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The rain is freezing cold and, honestly, a little painful. Ranboo’s skin sizzles with every droplet; some shelter would be nice, but alas, they’re still twenty minutes out from home, and it’s going… not so well. Cradling the three potion bottles they’ve collected in their arms, Ranboo ducks under another awning and checks behind their shoulder again, feeling their heart hammering wildly in their chest. With a scowl, they waste a second to glance up at the rain with a glare that they hope gets the point across. Go away. Come back sometime when I’m not busy.
Footsteps echo from behind them, and a shout, and oh, dear! That’s not good news! They duck past another building, rain singeing their skin as they sprint, but it’s pitch black, which means they have a good chance at getting away unscathed if they play their cards right. Red and blue lights flicker from behind them, though, and they wince.
Ranboo wouldn’t say they’re a criminal.
Okay, that sounds really bad when it’s put like that, but they do mean it. If anybody’s a criminal, it’s definitely Tubbo, but that’s a discussion that can be tabled for later. The point is: Ranboo has never broken the law in their life, until suddenly, it’s four in the morning, pouring rain, and the cops are hot on their tail.
There may have been a few wrongdoings that have led to this point.
In their defense, everything they’ve done thus far has been in the name of Tubbo’s good health. Ranboo’s not one to step out of line (in fact, back when they still regularly attended school, they were the most well-behaved kid there was). It’s just that hybrids aren’t normally at the top of the list when it comes to doctor treatment, and home remedies are hard to make when neither of them can really do magic, and store bought is really expensive— neither of them have enough credits to even think about it.
So it’s possible, it could have happened, that Ranboo has come into possession of some free potions.
Ranboo is gaining ground against the cops. It’s fine. They’re never gonna catch up with them if they plan this right.
They have to admit, the robbery was ill-timed. They really should have thought that through better than they did initially, but oh, well— after what feels like hours of running in circles around the Western Borders, they’re pretty confident that things are going to be fine. The sound of sirens isn’t trailing after them, and nobody is shouting or running or flashing lights at them. In fact, the city is dark, and Ranboo finally has time to breathe and appreciate the stars for a second.
Then another patch of clouds moves over them, though, and the rain pours harder, and Ranboo laments at the fact that they won’t know peace until they make it back to the dinky little flat they call home.
When they finally climb the stairs to their flat, they’re left panting and burning up— but anything for the boss man, who was strewn across their couch with an arm draped over his face the last time Ranboo saw him.
Carefully, they fit their key in the lock, jostling the potions and then clutching them tighter to their chest. With a quiet exhale, they close the door behind them and then press their back to it, allowing the fears to unravel. Ranboo lets their eyes fall closed, tail wrapping around their leg as they try to deal with the soft ache that fluctuates through their body slowly. It pulses, begging them to cave, but Ranboo doesn’t buckle. Ranboo will not fall.
They need to get out of these clothes, or it’ll never go away. Ranboo sets the potions gently on the counter and makes their way into the living room, peering through the darkness to make out Tubbo’s features. His brows are drawn, and he rasps with each breath, which sends a tug through Ranboo’s chest, but he’s asleep; that’s progress. Earlier, he was thrown into fitful bouts of coughing each time he tried, wings shivering behind him when it got to its worst point. Ranboo’s glad to see that he finally drifted off, though they feel guilty that they weren’t there to assist in it.
A careful breath, and Ranboo’s long legs are carrying them to their single bedroom. They pull the shirt, heavy with rainfall, over their head and replace it with a hoodie that will last them for a few days, until they can find the credits to take it down for laundry. The washer’s been broken for weeks.
The process doesn’t take long. Ranboo shimmies into new sweats and then throws a glance at the clock settled atop the little bedside table: it’s quarter to five, and the birds are awake. Ranboo yawns, stretches, decides they aren’t going to get much (read: any) sleep. Their head is still stuffy with rain, and they need to scrape together enough food for a breakfast that will add strength to Tubbo’s immune system.
As they pass back through the hall, they crack their knuckles, which sends unpleasant tremors throughout their bones. A sigh escapes them, and they head back to the kitchen, padding as quietly as possible through the living room to avoid disturbing the sleeping boy.
