through the check-in screens where he prints his tickets and has no baggage to check, and finds himself staring down security.
He's been through this before. He knows that the real check is customs and immigration, on the other side. He should have nothing to fear here but he can't stop the feeling that someone is going to check his passport and somehow know that he is here without parental permission, know that the flimsy little letter he holds is from months ago, and they'll call the police on him and he won't even get on the plane -
Security lets him through.
The first part of this terrifying adventure is done. Ranboo is through the security check and at the gates where his plane will board in forty minutes and he's going to London where he has no idea what will happen on the other side.
It's enough that Ranboo drops himself into a chair away from other passengers and holds his head in his hands while he gulps down hyperventilating breaths for ten long minutes and tries to get a grip on the anxious nausea rolling in his stomach.
Except it doesn't go away even as his breathing calms. His stomach churns and the nauseous feeling won't subside and when his mouth starts to water with that horrible feeling in his throat Ranboo has to get up, has to find a restroom, because he's actually going to be sick.
His breakfast comes violently back up in the stall of the nearest restroom, thankfully inaudible among all the noise of toilets flushing, hand dryers, and constant foot traffic. Ranboo tries not to hyperventilate again as he gags repeatedly into a public toilet. He refuses to care about anyone else needing the stall or about the cleanliness of the situation as he gets his stomach under control and sits miserably on the tiled floor, not getting up until he realizes that his flight will be boarding in five minutes.
His reflection looks awful staring him back in the bathroom mirror as he washes his hands and splashes his face with water. He now has red eyes to accompany the wonderful raccoon ring of his blackened one. As soon as he's dry, mouth rinsed as best he can, the mask and glasses are back on so no one can scrutinize his injuries, which is at least one small victory.
He just wishes he didn't feel so unwell.
Not long after, Ranboo watches San Francisco Bay disappear under him with a knot of emotions in his chest, refusing to analyze any of them. He hates the way the place that he called home all his life feels tainted and sad. It was home. It's not anymore.
He doesn't hate flying, but between everything else the takeoff and bumpy ascension has him feeling ill. Not enough to get sick, if there had even been anything in his stomach to throw up. Just enough that he closes his eyes until it's over and the plane levels out above the endless cloud cover.
It's a long flight, and longer still with the anxiety and dread eating him up. There's no excitement of a new place and meeting a friend this time. Only Ranboo and his fear of what happens next.
When they bring the in-flight meals, he feels well enough to eat most of it and ginger ale helps him feel a bit more awake. But an hour later he's nauseous again, swallowing it back until he can't anymore and locking himself in the tiny airplane bathroom to throw up for the second time that day.
He's starting to think he might be sick with something.
Throwing up seems to sap him of energy. When he wobbles back to his seat he falls into an uneasy sleep and by the time he fully wakes, they're putting out the seatbelt warnings in preparation for landing.
There are actually clear skies over London today. Ranboo watches the city approach from far above, getting closer and closer as the plane dips and shudders with mild turbulence. For a view he has seen only twice, it's achingly familiar and comforting.
He hopes he doesn't regret the decision to come here.
Somehow, Ranboo manages an iron grip on his emotions through de-boarding, through the simple process of customs (he has nothing but a backpack anyway) and the far more harrowing process of immigration where each question has him one step closer to an anxious breakdown, all the way through Heathrow's baggage claim and into the arrivals area before it hits him too hard to ignore and Ranboo breaks.
There is a sea of people here, arriving and waiting, waving to loved ones and holding signs, and none of them are here for him.
He knows it's bad when the sounds around him start to collapse inward and the colours suddenly appear too bright, too contrasting. His chest is tight, on top of the bruising that makes every movement ache, and his breath comes short and gasping and Ranboo needs to sit, needs to find somewhere quiet and private because this can't happen in public, he doesn’t want that attention and the possibility of trouble if someone finds out he's here alone and -
He finds himself in a secluded corner, next to some maintenance door and maybe he shouldn't be there, strictly speaking, but he didn't cross any lines or tape or doors, it's just out of the way and quiet and small like he needs right now. Knees to his chest ignoring the pain just focused on his uneven breaths which keep being forced into painful sobs. He cried when he first left his parents' house and when he spent the night in the park under a tree and he sobbed on call with Dream but none of it was like this. He can't control it. It feels like all of the stress and the reality of his situation waited until now to really ambush him and kick him at the very end.
