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“I’m, like, seventy percent certain that is not what the instructions would say.”
Tubbo jams the screwdriver into the screwhead and twists with all his (admittedly very finite) might, blowing hair out of his eyes. “Nobody likes instructions, and somebody lost my bits,” he jabs in Ranboo’s direction without looking, “so this is what we have to work with.” He loses his grip on the screwdriver and grunts, repositioning and leaning closer to try again. “It’s fine. The instructions never mattered anyway. They were obsolete.”
“What does that even—”
“Unnecessary!” Tubbo groans when his screwdriver slips again, throwing his head back and slamming his hand down against the cold cement floor. “Are you shitting my dick!”
“Wuh-oh. This is just terrible. I think it might be time for a break,” Ranboo interjects with an infuriating half-grin, and Tubbo turns to glare at them, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean— I don’t know, man. You look pretty frustrated.”
“You don’t say,” Tubbo nearly growls, but he allows the screwdriver to slip from his hand on purpose this time, clattering against the floor. With a sigh, he leans back against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. “This thing is more fucked up than Wilbur’s face after the—” Catching sight of Ranboo’s quickly horrified expression, he stops himself. “Was I allowed to say that? Oh, well.” It’s fine— it’s been a long time, anyway. Things are easy to push back with time.
Ranboo wipes their face and chuckles nervously. “Right. Maybe just, uh— maybe not in front of Tommy.”
“Fair point.” With another exhale, the frustration begins to ebb away. A third, and Ranboo’s face is more important in his field of vision than the stubborn wire board on the ground. “I’ve got a feeling I’ll figure it out at some point.”
Ranboo smooths out their expression and nods towards the doorway. “Wanna make burgers?” they urge, and Tubbo, somewhat distastefully, remembers that there is a world which exists outside of the lower level that they’ve fashioned into a workshop.
They’ve been working on a transmitter for months now, since the day theirs blew a fuse and filled the entire house with smoke. It’s going… a little better than expected, but still less than ideal. Ranboo’s mostly down there for emotional support, so it’s not like Tubbo can really ask them for technical advice, which means the biggest problem is that Tubbo’s winging it from memory, because they need the transmitter to fix the transmitter. Tommy might be of some help, but he’s the only one of them who can go outside without getting flash mobbed, so he’s been put on scavenging duty. (He hates it and complains constantly. Luckily, they’ve learned to tune it out.)
In any case: it will be fixed sometime, sometime soon, and then they’ll be back to their regularly scheduled programming. They’ll get a message out to Techno in no time, and he’ll come and rescue them from the split-level that definitely was bought with real, legally earned money. (“It’s not my fault I was born to gaslight!”)
“Meh,” he finally replies to the sentiment of burgers, but his stomach chooses the worst, most irritating time to grumble, and Ranboo raises their eyebrows. Obliging reluctantly, Tubbo rolls his eyes; “Fine, fine. Reckon there’s any bread left?”
“Probably.” Ranboo finally unfolds from their oddly contortionist position on the floor, extending a hand to Tubbo. The shorter boy takes it and pulls himself up before shaking his limbs out as pins and needles race across his body. Ranboo eyes him and then gives him a gentle nudge towards the stairs. “Up. You haven’t eaten in, like, thirty-two hours.”
“That is a direct lie,” Tubbo objects, but he allows himself to be shepherded up the stairs, stretching again. “Ugh, dude. My back hurts.”
A gentle hum from behind him as he makes the climb. “Too long in this form?”
Ranboo knows him too well. Tubbo replies in a nondescript whine, shoulders slumping forward. Carefully, and with a calculated, practiced amount of focus, he allows himself to relax into a different physical form. It’s just like sitting down while standing up. Which… still definitely sounds batshit to anybody who isn’t a shifter, so it’s kind of a pointless explanation.
Regardless, the pressure that lifts from his back is instant. His spine shortens, popping quietly like a forgotten joint, and his hair grows out far past his eyes. The curling tips of two horns extend from his head, but Tubbo puts a halt to that quickly— he’ll get a migraine if he does it all at once. Plus, he doesn’t want to deal with the horns today.
