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In Snowchester, Friday nights are pizza nights.
More generally, Friday is “together time”—that’s what Michael calls it. It’s the one day of the week Ranboo can guarantee his whole family will be able to spend time together. He spends most of his time at the Wilburger Ranvan near Las Nevadas, standing for hours in the sweltering heat and flipping burgers at Wilbur’s behest. But when he’s not working, Ranboo likes to keep himself busy—and busy, for him, usually means being away from Snowchester.
Busy is good. On sunny days, Ranboo makes the trek to Niki’s bakery, which sits in an overgrown glade all the way across L’Manhole. It’s a bit of a trip, but he likes it there—the sweet, warm scent of baked goods is a nice change from Snowchester’s oppressive pine. The two of them talk about everything—about Michael, about L’Manburg, about the good old days, and about the good new days, too.
If the weather is especially nice, Ranboo will stop by Tommy’s place afterwards. Tommy likes Niki’s shortbread cookies, but rarely gets any for himself, so Ranboo always goes out of his way to buy him a box. Talking to Tommy is…different from talking to Niki—the boy isn’t exactly one for deep conversation—but their visits are pleasant enough anyways. They’re ironically calming, actually—Tommy is a breath of fresh air in a world where Ranboo feels he could suffocate at any moment.
Meanwhile, Tubbo stays in Snowchester. I like the cold, he insists, and I’ve got shit to do. That he does. Tubbo is always keeping himself busy with some project or another. But Fridays are different. Fridays are special.
Of course, Fridays are also dangerous. After all, making pizza dough isn’t the easiest when you’re allergic to water.
Ranboo eyes the sink warily as Tubbo washes his hands, water splattering from its old, rusted tap. He always has to be careful around Tubbo in the kitchen. It must be selective amnesia , he thinks as a carelessly-flung droplet grazes his arm. It hisses on impact near-instantly, burning into his skin like acid, and he winces in pain. Meanwhile, Tubbo tries his best to cover his laughter. Or he’s just sadistic. Yeah, that’s it.
“You okay, honey?” Tubbo‘s grin is deceivingly sweet as he wipes his hands off on a frayed towel, words dripping with sarcasm and barely disguised amusement.
“It was just a drop, Tubbo,” Ranboo says, rolling his eyes with a smile. “I’m fine.” Soft, ambient noise fills the room, a combination of running water and shrieks from the dining room table echoing off the high ceilings.
The whole thing had been Tommy’s idea, really. “Why don’t we do this every week?” he’d demanded after a particularly nice evening of pizza, movies, and passing out on the couch. “No fuckin’ reason to not. I only ever see Ranboob, nowadays,” he’d scoffed, turning to face Tubbo, “because you’re such a home-body that you never leave this—this fuckin’ freezer.”
“I like my freezer, thank you,” Tubbo had laughed, but after that, they’d all agreed to make what Tommy dubbed “Family Fridays” a regular occurence.
Tubbo was the one who decided homemade pizza was a must. One day, Ranboo had returned from one of his trips to Niki’s to find Tubbo splayed out on the couch, a copy of “An Idiot’s Guide to Pizza Crust” held tightly in his grasp. He ended up carrying it with him everywhere for a week straight. “It’s awesome, though!” Tubbo protests one morning at breakfast after a particularly teasing comment from Ranboo. “Pizza is, like, a whole fucking science. You have to get everything just right or it all, you know,” he makes an explosion noise, “goes to shit.”
Now, he lifts clingy wrap off the silver bowl sitting on the counter with a grimace and breaks off another chunk of dough, forming a misshapen, lumpy ball in his hands. His palms stick to its surface just a little, and he curses, smacking it against the table with a comical amount of force before generously re-flouring his hands. “Reckon I added too much water,” he mumbles under his breath, “right, Ranboo?”
“Hm? Oh- um- I don’t know. Did you?” Ranboo gently pokes a finger into the round mass, and sure enough, the dough sticks to him, a weblike tendril following his finger as he pulls it back. Tubbo swats at his hand and smoothes out the surface of the dough, its skin mottled with tiny, uneven wrinkles. He frowns as he picks it up in his hands again, turning it over a few times with a hefty sigh.