Because there is a finality to this. Ranboo cannot simply get back on a plane and return to California. He can't go back and plead with his parents to at least help him figure something out. He is halfway across the world now, alone, the most impactful of all his stupid decisions resulting in this moment right here on the floor of Heathrow Airport.
Ranboo cries into his knees, and no one notices.
At this point, Ranboo isn't even surprised when the crying dies down only to be replaced by the familiar churning in his stomach. Maybe it is just the stress, but he's tired of feeling sick. And when he finds himself once again on the floor of a public restroom he can't help but feel like this is the real low point of his life. Throwing up for the third time in a toilet of questionable cleanliness. He doesn't even have much to bring up this time and the bile he gags on burns his throat adding insult to injury on top of all the crying.
He leaves the restroom exhausted and dead inside. The airport is no less busy and holds no familiar faces. He knows he should try to get help. If someone would let him use their phone, just for a few minutes, he could message Tubbo or Dream instead of whatever other stupid idea he can come up with like begging for enough British pence coins to pay for the train.
He's just so tired.
Ranboo slumps onto a nearby bench instead, facing a row of screens showing the airport's many arrivals, and blankly watches the information scroll and update.
Eventually, he hears his name.
It isn't the cry of someone getting his attention across the room and it isn't a familiar voice, but he hears it again and realizes that he is being called from the overhead announcer. His full name. Please come to the Delta Airlines service desk.
Ranboo stands. He's too confused to hope, because it must be something about his ticket or maybe he left his ID on the plane by accident (he doesn't bother to check). But he walks away anyway, eyes darting from sign to sign looking for direction until he crosses what feels like half the terminal and finds the right place.
"Um," he says to the woman at the desk, wincing at how rough his voice sounds. "I just got called here?"
She asks for his name, and lights up. "Oh, wonderful. I have someone trying to reach you. A Toby Smith. He's on the line for you."
He - there's no way. How did Tubbo - how does he -
Ranboo takes the offered receiver with shaking hands. "Hello?"
"Ranboo? Is that you?"
"Tubbo?" Ranboo lets out a breath and struggles to contain the sheer relief that combines with anxiety in his chest. "Yes, it's me, how -"
"We're coming to get you. Mum and I are on our way."
"Oh my god." Ranboo closes his eyes. "I don't - thank you - I'm so sorry," he rambles. "You're coming to the airport?"
"Yeah. We'll be, like, forty minutes I think?" Ranboo can just barely make out Tubbo's mother's voice in the background. "Yeah. Listen, are you alright? Are you okay waiting for us?"
"Of course, yeah, I-I'm good, I - Jesus, I'm so glad you - you knew I was here."
There's a brief silence that Ranboo can recognize. Tubbo is upset. "Well, Dream messaged me. Like an hour ago. After you'd landed."
"Oh."
"I've been worried sick about you, Ranboo, you've been offline for days and then apparently Dream thought you told me you were coming -"
"I know," Ranboo grips the phone tightly. He doesn't blame Tubbo for being so upset. He'd be angry, too. "I - I lost my phone."
"How did you -" The increasingly frustrated tone is cut off by a background mumbling and Tubbo audibly deflates. "Okay, bossman. Can you meet us outside in forty?"
"Yeah. I'll be… I'll be at the arrivals spot. I'll be there."
"Good. We'll be there soon, okay?" There's another pause. "Stay safe."
"I will," Ranboo whispers, throat closing. "Thanks Tubbo."
The line clicks. Ranboo hands the receiver back to the Delta representative, who smiles.
"All sorted out?"
"Yeah," he says shakily. "Thank you - thank you so much."
"My pleasure."
The woman doesn't ask for or offer anything else, and Ranboo is grateful. He doesn't want to have to explain anything to her.