Ranboo takes one look at the open window as the sun’s light slowly begins to spread to it, and oh, that won’t do. Tiny dewdrops remain clinging to the outside of the glass pane, a reminder of the pouring rain that has slowly subsided by now. The problem here is that Ranboo’s story and the story the window is telling won’t line up, if Tubbo sees it. Ranboo doesn’t want Tubbo to know they ran around in the rain last night, but they do want Tubbo to know that they went out to get potions for him—
Whatever. It will be much simpler this way: Ranboo draws the curtains closed on their way through so that the sun won’t wake Tubbo up and so that the raindrops won’t share secrets they aren’t meant to. After this, they begin their work in the kitchen, pulling the single pan out of the dish cupboard and starting up the stove. It’s an old stove compared to the ones coming out lately— barely runs right anymore— but Ranboo and Tubbo get what they pay for, and what they pay for is the stuttering stove, and the creaking doors, and the black, mold-stained baseboards.
They have three eggs left. Ranboo decides that Tubbo will get two little omelettes and gets started, dicing the onions and peppers as quickly as they can. There’s a little spinach left, just enough for these, but that’s about as far as the supply goes, other than the ham they chop up to throw in. They run through the motions fluidly, seasoning the food with the cintrila that they know Tubbo loves. Honey-sweet cintrila has thankfully become more common in stores now that humans are finally allowing magic-based plants to mix in with the normal wares. Tubbo can’t get enough of the stuff, wants it on everything they eat, so Ranboo stocks up when they have extra credits. Thankfully, it does go well on pretty much everything.
A groan floats their way from the couch, and Ranboo turns from where they’re cooking just in time to catch Tubbo stretch his slender limbs. Speak of the devil. “Morning, sleepyhead,” they hum, sprinkling a little extra salt onto the omelette they’re working on, and Tubbo grunts in reply, seemingly not up for conversation yet.
Ranboo doesn’t mind, naturally quiet. They flick the burner off easily and transfer the omelettes to a plate that they then set on the table, leaving the potions settled against each other on the counter.
Tubbo chooses this moment to finally speak up. “Mm,” he murmurs, face smushed against the couch cushions, “you cooking?”
“Omelettes,” Ranboo replies affirmatively. “You want them here or over there?”
“Should probably get up,” Tubbo sighs into the couch, and Ranboo hums, and then the flat is still for a few moments. Tubbo does not drag himself off the couch, and Ranboo does not make him, and after a beat of silence, Ranboo brings the plate over to Tubbo, handing him a fork when he sits up.
“Tell me how you like them,” Ranboo says softly, and then: “And don’t worry about finishing them if you can’t. I’ll eat anything you don’t, we won’t waste it.”
Tubbo flashes them a weary yet grateful grin, a light vibration akin to a purr stirring in his chest. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
Ranboo retreats to the counter to let Tubbo eat, standing in front of the three bottles they’ve brought home for him, and they watch as Tubbo slowly becomes revitalized with the help of the omelettes, silky, transparent wings extending to their full reach behind him. “Mmmm,” Tubbo buzzes, “cintrila,” and Ranboo laughs, shaking his head.
“Of course you’d taste it over everything else.”
“I would never let good cintrila go to waste,” Tubbo clucks, leaning his head back against the couch, and finally, Ranboo is at peace, sagging backwards into the counter with the weight of rainwater still floating around in their ears. For a moment, there is silence broken by nothing but Tubbo’s fork scraping against his plate, sharp and grating on Ranboo’s ears, and then, after another bite shoveled into his mouth, Tubbo pipes up again. “Ranboo, it’s settled. You’re a master chef. Master.”
Ah, so Tubbo is in a good mood, then. Ranboo is delighted by this, naturally, because maybe he’s feeling a little better— or, at least, he’s starting to. With a good-natured grin, Ranboo inclines their head. “Really,” they reply in amusement, crossing their arms in mock disbelief. “And all it takes is a little cintrila?”