“Yeah. Ugh, I just—the book always makes it seem so easy,” Tubbo groans, setting the dough down and reaching for a wooden rolling pin lying across the countertop. “Wax paper?”
“Gotcha,” Ranboo replies. The wax paper is already floured, luckily, so all he has to do is put it in place. Once the dough is covered top and bottom, Tubbo gets to work. The dough makes a funny noise as he rolls it—something like squelching, but drier, airier. He’s right—it’s far too sticky. Even though they’d taken care to spread copious amounts of flour on the wax paper, tiny pieces of dough come up with it easily.
“You know,” Tubbo comments as he struggles to roll the dough into…something resembling a circle, “they say you’re not supposed to use a rolling pin for pizza crust.”
“Yeah?” Ranboo raises an eyebrow as he reaches for a small dish of olive oil sitting across the counter, making sure not to forget the pastry brush next to it. We gotta brush the crusts with olive oil, big man, Tubbo’d insisted. That’s what the book says. Oh, how Ranboo is coming to loathe The Book. It might as well be the Prime Bible in Tubbo’s eyes with how religiously he’s following it. Currently, it sits propped up against the window, pages creased and slick with oil. Karl is not going to be happy. “How come?”
“Well, when you stretch it with your hands, it works the glutens,” he continues. “But I like it better this way.”
“Why?”
Now it’s Tubbo’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He glances over at Ranboo mischievously before returning to his work. “Built-in defense. Good for knocking out intruders…maybe husbands.”
“Ha ha. Very funny,” Ranboo says. Apparently he doesn’t sound amused enough for Tubbo, because the boy takes a step back from rolling the dough and aims his rolling pin squarely at Ranboo’s chest with a threatening glare.
“Is that a challenge, ‘Boo?”
Ranboo can’t help but smile as he stares down at the very non-threatening boy in front of him. He looks stupid. Extremely stupid. Tubbo’s wearing a dark green cable-knit sweater— a jumper, he’d emphatically protested when Ranboo complimented it earlier that day, it’s a jumper —and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, presumably done to steer clear of flour. Not that that’s helped very much. His dark, shaggy hair is pulled back into a tiny ponytail—more of a nub than anything—and a bright pink apron hangs loosely off his neck. I’ll feed all you fuckers is spelled out across the front in blocky white embroidery—a gift handmade by Tommy for his birthday. Tiny dots of flour are speckled across his face like freckles, like stars— how did he even manage that? He’s still holding onto the rolling pin for dear life. All in all, he’s a bit of a disaster.
And yet, somehow, he still looks absolutely perfect.
Tubbo steps back and rolls his eyes with a groan.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“All dopey n’ shit. Cut it out.” Tubbo promptly returns to the task at hand, gently rolling out the uneven edges of the pizza crust in an attempt to even out its surface. It isn’t really working—not with the dough being as sticky as it is—but he’s certainly making a valiant effort.
“But Tubboooo.” He draws out the second syllable of the boy’s name, and Tubbo grumbles something unintelligible in response. “Aren’t I allowed t-”
“Ah!” Tubbo cuts him off before he can finish, sticking a floury finger to his lips and coughing as he inhales a bit of the powder. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. No talk. We’re rolling now.”
Welp, you heard the man. We’re rolling now.
When Tubbo decides the crust in front of him is ready to go, he gently slides it across the counter to Ranboo, who begins brushing it with a thin layer of olive oil as Tubbo rolls out another. They fall into an unspoken rhythm easily— squelch, swish, squelch, swish, squelch. The quiet is easy when it’s with Tubbo. The quiet is nice.
The quiet doesn’t last for long. After all, it is Family Friday.
“Oi! Dickhead! Are you done yet?” Tommy shouts from the dining room table.