When he’s finished, though, human ears have been replaced with soft, sensitive ones that hang down past his head. His nose has darkened, and a smattering of freckles has been tossed carelessly across his cheeks. Blue eyes turn brown, canines grow flatter, and a yawn slips from his throat, until finally, he can finish his ascent up the stairs. “Mmm,” he mutters mindlessly, “veggie burger,” and Ranboo laughs behind him, bracing him with a hand on his back.
“Veggie burger, yeah. Let’s cook something up.”
As if it will be a two-person job. They get set up in the kitchen, which is where Ranboo finally finds a place to shine. Tubbo can’t cook for shit, burns everything he touches, so Ranboo takes over, flicking the stove on and digging the only pan they own out of the cabinet (in their defense: they were only supposed to be here for a few weeks at most) as Tubbo slumps into one of three rickety chairs at the grainy wood table.
All their furniture is either scavenged, thrifted, or stolen. Three out of three of the kitchen chairs wobble, the table has a missing leg that they don’t have enough resources to fix, the couch is riddled with little rips, and the faucet in the bathroom came off in Tommy’s hand once (although that might have been his fault; nobody ever figured that one out).
Ranboo’s tail swishes behind them as they sprinkle salt and pepper and something reddish over the three burgers they’ve placed in the pan. “Progress today?” they ask tentatively, and Tubbo grumbles, pushing himself up to sit straight. Maybe he is tired. No, nevermind. That’s the stupidest thought he’s had in weeks, including the time he tried to use the broom to fix the smoke detector.
“Not that much. I’m still trying to get the wires arranged right, and the microprocessor in that thing is fucking fried still. That’s what I’m putting off, but once I try and fix it, or get a new one, I’ll be able to solder it back to the motherboard. And then,” he finishes, “then maybe we can get the hell out of here.”
The original plan was supposed to be an in-and-out mission with four simple steps. They’d mapped it out over and over before going, of course, but the actual plan was simple. One: find a hideout (success). Two: retrieve an unconfirmed amount of prismarine shards (success). Three: don’t tell Techno (unfortunate success). And finally, four: get out (massive failure).
It was going to be great, they’d decided, and it was going to make Techno so proud he cried (realistically, it'll never happen, but a boy can dream). Prismarine shards are used to power conduits, and Techno’s been grumbling under his breath about the useless, uncharged old conduit he salvaged since the end of time, but with three minors under his watch and a legion of other work on his hands, he hasn’t been able to get to any. Which is fine! A few simple lies and pulled strings should have been able to grant them the gift of prismarine easily.
And then things backfired. The plan was to surprise Techno by calling him to inform him of the good news (prismarine shards!) and to beg him to come pick them up and take them home in hopes that the collected valuables would be enough to clear their names and free them from the grudge that Techno would hold against them forever. Asking for forgiveness is a lot better than asking for permission when one is already certain that permission won’t be granted.
The problem, and the reason they can’t leave themselves: travel by way of port (the funky little things that let them portal back and forth from their safehouse with Techno to other cities in the Overworld) is costly— not because of a lack of gold, but because of the scarcity of Ender Pearls. To minors, that is. Legal adults are free to purchase Ender Pearls, but three minors isn’t enough to finesse any (even stacked up in a trench coat; they’ve tried).
Tommy tried to steal some and got his ass beat. When Tubbo tried shifting into the face of an employee at the nearest shop, he was sniffed out (and thrown out) pretty instantly. And Ranboo… well. There’s a rule about Ranboo and stealing.
So now they’re stuck in a shitty waste of a city called Viewpoint. They knew the risk they were taking when they came— Viewpoint is filled with an unfortunate number of anti-shifters— but it’s known for its abundance of prismarine, so much so that they call it the Turquoise Heaven.
No they don’t. Tubbo made that up. Totally got Tommy’s ass, too, that gullible idiot.
In any case, that’s why Tommy’s the only one who can safely walk around outside. Tubbo sticks to his machines, and Tommy sticks to the desperate search for Pearls, and Ranboo’s there to pat them on the back and hold them together when everything starts to fall apart.
It’s whatever. They haven’t been told off for tax evasion yet, so it’s probably fine.
“Burger,” Ranboo says, interrupting Tubbo’s recount with a plate set in front of them. Coming back to reality, Tubbo realizes the kitchen has filled with the potent scent of cooked meat, and the warmth is seeping into his bones. Ranboo takes a seat across from Tubbo and smiles, inclining their head and gesturing at the food. “I tried to do better than last time.”
