Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ranboo doesn’t even know this kid.

Doesn’t know the situation, if anything is really wrong, if he’ll just make it worse by interfering. Yet, here he is, loitering in the Whitehouse hallway after hours, his tail skittering nervously across the carpet as he psychs himself up to knock. It’s one in the morning, but bright yellow light spills out from under the door. 

It’s now or never. He swallows hard. “Tubbo? Are you still awake?”

There’s a crash and a rustling of papers. “Hang on…don’t come in here. I’m–I’m getting dressed.”

“Okay? Are you okay?”

“Yes–nothing’s going on–just give me a minute–”

He waits, eyes enormous, until the door swings open, framing the shorter boy. He’s holding a folder against his chest, covering it securely with both hands. His blazer is off, but his white shirt underneath is still buttoned to the collar–he’s even wearing his tie.

“Um…?”

“Hi…Ranboo? Did you want something?”

“What?”

“Ranboo? That’s your name, right?”

“Yes?” God, he wants to turn around and leave. “Sorry, I think I might have heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

Tubbo stiffens like he’s been electrified. “Don’t tell Schlatt.”

“No, I mean, I heard him yelling. At you. Earlier.” His mouth is so dry he can barely swallow. “Is everything alright?”

“YES. Manburg’s government is operating smoothly and there are no security concerns. I mean, not allowed to leave this room.”

“And why was he yelling?”

“Oh,” Tubbo giggles, “that wasn’t even a work thing. I just dropped a glass, not a big deal.”

“Oh…well, okay.” That doesn’t seem like a full explanation, but Tubbo is fine, he’s even laughing about it. “It’s late, I should leave you alone…get some sleep?”

“Eh. When I’m done with this.” He pats the paperwork held securely to his shirt. “Don’t worry about it, Ranboo.”

“I’ll try.” He can’t help being anxious, that’s just his personality. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mhm.” His eyes sweep left and right, scanning the hallway. “Go on now.”

This was silly. He’s embarrassed. Of course Tubbo can handle himself. He’s sixteen and working in the Presidential Cabinet.

Still, for some reason he can’t explain, he wants to get to know this boy better.

***

He doesn’t have to wait long. Maybe because Manburg is a physically small nation, he meets Tubbo again the next day, on the Prime Path. His hair is brushed and styled, but sticks up in the back, like he’s done it himself without the use of a mirror. 

He turns to Ranboo and starts interrogating him before he can offer a word of greeting. “Why do you wear a suit all the time? Are you trying to take my job?”

It’s a joke, but he still feels defensive. “I like it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you wanna wear something so weird and uncomfortable?”

“You don’t like yours?”

“It’s alright. It’s just how these things go, you know, a part of the uniform.” He pauses, tilting his head to the side. “Hey, Ranboo? Can you keep a secret?”

“I…sure, if you want me to.” This is a confusing development. Tubbo seems so guarded, private to the point of paranoia. What’s going on here? Is it a test or a trap?

“C’mere,” he says quietly, eyes to the ground, “I wanna show you my library.”

And he actually grabs onto Ranboo’s wrist, his grip surprisingly forceful, before dragging him down the wooden boardwalk. He gets up on tiptoes to whisper into the taller boy’s ear. “There’s a tunnel under the lake. A secret entrance.”

“Okay?” Tubbo is giving him puppy-dog eyes. “There’s just one problem, I…can’t exactly touch water.”

“Put your armor on, then. Like you do for rain.” He waits, while Ranboo straps on his protective gear. “If you tell anyone about this I’ll have to kill you.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I’ll do it.” 

Tubbo is small and friendly and meek, and yet there’s no doubt in Ranboo’s mind that the threats are sincere. “I won’t tell.”

“You better not.”

The library turns out to be small, dingey, and really not worth dying for. It’s been carved out of the stone by hand. Certain books sit open on podiums–some are handwritten pamphlets he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before. Framed in a dim corner, just out of the lantern-light, is the original Declaration of Independance. “What? How did you get that?”

“Look at the signatures, Ranboo.”

He can’t hide his shock. “Wait, is that you?”

“Yep.” He shrugs. “Did you know I fought in a war?”

No, he never heard anything about that. “What…what was it like?”

“Scary, sometimes. But mostly, it was a lot of waiting around for something to happen. If you can believe this, I miss it sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He brushes a bit of dust off the frame with the hem of his sleeve. “Maybe I just miss the people.”

“That makes sense,” says Ranboo, peering around the back of Tubbo’s head to read the rest of the document. Fundy is still around, Eret too…the other names? “Do you get to visit with them sometimes?”

For a long, long, moment, the Secretary of State is silent. “No. I don’t see them. I am not in contact with Wilbur and Tommy. They are political exiles and enemies of the nation.”

“Oh,” he says softly, “that’s sad.”

“I suppose so.” He makes a small, vague, noise, muffled into his hand.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry.”

“Very sad.”

He hovers above Tubbo’s shoulder, wanting to comfort him. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. Turn back the way you came, don’t let anyone see you exit, and if you’re asked, you haven’t run into me all day.” He winks. “Thank you.”

“I…you’re welcome,” he mumbles, pulling back his arm, “yeah, anytime. And I’m here, if you need to talk.”

“I know.” He waves awkwardly. “Bye bye.”

***

Ranboo gets a knock on his door at home, while he’s cooking dinner, and he’s so surprised his tail almost catches the stove. Nobody really knows where he lives, right? He’s new in town, hasn’t made friends yet. Through the letter-slot, he can just make out the Secretary of State, wearing a heavy cloak against the night chill. “Tubbo? What’s going on?”

“Hi, Ranboo.” His voice sounds broken, like he’s been crying. “I-I see you wearing sunglasses a lot. Do you have an extra pair that I could borrow?”

“Please come in.” His hands shake as he unlatches the door, “come inside. And yeah, I’ll get them for you, I’m cooking something that I don’t want to burn.” Tubbo stands in the threshold, refusing to take a step further. Moths circle his head, hovering around the porch light. “Um. Please, I need to shut the door behind you? I don’t want to let in a bat?”

“Why do you say everything like it’s a question?” He stumbles forward, immediately turning his back to Ranboo and leaning against a warm furnace. “Okay, okay, close it, sorry.”

He…oh God, he’s got a black eye. And he’s obviously trying to hide it. “What happened?”

“Fell on a doorknob. You know how it is.”

“When? How? A doorknob, seriously?”

“Yes, earlier today, I was heading out of my office and I tripped on a rug. It bruised more than I expected it to, and here we are. Can I borrow your shades or not?”

“You’re telling me you accidentally fell on a doorknob?”

“You think I’d do it on purpose?” He laughs emptily. “It looks worse than it is, okay, it doesn’t even hurt. Just help me out and I’ll go home and get ice.”

“Wait,” says Ranboo, “don’t go. I can get ice for you, right now, hang on a minute.”

He shakes his head and edges toward the exit. “I should leave…”

“Please don’t. I’m making dinner, stay, I’ll feed you…”

“Promise not to ask anymore questions?”

What? He has no idea what’s going on here, and he needs to know. But it feels critically important that he not scare Tubbo off tonight, that he keeps him from leaving, and that if Ranboo can’t help him he might never come back. “Yep. Promise. No questions, just, dinner and an ice pack.”

“And sunglasses.”

“And sunglasses. And a couch if you need someplace to sleep, and…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Ranboo.” He smirks, and this time the expression seems heartbreakingly real. “So, what’s for dinner, bossman?”

“Well, I’m doing steak, green beans with garlic, and uh…” did somebody hit you? “...we could do dessert too, if you want.”

“Sure. That sounds nice.” He’s perched on the leg of the couch, untying his dress shoes with his teeth. “I, uh, mind if I rifle around in your freezer?”

“Go ahead.”

He slides across the floor in his sock feet. “Frozen peas, that’s a good idea.” His left eye is swollen almost completely shut, the skin underneath stained purple-black. He hides it away behind the vegetable bag. “Stop staring at me.”

“Okay, okay.” Tubbo relaxes slightly, shaking himself out and returning to the sofa. “Does it hurt?”

“You said no questions.”

“I’m not asking how you got it, just how you’re feeling now. I could get you a health potion?”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I have it right here, okay? It’s no trouble.” He takes a flask from his brewing station. “Seriously, this will help it heal faster. Will you take it, please?”

“Fine.” He accepts the bottle and uncorks it, sniffing suspiciously before taking a sip. “You didn’t put anything weird in this?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I mean, I’m a politician.” He blinks his good eye rapidly. “You could be trying to assassinate me.”

“I didn’t even know you were coming over tonight,” says Ranboo, at a loss. “And I wouldn’t want to hurt you. We’re friends, I think.”

“Yeah, I guess we are.” He closes his eyes entirely and downs the bottle in one drag. “Thank you. Sorry for being paranoid. You wouldn’t poison me, I’m not that important.”

He wonders why Tubbo came here tonight. “You’re important to me.”

“Aww..”

“I mean. I care about you. I want to help, I want to make sure you’re alright.”

Tubbo looks dismayed, although his exact expression is impossible to read. “Do you have a job, Ranboo?”

“I…not yet,” he admits, grabbing a handful of silverware. He’s setting the table for two. “I just moved in, you know?”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He sits even more upright than Ranboo thought was possible. “Do you need one? I could probably get you a position.”

“You could–” He doesn’t exactly need money, and, well. Sources indicate that the Manburg Cabinet is not the nicest working environment. But maybe he could keep a closer eye on Tubbo, figure out what’s really going on. “Yes, please, would you do that for me?”

“Okay.” He continues, conversational. “You know, Schlatt’s awful. A terrible boss. We do all the work for him. Sometimes I pretend I’m really the president. That’s fun.” Ranboo holds his tongue. “But if you want to work for him, hey, it’s your funeral. And it pays well.”

“Yeah,” says Ranboo, “yeah, that’s definitely why.”

Tubbo eats a lot. Sometime during his third plate, Ranboo catches him stuffing dinner rolls into his backpack. He decides not to say anything about it. He’s a mediocre chef, but the food is good and warm, better because he has someone to share with. Tubbo finally refuses a fourth refill and skitters back to the couch. “I should…get going, soon.” He yawns. “I like your house, Ranboo. It’s really nice in here. The furniture is soft.” 

He falls asleep in his clothes. Ranboo can hear him snoring over the crackle of the fireplace. Quiet, careful not to wake him, he drapes a blanket over his friend, who has finally, miraculously, let his guard down. His hand slumps open and he drops the makeshift ice pack. Even injured, his face looks so incredibly peaceful.

Something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong here, and Ranboo is only at the very edge of it.

***

They hire him as Minutes-man.

“Just write down everything, Ranboo. What happens, what gets said.” Tubbo reaches up to pat him on the shoulder. “I think it’s important to keep track of history.”

His memory isn’t the greatest. Maybe it will help to keep a sort of journal. The important thing here is his investigation into who gave the Secretary of State a black eye.

It could be a real security risk.

The first thing he notices is that on the job, Tubbo seems like an entirely different person. He moves lightly, swiftly, between his tasks. He’s chipper and resourceful, interjecting small giggles at the exact right moments in conversation. Ranboo would almost describe him as ditzy. It’s so weird. 

Ranboo pulls him aside when they pass in a corridor. “Why are you acting like that?”

“Hm?” He shrugs. “Oh, you know. It’s like a customer service voice. You should get one too. President Schlatt will like you better.”

“I don’t…necessarily care, if he likes me.”

Tubbo frowns. “How’s your first day going?”

“Oh, you know…lots of minutes? Five hundred and forty seven so far.” The joke doesn’t even earn him fake, polite, laughter.

“Listen, would you cover for me? If I have to take off early?” He lowers his voice as though scared someone is listening in. “I’ve finished my actual work, you wouldn’t have to do anything. Just make sure Schlatt thinks I’m still in the building. If he asks, tell him I’m cleaning the bathroom or something.”

“The Secretary of State cleans bathrooms?”

Tubbo nods. “Somebody has to do it. Can I tell you another secret?” Ranboo nods, and he gets up on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. “Sometimes the President gets drunk over lunch break and pukes in the sink.”

“Really?” He grimaces. “That’s…disgusting.”

“Hey, it’s Schlatt. What are you gonna do?” He flinches almost imperceptibly. “He is the way he is, and we have to work around it.”