“Tommy,” Ranboo winces, covering his ears, “You don’t have to shout; I’m right here. And yes.” He carefully slides the wax paper onto his palms, carrying the all-too-thin and all-too-sticky pizza crust over to the table where Tommy and Michael are seated. The two of them are on sauce-and-cheese duty—a choice that, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest, seeing as half of the cheese supply is suspiciously missing, but there’s not much that can be done. He returns to Tubbo’s side, and he’s met with a gentle grin before the two return to the comfortable silence they’d inhabited before.
Once all the dough is finished, once all the pizzas are made, once they’re all stuck in the oven and Tommy and Michael leave to get cleaned up, Ranboo is the one who breaks it.
“I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs with a smile, leaning against the counter as his and Tubbo’s elbows knock together, “why pizza?”
“Huh?” Tubbo looks up at him, mouth quirked into an awkward sort of smile. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, you’ve gotten really into this whole…thing.” Ranboo gestures at the book still propped against the window.
“Ohhhh, you mean the guide?”
He laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Yeah. The- the guide. That.”
“Well,” Tubbo pauses, “well…” It’s quiet in the house, minus the faint sounds of running water and a baby piglin’s squeals. “I don’t really know. I think it’s just…a nice distraction.”
“Distraction? From what?”
Tubbo is silent.
“What do you think about, Ranboo?”
“Me? What do I - huh? Um-” Come on, brain. Give me something to work with here. Something. Anything . You can’t just stand here and-
“You?” he offers.
Wait. Wait, WHAT?!
Tubbo bursts out in shocked laughter, cheeks tinted a light pink as his hand comes up to cover them. He has dimples, Ranboo thinks. I remember that now . His long bangs brush the top of his eyes, crinkled shut. He’s pretty, Ranboo thinks. I never forgot that part.
“Oh my god, Ranboo, you are a sap,” Tubbo finally says after a while, “The biggest fucking sap I’ve ever met. Me? You think about me?”
“Shut up!” At this point, Ranboo’s sure he looks even more flustered than Tubbo does. “That’s not what I - Tubbo, I - I think about other things!” he protests fruitlessly. Tubbo only laughs harder.
“Come on, take me out to dinner first, man!”
“Tubbo, we’re married!”
Eventually, their back-and-forth bickering fades into a comfortable silence. No squealing piglins, no squelching dough, no water pouring from a rusty tap. Just two husbands, standing side by side, making pizza. Just… quiet .
The quiet doesn’t last for long. After all, it is Family Friday.
“Do you ever think about dying, Ranboo?”
Huh?
Ranboo quickly turns to look at Tubbo. The boy’s eyes are trained on the lump of pizza dough in front of him as he kneads tiny circles into it. The expression on his face is almost unreadable. He looks thoughtful, but a little…a little pained.
“Dying? That’s…kind of random.”
Tubbo laughs. “I guess it is, bossman. But I mean, like,” he lifts his hand from the dough for a moment and waves it vaguely at everything and nothing. “I- ugh. Sorry. I’m not sure how else to put it.”
“Oh - well - um,’ Ranboo struggles to find the right answer. “Do I ever think about dying…I don’t know, Tubbo. Do, um, do you?”
Tubbo pauses for a second to think. “I do,” he eventually starts, “yeah. And to be honest…I reckon I wouldn’t like it all that much. The- the concept of death admittedly sounds nice. No worries anymore, y’know?” He laughs a painfully humorless laugh. “And I’ve died before, so the whole pain part can’t be too bad. I think…I think maybe I would have welcomed death a while ago. But-” He quickly glances over at Ranboo before his eyes dart back to the task at hand, the softest of smiles gracing his face.
“It’s not really worth it anymore, is it?”
“Not worth it,” Ranboo echoes as evenly as he can, brushing olive oil across a misshapen pizza crust with just a little too much fervor. “What do you mean?”
“I just-” Tubbo gestures aimlessly. “I don’t know. Tommy’s all—he has, like, therapy now, right? Wilbur’s…doing something productive again. Dream is in prison. I have a proper job. And,” he glances back again, and his eyes seem to say I have you.