“Here’s some news for you, boss man,” says Tubbo, wrapping his hands around the thing as soon as he has a clear path to it. “They were good last time, too.”
The two of them eat in silence for a few minutes, Tubbo’s mind wandering towards potential fixes for the transmitter and Ranboo nodding their head to a silent beat. Finally, though, the taller of the two (by far, in fact) decides to choose that moment to speak up.
“You’re doing good, Tubbo,” they start awkwardly, and Tubbo raises an eyebrow. Ranboo’s two-tone face flushes, and they set down their burger, wringing their spindly hands. “I mean— sorry. I think, uh, I think that came off patronizing. But, uh, I just think, you know. You’re doing a good job. It must be tough work putting all that stuff back together.”
“You don’t say,” Tubbo replies dryly, taking another monster bite out of his burger to hide the irritated pink tint to his cheeks. Praise is different when coming from Techno. It’s monotone, and rare, because he sucks at being nice. But if Ranboo or Tommy tells him he’s doing a good job— that’s real. That’s the fresh air of quiet, uplifting conversations that they don’t usually have.
So he’d better take it seriously if he ever wants it to happen again, he realizes. “Uh, sorry. Thank you. You’re… doing a good job, too.”
Ranboo laughs, tail curling fluidly behind them, and their horns bump gently against the wall to their side as the creaking chair wobbles behind them. “I mean, if you count—”
The door slams open, and both of them jump, turning to stare at the owner of the third burger that is sitting off to the side and cooling on a paper plate.
“Fuck!” is Tommy’s first eloquent announcement, followed by, “Shit. Balls. Oh my fucking Prime.” He races up the stairs and into the kitchen, grabbing Tubbo by the arm. Tubbo doesn’t jerk back, though he wants to.
The first thing he notices is the dirt streaked across his face. The second thing is the glow coming from his pocket. The third is the heave of his chest, and the wild, cornered look in his eyes.
“Tommy—”
And finally, the blond seems to reboot, shaking his head (to clear it from the ring in his ears he complains about or a vision, Tubbo can’t tell). “Shit. Fuck. We gotta go.”
“Go?” Ranboo asks, but they’re already standing, their burger sad and abandoned on their plate. “Go? Go where? Wait—” But Tommy is moving a mile a minute, releasing his grip on Tubbo, darting into the next room to pull up the floorboard, and retrieving the satchel that he’s filled with his most prized possessions (including but not limited to: a journal labeled How 2 Sex 2, two small music discs, and a tiny boar figurine made of polished gold).
A bewildered dread settles in Tubbo’s chest, and that sucks, because two emotions at once, battling for territory in his brain, doesn’t really do well in panic situations. “What are you doing,” he calls to Tommy, sliding out of his chair, and all he receives is a frustrated yelp and then a thud.
Tubbo rounds the corner quickly to see that Tommy has tripped over the strap of his own bag. The blond glances up at him from the floor, red-faced from either embarrassment or exertion, and then scrambles to his feet, wide-eyed. “We need to get out of here,” he says, racing forward and pushing Tubbo towards the shop. “Get all your— your tiddly fiddly things, and let’s go.”
Disgruntled, Tubbo turns and grabs his wrist. “Don’t push me,” he says.
“Where are we going? What’s happening?” Ranboo asks, tail curling around one of their legs.
“They found us, we got to move—”
“Is everything okay? Are we in danger?”
“No, it’s not okay, yes we are in danger, we—”
“Stop it!”
The three fall quiet, the house quiet aside from Tommy’s heavy breaths, Ranboo’s weight shifting from foot to foot, and the culmination of a patented Tubbo Glare™ that fills the house with a silence so deafening that it’s scary. They take a second, Tommy fiddling nonstop with his hands and Ranboo pulling at their shirt, until finally, Tubbo exhales. “Right,” he says, swallowing. “Tommy, please for the love of Prime tell me what’s going on in a non-idiot way.”
“Well I was— hmph— I was out,” Tommy begins breathlessly, “trying to find Pearls. Like you said. And I was looking over by that one store you said I definitely shouldn’t look over by— don’t give me those eyes, bitch! You would have done the same thing!”