“All it takes,” Tubbo agrees, shoving the last bite into his mouth. Ranboo’s glad to watch it go, if they ignore the hunger pangs (it’s a lot better that Tubbo gets these nutrients, anyway; Ranboo instantly feels guilty for being selfish). Tubbo swallows and then squints, craning his neck to look behind him. “Oh, you dickhead. I was wondering why it was so dark in here.”
Ranboo laughs, throwing their hands up, and tries to ignore the guilt that plagues them for telling such an obvious lie. “What? You wanted me to let you go blind when you woke up?”
“The sun isn’t even up yet,” Tubbo gripes, throwing his legs over the edge of the couch and then standing. At first, Ranboo’s afraid he’s going to the window, but Tubbo wobbles on his feet, and immediately, Ranboo takes a few cautious steps forward, forgetting all hints of fear. “I’m fine,” Tubbo waves dismissively, but even still; Ranboo won’t be taking any chances.
“Sure. Let me have it,” they coax, and Tubbo gets a glint in his eyes, and shit, Ranboo has made it into a competition— the bee hybrid holds it out of Ranboo’s reach, hopping backwards and then taking to the air to account for Ranboo’s height, and Ranboo presses a hand to their forehead.
“Tubbo, you’re giving me greys.”
“Ranboo, your hair is fucking black and white. They’re just merging together. Do you even know any fucking color theory? Do you?” Tubbo bats at their hand when Ranboo reaches forward to prod at him and squeaks, in a way, falling back to the floor with a gentle thump. “Shit! Unhand me!”
“Only because you’re sick,” Ranboo huffs, taking the plate and retreating to the sink to run it under hot water, conveniently ignoring the way that it stings their hands until they’re raw. “You got lucky this time.”
“Sure, idiot,” Tubbo yawns, settling back down and curling up against the edge of the couch. With a start, Ranboo remembers through the slight brain fog: ah, yes, Tubbo’s sick. Tubbo’s not feeling very well. Ranboo should probably keep an eye on that, right?
“How are you feeling?” they ask gently, the age-old question, and Tubbo crinkles his nose.
“Like shit.” When Ranboo opens their mouth, tail swishing anxiously behind them, Tubbo lifts a hand and continues: “But! Less shit than yesterday.”
Ranboo grins. “Good,” they reply, and when there’s a lull in the conversation, a small pause, Ranboo takes it as a sign to go on. “I have a surprise for you,” they say, chest swelling with a nerve-wracking mixture of pride and shame.
It seems to pique Tubbo’s interest, though; the boy sits up straight, eyebrows lifting. “What?” he hums in acknowledgement, eyes sparkling with a certain curious mischief (or maybe it’s the way their compound irises are built), and Ranboo forgets to speak, brimming with excitement. Tubbo blinks slowly and then gestures: “Well…?” and Ranboo jumps to action, color rising to their cheeks.
“Oh— right. Sorry.” Before Tubbo can chastise them for apologizing, Ranboo turns and scoops the bottles up into their arms, swiveling to show them off to Tubbo with a hopeful grin. “Um, surprise?”
Tubbo’s jaw drops, and it makes Ranboo giddy, their tail swinging back and forth behind them like a hyperactive cat (ironic, for an Enderian hybrid, of all things). “Holy shit, boss man,” Tubbo breathes, gripping the edge of the couch arm, and Ranboo nods enthusiastically, coming forward onto the carpet. They sit gently next to Tubbo on the edge of the couch, taking up as little space as possible, and Tubbo leans against their shoulder to pore over the glimmering mixtures with intrigue.
A beat passes, guilt building on Ranboo’s shoulders the longer the silence stretches on, and then Tubbo finally saves them from trying to awkwardly start a new sentence. “Jesus,” he breathes. “These are health potions, Ranboo.” In return, Ranboo serves him a deadpan look— Really?— and Tubbo lifts his hands. “Fine, okay— but really— where did you get these?”
Ah. There it is. Ranboo’s insides twist into knots, and they answer a little too quickly in a voice octaves higher than it should be: “Umm, it doesn’t really matter...”
Tubbo gapes harder.
“I’ve turned you into a crime lord,” he whispers in disbelief.