Instead, he wanders back to the arrivals area, and stops when he sees a drinking fountain along the wall. It's not one of the fancy new ones that only fills bottles, and Ranboo hadn't drank anything since the last few sips of ginger ale after he threw up on the plane. His mouth feels terrible and he is probably dehydrated, and even though his height makes bending down incredibly awkward he is still immensely relieved, drinking until his burning throat is nearly numb from cold.
Forty minutes, he thinks as he returns to the same bench as earlier so he can see the time on the screens. He can survive forty minutes. He's even more nervous now, anticipating an upsetting conversation with Tubbo and his mother - who would probably be upset because Ranboo just invited himself over here and left them to deal with it.
He knows Dream's offer still stands. If it's an inconvenience to Tubbo's family, Ranboo can find somewhere else to stay. He just needs to get himself sorted so he can at least contact the man.
Ranboo expects the wait to be long. He doesn't expect for his eyes to droop while watching the arrivals board shuffle and blink, for the sound of the airport to fade into white noise until he's once again asleep, slumped over on the bench.
He wakes with a start when someone's voice cuts in loudly nearby, a woman scolding her child as they walk directly past Ranboo's bench. Confusion turns into panic as he remembers he is supposed to meet Tubbo outside and oh god did he miss them - but the arrivals board says it's only been thirty-five minutes. It's a close call, but he still has time to get outside.
Of course, it's colder here at Heathrow than it had been in San Francisco. Enough that Ranboo shivers in his inadequate hoodie and jeans, watching traffic navigate the pickup lanes, taxis and family vehicles vying for space. He keeps his eyes on the incoming lanes, and his heart jumps in his throat when he spots a familiar car - it might not be them, but as soon as it pulls up the passenger door flings open and Ranboo's best friend comes tumbling out and launches himself in Ranboo's direction.
They collide painfully, Tubbo's arms wrapping themselves around his middle like a koala and squeezing where it hurts most. Ranboo's breath comes out in a wheeze and he's kind of grateful that the pain keeps him from getting emotional.
"You are an idiot," Tubbo declares as he lets go and Ranboo gazes down at all five feet and five inches of his friend whose angry expression holds far more intimidation than his height. "I swear to God. Don't do that again."
"Hi, Tubbo," Ranboo says instead, and his voice still sounds wrecked. "I'm sorry."
Tubbo looks like he is about to say more, but his mum's voice interrupts from by the car, reminding them that they can't occupy the pickup lane for very long. Tubbo glances down and around Ranboo, frowning.
"You don't have any bags."
"Just this," Ranboo sighs, indicating the backpack, and he hates the way Tubbo's face drops. "It made for easy travelling, anyway."
He follows Tubbo to the car, relieved to see that his mother doesn't look angry, at least not for the moment. The three climb into the car, and for once Tubbo graciously gives Ranboo the passenger seat knowing that his height makes the back rather uncomfortable. Sitting next to Tubbo's mum he settles his bag between his feet and tries not to visibly slump into the seat. He's so tired.
"Thank you for coming to get me," he ventures as they pull away from the terminal. Tubbo's mum glances at him and smiles.
"You gave us a bit of a scare, I'll say, but I'm glad you're here and safe."
He wonders what she knows, what Dream told Tubbo and what Tubbo passed to her.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes yet again, knowing it won't be the last time. "I really appreciate it. I didn't mean to put you on the spot."
"It's nothing, dear," she says, and then Tubbo interrupts.
"How did you lose your phone, Ranboo? Of all things?"
Ranboo laughs hesitantly. "I, uh. It got stolen, actually." He doesn't want to get into that topic just yet, not here. His mask and glasses are still on - the glasses are honestly a godsend against his headache - and he doesn't plan on removing them yet.
Tubbo snorts. "What freaking bad timing."
"You're telling me."
To Ranboo's relief, and immense gratitude, neither of them ask him to talk about the situation with his parents. At one point Tubbo starts, but Ranboo catches the glance between he and his mum and Tubbo shuts up and instead switches the topic to talking about the last few days and what Tubbo, and their other online friends, have been up to.