Frustrated, and finding himself unable to properly voice an objection, Tubbo kicks him lightly in the ankle. Tommy kicks back, and then Tubbo pushes at his shoulder, and Tommy pushes back—
Until Ranboo sticks a hoof in between both of them, frowning. This is not good. Upsetting Ranboo is against the Laws Of The House. “Can you just tell us what’s wrong before we— before we get sniped, or something?” the other shifter says nervously, and Tubbo crosses his arms, nodding, while Tommy does the same bob of his head.
“Boob boy, you never fail to astound me,” Tommy rushes out, tripping over his own words. The charmer begins to pace, shaking out his hands over and over as he goes on. “Basically, I went over by there, and I was poking around the ground, and I fell into a hole, but then there was a ladder, and I kind of sensed something, and I was like, holy shit! Something! So I started to check out the something like a fucking awesome, cool, sexy—”
“To the point!”
“—awesome super cool big man!” Tommy spits. “And it was a bunker! And boys, you know I love bunkers. Great place to stab shit and or steal shit. Anyway— anyway. Fuck. So I was looking through the chests in there just in case, and some of them were empty, and I was gonna turn around, but I figured I’d just check them all just in case and then—”
Before Tubbo can interject, blink, or move, Tommy is digging in his pockets and producing three entrancing, pitch-black orbs. Giddily, he bounces on the balls of his feet as Tubbo’s eyes light up. “Here, here,” says Tommy, and Tubbo and Ranboo reach over simultaneously, eyes locked on the Ender Pearls they’ve been presented with.
“Holy shit,” breathes Tubbo, running a hand over its cool, smooth surface. “Holy shit. Tommy— are these—”
“Ender Pearls,” Ranboo interrupts in a near-whisper. “These are Ender Pearls.” They look up to fix their eyes on Tommy, a small grin taking their face. “Tommy, you— we—”
“We’re free, hurrah, we can fucking leave! Yes!” Tommy cuts them off desperately. “But that is not the end of the story! Because then the guy in the store saw me while I was walking out! And he was all like, mimimimi, you look a little young for that, kid. And I was like, you look a little old to be alive, motherfucker, get some bitches.”
Silence. Ranboo turns to stare at Tommy, face dropping a couple shades, and Tubbo does the same, fixing him with a glare that he hopes displays the sentiment, you are the biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever met in my entire life.
“He didn’t like that,” Tommy says weakly, and Ranboo and Tubbo both erupt into exclamations, lunging for Tommy.
The blond screams and darts back, running for the living room. “Guys. Guys! Guys! I tried to charm him and— ow, you fucking prick! It didn’t work!”
This stops Tubbo in his tracks, with one hand around Tommy’s wrist and one in his hair. What? “What? What?” he asks twice, pulling back. “What? What do you mean, it didn’t work?”
“He was un-gas-lightable, Tubbo!” Tommy cries, panting, and the three of them exchange worried glances as the entire aura of their conversation shifts into something much darker. “Alright? I couldn’t charm him! I couldn’t! And then he started chasing me, and then he hit me with something, and I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t want to stick around and find out, because the last thing he said before I finally got the fuck out of there was that— was that he was getting help.”
Finally, Tubbo’s brain kicks into overdrive, and he pushes Tommy towards the kitchen and drags Ranboo down the hall by the arm. “You get all the non-perishables and find the taser. You get blankets and everything important from the bedroom. And don’t forget backpacks.” A breath. “I’m getting the transmitter and my belt, and everything else I can fit. Meet back here in three minutes or you’re getting fucking left behind.” The house is stagnant for a few seconds, and then Tubbo snaps, “Go!” and everybody gets their asses into gear.
As the other two scramble quickly to work, Tubbo yanks his own bag up from where it’s hung on the wall and all but tumbles down the stairs, gripping the railing to keep his legs from feeling like jelly. This isn’t scary, he reminds himself. They’re not going to jail. They’ve gotten out of tougher situations. Wilbur trained them well. Despite all the knowledge in his brain, though, nothing works. He can make himself think better, but he can’t make himself feel better, and it’s always been the most infuriating thing in the world.
With a trembling breath, Tubbo swallows and swipes the useless, replaceable things off of his workbench, the nuts and bolts that Techno will provide again once he’s un-grounded (they’re so going to be grounded, it’s the only way Techno knows how to discipline anyone). He tries to steady himself with logic, facts: Ranboo is okay, they’re upstairs collecting everything out of the bedroom. Tommy’s okay, he’s getting food and water and a weapon. If anything, Tubbo is in the most dangerous place. He’s closest to the door. He’s boxed in. Good. The other two can get out if he’s a good distraction.