He has to ask. “Did he…what happened to your eye the other day?”

“...thank you for covering me,” Tubbo tells him with absolute sincerity. He gives Ranboo’s hand a little squeeze. “Seriously, it’s a huge help.”

What else can he even do? “Have a good afternoon,” he says at last, “get home safe.” He’s no closer to an answer or a solution. But he might be closer to Tubbo, to gaining his trust. And if he’s helping, in some small way, he can be proud of that.

***

It’s early morning in the breakroom. Ranboo nurses a coffee, and watches covertly as Tubbo tries to stack oyster cracker packets into a tower. When they fall, he curses quietly and taps the table with his fist. 

Schlatt comes limping into work still in his pajama shirt. His eyes are bloodshot. “Ey, kid. Needa talk to you.”

“Oh.” He’s very quiet. “Can Ranboo be here? To keep the minutes?”

“Yeah,” he slurs, “why not?” He sits down beside the Secretary, edging into his space. He smells of alcohol, and Ranboo instinctively shrinks back, folding himself into a corner. “So, how’s construction going on the new hotel?”

“I…” Tubbo chooses his words carefully, “do you want me to work on that, sir?”

“No, you’ve been working on it. How’s it going?” He reaches around blindly until he finds Ranboo’s cup, and takes a sip.

“...that was mine.”

“Mine now. You would not believe this hangover.” He coughs. “So, Tubbo! Are you almost done?”

“I can start on the Manberg Hotel,” he murmurs, “I can do that today, but, you haven’t said anything about it.”

“You can’t do anything right, can you? What have you been doing instead, huh?”

“The…you said we needed more residential blocks, for people moving in, I’ve been collecting resources–we could repurpose those resources, right, for the hotel? That would fix it?” He cringes away from Schlatt with every word, so that he’s almost falling out of his chair. “I do stuff right, Schlatt. I’m trying my best to help–” he cuts off sharply as bony fingers close over his wrist.

“You stupid kid.” He’s pulling Tubbo in close, so that the hot breath ruffles his hair. “I make you, what, my Secretary of State! Just cause I like you? And when I ask you to do your goddamn job, nooo, you just whinge and complain and bitch about it. Now, I know you’re a crier, Tubbo, but at the end of the day, what matters is whether the job gets done, or it doesn’t. And you know what? It doesn’t!”

His grip moves to Tubbo’s collar. The boy lets out a sharp gasp.

“One damn thing I ask you for, and you can’t do it! You wanna lose your place here? You wanna go into exile with your little friends?”

“No,” he shakes his head jerkily, “no sir.”

He pulls Tubbo out of the chair. “Am I hurting you? Are you gonna cry about it?”

“Schlatt,” Tubbo wheezes, “Schlatt, the Minutes Man is here, he’s writing this down.”

Ranboo is completely frozen, drifting out of his body. He swallows, and forces the pen to move. The ink has already dried up. He looks away, hears the sound of a body dropping to the ground. Tubbo kneels, facing away from him, holding his throat. His breathing is ragged. Schlatt is already limping offaway, not even checking if his secretary is alright.

Ranboo crouches down near his friend. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

Tubbo just shrugs.

“You were right, you know that?” He opens his minutes-pad. “He never said anything about a hotel.”

“Mhm.” He wraps his arms around his knees.

“I just…he shouldn’t treat you that way.”

Tubbo finally speaks again; his eyes are dark and narrow. “Schlatt wasn’t always the President, you know. There was a time before him. There’ll be a time after him, too.”

That’s not good enough, he thinks, Schlatt is hurting you Now. “Can this wait until the next election?” 

“It’s okay, Ranboo.” He squeezes two of his fingers. “Everything is going to work out fine. I’m not scared about it.”

I need to fix this, he writes in his private notepad, not knowing how. Manburg is wrong and Schlatt is wrong and I need to fix all of this on my own before someone really gets hurt.

***

Tubbo comes over without an invitation and immediately locks himself in the bathroom. “I can get you a first aid kit,” Ranboo offers, feeling desperate. “I can put it down outside the door and let you get it and even walk away and not look at you.”

“It’s not that.” Tubbo sounds exasperated. He’s muffled by the sound of running water.

“Are you sick? It’s okay if you are, just please tell me what’s going on.”

He sighs heavily. “Come in here, Ranboo. I gotta show you something.”

Tubbo doesn’t look injured, at least. That’s a relief. His face is solemn as he pushes back his bangs to reveal a pair of swollen red lumps beneath the skin of his forehead.

“Acne?” He laughs nervously, “Tubbo, it’s not a big deal, we all get that sometimes–”

“It’s not,” says Tubbo, “I thought that too, at first.” He pulls Ranboo into the room with him. “Touch them.”

“I…don’t want to touch your zits.”

“They’re not. Trust me.”

He frowns, but gently touches a lump. It’s rock-hard, and the skin on top is dry and leathery. 

“I think I know what it is,” says Tubbo excitedly, “either a weirdly symmetrical tumor, or… horns.”

Ranboo gulps. “Horns? Like, what Schlatt has?”

Tubbo glares at him. “Lots of people have horns. You have them. Why should Schlatt get to be the only one I think of?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” There’s unmistakable hurt in those bright blue eyes, the rectangular pupils. “It’s just, he’s a sheep, you’re a sheep, you know?”

“Or maybe I’m a goat. Maybe I’m a dragon. Maybe I’m a fucking jackalope.” His cheek twitches. “Don’t compare me to Schlatt, okay? He’s an asshole, and he’s gonna be dead soon.” He pauses. “You didn’t hear that part from me.”

“Haha.” WOW, this is awkward. “Congrats on your horns…happy horn-growing day?”

“They’ve been coming in for a week.” Tubbo checks himself out in the mirror, and scowls. “My face is kinda sore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” He pokes at the nubs and winces. “You didn’t do anything. It feels kinda like a sinus infection.”

“If it hurts that much, maybe you should take time off work?”

He laughs bitterly. “I doubt that would go over well. And I’m kinda on a time crunch, bossman. Lots to do, lots to get done.” He lets his hair flop back down. It’s long in front, almost covering his eyes. “You don’t think I’d look too much like him?”

There’s…already a moderate resemblance. “Are you two related?”

“Ranboo!” he snaps. “That’s rude…are you asking just because we’re the same species? Are you related to every single enderman out there?”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have–sorry.” Drop it. Dropped. 

That night, Tubbo falls asleep on the couch again. Ranboo drapes a quilt over him. Tubbo is gone by morning, and he takes the blanket along with him.

Chapter Text

Tubbo is missing.

Over the past week, he’s become a regular fixture in the house. He clams up, defensive, when Ranboo offers to set up a real bed for him, but he’s started leaving his toothbrush next to the sink.

Now he’s gone, no explanation. What if Tubbo’s in danger? Ranboo wonders, God, what if Schlatt has something to do with it? 

It’s been about thirty-six hours. He’s not at work. His little office is empty, desk neatly arranged. He hasn’t come by for meals, or even to steal food directly out of the pantry. 

There’s only one other place that Tubbo could have gone, so at last, Ranboo gives in to his anxiety and checks the underground library. It’s messier than before – books off the shelves, a bedroll in the aisle, and the fresh smell of ink, like something is being transcribed. His stomach hurts. The door bangs open and someone shuffles in.

“Who–who is it?” That’s Tubbo in the doorway. He sounds panicky and upset, but Ranboo’s heart still sinks with relief. “Ranboo? What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you…I thought…”

“You can’t come here on your own, okay? What if somebody sees? What if you’re followed? What if you saw something you, uh, shouldn’t have seen?”

“Hey,” he says softly, “you know, you can talk to me.”

“This is my space, okay? I’m not mad at you, I just, I need to know there’s somewhere I can go where nobody will be watching me.” He grabs desperately for Ranboo’s sleeve. “Can you please give me that?”

“Where were you, Tubbo?”

He frowns. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Can you at least tell me that you’re safe?”

“Okay,” he says blandly, “I am safe.” He cracks a smile. “God, you need to be less clingy.”

Look, he likes Tubbo, and he wants to trust him, but something isn’t adding up here. “What are you doing?” he asks gently, “What are you involved with? Do you need help? Do you want to get out? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says smoothly, “I think your nerves are getting the better of you, Ranboo. This is really just a boring government job, and sometimes I feel like playing hooky for a while. I have nothing to hide. If I could, I’d be happy to tell you.” He pauses. “But if Schlatt asks, we’ve been hanging out together this whole time.”

His eyes narrow. But he doesn’t want to get Tubbo fired, or, even worse, hurt somehow. “Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll cover for you.”

“Let’s go talk to him, then?” He yanks Ranboo along with him by the elbow. “Rip the bandaid off?” 

It’s a bad idea. He nods slowly, and follows Tubbo anyway.

***

He doesn’t like this. 

The President spits messily into a little ashtray. “Tubbo! Where’ve you been, buddy?”

“We were scouting for you, sir.” He clasps Ranboo’s hand and pulls it forward. “Reconnaissance on a pillager tower, looking for a totem. We know you want to continue your reign, in case of certain…eventualities.”

“Good job,” Schlatt slurs, “good maaan.” He pats his secretary warmly on the shoulder–Tubbo stiffens, then relaxes again, letting out a breath once he realizes he isn’t being hurt. “This Ranboo kid, he helped you?”

“Yes,” he bobbles his head, “very helpful. Very useful.”

“That’s wonderful. Isn’t it? Isn’t it great?” He coughs hard. Tubbo flinches back from the wet splatter. “I’ve got another job for you boys to work on.” He pauses. “It’s important.”

“Okay…” says Ranboo uneasily, “what is it?”

“I fucking love being President.” He wraps his fingers around Tubbo’s wrist, holding him in place. “I say what I want done, and you guys jump to do it. See this? Hey, get me a drink!”

He doesn’t release Tubbo, who has gone silent, cringing in on himself. Ranboo’s tail is way out of control, it’s gonna overturn a pencil cup. “Um…what kind would you like?”

“Jesus! That’s a stupid question. You hear yourself, Minutes Man? You hear how that question sounds?”

“I’ll just, um, get you some of this one, then.” He’s shaking badly, but he takes one of the dirty glasses lying around the office and fills it generously with clear liquid from a random bottle. He drops it on the desk, and Schlatt takes it with both hands, finally letting go of his friend. Tubbo pulls back with a frantic, jerky, noise, moving his chair out of reach.

He sniffs the drink. “What is this? Is this straight vodka? Oh my God, are you trying to kill me?” He takes a huge gulp. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“What was the thing you wanted?”

Schlatt stares at him blankly. “Huh?”

“The job you said you had for us? The important one?”

“Ohhh,” Schlatt drawls, “right, that’s it, that’s what I was talking about. We’ve got a lot to celebrate around here. I want to have a festival.” He lets that hang in the air for a moment. It’s accompanied by a sort of itch, a desperate drive for them to look busy.

“What…” Tubbo interrupts himself with a dry swallow, “what would you like us to do?”

“I mean, make the fucking festival happen.” He slams his fist on the desk. The glass jumps. “Fuckin’...decorate, and shit. Send out invitations! Get it organized. And, uh…”

“Games? Would you want games?”

“Yeah, Tubbo, yeah I fuckin’ want games. Do that. Whatever. Sheesh.” He hacks and spits. “Excuse me. Where’s my handkerchief?”

“Here, sir.”

He rips it out of Tubbo’s hand and blows his nose, loud and ragged. “Right, that’s better, what was I saying?”

“Festival? When did you want it…put on?”

“How fast can you do it?” He glances at a calendar, pinned to the wall. “A week? That’s long enough for you to do all your shit.” The secretary bobbles a nod. “I want you to use that time. I wanna see you put in the effort.”

Ranboo winces sympathetically. It’s going to be a long week.

***

Tubbo paints strips of pink paper onto the skeleton framework of a massive pinata. “Thanks for helping…the budget for the festival is kind of tight. We have to make a lot of our own decorations.”

“Yeah–yeah, I understand.” Ranboo wraps another piece of fudge candy in foil. “You’re making it a…pig?”

“In honor of Manburg.” He drops to a stage whisper. “It symbolizes greed and corruption.” 