Ranboo doesn't feel talkative, and lets Tubbo ramble while still showing he is listening. Tubbo doesn't mind. London falls into the distance behind them as Tubbo chatters and Ranboo takes in the late autumn scenery with vague attention.
They're a half hour into the drive, another fifteen or so to go, and Tubbo is rambling about the Dream Team's latest IRL video when Ranboo realizes that he's feeling sick again. He wants this to stop already, but even just the water he drank isn't settling well and he feels painfully ill.
He doesn't get carsick, usually. This, of course, is different.
He doesn't want to be sick, and he especially doesn't want to ask Tubbo's mum to stop the car but it becomes clear within minutes that he's just not going to make it the rest of the way to the house. He spends a long moment just fighting it and fidgeting with his hands working up the courage to say something, and it doesn't help that he hates to interrupt Tubbo who is still talking animatedly -
As soon as Tubbo finishes a sentence, Ranboo speaks up.
"Um -" he has their attention right away, because he hasn't said a word in twenty minutes. "I - could you pull over, please?"
Tubbo's mother looks over sharply. "Are you feeling ill?" She asks, and he nods; even with his face covered she must see how tense he looks because she nods and gently pulls the car into a laneway.
"Are you okay?" Tubbo asks from the backseat, but Ranboo is too busy getting out to answer. He doesn't even get the door shut behind him before he steps into the grass, yanks his mask down, and retches into the ditch.
He can't remember the last time he was sick enough to throw up this much. A few years ago, at least.
It's nothing but water, more bile, and pain. He's aware of cars driving by on the main road, probably watching him puke. As the heaving stops he hears footsteps behind him, crunching in the dead grass. Ranboo doesn't look up.
"Here, mum got this from the back."
It's a bottle of water. Ranboo takes it gratefully, not meeting Tubbo's eyes, and rinses his mouth to spit into the grass before he pulls his mask back up, not wanting Tubbo to see the bruises yet. Thankfully, the lack of reaction tells him that Tubbo didn't notice.
"Thanks," he mumbles, turning away from the mess on the ground and meeting Tubbo's worried expression. He gives himself a moment to breathe and make sure he isn't going to be sick again - he feels okay, admittedly kind of feverish now, but good enough to get back in the car. Tubbo follows.
"Are you alright, love?" His mum asks. "What's wrong?"
Ranboo shrugs, rolling the water bottle between his hands once his seatbelt is on. "I'm just… really stressed, I guess."
Her face grows sympathetic. "I'm sorry. You've been dealing with a lot."
"It's okay. Sorry for - that."
"Don't worry. Just say something if you're feeling bad again, okay?'
Ranboo nods, and leans slowly against the car door as they pull back onto the main road.
"You gonna take your mask off?" Tubbo asks. "I mean, that can't be comfortable after you just puked."
He's kind of right, but Ranboo shakes his head. Thankfully, Tubbo knows him well - sometimes, showing his face even to those he trusts is just too much. His friend doesn't push the issue.
By the time they get to the house, Ranboo feels distinctly unwell and is trying not to shiver. It's not that he usually hides when he's sick, but he's in a bad place mentally as well as physically, he feels awful for putting all this stress on Tubbo's family and for imposing on them and the last thing they need is for him to be sick on top of everything.
The three of them bypass the main house for the extension. Seeing those glass double doors is so familiar it aches and if he wasn't exhausted in just about every way, he thinks he would cry. It feels like coming home again.
Tubbo's mother doesn't interrogate him. She tells Ranboo that they can talk about the situation later and to settle in for a bit first. He shakes his head when she mentions supper, and she doesn't push.
They're left alone in the extension, standing awkwardly in the living room where hardly anything seems to have changed in the month that Ranboo has been gone.
"How're you feeling?"
Ranboo breathes deeply, and regrets it for the pain that flares in his chest. "I… I'll let you know when I figure it out."
"Fair enough."
