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“He’s supposed to be dead.”
The pink tulip that had been handed so reverently to Tubbo had been potted, pressed into dirt by careful fingers, its petals soft and warm in the chill of the arctic.
Tubbo held the pot close now, clutching it in both hands as he drew it to his chest, cradling it as if it were a child. But it was cold, it was harsh and unfeeling in his grasp, so much unlike the heat of Michael’s Nether blood as he’d held him just as close, consoling the scared child.
Consoling himself, face buried in mussed pink curls lest anyone see the tears that spilled. Tubbo could not afford to cry.
Michael was asleep now, bundled up warm and tucked into Ranboo’s old bed—Ranboo’s old bed, his husband’s bed, his husband—with Technoblade keeping an eye on him. Tubbo had been there, had been at his bedside, had been holding his tiny hand in his own for fear of losing him again. Technoblade had shooed him away, had told him to go and relax, to bathe, to clean the blood from his knuckles and the soot from his face.
The ghost wasn’t helping anything, really. Hovering by Michael, cooing gently, a clawed hand working knots out of his curls with nothing but love and care.
Tubbo hated him for it. He hated him.
The scarred side of his face was numb to the tears that rolled down its ridges, gently plipping into the soil below, some catching on the long leaves of the single tulip and sliding down.
“He’s supposed to be dead,” he repeated, sniffling as if that would stop him from crying. Rubbing his eyes as if that would stopper the sting. Curling in on himself as if that would lessen the pain.
It never worked, none of it had ever worked, but maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he’d be able to shove everything away neater than last time, compartmentalise it all and stow it away in a corner of his mind so it didn’t have to be in the way.
“Who, Ranboo?” Phil asked, placing down a steaming mug on the table beside Tubbo. It went untouched.
The couch sagged with the weight of him as he sat, Tubbo only drawing his legs up further. He didn’t deserve Phil’s sympathy, not for this.
“Why is he here?” Tubbo’s voice shook. Why was it shaking, why couldn’t he stop it? “He’s dead, he’s not- he’s not real.”
But he was. The ghost was real, was as real as Tubbo, as Phil, as Michael and as Technoblade. The fondness in his voice when he saw Michael, the way he had held him once everyone was safe, the goddamn tulip Tubbo was holding as if his life depended on it, it was all real. Every last particle.
The fire crackled in response, its warmth bringing out the weariness in Tubbo’s very bones.
“I wish he was dead.”
The confession was quiet, was spat in barely more than a whisper into the vastness of the room.
And Tubbo hated himself for it.
He knew, oh he knew that he was telling the truth with every ounce of his being, and he hated himself for it. Verbalising that wish, verbalising that need, the intrinsic plea for another’s demise, how could he feel anything but hatred for the one who had uttered such an atrocity?
Phil was gentle with his touch, respectful as Tubbo pulled away from the hand rested on his shoulder.
“Do you?”
And the worst part was, Tubbo didn’t take it back.
The fire popped this time, a log shifting where it lay.
Another tear watered the tulip.
The fucking tulip. Part of Tubbo wanted to take the pot—flower and all—and throw it against a wall, watch it shatter, watch the dirt spray, watch the fragile plant be crushed with force. But an equal part couldn’t bear to even let go of the pot, to let go of the gift he had been given, the plant that had always been his favourite and would forever still be, even if it would make him cry.
Why was he crying?
Why did he deserve to cry?
His husband, his son, they had been taken from him, yes, but they were back now. Michael was safe, was sleeping, was smiling when Eret had given him their crown, balancing it on his head and chuckling when it inevitably slipped. Ranboo, he was- he was back too. Despite everything, Ranboo was here. Yes, a little translucent, yes, his footsteps left no prints in the snow beside Tubbo’s boots, but he was here. And Tubbo wished he wasn’t.
And Tubbo wished he wasn’t.
“Tubbo, hey,” Phil was saying, resting another hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, just as gentle as the first.
Tubbo didn’t pull away.
“It’s okay, Tubbo. It’s okay.”
“But it’s not.” How was it okay? How the fuck was it okay?
Tubbo was wishing his own husband dead, Ranboo, who he had loved more fully than anyone else, Ranboo, who he had trusted with more than he trusted most himself, Ranboo who he had mourned for.
Who he was still mourning for.
Grief was a fickle thing, ebbing and flowing in a tide too unpredictable to master, too wild to tame, too overwhelming to fight. It came and it went and it devoured everything in its path with no mercy.
Really, Tubbo should be used to it by now, nothing ever had any mercy.
“It will be.”
As much as Tubbo wanted to hide, as much as he wanted to find a corner to tuck himself into out of view of anyone else, Tubbo lifted his head. He turned to look at Philza, at his face, at his eyes, so filled with something Tubbo wished he didn’t recognise. With something Tubbo wished he didn’t mirror.
“It hurts, Tubbo, I know it does.”
He was pulling him closer now, touch light but reverant, pauses long but respectful.
Tubbo let himself be moved, bringing the tulip with him.
“You miss him, you miss him more than you ever thought you could miss anyone,” Phil began, Tubbo now firmly in his lap, resting his head against his chest. Tubbo could hear Phil’s heartbeat like this.
“And you’ve lost people before, you’ve lost a lot before. But it didn’t hurt like this. Or maybe it did, but you can’t remember.”
There was a hand in Tubbo’s hair now too, talons gently scratching around his horns, stilling at any flinch or noise, any sign of dislike. Tubbo let it happen.