“And there’s all this business with Snowchester,” he says instead. The pizza crust in front of Tubbo has been rolled just a little too thin, the speckled white of the countertop now barely visible through the dough’s thin membrane. “I’ve got a kid now, too. That bugger.” He chuckles softly as Ranboo glances over to where Tommy and Michael are seated at the kitchen table. They’d returned from the bathroom a few moments prior, and Tommy’s infamous “dough balls” seem to be in the works—aptly named, they are, tiny balls of dough coated in olive oil and garlic powder, arranged haphazardly in the little pockets of empty space around each pizza. Tommy’s still sneaking mozzarella from the cheese bowl, and Michael somehow still has pizza sauce on his nose (What were they doing in the bathroom, then?), but the two of them are practically glowing with excitement.
“And, of course,” Tubbo continues, his fond Michael-smile fading into something quieter, something sweeter. Ranboo know’s he’s trying to hide the smile in his voice, brows drawn tight and furrowed on his forehead, eyes trained on the dough in front of him with so much concentration Ranboo thinks it would explode if it could. “And, of course, there’s you.”
“Aww, Tu-”
“Ughhh, shut up!” Tubbo smacks the rolling pin on the crust—well, pancake, at this point—in front of him, throwing his hands up in the air. “I try to be heartfelt for one second and you have to go and make it all—all weird!” A cloud of flour shoots into the air, and Ranboo’s coughing, and Tubbo’s sniffling like he’s about to sneeze, but he’s smiling, and they’re smiling, and it feels good. “You sap. You do not deserve any good things, ever.”
“Jeez,” Ranboo laughs, no, wheezes as wipes his hands off on his apron. “I was just going to tell you that I love you.”
“Prick,” Tubbo retorts, a frown quickly spreading across his face. “Asshole, dickhead, you absolute noodly fuck. ”
“Can I not tell my husband I love him?”
“Bastard. Shitbag.”
“Getting creative now, are we?”
“I hope you die an untimely death.”
“Mmn.” Ranboo presses a gentle kiss to the top of Tubbo’s head and ruffles his hair, and he wants to laugh at the way Tubbo’s glower fades into a mildly irritated grin, the way he picks up his rolling pin yet again and begins at his task far too forcefully. “Hey, uh, Tubbo?” he whispers, reaching a hand out to ever-so-gently brush his husband’s arm. “I think the crust is thin enough.”
Tubbo doesn’t turn his head, but he mumbles affirmatively, sliding the paper-thin crust to Ranboo while muttering something under his breath along the lines of, “prick,” “asshole,” and “unfair.” He starts at the final chunk of dough, refusing to look up even when Ranboo dramatically leans against his back, drapes his arms over Tubbo’s shoulders, rests his head ever-so-softly in between Tubbo’s tiny horns. It’s only when a small, low sound emits from his throat that Tubbo cackles in disbelief.
“Was that a—fucking—did you purr ?”
“No - no, ” he stammers, stepping back almost immediately. Tubbo whips around, eyes narrowing dangerously, gentle smile twisting into a cheeky grin. Oh Gods no, Ranboo thinks, It’s the Tubbo Grin. The Tubbo Grin always means trouble. The Tubbo Grin is the grin of a man with a plan—and that plan is rarely a good one. For Ranboo, at least.
“Yes, you did. You absolutely just did. Are you—are you a cat, Ranboo?”
“Tubbo,” he warns. “Tubbo, no. ”
“Aww, Ranboo,” Tubbo coos, placing one hand on Ranboo’s shoulder and reaching up with the other to cup his face. Ranboo can feel his cheeks getting (irritatingly) hot. “Who’s my little meow meow?”
“No!”
“Will you two stop flirting and finish our fucking pizzas!” Tommy shouts from across the room. It’s less of a question than a demand, and Tubbo reacts in turn.
“Aye aye, Captain!” he shouts, pulling his hands back to salute Tommy with near-militaristic precision. Ranboo winces. What is it with these guys and shouting?
“Pizza!” Michael squeals. He throws his arms up in the air with a grin as glowing as the sun.
“Yep, Mikey,” Ranboo laughs, walking over to the table and hoisting Michael into his arms. “Pizza. Let’s get you actually cleaned up before dinner, okay, buddy?” He turns to face Tommy, who’s still locked in a staring match with Tubbo. “What were you two doing in there?”