Tubbo glances around the room and Ranboo feels painfully awkward. There's a huge unsaid thing sitting in the middle of them, and he really doesn't want to address it, but he hates the silence that has come up between them.
"Thanks again for… all of this. I'm sorry it came up so suddenly."
"Don't apologize. I -" Tubbo glares at the floor for a moment. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just mad that it happened like this."
"Yeah. I get that."
"Dream, like, he messaged me this morning asking if everything was okay with you. If we'd found you at the airport okay.
I had no idea what he was talking about."
Ranboo winces.
"And then he had no idea how to contact you, because you were offline and your phone number didn't work, and he didn't know how to check if you'd even gotten on the plane."
"How did you figure it out?"
"He called the airline. Then mum and I called the airport and eventually we got through to someone who said they would page you, and," he shrugged, as they both knew the rest.
"It was scary, Ranboo. I was already worried. Then it was just… for an hour, I didn't know if you were alive."
"I got mugged," Ranboo admits. Tubbo's eyes widen. "Some guy knocked me down, stole my phone and the money I had in my wallet. My cards, too, not that I could use them anyway."
"Fuck, Ranboo."
Tubbo steps forward and even after the months they spent getting comfortable with one another it's still telling of how upset Tubbo has been that he immediately pulls Ranboo into a hug. It's not as rough as the last one and he feels himself melt into it, just a bit.
"Are you gonna take off the mask?" Tubbo asks, without letting go. Ranboo tenses.
"You… have to promise me you won't freak out too much," he says hesitantly. He knows that won't help as Tubbo pulls away and frowns up at him.
"What happened?"
Ranboo closes his eyes before he tugs off the glasses and then the mask. And winces at Tubbo's sharp intake of breath.
"What the fuck, dude."
"I told you, I got mugged."
"You didn't say you got beaten up!" Tubbo is staring at the black eye, the bruising on his cheek and jaw. "You - oh my god. Ranboo, that looks fucking awful."
"I know." Against his better judgment Ranboo touches his cheek and winces. "It's fine, though. Nothing's broken, and I put ice on it right after."
"Do you want some more? Or can I get you something?"
"Honestly? Some painkillers would be really great. Like, really, really great."
"Okay."
Tubbo hurries off to the bathroom and comes back a moment later with two pills in hand that Ranboo recognizes as the British version of Tylenol. It's probably from the same bottle that they got when Ranboo was sick during his last visit. He downs both with his water from earlier, winces because he really hates chalky pills, and looks back to see Tubbo's worried face watching him.
"When did it happen?"
"Like, right after I talked to Dream. I'm lucky he paid for the Uber."
"That reminds me, I need to let him know you're here safe."
Ranboo nods. "Tell him I'm sorry. And thank you for all the help. I wouldn't be here if he hadn't paid for everything."
"I'm glad he did. I'm glad you're here." There is a pause, and Tubbo looks at the floor. "I'm sorry about your parents."
Ranboo looks away. "It's fine."
"No, it's not -" Tubbo inhales. "It's not fine. They can't do that. It's not right and it's not fair and I'm pretty sure it's not legal, either."
"You're right on all of those, Tubs, but…" Ranboo sighs. He feels sick, and stupidly tired for all the naps he's taken, and he thinks his emotions might just be dead by now. "Sorry. I'm tired. Do you mind if I…"
"Yeah, of course." The tension doesn't leave Tubbo's shoulders, but he gestures to the loft anyway. "Your bed's still up there, honestly. The blankets are folded but we haven't put the mattress away yet."
"It's like you knew," Ranboo jokes half-heartedly. "Thanks, Tubbo."
"Are you sure you don't want any supper?"
Ranboo gives a wry grin. "I think I've had enough suffer at the moment, thanks."
"Ha ha. Go sleep, then, and you can eat something when you get up."
Ranboo nods, watches Tubbo head for the computer with a pang of familiarity and climbs up into the loft. It really does feel like home. The bed is even still in the same place, and Ranboo throws the blankets on without much care for decorum and wraps himself in with relief.