A bit of flour-paste drops onto Ranboo’s forearm, and he wipes it away before it can burn. “Well. That’s nice.”

“A festival does seem like a nice thing to do.” He trails off, staring into the distance. “Could I maybe get your advice on something?”

“I’ll try?” He’s a little short on real world experience. “What’s up?”

“Hypothetically, what if someone you cared about a lot asked you to do a…morally wrong, thing. But if you didn’t do it, they’d hate you…would you help your friend?”

His tail flicks nervously, wrapping around a leg of the folding table. “Um, your friends are good people, right? Why would they want you to do something bad?”

Tubbo sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Okay…what would happen if you did the right thing?”

“I’m not sure if there is a right thing. No matter what I decide, a lot of people could end up, well, worse off.”

Ranboo chooses his words carefully. “I don’t think I have enough information. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But this is all hypothetical,” Tubbo adds quickly, “it’s like a thought experiment.”

He twists the wrapper on a caramel. “I’m not good at those.”

“You don’t have to be. I just wanna know your opinion.”

Well, shit. He doesn’t want to encourage anything bad. Tubbo has him completely hamstrung. “Uh, whatever you decide,” he promises, “I’ll support you. I’ll keep being your friend.”

“Oh,” comes a tiny choked voice, and then Tubbo is sobbing into the pot of papier mache. Ranboo pats his back, and he just cries harder. “Sorry…I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong, just stressed out about everything. But hey, Schlatt’s new on the job, maybe he’ll calm down once he gets settled in.”

He nods mutely. 

It’s nighttime, and mobs prowl outside their patch of torchlight. “Do you,” he swallows a yawn, “think we can go to bed soon?”

Tubbo laughs. “This is probably going to be an all-nighter.”

“Really?” His eyes widen. “I’ve never actually done that before.”

“It’s not that hard,” says Tubbo, “I do it for fun sometimes.” He licks paste off his fingers. “If you’re really tired, you can go home. I won’t force you to stay or anything.”  He’s not crying anymore, but his eyes are still shiny. His hands shake. He seems fragile.

“I am not leaving you here alone.”

He’s rewarded with a small but grateful smile. “If you insist. But don’t whine to me about being exhausted tomorrow.”

“I never whine.” Tubbo kicks him under the table. He’s wearing stiff dress shoes, and it hurts. “Ow!” 

A zombie wanders a little too close to their table, and Tubbo claps his hands to scare it away. It sniffs once, and melts back into the gloom.

“It’s kind of dangerous out here,” says Ranboo, looking nervously over his shoulder. “Why don’t you wear armor?”

Tubbo looks sad again. “Old habit, I suppose.” An enderman flits by, and Ranboo watches it pass, transfixed by the oddness of a creature that is almost-but-not-quite the same. Tubbo elbows him in the ribcage. “That must be your uncle Edward. You’ll have to introduce me.”

“Look, I know it was an insensitive question–I said sorry–”

“It’s just an interesting thing to ask. You see a guy getting screamed at by his boss and go ahead and assume it’s his father?” He rips the tissue paper. “I mean, is that what your family is like? Is everything alright at home?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it–”

“You know, he hasn’t hit me once as long as you’re in the room.”

All the air goes out of his lungs. It’s one thing to suspect, another to have his fears confirmed. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through that.” He resolves to stick close, as much as he’s allowed. “Can you leave? Can you get away from him?”

He sighs. “I can’t just quit my job, Ranboo. A lot of people are depending on me.”

“But if he hits you–”

“He doesn’t. Anymore. He’s stopped.” Ranboo opens his mouth to say something, but Tubbo cuts him off. “See that Enderman there, with the red flower? It looks just like your cousin Jeremy.”

He throws up his hands in exasperation. “I said sorry already!”

***

They’re walking together, talking and laughing. Ranboo has his arm slung over Tubbo’s shoulder. They’ve both loosened their ties. Tubbo sees something in the distance and goes stiff. “Is that–? Shit, shit.” 

“What is it?” Ranboo asks helplessly as his friend pulls away from him, “what happened?”

“Nothing.” Tubbo sprints to the side of a building, where a huge glossy poster has been pasted onto the brick. The faces printed are larger than life. Tubbo lets out a whine and starts frantically tearing it down with his nails. He can’t quite reach.

“Do you want me to…?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, “please just–we have to get rid of it.”

He reaches up and starts to carefully unstick the top-left corner. “Do you know what this is for?”

“I have no idea.” His voice shakes. “But Schlatt won’t like it. We can’t let him see.”

It’s some sort of anti-Manburg propaganda. The scowling, oversized faces of revolutionaries stare out at him, half-shadowed, as he takes them down. “What’s ‘Pogtopia’?”

“Stupid name,” he mumbles, short and clipped, “stupid, not important…” Their comms beep in unison. “He’s coming, oh fuck.” They aren’t going to be able to remove it in time. “Maybe we pretend we didn’t notice it? No, we already touched it, that won’t work…” He’s breaking down. His breathing gets faster and wheezier. Ranboo pats his shoulder, trying to draw him back in and comfort him.

“We’ll tell him the truth. We found a weird poster, and we’re getting rid of it. He can’t get mad at you over that, can he?” Tubbo doesn’t look reassured. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He, he won’t hurt you.” 

He lets out one last shuddering exhale. “Go get a bucket of water and a sponge. We need to melt the adhesive.”

Ranboo hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” Tubbo begs, shoving him away, “just hurry.”

What else can he do? He leaves his friend behind, and he sprints.

***

By the time he gets back with cleaning supplies, President Schlatt has already arrived. Ranboo spills the water, wetting his shirt. The skin underneath prickles and stings. 

Tubbo has been physically backed into a corner. He’s cringing and contorting, trying to make himself seem small. “Let me go. Please. Let go of me.” Schlatt is holding him tightly by the wrist. He twists, and the boy yelps in pain.

“Tell me what is going on.” He grabs Tubbo by both shoulders and shakes him. “What’s this doing here? You think this is some kinda joke?”

“No, it…” he’s obviously having a harder and harder time finding his words, “I, uh–”

“Then explain it to me! Explain it right now, ‘cause this is starting to look an awful lot like your fault!” He slams him up against the brick. 

His teeth clack together and he shuts his eyes. “Mmm…” he cuts off in a series of hiccups.

“Schlatt,” Ranboo interrupts, keeping his voice calm, “what do you want, sir? Can I help you?”

“You see this, Tubbo?” He yanks him around, putting a hand on his chin. “At least someone knows how to do his fucking job around here.” He takes the sopping sponge from the bucket and throws it in Ranboo’s face. “Clean this shit up. Now. It’s a disgrace!”

He freezes. Tubbo drops to a crouch, face to the ground, curled around his knees. 

“I said NOW!”

“Not–don’t yell in my ears, please.” He feels like he’s floating. Only the slight sting of the water keeps him rooted to the earth. He waits nervously for Schlatt to leave, then sits where Tubbo remains silent, tiny, rocking. “Oh God.”

Tubbo doesn’t respond, just stares, mutely, into his hands.

“Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what happened?”

He shakes his head jerkily. “No, I don’t know, I don’t know…”

“That’s okay.” He pauses, anxious. “Can I, um, sit here, with you?”

Tiny nod. He says nothing. Tubbo gasps and gulps, like he’s catching himself. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I, I made it.”

“Yeah?”

“Made it through. I handled it. I was scared, but he didn’t, he didn’t…” he cuts off with a small spasm. “We’re good.”

He frowns. “That wasn’t good, Tubbo.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” he deadpans, “you have no idea.”

“I really don’t,” says Ranboo, “Will you explain it to me?”

“Nope.” He turns over his wrist, inspecting it. There are red marks on his skin that will deepen, later, to bruises. Ranboo’s breath catches in his throat. Why did you make me leave? he wants to ask, why won’t you let me help you? 

“Ranboo,” says Tubbo, squeezing a pulse into his fingers, “soon, it isn’t gonna matter anymore.”

***

After a long day of work, Ranboo comes home to find his front door deftly unlatched. The lights are off, and there’s a rustling coming from the pantry. Feral raccoon?

His flashlight illuminates a familiar face. “Tubbo, are you stealing my food?”

“No, I’m not.” He’s cradling something lumpy underneath his shirt.

“You have your own food,” he pleads, “and you come over for meals all the time– I’ll feed you, if you ask. You know this.”

“You’re rich.”

“And you’re literally third highest ranking in the government, Tubbo, and you’ve been taking potions and raw materials and bandages and I don’t know what’s going on but can’t you put some of these things on your business expense tab and go from there?”

“No.” His eyes are watering from the harsh beam, but he doesn’t look away. “I really can’t.”

Tubbo is lucky that Ranboo likes him. “I…huh. Can we start this interaction again?”

Tubbo nods. “Tomorrow’s a big day. We should have a sleepover.”

“Of course, you can crash on my couch like you do five times a week. Thank you for asking.”

He flutters his eyelashes. “Don’t you want me here?”

“Yes,” he protests, “you’re my best friend, at least, I think so, I think of you that way–” he sighs. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s working.”

“You’re so weird.” He gets his arms under Tubbo’s and lifts him up, ignoring his whines and kicky legs. “Come on. Outta my basement. You’re going to help me cook.”

He grumbles loudly, and goes completely slack, a deadweight for Ranboo to drag up the stairs. “You know what I did today? I built a dunk tank. It took forever because it wouldn’t stop leaking and I couldn’t find the crack. I was going all over with my caulk tube.” He yawns. “It was such a waste of time. Who even cares about dunk tanks, anyway?” His eyes light up. “We should put you in the hot seat. Raise the stakes a little.”

He shivers. “You’re an asshole.”

Tubbo nods enthusiastically. “I want to practice my speech again. Will you listen to me and give pointers?”

“Yeah!" he says, "I’ll pretend to be Schlatt.” Tubbo looks uncomfortable. “Or, I won’t do that, actually.”

“Guh! Tubbo, you’re stupid and bad at talking and your speech is lame and you’re doing everything wrong. Get me a drink, durrrr…” His cheeks are flushed and he’s crossing his eyes. “I don’t think you really love this country! The festival decorations are the wrong color. I can’t even swim!” 

Ranboo laughs. “I can’t swim either.”

“Yeah, but that’s not your fault. Can’t help being born all freaky.” He turns on the sink, flicking his wet fingers after he’s finished washing. “I ran into your mom at the grocery store. She unhinged her jaw and hissed at me.” He pouts when he doesn’t get a reaction. “Seriously, though, I think it’s gonna go well. I memorized my lines, and I have notes, too, just in case, typed up in dyslexic-friendly font, and I am nervous but I’ve always been good under pressure–”

“Hey,” Ranboo stops him, “You’re going to do amazing.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m rooting for you. I’ll be cheering from the front row.”

Tubbo’s face darkens strangely. “Can I tell you one more secret, Ranboo?” He gets up on tiptoes and whispers. “Sit in the back, okay?”

“But,” he protests, “I want to be able to hear you!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be mic'd to shit, it’ll carry all the way to the Greater Kingdom.” He pauses. “You trust me, right? Please trust me on this.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Tubbo’s shoulders relax, he’s visibly relieved. He darts in, and gives Ranboo a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ve been fantastic, about everything. Thank you.”

“You too,” he murmurs, feeling his face get hot, “Thank you too.”

It’s not until much much later that he realizes Tubbo might be saying goodbye to him.

Chapter Text

Tubbo gazes longingly at the boxing ring. They’ve watched several consecutive rounds where the same enormous piglin man pins each opponent without breaking a sweat. Ranboo is busy with his elephant-ear. The dough is soft and fried and covered in crunchy sugar that sticks to his teeth. He winces in empathy as another punch lands home. “Oh, that was brutal. Oh god.”

Tubbo fidgets with his suit. “I bet I could take him.”

“Please don’t do anything stupid.”

“I could, though,” he insists, “I’d win.”

“Maybe so.” He sighs heavily. “But you’ve got your big speech today, and you’ve been looking forward to it, and I don’t want you to go up there with a black eye.”

“Right,” says Tubbo flatly, “people would talk.”

“Oh. I–sorry.” Ranboo grimaces. “You’re right, that’s not funny.”

“It is, a little.” He shrugs. “Can we go see the dunk tank again?”

“Do you just like watching people get hurt?”