Tommy turns to look at him, and Tubbo clenches a fist and whoops in victory. “What happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom,” he says solemnly, “right, Big M?”
Michael nods, Ranboo laughs, Tubbo grins, Tommy scowls, and all is well in Snowchester for the first time in a long time.
The sticky dough doesn’t end up mattering all too much.
After they finish the pizza, the four make their way over to the living room. Michael instantly darts to the TV stand, shuffling through a stack of Tommy’s old VHS tapes before finally landing on his favorite. It’s a movie they’ve all seen a million times before, but Michael demands it, so Ranboo laughs and Tommy groans and Tubbo slides the time-worn tape into the VCR.
Michael falls asleep half an hour in. Tommy follows soon after.
They’re all seated around the Beloved-Underscores’ long, long couch, covered in as many blankets as possible. Tommy snores into the fluffiest one from his spot on the floor, his body wrapped in it like a cocoon, while Tubbo, curled up on Ranboo’s left, huddles under the scratchiest like he always does. It’s an old, mottled thing, handmade, its fabric stained with dirt and grime. Tubbo’s had it since forever, Ranboo thinks. They may be fuzzy, but memories of finding the president of New L’Manburg asleep at his desk, the very same blanket tossed haphazardly over his back, have yet to fade.
Ranboo, meanwhile, holds a sleeping Michael tightly in his left arm. The two are tucked under a knitted blanket Tubbo’d made for Ranboo last Christmas. It’s admittedly a bit holey, and worn apart in more than a few places, but it’s perfect nonetheless. Tubbo likes to say that each rip and tear tells a story.
Kind of like us.
Ranboo smiles.
He silently searches for Tubbo’s hand under the blanket. When he finds it, he slides it into his own quietly, gives it a soft squeeze. The house is tranquil, now, far from the chaos of the hours prior. He barely notices the sound of rain falling outside as Tubbo leans into his shoulder, and for a moment, just a moment, all Ranboo can hear is breathing. Tommy’s breaths from below, loud and fast. Michael’s breaths by his chest, small and clipped.
Tubbo’s breaths at his side, slow and deliberate and gentle. Tubbo’s hand in his own, strong and warm and alive .
The TV quivers with static, figures dancing across its tiny screen.
“D’you reckon we could get Michael upstairs without waking him up?” Tubbo whispers.
“Nah,” replies Ranboo, “too risky. Plus…” He gives Tubbo’s hand another squeeze, offers him a soft smile he knows he can’t see. “I like this.”
Tubbo hums happily and leans further into Ranboo. “Yeah. Me too.”
The sleet outside is dying down. Trickles fade to droplets, droplets to the faint chh of the night air. The movie is still playing. Tommy is still snoring. Michael is still leaning gently against Ranboo.
Tubbo is, too.
“I think I know how to answer your question now,” Ranboo mumbles into Tubbo’s hair.
“Yeah?” Tubbo says, his voice barely a whisper. “What’s your answer?”
“...I’m happy,” he says simply, “like this. I’m happy with this. Maybe there was a time I thought death would be kinder, but…” he gives a soft sigh, “you’re right. It isn’t worth it.”
“Not worth it.” Tubbo echoes. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, come on.” Ranboo’s laughter is hushed, now, escaping in tiny puffs. “You know what I mean.”
“Mm,” Tubbo considers, “I don’t think I do. You’re gonna have to remind me.”
“Well…I don’t know. I guess…I guess have something to live for now.”
Tubbo lifts his head from Ranboo’s shoulder and looks him square in the eyes. His expression is thoughtful. Gentle. Kind. After a few moments of heavy silence, a small smile graces his lips, and he hums contentedly, giving Ranboo’s hand a light squeeze. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Glad,” Tubbo murmurs. “You’re still a prick, though.”
“I know.”
The silence returns, if only for a moment.
“Tubbo?”
“Yeah, Ranboo?”
“I love you. A lot.”
“Love you too, big guy. Night.”
“Night.”