It's kind of nice to hear the clacking of keyboard keys from below. It makes it easier to fall asleep.
Ranboo dreams of the fight.
Like most dreams, it’s muddled and not quite true to reality. In the dream, he can’t seem to speak around a tongue too heavy in his mouth and instead of pleading arguments his throat is closed around anger that he can’t force out of his chest. His father’s words are underwater, irrelevant. He was the calm one, after all, disturbingly so even as he had told his son to leave. His mother’s shrill scolding, though, is clear as it was in real life.
Ungrateful, is a word she uses. Childish and manipulative – because somehow holding out for scraps of the love he got as a child was wrong - and of course there were the accusations against him simply because his fanbase liked when he and Tubbo pandered to their love of shipping jokes, and you’ve been acting up since you got home, the guilt-tripping of everything we’ve done for you, and finally enough is enough, get out, I don’t want to see you again.
The words more trouble than you were worth sting, but none more than the slurs that make his dream-self scream in incoherent rage. The sound goes right through his parents as if they hadn’t heard a bit. And his feet are weighted down in the hallway, like he can’t move, even as words push him toward the door as if they themselves have a physical force. None of the questions he asked in reality are there in the dream. Just the sound of the door slamming and instead of stalking away from the house Ranboo just falls onto the pavement with a burst of pain in his knees and the feeling of shoes slamming into his side and –
The pain – actual, real-life physical pain echoing into the dream world finally yanks him into wakefulness and Ranboo’s eyes flash open to the confusingly familiar sight of wood walls and potlights above him. He is tangled in blankets, rolled to the side where aching bruises protest both the pressure of the mattress and his heaving breaths.
“You alright?” A voice calls from below, and his muddled thoughts click into place. He’s at Tubbo’s, lying in the loft on his old bed. And the blankets are suffocating him.
“Yeah,” he groans after a moment, shuffling as gingerly as he can to unwrap what feels like an absolute knot of fabric from around him. Tubbo’s face peeks above the ladder, watching him struggle with an expression mixed between amusement and concern. “Jesus,” he gasps when he’s finally free, taking shallower breaths to get under control with less pain and noting how much more his body feels like it had honestly been hit by a truck.
Funny, because it had only been a person.
“Were you having a nightmare?”
Ranboo winces as he sits up. “Uh, no,” he lies. “Not exactly.” He doesn’t want to get into what he dreamed. Not right this minute – because he knows that conversation is happening shortly anyway. “It’s fine,” he waves it off. Tubbo hums.
“Feeling any better?”
Ranboo pauses to take stock of his body. Bruises – yes. Eye swelling – gone down a bit. Nausea – absent, for now. There’s anxiety, but it’s manageable. The shivery sick feeling from earlier seems to be better, too. “Yeah, I am.”
“That’s good. Mum said we can come by when you wake up, she’ll make you something if you’re hungry.”
Ranboo slides himself off the mattress and does his best to smooth down his rumpled hair and clothing. He can’t believe he slept in jeans, of all things. Tubbo moves out of the way when Ranboo approaches the ladder and he follows him down into the living room where Ranboo looks around the room with a tight feeling of positivity in his chest. It’s good to be back. He only hopes he can stay for a little while, at least.
It’s dark outside, he realizes. Not dusk, but fully nighttime, windows blackened with only the faint glow of lights from the main house visible through the double doors. “What time is it?”
“Mm, almost ten. You slept a while.”
“No kidding,” he scoffs. “You should’ve woken me up.” He’s going to be awake all night, now, not the greatest start to avoiding jet lag. It’s, what, mid-afternoon in California? Ranboo’s schedule is completely messed up.
Tubbo just shrugs. “Nah. You needed it. Mum does want to talk, though, if you’re up for it. She’ll get you some food.”
Apprehension pauses him in place, swallowing sudden anxiety and trying not to make it obvious to Tubbo – who knows him too well anyway.
“Don’t freak out, boo. She’s not sending you back to the US or anything.” Tubbo says knowingly. “You’re staying here. Whether you like it or not.”