“No.” He takes a bite out of Ranboo’s pastry. “You don’t let me do anything.” 

“Okay. Ooookay.” He tries to steady his breathing. His tail whips and twines around Tubbo’s leg. “Sorry about that, I’m nervous. We spent so long setting this up and I want everything to go right.” 

“Things never go quite the way you planned them, do they?” He looks a little sad. “But hey. This is fun. I like the party.”

“Me too,” says Ranboo, “I’m proud of us.”

Tubbo tugs anxiously on his sleeve. “I need to go take care of something. I’ll find you when I’m done, just entertain yourself in the meantime, alright?”

He waves him off. “Yeah. Good luck!” The festival is a whirl of colors and sounds and smells and people whose names he can’t quite remember. It’s so much fun, he must be smiling like an idiot. The nice lady who runs the bakery won’t stop glaring at him. He decides not to talk to her.

Even Schlatt looks happy today, which is an abrupt shade from his usual anger and paranoia. It doesn’t make up for everything, but it fills Ranboo with a kind of hopefulness. He buys a snowcone, and flavors it with every color of syrup. The piglin from earlier steps up next to him in line. “Hey, kid.”

“Uh, I’m Ranboo.” He doesn’t think he’s seen this guy around before. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Technoblade.” He takes in the festival and nods appreciatively. “Nice country you’ve got here.”

“Thanks. It’s usually not as much, um, fun, as this.”

“I’ll bet.” He bites into the ice-shavings with his teeth. “So, do you know any state secrets?”

“Oh God,” he murmurs, “Was I supposed to?”

It’s a relief when Tubbo comes back, instantly grabbing onto his arm and steering him toward the Whitehouse foyer. He looks pale and serious and won’t stop biting his lower lip. “I, uh, public speaking, it normally doesn’t get to me like this.”

He tilts his head, sympathetic, to show he’s listening. “I believe you.”

“Mm.”

“I sure couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get up there and give a speech in front of everyone. I’d be so scared.” He pauses. “You’re brave.”

“Alright,” says Tubbo, giving his hand one last squeeze, “we’re setting up, I gotta go.” He glances over his shoulder. It’s heartbreaking that he’s vigilant and tense, even at a party. There’s another, softer, hidden side to him, that Ranboo only sees in tiny fractured images, before he remembers himself and the moment fades.

***

Ranboo finds a seat in the back of the crowd, as he promised he would. From this distance, Tubbo looks like a featureless doll on a glitter-bright podium. Speakers project the crackles and whines and cut-off orders given as cabinet members adjust their microphones. He leans forward, excited, in his chair.

Politics are boring.

Tubbo says a lot of words about how great the country is. But he doesn’t mention any of the things Ranboo actually likes: the way the sunset looks off the Whitehouse balcony, the stray cats on the docks that wind around their ankles, begging for fish, the time they put cereal in Quackity’s shoes as a prank.

“Let the festival begin,” he says. And things start to go off the rails.

They’re touching him, first-off. Grabbing Tubbo by the shoulders and ankles and forcing him down. He makes a small, nervous, amplified, noise. He looks up at something on the rooftop. Concrete is poured, boxing him into a makeshift cage.

“Wait,” says Ranboo, “wait, what’s going on?” He stutters over his words, grinding his claws into his palms. This isn’t right. There’s a mistake. That’s Tubbo. “What are they going to do to him?” He staggers out of his seat and starts wandering forward, dazed. “Wait, no…”

“Kid.” Someone grabs his arm. Sunglasses hide their pale white eyes, and their voice is just a hiss. “Sit back down. Just–go back to your chair.”

“But they have the wrong person,” he says weakly, “that’s my friend. We were just at the party together, I don’t, they can’t…” Ranboo can’t go any farther. He can’t get up to the stage. Tubbo stares down at him, eyes wide, lips thin. He blinks and blinks.

Schlatt’s right up in his face now, yelling and spitting and cursing. Tubbo flinches at every word, like he’s being physically struck. “You’ve been fucking betraying me! Right under my nose? How stupid do you think I fucking am?”

He whispers into the mic. “...pretty stupid.”

The crowd screams, Ranboo almost laughs, Schlatt punches Tubbo hard, in the stomach. “Yeah? You think that’s funny? How’s this?”

“No,” Tubbo gasps, doubling over, “oh–nevermind, sorry.”

“Do you know what happens to traitors in this country?”

“Ah…I didn’t…”

“You know exactly what you’ve done. We both know.” His face twists into a smile. “Technoblade? Are you in the audience?”

The guards allow him up onto the podium. Ranboo waits below, staring up, open-mouthed. Techno is…a stranger, really. An unknown quantity. He looks nervous, ears pinned back, snout extended. Tubbo is begging for his life.

Oh God, he’s gonna be sick. 

“KILL him.” He’s raucous and loud: it’s the same kind of voice that makes Ranboo want to hide under a desk. His tail threatens to trip him. “Get rid of this FUCKING spy - and make it HURT! He’s not getting away with this! He’s not getting off easy!” Tubbo’s entire fist is crammed in his mouth. He whimpers.

“I, uh…” Technoblade laughs nervously, and he sounds as confused and lost and petrified as Ranboo feels. 

“DO it. Do it NOW! We’re gonna make an example out of him!” Is he drunk? Is he sober? Was he planning on this, the whole time? Schlatt knocks into the mic with his elbow. Why is this happening? Is Tubbo really a traitor? What does any of it mean?

Technoblade raises his weapon. “I’m sorry.” It’s soft, meant only for Tubbo, but the microphones catch it. “I’ll make this as painless and, uh, colorful, as possible.”

There’s a flash, red-white-blue spark and burst and flame - the sound hiccups along just after, a crack like a gun, a pained sob-scream–

Ranboo closes his eyes. He can’t watch it he can’t he can’t the colors are still imprinted on his retinas–

Another explosion. He can’t hear Tubbo anymore. He can’t–

There’s blood and scorch marks and someone with a sword, yelling, crying, his arms feel like lead, he can smell burnt hair…

A hysterical howl, and suddenly fire is falling on the audience. Ranboo yanks himself out of his daze. The rocket launcher has been turned around, and now they’re all gonna die. “Shit.” He joins the crowd, running for cover. Someone steps on his foot. A piece of scrap lands like a dog-bite on his shoulder, and he shrieks in pain. His mouth is full of ash and dust, he can’t get out fast enough, his chest hurts…

He needs to make it home. He needs to get back to his house and then he’ll, he’ll figure it out. 

The door opens with his bodyweight. He’s never even locked it. 

The air that meets his nose is heavy with fear and smoke and sick. “Go ‘way,” says a broken voice, “fuck off fuck off don’t touch me!”

“Tubbo?”

“PLEASE don’t fucking touch me!”

“Tubbo,” he repeats, loud-steady-gentle, “it’s just me, it’s Ranboo, I-I-I’d never do that, anything, you’re okay.” His friend is just a quivering lump on the couch, hidden under a blanket. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“I can’t really see you,” he whines, “the flash…”

“I’m walking toward you now. I’m here to help. Nobody else is with me. Can I help you?”

Tubbo is a bloody, blistered, mess, painful even to look at. The damage covers his chest and most of his face. His suit is shredded. He’s bleeding all over the couch, and he can’t stop gasping or trembling. “G-get me out of here, please…I can’t be here, he’ll find me, he’ll see me, he’ll–”

“Okay,” says Ranboo, “I’m taking you somewhere safe. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

He’s not sure how to touch Tubbo without hurting him worse. The burns extend across most of his exposed skin. His clothes are tattered. He’s crying, tears and snot and drool pouring down from his nose. Ranboo scoops him up as gently as possible, under the arms. He hisses.

“The library?”

“I–I can’t exactly hear you, either.” There are thin red-black trails running out of his ears. “‘s ringing.” He scrunches up his face, concentrating. “Can tell it’s a deep voice. Sounds like you.”

“It is,” he reassures, “it is.”

The Prime Path is empty as they sneak back through the city, but the tightness in Ranboo’s chest doesn’t ease until they’re hidden away, underground and behind a locked door. Tubbo groans and curls into himself, clutching his head. “...ow.”

“Did you die?” he blurts out.

“Think so…feels like…”

“Do you know if–how many times have you…?

He holds up a second and third finger, both crooked and melted. The pinky is blown off entirely, stump ragged at the joint.

“Okay, okay. Okay. Bandages, you need bandages. That’s a good place to start.”

Sure enough, Tubbo keeps a first aid kit hanging on the wall, right near the exit.  

“All,” he gulps, “all over, I guess? Is there somewhere that hurts the worst?” Really, he should start with potions. That makes sense, right? He thinks it does. He hopes. He holds a simple health pot up to Tubbo’s mouth. “Can you drink this?”

“Do I have to?”

“It will help you feel better.”

Tubbo nods once, and drinks. He slumps back when the vial is empty, looking blank and numb. Ranboo forces himself to deal with the wound. It’s scary and gross and makes him wanna throw up. But he has to do this. He starts cutting the shirt-fabric away, assuming Tubbo will never want to wear it again. 

He’s careful as he wraps Tubbo’s body in clean gauze-strips, hiding away the horrible raw redness beneath something sterile. He speaks softly as he does so, a low, quiet, calming, hum. When he’s half-done, Tubbo goes limp in his arms and stops responding to him. 

“Ohh,” he whimpers frantically, “no no no.” He can feel Tubbo breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the rapid hammer of his heart, but he won’t wake up or open his eyes. He shivers like he’s frozen. His lips are bluish. “I’m gonna finish your bandages. Hang in there, okay?” He gets a lot shakier and clumsier after that.

He hears footsteps above him. Yelling is muffled by dirt. Of course people will be looking for him, for Tubbo. 

Ranboo has already failed him once. He can’t let him get hurt again. 

He snuffs the torch. Cradling his friend to his chest, he hides in the dark.

***

There’s a knock on the door, heavy-hammering, like someone means to break it down. Ranboo lets out an involuntary yelp.

“Tubbo!” Who is that? “Are you in here?”

He shrinks back even farther, spine pressing against a bookshelf. 

“Fine. I’m coming in.” The lock starts to turn. The intruder has a key. “Tubbo? Tubbo!” There’s a loud shriek and a bright light and suddenly a sword-point loosely touching Ranboo’s neck. “Don’t fucking touch him! Give him back to me you fucking bitch!” 

“No, I’m not gonna give him to you.” This…angry, blond, teenager? isn’t getting through him without a fight. “Leave us alone, you’ve made your point.”

“What?” His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying. “I’m not–I didn’t do this to him. Are you an idiot?”

“I’m not. And he’s my friend. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Well, he is hurt! And he’s not your friend, he’s mine!” In his arms, Tubbo starts to stir. He lets out a sleepy groan. “Hey-hey-hey over here!” His hand shoots out, and Tubbo’s wraps around it instinctively. “Oh!”

“...Tommy?”

“Tubbo! Yes!” His voice is hoarse, raspy, he’s been screaming. “Wake up now, you gotta, please–”

“Uh, Tommy. Fewer gestures, with the sword, near my neck.”

“Whatever, shut up. Me and my best friend are having a moment.”  He hugs Tubbo, long and hard. “You’re really here. It’s been like an hour, I looked everywhere, I couldn’t find you. I thought–” he cuts off with a swallow. “I thought maybe you didn’t come back this time.”

Tubbo stares at his bandaged hand, like it’s foreign and unrecognizable. “I, uh…”

“Let’s just go home. We’ll talk about it later. I’m bringing you home.” He hesitates before speaking to Ranboo. “You can come too, I guess.”

He blinks. “Where are we going?” 

Tommy grins at him with one side of his mouth. “How do you feel about joining a revolution?”

***

Ranboo has always considered himself a pacifist, he muses. He’s sitting on a potato sack, in a ravine that smells of wet gunpowder. He can’t go back to Manberg. Not after this. And, as long as these rebels aren’t the ones who shot Tubbo…maybe he’s in.

Is there going to be a war? Will he have to fight? He doesn’t want to. 

Tubbo lies on a cot - a lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress, on the ground. He seems kind of out-of-it. Tommy says it’s a side-effect of the pain medication.

“It’s just potions,” says Ranboo, “It’s all-natural, right?”

He rolls his eyes.