Ranboo breaks apart with a laugh at that, letting the tension seep from their shoulders and leaning into Tubbo’s side as their head pounds. “So you aren’t mad,” they clarify breathlessly, and Tubbo digs his knuckles into their shoulder with a huff, buzzing absently (and Ranboo loves the fact that Tubbo doesn’t realize he’s doing it).
“Dumbass. Of course I’m not mad. Hand me one of those,” Tubbo replies, each sentence one after the other, quick and easy and factual, and Ranboo’s chest stirs with anticipation (or maybe that’s just nausea). They hand over a healing potion, glimmering pink and sloshing in its thin vial, and Tubbo uncaps it hungrily, downing it in one shot. He’s always had a raging sweet tooth.
“Careful,” Ranboo murmurs, their heavy hands hovering in case anything goes wrong, “you’ll make yourself sick.”
After one last gulp, Tubbo waves them off with, “Bah. It’s good. I’m fine.” He coughs, sending echoes of pinching pain throughout Ranboo’s head (it’s fine, just a little waterlogging, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix later), and then regards them with a squint. “Did you have the cops after you?”
Ranboo pales, tail wrapping around their bouncing leg. They’re so ridiculously transparent, it’s no wonder Tubbo’s seen the way they’ve been jittery this morning. “I mean, it is possible that I could have had the cops after me—”
“Ranboo!”
It’s a little too loud, and the lights are just a tad too bright, and Ranboo sways where they’re sitting, resolving to sink back into the couch to mitigate the ache in their head that grows stronger with each passing second. Stupid rain-burn. “Well, they didn’t catch me, did they,” says Ranboo tiredly, extending the hand with the other two potions. “Here. You’ll probably need these.”
“One’s fine for now,” Tubbo replies, though he takes them anyway, “don’t waste them,” and then he seems to refocus himself on the topic from before. “I mean— just be careful.” Silence. A flat look. Tubbo sighs in exasperation. “Fine, I know, but at least I know what I’m doing—”
“Hey!”
“—and I’m not going to get caught,” Tubbo finishes over them, a flame sparking in his gaze that Ranboo can’t even begin to deal with at the moment. “Because I’ve done it before. You… listen, I just want to make sure you don’t get fucked over, boss man, and you’ve never really been tied up with the law before, and… Ranboo? Ranboo.”
“Mmm,” Ranboo replies, and it’s then that they realize how their eyes have fallen closed, and how they’ve sunk further into the couch, and how their brain is filled with a fog that seeps into their ears and throat and aches relentlessly. The sting of rainwater still implores them to burrow deeper into the couch in hopes that the textured fabric will rub off any hint of pain left over.
“Damn it, Ranboo,” Tubbo grumbles, “you didn’t sleep, did you?” And it sounds so far away, and Ranboo is half-tempted to tell Tubbo that that’s not really the problem, they’re not really tired, it’s more like their bones are filled with cement and it’s too hard to move and their head is full of cotton and so is their mouth and it hurts to swallow more and more every time because their throat stings and oh, no, wait just a moment, that’s a little worse than a sting, that’s a bit more like a burn, that’s more like a raging fire that spreads from the outside of their skin to the inside, and their hair is a little damp and it must be trickling, seeping down into their brain, because each breath rattles and it hurts so bad to drag themselves sideways against Tubbo—
They are being shaken. There are hands clasped tightly on their shoulders, and they are being shaken back and forth like a rag doll. Ranboo can barely force their eyes to open, but nothing much comes out when they try to speak except for a weak moan, so that’s out of the question now. When they do manage to catch a glimpse of the outside world, it is Tubbo’s face looming over their own. His lips move with urgency, and Ranboo hums, feeling the vibrations move through their chest (and especially the worried buzzing) but unable to polish it any further than that.
“...nboo, are you with…”
Ranboo is not with him. Their head lolls forward, chin to their chest, and when Tubbo tilts it back up, the world spins violently in circles around them, sending nauseous shivers down their spine. The last thing Ranboo catches hints of is the feeling of Tubbo’s forehead butting against them, his wings twitching anxiously behind him as Ranboo’s bad decisions catch up with them.
Tubbo is suffering.