“Why do you make it sound like a threat?” Ranboo complains, but he tugs on his hoodie sleeves and heads toward the door anyway, ready to get this unpleasant conversation over with. He hesitates when he remembers that he’s unmasked, and looks like hell, and Tubbo’s mother is going to have questions when she sees the bruises.
“Because it is,” Tubbo says simply, then stops when Ranboo does, looking curiously. In answer, Ranboo points to his face. “Oh. I, ah, I told her what happened.”
She already knows, then, but still he is aware that it’s going to be a lot, and he isn’t sure he wants to sit there with his stupidity all on display for an entire conversation and the possibility that Tubbo’s sisters might be there, too. So he finds his mask, fixes it to his face despite Tubbo’s expression of disappointment, and feels marginally better about stepping outside into the cold night and walking the short distance to the main house.
Mrs. Smith is waiting for them in the kitchen, sitting at the table and chatting with Lani. Both women look up as the two boys walk in, and Lani’s face immediately scrunches up at the sight of Ranboo, which makes him feel fantastic.
“What happened to your eye?” She asks, getting straight to the point, and Ranboo stumbles while Tubbo just sighs and their mother pats Lani on the shoulder and nudges her out of the chair.
“Later, Lani. Are you feeling better, love?” The woman is already getting up as Lani leaves the room, walking around the table just to meet Ranboo there and fuss him into the chair recently vacated by her daughter. Despite the four months he spent living with this family not long ago, Ranboo feels as awkward as he did on his first day back in June. He’s relieved when Tubbo throws himself into the chair next to him, a little solidarity for the inevitable parental fussing.
(He refuses to think about how different it is and how insistent Tubbo had always been that Ranboo’s parents just weren’t good enough - when it was Ranboo that wasn’t good enough.)
“I am, thanks.”
Tubbo’s mum smiles. “What would you like to eat? If you’re still feeling a bit unwell, I can heat up some soup. No, don’t worry about the time,” she says before he can protest, “you’ve had a long day, you must be hungry.”
He isn’t even sure, but in the past three days he’s eaten exactly one meal that didn’t come back up, and he feels better than he had most of the day. “That’d be good,” he admits. “Thanks.”
Ranboo fidgets while she casually moves about setting a saucepan on the stove and preparing some thankfully simple canned soup. Tubbo kicks absently at the legs of the chair opposite him and then Mrs. Smith turns away from the stove and faces Ranboo with a hand on one hip.
"Now, let me see that eye of yours."
Ranboo pulls the mask off without a word, resisting the urge to duck his head away from her scrutinizing gaze. She just breathes out a hiss of sympathy and clicks her tongue, leaning in to tilt his chin and examine the damage but avoiding the sore spots for his sake. "Really did a number on you, huh?"
"Yep."
"Well, I'll make sure you've got plenty of ice at hand. It looks alright, not too swollen."
"I had ice on it, uh - yesterday?" Ranboo's sense of time is completely out the window. Yesterday in California was also today in England, kind of, but he only traveled eight hours ahead so it probably was yesterday by now. Or two days ago. "Something like that."
"Good." Tubbo's mum lets him go with the tiniest pat to his uninjured cheek, returning to the stove and Ranboo sits in silence until she brings over the bowl of hot soup and a spoon.
It's good, better than the sad in-flight meal on the plane and less heavy. Tubbo and his mum are quiet, the former killing time by grabbing at soup crackers and eating them straight from the packet. Ranboo doesn't miss the way he keeps glancing at his mum and the way she watches him with increasingly soft looks.
"So, um." He takes a break from the soup and a careful inhale of air to calm his nerves. "I - I'm sorry again for just showing up like this."
"You should've come sooner," Tubbo accuses. "Dream said you were kicked out three days ago, bossman. Where did you even stay?"
Ranboo gives a guilty glance toward the adult in the room. "Nowhere in particular. A park. Just, y'know, wherever." He can feel the disapproving frown from Tubbo without even looking in his direction.
"I agree with Toby, love, you should've reached out right away. But you're here now, and that's the important thing."