The ravine is dim, the ceiling far-away. It makes him feel small. A bat flies chirping overhead, shadow-on-shadow, and it’s easy to imagine that the three of them are all alone in the whole world. It’s cold down here. 

“Wilbur will be back soon,” Tommy keeps repeating, “he’s okay, he’s, uh, he’s getting Niki.” He crouches down next to Tubbo and whispers something, too quiet to hear.  “I hope…I hope he doesn’t do something stupid. No, no he wouldn’t. He’s not stupid.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” Ranboo cringes as his tail swipes through a cobweb. “Something I can go get?”

Tommy snaps at him. “If you want to leave so bad then fucking say so!”

“No, I didn’t mean…I’m just trying to help, you know?” Tommy huffs, but stops yelling. Ranboo can tell he’s not really mad. “I hate feeling like I can’t do anything.”

“You hate this place,” Tommy continues, “admit it. It’s all dingy and depressing and horrible.” He pokes at the coals of a campfire with a charred stick. “But I guess I gotta make you dinner. Like a good host.”

“I’m not feeling hungry right now,” says Ranboo.

“No. Me neither.” His whole face crumples. “What the hell.”

They don’t talk to each other, much, after that, lost in their own private thoughts as they pour oil and light the lanterns.

***

“Ranboo, right?” It’s the woman from the bakery, looking pale and shaky and like she no longer hates him. She’s ripped off her blazer and now huddles under a shawl for warmth, goose-bumped arms sticking out of her undershirt. “I see you made it out safe, I’m really glad. Where’s…?”

“Niki?”

“Tubbo? Yes, is that you? Oh thank God.” She rushes to his side, but her eyes flick about wildly, like she can’t bear to look at him. “You’re really here, though. I was worried, but here you are. Alive.” 

“Course. Is Wil…?”

Her face tightens. “He’s talking to Tommy. They’re on their way down.”

“Alright.”

Ranboo wraps his arms around himself. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?”

“Oh, dear. You must be so confused.” She doesn’t elaborate.

Tommy’s whine gets louder as he drags someone else down the stairs. “...Wil, how did it go this wrong?” 

“Look, I couldn’t press it.” There’s an iciness to him that makes Ranboo’s heart shrivel up. “I’m sorry. I fucked it.”

“But he shot him!”

“I had the button right there in front of me, and I just couldn’t press it. You’re right! I should’ve – maybe, maybe…”

“That’s not why I’m mad at you!” says Tommy, “I-I don’t want you to blow yourself up. I just wanted us to save Tubbo.”

“Well. I couldn’t fucking do that either.” He pries Tommy’s fingers from his sleeve. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He meets Ranboo’s eyes, and stiffens. “Who is this? Tommy, who is this?”

“It’s Ranboo, he’s, uh, he’s Tubbo’s friend, I think we can trust him, I don’t know, what do you think?”

“Aw, who cares?” Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Let’s bring everyone down here! Let’s get Eret into the revolution! Let’s get J-Schlatt–!”

Tommy stares at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Ask first.”

“You weren’t around to ask–”

“I was busy doing a thing!” He goes quiet, breathing heavily. “Should’ve pressed the button.”

“No, you…please no.”

“Why not? We don’t have a chance!” He gestures wildly around the ravine, eyes glinting. “Who do I have on my side? A bunch of kids?”

“You’ve got me, Wilbur.” There’s a deep, familiar voice coming from the entry room. “I can fight pretty well.”

Tommy’s nostrils flare wide. “Are you fucking kidding me, Technoblade?” He grabs onto Wilbur’s arm in protest. “Hey! Why the fuck is he still here?”

“Whoa. Whoa-whoa-whoa, hang on.” Ranboo steps in front of Tubbo. He’s wrapped in fleece blankets up to his nose, and has gone mute and shivery. “You didn’t tell me about this part. Is he on our side?”

Tommy is seething. He steps closer to the piglin, fists balled. “He was supposed to be!”

“But…he shot Tubbo.”

“Yeah! He fucking shot Tubbo!” Tommy plants a hand in the middle of his broad chest. “What do you have to say for yourself, asshole?”

“Oops?”

“It wasn’t an accident – you had time, it was basically premeditated, I hate you, bastard–” he gasps for air, steadies himself. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Nope.” He seems unbothered. “I really don’t think you are.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass! I’ll make you pay!” Techno puts a hand to Tommy’s head, keeping him forcibly at arms length. “Eat a dick!”

Wilbur strokes his chin in exaggerated musing. “What do you say we let them fight about it?”

“Uh,” says Ranboo, squeezing Tubbo’s hand for security, “Are you asking me?”

“Right. Come on, you two.” He grabs Technoblade’s left arm and Tommy’s right and starts hauling them into a corner. Tommy twists around in his grasp, trying to get free, snapping his teeth. “If you want to fight him so bad, we’re going to do it in a controlled environment.” He leads them into a grotto, the walls are hard stone. “Fine. Go right ahead. I won’t stop you.”

Tubbo whimpers softly, and leans his forehead into Ranboo’s arm.

Technoblade towers over Tommy. “You sure about this?”

Tommy growls, and punches him in the snout.

Which is pretty stupid, if you ask Ranboo. The piglin outweighs him threefold, and is an accomplished boxer. “Stop,” Tubbo murmurs, “it’s, it’s not worth it.”

“Hey.” Ranboo shields him, and helps him to stand. “You don’t need to see this.” Tubbo nods slightly, and buries his face in his friend’s chest. “Okay. Alright.” 

It’s fast and quiet. Each time a hit lands, there’s a crunch, and a scream or a grunt of air, and Tubbo flinches hard at every impact. Ranboo talks evenly about nothing, trying to drown out the sound. “Maybe we can decorate this place, okay? We can paint the walls, what color would you like? And I’ll bring pillows and blankets from my house.” There’s a heavy thud, like a body falling. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. You both will. Try not to think about it. Breathe.”

Tommy screams as he launches another attack. He sounds nasally and wet, like there’s blood in his nose.

“We can get the books from the library, okay? I like your library, I never got to read all of it, I…”

The pit has gone quiet. Ranboo dares a glance through his fingers. Tommy’s body lies unmoving on the rock. “It’s done,” says Wilbur. He gets down into the pit to help him upright.

“Settled,” says Technoblade, inspecting his bruised knuckles. “Now it can stay in the pit.”

Tommy rockets up, nose bleeding freely. “No it fucking can’t!” 

“Do you want to fight again?”

“You shot him, Techno! That’s not okay!”

“We’ve been over this.”

“It is okay,” Tubbo says quietly, wriggling out of Ranboo’s arms. “I forgive him. It’s fine.”

Tommy’s jaw drops. “You can’t fucking say that, he betrayed you, he hurt you–”

“Don’t fight him. Don’t let him hit you. I don’t want that.” He swallows hard. “I’m not mad at him, at all.”

He stares blankly. “I hate you all. I’m going to my room.” He storms off, dribbling a blood trail on the floor.

Nobody speaks. Wilbur’s lip trembles. “It’ll be good for him to cool down, I guess.” He taps his fingernails on the wall in an irregular rhythm. “Teenagers, right?”

Chapter Text

“It’s okay if you’re not.” Ranboo sits beside Tubbo’s mattress, crossing his legs. “Okay with it, I mean. You don’t have to be.”

He is thoroughly swaddled in bandages. Only one eye is visible, his gaze watery and fixed. “I’m not sure how I feel.”

“That’s okay, too.” Ranboo runs a comforting hand through his hair. It’s singed, chunks are missing. “You don’t need to be sure.”

“I…I’m still in shock, really. It’s so extreme.” He winces as he forms words, breathing heavily. “I guess, I really thought he wouldn’t do it. Or that someone would save me. Or I’d just wake up and it’d all be a bad dream, you know?” He moves himself stiffly so that he’s lying on his side. “Can I have some water? My throat hurts.”

Ranboo rushes to fill a bottle. “Here.”

Tubbo squints at him. “If I asked you to, you would pour this down your shirt.”

He flushes red. “Please drink it.”

“Yeah, Minutes Man…I’m just teasing. Sheesh.” He lets Ranboo press the bottle to his lip, and takes one small, painful, gulp. “Would you, though?”

“You wouldn’t ask that,” he sighs, “not seriously.” He trusts Tubbo not to hurt him. “I’m so sorry.”

“I thought Schlatt wouldn’t find out.” His brow furrows into a squint. “I really thought I was being sneaky. Guess that was stupid of me. I fucked it up. Did you? Tell him anything?”

“No!” He shakes his head jerkily.

“Your memory’s bad. Maybe you told him something, and you don’t remember.”

“I would never do that.” He blinks back tears. “Besides, I didn’t even know!” 

“I was sneaking off. You knew about it.”

“And that made sense! You wanted to get away from him, because he was hurting you.” He continues, desperate to make Tubbo understand. “I would never hold that against you. I wish we’d left sooner. We should’ve just run, and lived in the woods.”

“We couldn’t…”

“But maybe we could’ve, though. Maybe.” He pats the back of Tubbo’s wrist, a dime-sized spot where the bandages don’t need to reach. “I would not have betrayed you, told him you were a spy, even if I had known. You know that, right? You believe me?”

“Sure.” He frowns. “But what am I meant to think, when anyone can turn on me at any time and I can’t fucking tell the difference–?” he cuts off. “Would you check on Tommy for me, please? Is he still pissed?”

“I…okay?”

“Thanks.” He flicks away Ranboo’s arm. “When I try, I make it worse.”

He doubts that he can do much better. Sometimes Tommy seems to hate him; other times he bullies and whines like they’re been friends for years. It’s confusing, and difficult to navigate.

He’s sitting in a corner when Ranboo finds him, knees hunched up, a bloody rag cupped to his nose. A bruise is darkening on his cheekbone, skin broken on his knuckles from the punches he’s given out.

“Tilt your head forward?”

Tommy coughs up some brownish goo. “Don’t tell me what to do, bitch.” He lowers the cloth and inspects it.

“It looks like it’s dried up.”

“Awesome.” He throws the rag away and gets to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. “No, nah, get back, don’t touch. I’m good. I’m just a li’l dizzy.” He looks directly at Ranboo, and scowls. “You’re too tall.”

“Yep. Sorry. Can’t be helped.”

“You should walk around on your knees, to compensate. There should be a law.”

“Okay. That’s a bit much, now.” He sits, taking care to avoid Tommy’s gross bloody handkerchief. “You, uh, seemed pretty upset, earlier.”

“Ya think?” He claws at Ranboo’s collar, fiery all over again. “What is wrong with Techno? What the fuck is his problem?”

“I don’t know him very well,” he admits, “I don’t know why he’d do that.”

“Why would anyone do that? They had no right!” His eyes are full of hot angry tears, spilling over. “I-I-I saw it, it was really bad…he shot Tubbo! Right in front of me, I couldn’t stop it, I heard him scream–” he’s breathing heavily, his shoulders rising in an up-and-down wave. “...I keep hearing it.”

“Yeah, I…I was there too.” It’s easily the worst moment of his whole life, and he knows it’s going to haunt him for a long long time. The way it must have hurt…the begging…the burning… “He respawned on my sofa…he’d been sleeping there a lot, so I guess it was the spot that his body decided was safe to come back to. He was so confused and scared and I didn’t know what to do for him.” It’s weak consolation, and Tommy’s already volatile, but he needs to spill his guts, he can’t keep this inside. “It sucks that we can’t fix this.”

Tommy pulls away from him suddenly. “At least I tried.” His lip is swollen, his sneer exaggerated. “And I’d do it again. I’d fight, I’d lose, I’d let Techno beat the shit out of me again and again and again to show him it wasn’t okay, that he can’t just get away with this.”

“But he is getting away with it, then.”

Tommy’s arms fly to cover his stomach and collarbone. “Oh. Fuck you.”

“It was Schlatt’s idea, though. I still think that’s important.” Ranboo takes a deep breath. “Schlatt has always had it out for Tubbo.”

He demands, “What do you mean? What did he do?”

“He overworked him…yelled at him, a lot. Blamed him for things that weren’t his fault. And hit him, I think. I usually didn’t see it happen, but someone was giving Tubbo injuries, he was getting hit.”

Tommy turns pale white, pink spots flushed in his cheeks. “I’m going to kill Schlatt. I’ve decided.”