Maybe he shouldn’t put it like that. Maybe that’s a little bit rude to say when Ranboo just passed out on the couch in their flat. It’s just that— well— Tubbo can’t work on anything while he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Ranboo, can’t start anything in case he has to drop everything and run to his best friend’s side, but Ranboo won’t wake up. Tubbo needs to be doing something, needs to be moving his hands and using his brain, but instead, he’s floating aimlessly around the flat and picking things up, so desperate to find a new task that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
That’s why he’s found himself pacing back and forth in their tiny living room, walking in circles around the couch with a careful glance at Ranboo every once in a while. He’s already made himself a cup of hot chocolate, careful hands curating pinches of cocoa powder into a mug full of steaming milk, and now it’s his only companion, sending warmth down his arm and ripping through his chest with every gulp.
At first, the guilt was so strong that Tubbo was over compartmentalizing every part of his past two or three days to try and find spots where he might have passed whatever he had to Ranboo. However, their chest still rises and falls dutifully, and there’s been no hacking coughs like Tubbo had, so he’s assuming that it’s something else. Ranboo didn’t mention anything when Tubbo woke up, though, or Tubbo would remember it. Wouldn’t he? Or was he a little too out of it?
Damn it. Tubbo hates to second guess himself. The situation is grimmer than he’d like to admit. Tubbo’s already poured the second health potion of three down Ranboo’s throat, and they haven’t thrown it up or anything, so Tubbo’s taking that as a good sign. He was tempted to use the last one, too, but Ranboo got chased down by the cops to get these— Tubbo can’t waste them when he doesn’t know for sure that they’ll help. He’s smarter than that.
Ranboo is unreasonably warm every time Tubbo checks with a hand against their forehead (which is something like every ten minutes, at this rate) that it’s freaking him out a little and pissing him off a lot. He tries to reason that it’s the heat from the mug making his own hand hot, but warmth emanates from Ranboo in a way that Tubbo can’t be comfortable with.
Honestly, Tubbo’s not sure how he didn’t notice the symptoms Ranboo was having sooner. He should have noticed sooner, in fact. Ranboo looked winded when they were bringing him his breakfast, and they looked nothing less than exhausted when they sat down next to him— and shit, didn’t they wash the plate with water—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Tubbo darts over to the window that looks out over their city, practically hovering by accident (although it’s barely four steps from one end of the room to the other). Of course Ranboo would close the curtains to keep the sun out of his eyes when he woke up, but they might also close them to…
When Tubbo throws the curtains open, tiny droplets of water decorate the outside of their flat window.
Tubbo backs up and then turns in a quick circle, pressing his hands into his thighs for lack of anything better to do with the pent up energy that this has invoked in him. “God damn it,” he snaps, throwing his head back violently to down the rest of the hot cocoa and then chucking the mug at the ground so hard that the ceramic shatters across the floorboards. Something hits him in the heart, and suddenly things are even deeper. Ranboo was out in the rain, stealing, just to help Tubbo recover. And what was Tubbo doing the entire time? Fucking sleeping. Great. Everything is just peachy.
And then: “That was my favorite cup,” Ranboo whines softly, and Tubbo jumps practically out of his skin, letting out a yelp and finding himself two feet in the air.
“Holy fuck, boss man,” Tubbo gripes, achy wings slowing his descent back to the ground. The annoyance is false, though, quickly replaced with a concern that fills his entire Emotion Roster for the moment (Tubbo’s not great at multitasking when it comes to feelings, anyway). In an instant, he’s returned to the couch, leaning over the back to check how Ranboo is faring.
Well. They sure are... faring, alright. Not Dead is a great attribute to have.
“I am a girlboss, thank you,” says Ranboo wearily, and Tubbo gives them a deadpan look, coming around the corner of the couch to stare them straight in their eyes.
“You’re a dickhead, is what you are,” he gripes, leaning forward and pressing the back of his hand to Ranboo’s forehead to test it. He softens, knowing Ranboo isn’t even capable of coherency; he can’t go too hard on the guy. “How are you?” he asks reluctantly. “How are you feeling, I mean—”
“Aahh,” Ranboo slurs, “tired.” They shift where they’re laying, sprawled across the couch that they’re a little too tall for, and Tubbo presses a hand to their shoulder to keep them safely away from the edge.