This makes his hands shake harder. Fucking anxiety, or something. He’s supposed to be the one that stays calm in panic situations. That’s why he gives the orders— Ranboo flees, and Tommy freezes if it’s not something he can punch, so Tubbo does the thinking and makes the panic plans and forces everybody to do something that will, at some point or another, be productive for the survival of the three greatest thieves this world has ever seen.
It’s fine. He is calm. He’s just… spicy. Spicy calm. It’s good enough.
Fuck, they’re all gonna die. Shut up, no they aren’t. Piss, he dropped the pliers. For Prime’s sake, be careful with the transmitter—
“I got it!” Tommy screams down the stairs, at the same time as Ranboo’s muffled “I’m done!” from the bedroom. Tubbo jumps out of his skin and then kicks himself into hyperdrive, zipping his bag. Maybe it’s been more than three minutes. Maybe he’s broken his own rule. Maybe it doesn’t matter because nobody actually gives a fuck and the important thing is that everybody actually lives.
“Coming!” Tubbo yells, turning and making one last frantic scan of his workshop. He’s forgetting something, has to be, and then he realizes— his promise ring and the bandana made from Tommy’s old shirt are tucked into the drawer in the table across the makeshift workshop.
By no means is Tubbo sentimental, but those are the only things he holds onto. They mean so much to him that he doesn’t like to carry them around (too much of a risk to lose them). He darts over, heart pounding in his chest, and struggles with the drawer for a frantic three extra seconds before finally yanking it open.
New problem: it comes all the way out, clattering to the floor. “Bastard!”
“Tubbo?”
“I’m fine! Get outside!” He falls to his knees in the workshop, swiping up the bandana and patting around for the ring. After a desperate search, his wrist bumps it, and he hears it slide across the floor. Finally, it glints in the dim light, and he grabs it, stuffing both of them into his bag haphazardly.
It’s fine, he promises himself as he stands. He’s fine, he agrees as he turns towards the stairs and takes the first set by twos. He has all that he needs, and now, he’s going to take his family and get the hell out of—
A deafening crash accompanied by a violent flash of light knocks him into the second flight of stairs. Despite himself, Tubbo screams in terror. When half his senses return to him, he realizes that nothing burns or stings— which is either a good sign, or a really, really bad one.
A rough hand wraps around his arm, dragging him up to his feet. When the dust clears, he comes face-to-face with a man wearing the ugliest fucking smiley-face mask in Viewpoint. “You little—” his assailant begins, and then the eyes of the mask squint (they’re functional? Maybe Tubbo should look into something like that). “Wait, what the fuck? You’re not the little blond rat.”
Tubbo’s stomach plummets as the man drops him onto the stairs. Mind whirring faster than the speed of light, he scrambles up them and back into the kitchen, white as a sheet. “I— I—” fuck, just go!— “I’m, erm, I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know a blond rat, sir.”
There’s a beat, and the masked man squints at him. Tubbo tries to calm his wildly beating heart, taking one step back, and another, and one more as the man’s gaze sweeps around the workshop. “I could’ve sworn,” he mumbles, and Tubbo swallows, glancing to the table. Taser. Fucking idiot— of course he left it behind.
Finally, the man looks back up at him. “I’ve been robbed,” he begins calmly, coolly, with a slight narrow to his eyes. “And I have reason to believe that a friend of yours might have done it.”
“Well,” Tubbo begins squeakily, wincing, “I… don’t have… any friends?”
Mistake. Mistake. Abort mission. Tubbo is a terrible liar in stressful situations. What the fuck! He’s supposed to be the smart one! The man is coming up the stairs! He looks like he doesn’t believe a lick of what Tubbo’s told him (and fair enough at that)! “You… don’t have—?”
“Tubbo, you prick,” comes Tommy’s piercing, shrill, incredibly ill-timed cry from beyond the back door, “you said three minutes!”
Oh, for fuck’s ever-loving sake.