Oh, he was meant to be calming Tommy down, wasn’t he? Yeah. He remembers now. That was the assignment. It’s difficult, when Ranboo himself feels so upset and frazzled. And he does, hell, he’s seeing different-colored-lights every time he closes his eyes. It’s making him ill, but he really needs to keep it together. Everyone else is already going crazy.

Speaking of.

“Careful around Wilbur,” Tubbo warns him, “he’s, uh, not in a good headspace. I don’t know how he’ll react to you being here.”

“Is he going to hurt me?”

“Well…imagine a glass sculpture. It’s very fragile, and if you break it, there’ll be shards everywhere that might go into your hands and feet.”

“Oh,” says Ranboo, “and that’s him?”

“Maybe. Or he’s also sort of like a startled dog with a knife in its mouth.” Tubbo turns up his palms. “I’m not good at metaphors.”

“But what you’re saying overall is, he’s not a bad guy.” He’s thinking hard. “I don’t really believe there are all-bad people. They have their reasons for doing things.” Tubbo’s spine tenses up. “Of course,” he corrects, “that still doesn’t make the things okay.”

“Schlatt hurt me, and he hurt Quackity, too, but not you, or Jack, or Ponk, and I don’t think Fundy. So there’s probably something I could have done better, that might’ve stopped him.” He shivers, and wraps his arms around himself. “Oh well.”

Ranboo keeps saying the wrong things. “Can I give you a hug?”

Tubbo doesn’t answer, but leans in, resting his head on Ranboo’s chest. He’s crying slightly, trying to be quiet about it, but there’s still a damp spot forming on Ranboo’s shirt. He wraps around him gently, arms forming a loose cradle. He doesn’t want Tubbo to feel trapped, or like he can’t pull away.

Because Ranboo is just some guy. He’s not a revolutionary, or a spy, or a soldier. He’s not a politician, even. He's trying to help his friend, and now he’s in WAY over his head and he can’t resurface. There’s no going back or going home. He’s terrified, and cold, and he left almost all of his stuff in the Manberg house, he’s only now realizing. He could have grabbed a bag of food and valuables and keepsakes, but he was overcome with the need to get out, with Tubbo clinging to his shirt and begging to be taken somewhere safe–

They’re not safe.

Technoblade and his rocket launcher are in the next room. Wilbur is…he doesn’t know where, actually. Tommy and Tubbo are both badly hurt. Niki is part of Pogtopia–The–Cause, but she’s spending as little time underground as possible.

Ranboo doesn’t know what to do. 

He and Tubbo are holding each other, desperate for some sort of normalcy, and this place is dim and smoky and sunless, and the walls are damp, and he doesn’t like it. He feels displaced, and his heart shatters further every time Tubbo jerks against him at the click of boots on stone.

Technoblade comes to them wearing armor indoors. Tubbo doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes look glazed-over. “I, um. I made dinner.”

“What?”

“It’s potatoes. I made them.” He gestures. “There’s a farm over there.” Ranboo stares at him. “You don’t have to, I just, I thought you might want food.” He sets a tray down and backs away from it. “Yeah, alright, I’m gonna head out, but this is for you, if you want it. Or not. Suit yourself.”

“Thank you?” he says dully. He circles his thumb over the back of Tubbo’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” he returns to himself as the pigman leaves the room, blinking slowly. “Oh, uh, I think I zoned out there a little.”

“Well, we’ve got food now. You should really eat something. Then you can have another health potion. Or you can just have it, I’m not telling you what to do, but it won’t work as well on an empty stomach.” 

The way Tubbo talks and breathes and moves and holds himself makes it obvious that he’s in pain, even if he won’t admit to it. “I could eat.” He grabs for a potato, warm and yellow and buttery. “Let’s get Tommy.”

“Okay,” Ranboo warns, “but he’s still pretty pissed.”

“He’ll feel better,” Tubbo insists, “after dinner. He’s probably hungry. That’s why.”

***

As soon as Tommy sees Tubbo, his gaze hits his shoes and his shoulders slump. “Hey, man.”

“Hey. Come eat with us?”

“Yes! Yes I will.” Tubbo is fumbling with a fork. His hand is clunky, thickly swaddled, and he keeps dropping his potato back onto the plate. Ranboo offers to help him. Tommy throws the silverware across the room and digs in barehanded. “No, like this.”

Tubbo cracks a tiny smile, and goes along with it. 

He’s amazingly gentle with his friend, even while still being Tommy, harsh and boisterous. They sit leaned against one another and talk about old times, campfire singalongs and hot dog vans, fights, winning. They talk so much about winning battles and wars, but in a wistful, hungry, way, like it might never happen again.

Ranboo excuses himself, slipping off deeper into the cave. The more he looks around, the more he notices his own stolen belongings: clothes and blankets and food and stacks of bonemeal. Which is interesting. He’d blamed all the lost stuff on his own poor memory. 

He stops at the threshold to a room, dark save for a small flicker of orange. Wilbur crouches, bent over a campfire, trying to coax the lighter-flame to catch. He shivers in his grubby coat, rubbing his numb hands together to warm them. Ranboo gives a tiny wave. “Hello.”

“Shit.” Wilbur startles, dropping the lighter entirely, flinching back. “Don’t sneak up on me. You’re quiet, why couldn’t I hear you coming? You’re too fucking quiet.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I didn’t mean to startle you, really. I’ll work on it, the sneaking-around-thing. I know people don’t like it.”

“Yeah. No kidding.” He sighs. “You’ve probably heard I’m insane. I’m not crazy; though, I suppose that’s what a crazy person would say.”

Ranboo shrugs. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you too.”

“I didn’t make a good first impression.” He stuffs the lighter back into his pocket, and crushes the unlit kindling with his foot. “The pit fight, you know.” Ranboo opens his mouth to speak, but gets cut off. “Don’t pretend to forgive me. I’m not apologizing.”

“Mhm.” Despite his Ender heritage, Ranboo doesn’t always mind eye contact, but the way Wilbur is staring at him is particularly unnerving. 

“Well? What do you think of me?”

He tries to match this man with his enormous signature on the Declaration, with the heroic general from Tubbo’s war stories, and he keeps coming up short and a little to the left. “You’re not like I expected. You’re different.”

“That’s something, I guess.” He gazes blankly into space. “At least you don’t hate me yet.”

“Of course not,” says Ranboo, “I don’t think anyone should hate you.”

“But they do.” He squeezes his eyes shut-tight. “Pay attention to the way Tommy acts around me.”

“I have been – he doesn’t –” he swallows hard. “Okay, listen. Have you asked him?”

“He’d lie.”

“Well,” he tries helplessly, “you can still ask.”

“Yeah, great. I’ll keep that in mind.” He goes quiet again, focusing on the unlit campfire. “You know, Tubbo was talking to me on his comm. Sending messages. Asking for help. I told him it was gonna be okay.” His lip curls, his expression turns ugly. “It never is, though. It never works. People are just looking out for themselves. Did you know I buried eleven stacks of TNT under the podium?”

“What?”

“I could’ve killed them all, if I wasn’t such a coward, to, to not go through with it. We could’ve won the war today, and I’d be done, and this would all finally be over.”

“Huh,” says Ranboo softly, “I don’t think you should kill people.”

“They started it.”

“But, you would have blown up everyone. Tubbo, and Niki, and, uh, me.” Wilbur is staring at him, cheeks red, face hangdog and guilty. “That’s not cool.”

“I don’t care.” His voice cracks. “I just wanna finish this. I-I’m so sick of it.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Wilbur.” He holds firm, even though the man is glaring at him with naked disgust and pity. “Did you get dinner?”

“I’ll come by later,” he says, “when Tommy’s gone to bed. I don’t want to see him, yet.”

“Okay,” he says, “sorry. I, uh, goodbye. Goodnight. In the morning.”

It’s been a long day. He’s exhausted, but his body hums with nervous energy. He doesn’t expect to sleep well in the cold, damp, ravine, after everything he’s seen and experienced, but somehow, curled up to share body heat, it’s easier. Tubbo tucks his head under Ranboo’s chin. Tommy clutches the corner of the blanket and watches the ceiling, eyes wide open. 

He pretends they’re at home, warm and safe and tucked under the covers, in Manburg.

***

Wilbur and Tommy head out early the next morning, on a recon mission. Niki arrives almost as soon as they leave, carrying a basket covered with a checkered cloth. Her cheeks are pink from the fall air, and she pushes past Ranboo, thick with pity. “God, he shouldn’t be down here." She turns to Tubbo. "You’ve got open wounds; you’ll get sick. I think I smell mould.” 

“Can you help us out here?” Ranboo asks sheepishly. “You know more about medical stuff than me.”

She nods. “Tubbo needs his bandages changed. We can do that together.” She’s careful, unwrapping the gauzy strips from the delicate skin of his face. He still winces with every pull. 

When his bad eye is uncovered, the lens is glossy and white. He closes the other one, testing. “Nope. Can’t see. Doesn’t work.”

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t talk to me that way. Cut it out.”

“Sorry–or, not, then.” She finishes unwinding the cloth. “Do you want to look? In a mirror? You don’t have to.”

He stiffens. “It’s not that bad. I don’t care.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” says Ranboo, “if you have scars. I mean, not fine, it’s not good that you have them, if you don’t want to, the way you got them was bad, that shouldn’t have happened. But, uh, scars are pretty cool. I have some too, from water burns, I know they’re not like yours, but you don’t have to be ashamed of them.”

“Another thing, I only picked up like half of that.” Tubbo squints at him. “I’m giving myself headaches trying to understand you guys but I just can’t hear that well. Can you speak up and slow down?”

“Okay,” says Niki, enunciating clearly. “Do you want to wrap it up again–” she makes a spiraling motion with her hand,  “–or let the wound breathe?”

“Well, I don’t want it breathing in mould spores. So, uh, cover it.” Ranboo helps Niki cut the clean strips, and even apply them. He’s getting better about blood. More used to the sight of his best friend all torn-up and injured. He doesn’t like to think about it. “Thanks, guys.”

“Of course,” says Niki, securing the dressings with a final piece of tape. “I know it isn’t easy to ask for help.”

“I didn’t ask. You just kinda surrounded me.” He nudges up to Ranboo and headbutts him under the chin. Behind the brush of fabric are two distinct points of hard keratin.

“What was that for?”

“I dunno. Just felt like the right thing to do.” He looks up at Niki. “Are you going to stay this time? When you’re not here, where else do you even go?”

“I sneak into Manburg, sometimes.” She looks sad. “I’ve cleared out most of my supplies from the bakery. Flour, butter, sugar, chocolate…I’d make something for you, if I had the time and the space.” 

Man, he wants cookies. 

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t be down here. It’s making me ill. Wilbur isn’t who I remember and oh for the love of God, is he back? I swear the temperature just dropped fifteen degrees.” She wraps the shawl around herself even tighter. He’s pretty sure the old Wilbur is the one who gave it to her.

“Stop it,” Tommy is yelling, “no shit I’m not going to let you.”

Wilbur is wearing armor. Did they have some kind of fight? It looks tight and awkward on him, like he’s not used to it, like it’s borrowed. “You make everything fucking difficult. You ruin it. If it were just me, I could have finished this already. I wish you weren’t here.”

“You're the one who got me fucking exiled, you dickhead!”

“Tell me! Just tell me what you really think of me!”

“You’re my brother and I’m sticking with you, even though you’re being a TOTAL asshole, lately–” he grabs onto Wilbur’s wrist, “but I don’t hate you, I don’t.”

“You do–”

“I’m not a fucking liar, Wil! Listen!”

“Tell me how much you hate me and wish I would die and then get out of my way and just let me do it.” His yelling fades. “Everyone is lying. I’m a bad person. Maybe we both are.”

Tommy’s lip curls. “What did I do?”

Ranboo gives a little wave. “Hey, guys!”

“Wilbur just tried to blow up the city–” he shrugs off an elbow to the mouth and keeps going, “–and me, and himself, and also Quackity…”

“Stop!” Wilbur covers his ears, “stop talking about it! And tell me.”

Tubbo squeezes Ranboo’s hand and looks up at him with concern.  May have made the situation worse. So sue him. He’s trying to help.