“Careful,” he warns. “You’re fucking deranged right now.” Translation: please don’t fall off the couch. You’ll hurt yourself.
“Deranged,” echoes Ranboo, followed by a yawn too big for their body (however impossible that sounds). “Yes.”
Tubbo would say he likes this new version of Ranboo who agrees with everything, but the not-sick Ranboo does that, too. It’s a little pointless. “You passed out,” Tubbo says bluntly, inclining his head. “Do you remember?”
“Mmm,” Ranboo purrs delightedly, “nope. Don’t remember. Will you read me a story?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Tubbo replies flatly, and Ranboo turns to push their face into the couch cushion, a groan drawing out from them.
“You’re so mean to me.”
“You deserve it.”
Tubbo takes a seat on the floor, shoulder pressed into the side of the couch, and loops a hand through Ranboo’s hair again and again, wishing desperately that he could be more useful than whatever this is. “You’re sure you don’t need anything,” he murmurs. “A snack. A blanket. Tea. I think we have tea.”
Ranboo hums in disagreement, inhaling deeply before they speak as if they need to prepare themselves with energy. “You had the last of it,” they mumble, words running into each other. “Two days ago. No credits to buy more.”
Fuck, Tubbo feels so bad, and he knows it’s not his fault, knows that he can’t control getting sick most of the time, and that’s why it hurts. He knows the shame shouldn’t be ransacking him as hard as it is now, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. He knows the guilt shouldn’t be crawling like disgusting spiders up his spine, but that doesn’t dull the ache.
“I’ll get more,” he rushes out hurriedly. “When you go back to sleep. I have some extra credits—” that’s a lie, he’s flat broke, but he’s a damn good shoplifter— “I’ll get some.”
“No robbing,” Ranboo interjects grumpily, and Tubbo runs his head into the couch, frustrated vibrations radiating from them with a soft buzzing sound.
“Right.”
There is silence, for an agonizing moment, and then Tubbo hops to his feet, too full of undulating energy to stay still on the stupid floor. “Okay. I’m going to kick your ass,” he says, definitively, which is what makes Ranboo finally pull their eyes open.
“My— no, no,” they mumble, angling to look at Tubbo. For a moment, their gazes lock, and then Ranboo smiles absently, looking up at the ceiling again (they’ve never been a huge fan of prolonged eye contact). “I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
“You’re delusional,” Tubbo replies shortly, expecting a sigh; much to his surprise, it is met with mellow chuckles.
“Just waterlogged.”
“Ranboo. You aren’t supposed to be a crime lord. God damn it.” Tubbo paces again, his wings fluttering angrily behind him, but— it’s no good to be so angry. There’s no use being pissed at the world for something that only Ranboo could have prevented themselves. In his chest, in a locked box that he doesn’t want to kick open, Tubbo knows it can’t have been his fault. He was sleeping. He was sick. Ranboo made the decision, not him.
“Crime is not for me,” Ranboo yawns, dragging Tubbo out of his own head. He watches as Ranboo pulls themselves to sit up, rubbing blearily at their eyes, and he does not make a move to help them, soft, tender fury still reverberating around his chest.
Tubbo doesn’t want to be mean, not while Ranboo’s sick, but if he doesn’t say something now—
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Ranboo leans their head back into the couch, taking another slow breath in. Tubbo can tell that they know what he’s referring to; he wonders if their seams are coming as unstitched as it looks like they are. “I know. I’m sorry,” Ranboo replies hesitantly, and Tubbo’s chest surges with something primordial.
“Are you?”
He regrets the words as soon as they fall from his lips, but he can’t help it. This is happening too much. Tubbo is not one to sugarcoat, and Ranboo has to stop going out in the rain. It’s bad for them personally, awful for their health, and hard on the both of them— if Tubbo doesn’t stop fucking worrying, doesn’t find something to do within the next half hour, he’ll lose it. Ranboo has to realize how bad of an idea this was.