The chastisement burns. It feels like months of progress in trusting Tubbo’s parents has regressed from just one month at home, the fear of punishment and harsh words much too close to the surface. He's not just letting himself down anymore.
"You're welcome here," Mrs. Smith continues, her tone easy and calm. "It was no trouble in the summer and it's no trouble now."
"It'll be like you never left," Tubbo buts in cheerfully, his moods as mercurial as ever.
"Thank you," Ranboo says quietly. There is a long and weighted pause in the conversation, during which Ranboo does his best to continue eating.
"I did speak to your parents."
Ranboo's gaze shoots up, eyes wide and soup forgotten. The expression on the woman's face is not as kind, now, some negative emotion twisting her features in a conflicted mess.
"I had to know that you weren't being reported as missing, dear. We could get into a lot of trouble if your parents considered you a runaway."
Ranboo plays with the spoon in his hands. "What did they say?"
Another pause, like she is considering her words carefully. "They weren't very talkative. But you've got permission to stay here."
Permission. Ha. Based on his last conversations with them, and his last attempt at returning to the house, they had probably given a bit less than "permission". He hears the unsaid words hanging over the conversation; his parents told Tubbo's mother to kindly fuck off.
"And I know it's only a few months until your birthday, so you won't have any issues with staying in the country for the time being." Until you turn eighteen, he understands. He's on his own after that. Independent, but it wasn't like he wasn't expecting it.
"I'll be speaking to them again regarding your things."
He's unpleasantly reminded of the major consequence of being forced out. "I, uh, I don't have any money. I've been cut off. I can't pay you."
It's Tubbo who scoffs. "What, and I'm going to leave you to fend for yourself? Stop worrying about it."
From the look on his mother's face, though, this is news to her. "You don't have access to your streaming money? None of it?"
"None. They froze my cards. And since I'm a minor, I can't override their decisions about the accounts or anything."
He knows Tubbo understands, because he's in the same boat, although his parents rarely monitored his accounts. He has mostly free reign over his finances.
"Well. That's another topic for discussion, then." Tubbo's mum looks annoyed, but distant. Guilt gnaws at Ranboo’s chest, even as he struggles to hide it.
"I'll loan you in the meantime," Tubbo assures, which makes Ranboo laugh just a little. "I -" he giggles, and Ranboo is suddenly fearful of what his friend is planning to say that has him so delighted. The feeling is warranted.
"I can be your sugar daddy," the boy grins, and he dissolves into laughter at the horrified expression on Ranboo's face.
"Why would you say that?" He demands, and Tubbo laughs all the harder. His mum shakes her head, not understanding the joke, and sighs.
"Please, just make yourself comfortable. My husband and I will sort things out with your parents."
Quieted by the reassurance, the unwarranted but much appreciated support, Ranboo nods. He doubts that she'll have any success bringing them around, but then again, it's good to have an adult on his side.
He finishes his soup before it can get cold, and when he next looks up Tubbo's mother meets his eyes with such a warm expression that it makes his throat feel tight and his eyes sting. He holds it back, not wanting to make a scene, but he thinks she notices because her smile is soft and understanding.
"Thank you," he says, for the soup, for the ride from the airport and the space in her house, and also for her son, who is now tugging him away from the table since he's done eating and dragging him back to the extension. He can only wave at her in goodbye, but they both know how Tubbo can be.
"You look tired, still," Tubbo comments once they are inside, and he's not wrong. Ranboo isn't sleepy, but he has no energy, and when Tubbo follows up his observation with the suggestion of watching a show, Ranboo agrees wholeheartedly.
Sinking into the couch - no, the sofa - eases some of the stiffness in his joints and bruises, and he is surprised to hear the familiar theme of Gravity Falls come onto the TV. Tubbo grins.
"Your show this time," he says, and kicks his legs over the sofa and onto Ranboo's lap with zero regard for bruises but Ranboo doesn't mind because he's just relieved to be here, with the terrifying and stressful ordeal of the last three days finally over.
He's still broke and disowned and injured, but at least he's safe. And with his best friend.