“But what you do know is that it hurts so much right now. Everything hurts, and sometimes it hurts less, but then it all comes back and it just hurts more. And you know it’s not going to stop hurting for a while, especially because sometimes you forget why you’re hurting.”
Tubbo curled closer to Phil.
“You turn and they’re not there, you hear footsteps and they’re not theirs, you see something and it’s not them. Because he’s gone, and… and he shouldn’t be back.”
Tubbo didn’t know how, but Phil knew. Phil knew. So he nodded, the movement barely enough to call it such, but a nod nonetheless.
“But he is back. And that only hurts more.”
“Why?”
There were enough cracks in Tubbo’s voice—in that single word—to liken it to the ruined earth of what was once L’Manburg, and the tone was so quiet Tubbo feared Phil hadn’t heard it.
But he had.
“Because… because he hasn’t given you enough time.”
“But it’s-” Tubbo protested weakly, shifting the tulip in his arms. “It’s been months, isn’t that enough time? Surely that’s enough time.”
It was more time than he’d ever had, so why did it still hurt so much?
“You can’t measure grief, Tubbo,” Phil said, reaching a hand down to the flowerpot.
Tubbo held it tighter, and Phil moved his hand away.
“There’s no amount of time that it’s over by, there’s no date it’ll stop hurting. Grief doesn’t just stop one day because it’s been long enough. Years from now, you will still find yourself reaching for his hand only to find the air.”
“But you said I could have enough time!” Tubbo’s volume was a shock, his words desperate and jumbled, spoken in sobs he could no longer suppress. “You said I could have enough time.”
“Tubbo, have you… have you ever grieved before?”
Had he- of course Tubbo had grieved. Everything, everything Tubbo had ever had had been taken from him, everyone he had cared about had been ripped from his grasp.
Wilbur, who had taken him under his wing and taught him all he knew, lifted him up and helped when he was down. Wilbur, who went mad, who destroyed it all, whose eyes had been wild and vicious and cold.
L’Manburg, the home he had fought for, bled for, died for, helped build from rubble time and time again, had governed. L’Manburg, blown up not once but three times, destroyed so entirely, leaving him in the acrid dust with only a page in the history books to compensate his pain.
Tommy, his best friend, his biggest annoyance, his everything, bright and bubbling and fierce and everything Tubbo wished he could be, everything Tubbo loved about the world. Tommy, who he had exiled, Tommy who he had presumed dead by his own self accord, Tommy who was trapped in the prison and killed for real that time.
Ranboo, Michael, the safety he had built in Snowchester. His bees, his armour, his axe. His own lives.
Everything and anything Tubbo had ever cared about had been taken from him at some point or another, of course he had grieved. And that was what he told Phil.
“ Yes ,” he pleaded, clutching the pot to stop his hands from shaking. “Yes, I have, so many times. So many times.”
Phil covered Tubbo’s fingers with his own, the warmth and gentle pressure helping still them.
“Have you ever been allowed to mourn for more than a few days?” he asked, voice just as gentle as it always was. “Tubbo, have you ever had a grief that went uninterrupted?”
He had. He must’ve, he had to have.
But…
But Wilbur died and then he was president, and Ghostbur was there instead. But L’Manburg was destroyed and Tubbo had to find a home. But Tommy was dead except he wasn’t, so it didn’t matter. But Tommy was dead again except for real this time, and then… he wasn’t. So it didn’t matter.
It never mattered. His grief, his mourning, it never mattered.
So why should it matter now?
Ranboo was back, was as back as he was going to get without revival, and Tubbo should be happy. He should be happy that his husband is back that his husband remembers him, remembers their child and even remembers his favourite fucking flower.
He should be so fucking over the moon but he isn’t.
Why isn’t he?
“Oh, Tubbo,” Phil said, even though Tubbo hadn’t answered. “Of course you want Ghostboo gone, it hurts too much to look at him.”
Once more, Tubbo only nodded. He didn’t trust his own voice to work, the thickness in his throat making it hard to breathe, the tears in his eyes obscuring the vision he had left. He was shaking again, his whole body this time, though, not just his hands. Phil pulled him close, and it almost felt a little better.
“You need to grieve properly, Tubbo, you need to hurt by yourself, to work out what’s happening. And they’re… they’re not helping. They look so similar, of course it’s hurting you. Of course they’re hurting you.”
“But they’re my- my husband, Phil, I thought I… I thought I was supposed to be happy.”
“You’re not supposed to be anything, Tubbo. Even if he wasn’t a ghost, you’re not supposed to be happy he’s back. You’re hurting too much, and you still need time.”
But Tubbo didn’t have time. Time meant danger, time meant hurt, time meant letting things he never wanted to remember again come to light because time was dangerous.
“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”
“No it’s not , he’s- he’s supposed to be dead and I wish he was dead but he’s my husband and I shouldn’t want my husband to be dead but I do and I cried for so long but it didn’t matter because he was here all the time and I- and- and I-” Tubbo couldn’t finish his sentence, couldn’t finish his thoughts dissolving into sobs that tore at his chest, at his ribcage, sobs that wracked his body and shattered his voice.
Gently, ever so gently, Tubbo felt Phil lift the flowerpot from his hands, heard the soft tup of terracotta on wood as it was placed aside. With nothing in his hands anymore, Tubbo clutched at whatever he could, fistfulls of Phil’s clothing in white knuckles, scars pulling his skin taut where it shouldn’t, fingers trembling uncontrollably.
Phil said nothing, wrapping his arms around Tubbo and pressing him closer, a hand on the back of his head keeping him beside his heart.
And for the first time, Tubbo grieved.