He wheels on Tubbo. “What do you see me as? For once in your life, tell the truth!” 

His brow furrows. “I don’t quite get what you mean." This isn't fair or rational, and Tubbo has always been both of those things. There's no way to appease him. "Um, here," he tries, "Your name is Wilbur Soot…you used to be the president…”

***

Niki has Tubbo tucked under her arm. He leans into her, relaxed, but her voice is like ice. “I really can’t take it.” Tommy scowls from the corner, folded around himself. Ranboo keeps an eye on the closed door. It really is the four of them against the world.

“So you’re just giving up on him?” Tommy’s lip trembles with anger.

“No, but…I’ve been building a place. A secret city.”

“Secret?”

“Nobody knows, Tubbo. I promise. You’ll be safe there. You all will, no matter what happens with the war.” Ranboo doesn’t want to fight. Tubbo needs somewhere warm and clean in order to heal. “This is what was supposed to happen, right? Tommy, you wanted to run away, and live in a cottage, and keep a garden.”

It’s a nice fantasy, but Ranboo meets Tubbo’s dead-eyed stare and knows that none of them are leaving before it's over.

Chapter Text

They gather together for a group meeting. Being in the same room is tense. Tommy plants himself between Tubbo and Techno, puffing up his chest like an angry hen. Niki looks sad, fragile, broken – it’s a surprise that she even showed up.

Wilbur staggers to his feet, hair lank, eyes bloodshot. “We have a traitor. Someone in our ranks is going to betray the cause and ruin everything.”

Tubbo frowns. “How do you know?”

“Oh, I know.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy demands, “then who is it, Wil?”

“It could be anyone.” He smiles gleefully. “You can’t trust these people, you can’t!” 

“Hold on,” says Niki, “we shouldn’t turn on each other.”

But Tommy is already inching closer to Technoblade, fists clenched murderously tight. “You’re right. This guy shot his own ally, in the face. Fuck you. You’re already a traitor.”

“Aren’t we all sort of betraying each other,” Wilbur muses, “in a way? When we fall short of our ideals, fail to live up to expectations–”

“Go fuck yourself,” says Tommy, “that’s not even kind of what I’m talking about.”

“Isn’t it?” He smirks. “It’s complex. It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand. Maybe when you’re older.”

“Okay,” says Ranboo, “but we’re not going to hurt anyone, it’s not like Manburg, where, if you were disloyal…” he trails off. “I’m just saying. There’s a better way to handle this.” He feels Tubbo’s forehead press up against his elbow. He squeezes back a feeble promise of safety. “We need to stay calm. And talk to each other.”

“Ohh,” Wilbur breathes, “You don’t know. Because you weren’t there. But we have already fucking tried that.”

And now they are here in the cave.

***

“Here’s the plan.” Tommy’s face is drawn and livid. He’s throwing weapons into a backpack. “Wait, first, are you in or out?”

“I dunno,” says Tubbo mildly. “You haven’t explained it yet.”

“We’re killing Schlatt.” He zips the backpack and swings it around. It smacks off the wall with a heavy thud.

“That’s your plan?” Ranboo asks. “I mean, is that it?”

“Yeah, it’s my plan.” He glares angrily at Ranboo’s chest-level, refusing to look up. “I don’t understand why nobody else is fucking doing anything. He can’t just–get away with it.”

“Mm,” says Tubbo, “guess not.”

“So you’re in?”

“Sure.”

“But do you want to do it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind, Tommy. I’m happy to help you.”

“Why,” he gets out, his hands are shaking, “why don’t you care? Why aren’t you more angry at him?”

“I care,” says Tubbo quietly, “and I am, angry, a little. As much as I can be. It’s hard to settle into it. Things keep changing.”

Ranboo stares at Tommy, wide-eyed and apprehensive. This isn’t a plan so much as it’s an angry impulse, carried all the way forward into real life. How does he feel? Sure, he hates Schlatt. That’s impressive in itself. Before this, he didn’t think he was the kind of person who was able to hate anyone. But assassinating a president is just not something he’s willing to do. “I, uh, sure. Whatever you want. Okay.”

“Are you just saying that?”

He gives a little nod. “Mhm.”

“You bitch.” He curls his hands into the waistband of his shorts. “Tubbo is…I don’t know what’s going on with him, but you have no excuse, Ranboo. You saw what happened.”

“Fine,” Tubbo sighs, lifting Ranboo’s arm up at the wrist, “let’s go kill a man, then.”

***

They find him easily. He’s day-drinking in his office. There’s almost no security. Well, okay, Quackity saw them, but that doesn’t count, because he literally closed his eyes.

Schlatt lies groggy across the desk, ringed by empty bottles that reflect his yellow eyes in crazy angles. His beard soaks up a sticky, congealing, spill. He smells powerfully of vomit and urine. Ranboo wants to crawl back and hide in his own shirtsleeve. “Ew.”

Tubbo nods along solemnly.

“Look at this fucking guy,” says Tommy. It comes out pitying and awkward. “Yeah, how’s your great country now? How’s the supreme God-emperor? Bitch-boy. Loser.” He pushes forward and picks Schlatt up, jerkily, by the collar. He thrashes slightly and lets out a low groan. “You wanna hear a secret?”

Tubbo and Ranboo exchange a look.

“I didn’t even fucking care about the election.  It woulda been nice to win, Wilbur wanted to, but we lost, you’re President, whatever. We could just go home and be fine. But you exiled us, man! From the nation we founded! What the shit?”

“Huh?” He scratches drowsily at his cheek. “Who’re you?”

“You ruined everything! If it weren’t for you, Wilbur would still be okay. This isn’t about the flag, or the name, or, I just wanna go back to the way things used to be. But you fucking threw us out to make a point, and you treated Tubbo like your little pet, and you tried to come between us, and when that didn’t work, you–” he cuts off with a swallow. “I hate you so much.”

Schlatt belches. “Yeah, okay. That’s nice, kid.”

“Listen to me! You’re fucking evil! You’re supposed to be what bad guys look like.”

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” Some of the haze clears. His lips press together into a thin smile. “But you’re not. You’re gonna pussy out, and you already have. That’s why you’re not doing it.”

“No,” Tommy insists, “I’m trying to talk to you first! So will you just fucking listen? Explain yourself. Answer for your crimes.”

“Whadda you want me to say?” He taps at one of the bottles and lets out a sigh-snort. “Empty. Figures. But seriously, what are you asking? You want me to redeem myself? Tell Tubbo I’m so fuckin’ sorry? You know that doesn’t fix anything. I mean, shit, you’re not doing this for him. He doesn’t want this. He’s cowering in that corner ‘cause he can’t even look at me.”

“That’s not true!”

Tubbo stares at the floor. Ranboo gives his hand another quick squeeze.

“Nah, see, that’s not what you want. You’re hoping I’ll do something really sick and twisted. Piss you off. Get you in that mind-state, so you can finish me off. Without doubts, or else, strong enough you hear those doubts and push right past ‘em. Kid, it won’t work. That’s a gift you either have or you don’t.” He coughs. “I see you dragged him along. I’ll talk to him, if he wants to. I’ve missed the guy. Real helpful, even with all the shit he does wrong. And, you know, the loyalty problem.”

Ranboo can almost feel the heat rising off Tubbo’s scalp. He stays quiet.

“Hey, I’ll take you back.” Tubbo snaps to attention. “Serious offer. If you wanna come work for me again, no hard feelings. I’ll get you away from that Wilbur guy. Take some time. Think it over.”

“Please I want to go.” He sounds like he’s choking.

“Yep,” says Ranboo, “Alright then, leaving.” He wraps a long arm over Tubbo’s shoulder and ushers him out of the Whitehouse, guiding him through the corridors as his eyes blur and his legs tremble. “We’re outside,” he says at last, “and we’re safe. Are you okay?”

“Not really.” He laughs, like it’s a joke. “I-I-I just felt like. Felt. It was the smell? Beer smell? And I heard him, and he was gonna hit me. Like, like I was in the past watching it happen? To me, but also I’m watching it, and I know the hitting shouldn’t matter anymore, after they shot me, but I. Was scared of getting hit.”

Ranboo rubs his thumb over the back of Tubbo’s hand. He listens.

“D’you want to know what the worst thing is? It’s, I actually considered it. When he said I could come back, for a minute I was thinking how maybe it wouldn’t be SO bad. Like, I know he’s awful, and he treats me like shit, but at least I know him. I dunno what Wilbur is going to do.”

“Tubbo.”

“But I’m not the traitor. I can’t betray Pogtopia, no matter what I want. And I don’t wanna go back, really. It’s just a thought I had. That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Of course not,” he says softly, “Just…don’t do that to yourself, okay? I’m worried. I don’t want to lose you.”

Tommy comes slinking out of the White House, jaw clenched, bow strapped tightly to his shoulder.

“Did you do it?” Ranboo asks.

“Shut up.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not a pussy.”

“You’re misunderstanding me. I don’t think it’s cowardly to make a decision to–”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the coward, Ranboo. Whatever, who cares?” His voice softens. “How are you doing, Tubbo?”

“Better,” he mumbles. “We’ve been talking. I feel calmer, at least. Less shaky. I know where I am, and stuff like that.”

“Yep. You’re okay.” He holds out his arms, waiting until Tubbo approaches him for a hug. “Sorry. This was stupid.”

“Yeah, well, I could have told you that.” He smirks. “Mission failed. Let’s go home, now.”

Ranboo couldn’t agree more.

***

Ranboo walks in on Wilbur, sitting in the dark, turning a stick of dynamite in his hands over and over. He tries to walk right back out, nope, not dealing with that.

“I know you’re here.” He sounds like he’s been crying. “I can see your glowy eyes.”

“Oh, yeah. They do that.” He sighs, and lowers himself into a comfortable crouch. The stone is cold, immediately sucking all the heat from his body. “Um, what’s on your mind?”

“The usual, I suppose.”

“I was wondering, actually. What are we gonna do with Manburg once we get it back? What are your plans for after?” Deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Um, I’m assuming you’ve thought about it, at least?” 

“Why should I tell you?” he spits, “all of our plans? Who knows if I can trust you? You’re new.” 

“I’m sorry if you find me unreliable. But couldn’t you give me the broad strokes? Not even political stuff. Me, when the war’s over and I can settle down again, I’m going to get a cat. And I want to get into baking. Niki promised she would teach me.”

“That’s nice.” His face is blank.

“So, uh, do you have any hobbies?”

“Have you ever heard of Chekhov’s gun?”

“So you like writing? I thought that was a playwriting thing. Is…” he trails off. “Oh. Are you talking about the TNT again?” Wilbur looks guilty. “I’m trying to help you, man. I don’t know what to say, except that a lot of people love you and care about you and you probably shouldn’t kill yourself.” Wow that sounds hollow. “I know we’re not exactly friends, but I’d like to get to know you better, if you gave me the chance.”

“Ranboo, are you telling me how to run this revolution?”

“No,” he says, “I’m not. I actually have no idea what to do. Sorry.” But he can’t feel good about this. About helping in a violent plan with no real end goal that might lead to the deaths of all of his friends. He doesn’t want to be a part of that. “I’m sorry.” But he can’t just leave. Leave the people he cares about alone to go mad and get hurt and do the wrong thing and what even are his options? He’s not sure what’s right anymore. Does he stand up for what he knows is wrong? Should he be a bystander? What if something happens to Tubbo?

He’s talking to everyone. He’s trying his best to be kind and helpful and supportive. But what if that isn’t enough? What if he can’t fix it?

Maybe he should tell Technoblade he’s a monster, for what he did to Tubbo. But he doesn’t have that kind of conviction. The words die in his throat. He’s not even sure if he believes in them. He wonders what he would have done, all alone, up on that stage, with Schlatt yelling in his ear. 

He doesn’t know. 

And he’s glad he’s too weak to end up in that situation. He’s more likely to be the kid in the box, caught in some powerful people’s game, harmed and traumatized by larger-than-life heroes who laugh in the face of accountability. It’s the truth, no matter how much he hates it. He can’t take down Schlatt and Wilbur and Technoblade.

Not directly.