When Tubbo looks back, finally ready to own up to the uncomfortable feeling that has sparked in his chest at this conversation, Ranboo is staring at him with glossy eyes and downturned lips. “I’m really sorry,” they whisper, and Tubbo feels his heart pull this way and that. This wasn’t what he wanted to happen. This wasn’t the goal.
“It’s—”
“It’s not okay,” Ranboo interrupts quietly, running a hand over their face. “Don’t say it was okay just— just to make me feel better. It’s… I know. I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Ranboo,” Tubbo murmurs, and Ranboo exhales.
“I’m trying. I know. I’m sorry.”
It feels uncomfortably like a rehearsed line.
With a reluctance that he’s sure is evident by the way he moves, Tubbo forces himself to loosen up, padding over to the couch in his socks and his loose flannel pajama shirt and lowering himself in the seat next to Ranboo. He grunts when he sits, feeling the pressure in his joints (because his own sickness hasn’t entirely worn off yet), and then braves the unknown to turn and face Ranboo.
“I was mean,” Tubbo says quietly, as wrong and as self-blaming as it feels. “I’m sorry.”
A brief pause. “You don’t have to be sorry,” Ranboo mutters after. “That’s my line.” Tubbo cracks a smile, and Ranboo takes it as encouragement, proceeding. “It was for you. It was a bad idea, but it was for you, and I hate to worry you but I wanted to see you healthy, and obviously I should have thought it out better and my theft could’ve been timed more perfectly and I really could have considered the rain—”
“You’re rambling.” Tubbo doesn’t acknowledge any of the things Ranboo has said yet, cinching the bag with his real feelings tightly closed in his chest and allowing his head to drop onto Ranboo’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
Ranboo tenses. After a terse pause, they answer in one word: “Fine,” but then they go on in a way that only serves to further confuse him. “We— we do kinda need to talk about it, you know,” says Ranboo softly, and Tubbo exhales. Now he’s the stubborn one. Somehow, it’s gone from a confrontation about Ranboo’s health to a coercion from Ranboo to actually speak his mind.
To be quite frank, though, he can’t just speak his mind. He can barely even speak English on a good day, and god knows whatever’s going on in there isn’t English.
“Fine,” Tubbo grumbles eventually. “You… messed up, boss man. And I did, too—” the ceramic shards of Ranboo’s favorite mug are still littered across the floor behind the couch— “but the difference is that— you put yourself through physical harm. It’s just… it’s counter-intuitive,” Tubbo explains emphatically, gesturing with his hands as he talks, and Ranboo hums in agreement, so Tubbo finds the courage to go on, if only just a sentence longer. “There’s no use trying to help me by hurting yourself. Because then neither of us are profiting.”
“I’m sorry,” says Ranboo meekly, but Tubbo digs an elbow into their ribcage, and they worm away.
“Shut up, idiot. I don’t want your apology,” he gripes. “I wanna make sure you were listening.”
Ranboo straightens up, their head lowering to stack on top of Tubbo’s, and the ridges of their left horn press gently into the top of Tubbo’s head. “I’m working on it,” they say, and thank fuck. Thank fuck it’s not a sorry, and thank fuck it’s not a disagreement, and thank fuck it’s an acknowledgement. “I know I don’t— I don’t make the best decisions sometimes. Because I’m not thinking about myself in some situations, and I just… mmm,” Ranboo murmurs. “I’m trying to do better. I need your help, too.”
“You always need my help,” Tubbo murmurs, and when Ranboo’s tail swishes anxiously, he rolls his eyes. “In a good way, you twat. Thank you.”
And he means it: because the knot in his chest has loosened a great deal, and Ranboo no longer feels like a fire ready to turn a new color, and Tubbo’s achy joints are slowly fading, and finally, they’re on the same page again. Despite the way he doesn’t want to move a muscle for at least a good two weeks, though... “Someone should clean up the mess.”
Ranboo grins mischievously; Tubbo feels the way their cheek curves up against his skull. “You’re buzzing,” they say instead of anything related to the mug, and Tubbo… well.
Tubbo buzzes himself right back to sleep, slotted comfortably against Ranboo’s side.