***

It’s light in darkness, a flash-grenade rolled into Pogtopia, tumbling down from the high stone walls, sputtering and smoking. It illuminates Niki’s frightened eyes and glints off Tommy’s orthodontic braces. It makes Wilbur yelp, and Technoblade twitch awake from hibernation, but it doesn’t explode into concussive sound until it comes to a stop at Tubbo’s feet. 

He screams.

It’s a horrible, wet, familiar, noise. He’s batting at his ears, clawing at his scars, thrashing away the arms of people trying to bring him back down to earth. He howls like he’s on fire all over again.

“It’s just a sparkler,” Ranboo rushes, blinking through the white patterns that are frozen in his vision. “Not–not a weapon this time. You’re not hurt.”

Another pop, and smoke starts to billow up, cast white and ethereal by flashlight beams. “Hands!” someone is yelling, an echoing voice that bounces off the cave walls and can’t be identified. “Hands up! Surrender! Drop your weapons! Hands! On your head! Turn around!” 

He can’t hear Tubbo anymore. A sweaty hand slips out of his, and he’s gone completely, lost to the fog.

“Wait, turn how? What do you want?” He stumbles along by feel, bashing his shins on the rocks. “Okay, okay! My sword is in my bag, I don’t sleep with it. I can go get it?”

The smoke is starting to dissipate. He can make out their assailants – three of them? – but all armed to the teeth. And they don’t seem to be focused on him specifically. A black-haired chubby guy is holding Tommy and Niki at crossbow point - his friend blusters, but won’t step forward. A kid in a purple hoodie has his knife to Technoblade’s throat. The piglin looks more bored than anything - even still sleepy. The third guy is manhandling Wilbur, trying to pin his arms. Wil bites him.

Tubbo sits curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth, tucking his head to protect it. Ranboo rushes to his side.

The guy holding Wilbur pries away his hand, shaking off blood droplets. “What the fuck.”

“Fuck you, Punz, take your, take your hands off me, you, I’ll kill you–”

Tommy tries breaking away to help his brother. Niki stops him, clutching his sleeve.

“Fine! Whatever you do with me, leave them out of it. I’m yours, just, just, fucking let them go! You have to.”

The boy at Technoblade’s neck digs the weapon in a little harder. “Drop. The. Rocket Launcher, I guess?”

He shrugs, and shakes off sword, axe, crossbow, trident. “All my weapons…whatever shall I do?”

“Okay, you’re gonna take me to your secret underground war vault now.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play stupid, man, we all know you have one.”

Wilbur goes limp, forcing Punz to hold him. With his captor overbalanced, he rockets up, shoving his head into the underside of his chin. Punz calls out, and Sapnap goes to back him up. Ranboo grabs Tubbo securely and lifts him up. “Tommy, Niki, this might be our moment to get out of here.”

“We can’t–”

“We really really have to.”

“We can’t leave Wil.”

“We’ll come back for him!” Tubbo is hyperventilating into his shoulder. “I need to get him out of here.”

“I–” he freezes for a long second. “Shit. Okay.” He helps them carry Tubbo out of danger, though he keeps looking back over his shoulder. He’s the last to break his eyes away from Wilbur, standing with his arms raised, defiant and frightened.

“Secret City,” says Niki, clipped. “Let’s go. Leave everything. We can replace it.”

Ranboo rubs at his eye with a fist. He’s still groggy, and his pajama pants trail in the dewy grass. At least he’s wearing a coat – it’s so cold he has to sleep in one. Tubbo’s dressed in something fuzzy and fleecy, and despite his t-shirt, Tommy never seems to get cold. 

Niki wipes her face with the hem of the shawl. She’s crying, and trying to hide it. “God. We just need to get somewhere safe, with a warm bed.” Her comm dings, and she startles to check it. “Oh!”

“What?”

“It’s Wilbur. He’s okay, they’re, they’re releasing him?” She holds the phone up to her ear and frowns. “They took all of his belongings, but, uh, Dream told Punz to let him go. Schlatt ordered the raids and the arrests. He’s getting paid twice. Why–you can kind of respect that? Me too, I guess, but why is—” her lip curls. “Nevermind, Wil, don’t answer that. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Hey!” says Tommy, “can I talk to him?”

“Love you too. Be careful. Mhm, see you there. We’re all together and okay. I mean, Technoblade can take care of himself. Okay, okay. In a minute.” The comm clicks, and she tucks it back into her pocket.

Tubbo’s coming back to himself slowly. He squirms, and Ranboo releases him, keeping an arm outstretched until they’re sure he’s steady on the ground. He lets out a little snuffle of air from his nose. “I freaked out again, didn’t I? Sorry.”

“No, are you alright?”

“I tried not to. It was the flash, I think, going off really close to me.”

“Mhm, I saw.” He looks Tubbo over with concern. “Did you get hurt or burned at all?”

“Hm-mm. I don’t think so. Scared me, though.” He tilts his chin. “It’s funny, Ranboo. You’re such a scaredy-cat, I don’t mind telling you these things.”

He laughs. “I’m glad I can help.”

“Seriously, though. It feels like you won’t judge me for being afraid.”

“I wouldn’t.”

They get to the Secret City before dawn breaks. There’s a murky light on the skyline, and crickets are singing. They’re still on high-alert, and they give up on sleep. Niki puts on water to boil. “And I’ll, uh, make something. Muffins, maybe?”

Tommy growls. “Not hungry.”

“But I want to bake. I need something to do with my hands.”

Ranboo volunteers to help her, and they mix together flour and salt in a big steel bowl. Tubbo just watches. His movements are stiff and painful, and he tugs at a loose thread in his bandages. “You okay?”

“Go back to baking, Ranboo.”

When Wilbur arrives, he’s clutching a leather-bound book in both hands. He holds it up in triumph. It’s very familiar.

“Hey,” he says to Ranboo, “we should talk about this.”

***

“You were out of control.” His face flushes and the world feels far away as he defends himself. “Nobody was doing anything, and someone needed to. You were going to blow us all up. You were going to kill somebody. This wasn’t good for anyone. The way you were acting wasn’t okay.”

“You snitched.” His eyes sparkle, and his tone isn’t accusatory. “My God.”

“None of you care about getting L’Manburg back. Wilbur, you’re just trying to ruin it for everyone else. But you don’t care anymore. You told me!”

“So you sided with Schlatt?”

“No, I didn’t. He’s a bad person, and he hurt Tubbo. But so are you! And I’m tired of people hurting us.” He’s scared. They don’t have a lot of power here. “I’m not taking sides with Manburg or Pogtopia or whatever. I care about people. I’m trying to do what’s best, for people! And if that means betraying the revolution, then I guess I have to do it.”

“You can’t be the traitor,” says Wilbur, “I’m the traitor.”

“You’re the what?” Tommy springs into action. Niki watches, wide-eyed, her floured hands planted white on the counter. “No!”

“I am.”

Tubbo squints at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, no matter what, I was going to press the button. That was the deal I made with Dream. Win or lose. L’Manburg can’t exist anymore. I’m getting rid of everything.”

Tommy grabs him by the coat and pulls him close. “What the fuck, you asshole?”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t! I don’t hate you, or Techno, or Ranboob! I’m just pissed off, ‘cuz you’ve been stringing me along!” He takes a deep breath. “I would follow you anywhere. I love you and trust you, and I listen to your orders. And I fight in all these wars because I want to help you get L’Manburg back. But you don’t even want it back! You’ve just been lying to me and using me!”

He turns up his palms. “I’m telling the truth now.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t get it.” His mouth sets into a hard line.

Wilbur sighs. “Maybe when you’re older.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, I am not a child–” Wilbur pats his hair, and he growls. “You seriously need help. You need to get therapy.”

Niki turns off the oven and slides the bowl into the sink. “Ranboo. I don’t like you going behind everyone’s back like this.”

He stares at his feet. Not everybody has to like him. But, uh. Tubbo is giving him a look. 

He wants Tubbo to like him.

“Come on,” he says quietly, with a little flicking gesture. Ranboo follows him into the next room.

***

“You’ve been a pretty good friend,” says Tubbo mildly. “But you ask too many questions.”

“Is this the part where you kill me?”

“Nah. Bit late for that.” He sighs. “I know I’ve been difficult. Taken a lot of energy and time. Made your life harder. Gotten you involved in my espionage.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly.

“Is it?” He tilts his head. “I put you in a tough position. Stole from you. Got you a job in the cabinet working under an abusive dickhead. Made you cover for me. Almost got you blown up. You had to watch…” he shudders, “that.” 

“I closed my eyes,” he admits, “when it happened. I couldn’t—sorry.”

“I dragged you into a war you didn’t want to fight. I asked you to go against your values, for me. I’m surprised it lasted this long.” He squints at Ranboo. “You didn’t have to deal with this. Why the fuck did you stay?”

“I don’t know,” he blinks, “why it started. But, um, once I got to know you, I started to care about you. A lot.”

“Oh?”

“You’re funny and smart and kind and just really important to me. I like being around you.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “Weirdo.”

“Okay.” He takes Tubbo’s hand and grips it lightly. After a moment, he squeezes back.

“We failed,” he says, looking at his feet. “Technically.”

“Mhm.” But he can’t shake the rightness of this, of his friend standing sock-footed on carpet under warm light, somewhere safe and clean. No explosives are buried under the ground. Nobody’s yelling at Tubbo or yanking him around and leaving bruises on his wrists. So it’s better, he thinks. It’s alright that they didn’t win.

He wanted this.

***

Tommy says their city needs a tower. It’s not a very secret thing to build. That isn’t stopping him. Ranboo passes him cobblestone, and he stacks it gleefully, higher and higher. Tubbo waits below, lounging on a lawnchair. He’s holding a frilly umbrella and glaring at them. He stops Ranboo, hugging him around the waist. 

“Hey,” he turns around, “how are you doing?”

“Good. Can I help?” He squints up into the sun. “You guys need help.”

“What do you mean? We’re doing great.” Tommy drops a rock. It whooshes by Ranboo’s ear, and his tail sticks straight up in alarm. “Woah. But Tubbo, you’re resting.”

“I built stuff yesterday.”

“And reopened a wound. I can tell it hurts from the way you’re holding yourself.” Tubbo glares at him. “Look, you can still be involved. You’re the, uh, creative director.”

“No I’m not,” he deadpans, “you’re not listening to me.” Ranboo speckles the tower with patches of oak wood and concrete. “Oh my God it’s so fucking ugly. It’s SO ugly.”

“Why?” asks Ranboo. “It looks great, I think.”

“See, it’s good to have. It’s a watchtower.” Tommy holds up a hand to his forehead to block the sun. “I see…Technoblade?”

“Is he coming here?” asks Tubbo.

“Only if you want him to. Say the word and I’ll shoot at him with arrows.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, Tommy. I think I can manage.”

Techno tells them he’s been grinding for materials. “Purpled took everything from me. I had backups for my backups, and he stole them. I’m pretty sure he’s retired from mercenary work, he’s so stacked.”

“Incredible.”

“I’ve been stocking back up,” he says, with a flick of his ears. “Almost battle ready.”

“Uh,” says Tubbo, “The war isn’t happening anymore.”

“Maybe to you. I don’t like governments. I figured I’d clean up around here.” 

Oh my God, Ranboo realizes, he’s going to blow Schlatt into little tiny pieces. “Fair enough. You do you, man.”

“Um.” He shuffles back and forth, hulking and awkward. “I’m here because…well, I haven’t seen Wilbur, and I’ve been thinking about it more, and, how is he doing?”

“He’s inside.” Tommy’s tone is short and clipped. “With Niki. He’s fine.”

Fixing Wilbur is no small task. There have been tears, and screaming matches, and setbacks, and bad days, and on and on, but there are sweet moments too. He has a pet sheep. Tubbo likes to call it his second cousin. 

“It doesn’t really matter if we’re related,” he tells Ranboo one night, unprompted, when neither of them can sleep. “Me and Schlatt, I mean. I don’t feel anything for him.” He pauses. “Should I?”

Ranboo doesn’t know how to answer. For his part, he’s tied by empathy to everyone he meets. It makes it hard to fight, even for the people he loves. He wants peace. He wonders exactly how to get it.

So in the meantime, he’s just trying to be there for Tubbo. When he’s teasing. When he’s asking weird hypothetical questions. When he wakes up shaking from a nightmare. 

He wonders if he made things better. He wonders if he changed anything at all.