The man instantly recognizes the voice, ascends the rest of the stairs in an instant, and lunges for Tubbo. The smaller boy yelps, instincts kicking in as his body shifts with a mind of its own. The intruder is momentarily stunned at the sight of Tubbo’s rapidly changing physical features, jaw dropped, and before he can compose himself, Tubbo rears back, wild-eyed and desperate.
Crack!
Ooh, that was a nice one.
Instantly, the man leaps to his feet, eyes now blazing with the fury of having just been punched in the face by a fearful teenager, and Tubbo shifts again against his will, shrinking thanks to the primal instincts that say run instead of fight . So much for useful skills. “You nasty, body-shifting bastards,” the intruder growls, “ought to be exterminated.”
Tubbo side-eyes the taser. He just needs a second. Just a tiny opening. Eyes returning to the man’s mask, Tubbo forces his face into a sad, scared, helpless little expression, tail tucked between his legs and shoulders curled in in mock fear to cover up the real fear. Then: “I reckon ugly people should be exterminated, too,” he says solemnly, and without another word, he instantly deploys a flawless three-step plan for success.
Step one: grab the taser. Step two: use the taser. Step three: try really hard not to land himself in a casket before he’s old enough to legally drink.
Tubbo lunges, ducking past the man’s arm and swiping the taser off the counter. Then something knocks into him from behind— a boot, maybe— and his plans are destroyed in a heartbeat. He slams into the floor with a heavy thud and a pained grunt (that’s gonna leave a mark) and the taser flies from his hand, skidding halfway across the house and sliding to a stop.
Before Tubbo can scramble to his feet and make a break for the door instead of the taser next to it, he’s pushed into the ground, and the man is hissing in his ear. “I bet your little friend’s a disgusting little shifter piece of shit, too, huh?” Close enough. You’re almost there. “I’ll start with you, then.”
Tubbo shivers. Maybe it’s time to accept the casket. The tip of a blade presses against his back, and he gasps— oh shit! Fuck! He’s being serious!— and cries out. “Wait— wait— I’ll tell you where he is, please, just let me go—”
The pressure lessens, and then thundering footsteps fly down the hallway, and the loudest scream of a battle cry he has ever heard rips straight from Tommy’s throat as his best friend collides with the bitch of a man holding him down.
The only thing louder, as Tubbo scrambles away, is the deafening buzz of the taser. This is the part where Tommy does the punching.
A hand wraps around his wrist, and Tubbo yelps, lashing out and turning only to yank Ranboo down on top of him, who groans. “Shit!” Tubbo hisses, struggling to his feet and pulling Ranboo up instead. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Big talk for someone who doesn’t get scared,” Ranboo groans, holding their ribs where Tubbo’s foot collided with them. “Sorry.”
“Sorry.” With a jolt, Tubbo lurches back towards the kitchen, realizing that Tommy might still need help. When he finally makes sense of what’s going on, though, he realizes that Tommy is the one on the top of the tussle, holding a taser menacingly to the masked man’s neck and chirping sickly sweet charm attempts at him.
“—and give me all your money—”
“Tommy!”
The blond jumps out of his skin, looking guiltily up at them like a puppy caught digging in a garden. “Fine!” He turns back to the mask-wearer, who has barely had a break from convulsing in the past minute straight, and finally drops the taser. When he straightens up, he takes a step back, and just when Tubbo thinks he’s finally done, Tommy rears back and kicks him in the ribs for good measure. “Prick!”
He scuttles back to the group with scratches dug along his face and arms and an officially ruined head of hair. “I kicked his ass,” Tommy pants, doubling down with his hands on his knees, and Tubbo grabs his arm to give him stability.
“We did it. We kicked the shit out of him,” he agrees, wiping sweat and his own brown hair out of his face.
“Yeah, but I did the most work.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I did!”
“Can we please just get the heck out of here?” Ranboo interjects, nudging the both of them hurriedly, and Tubbo nods in unison with Tommy, pulling both of them forward.
“Yeah, come on. Techno’s gonna kick the absolute shit out of us when we get home.”
Tommy groans. “He’s gonna make us scrub the fucking—”
“Watch your mouth.”
All three of them screech in unison, scared to pieces of the man that has seemingly appeared from nowhere at their side. Their grip on each other tightens, Ranboo taking a step back instantly and Tommy patting himself down for a weapon, but when Tubbo turns to look with the rest of them, a seething piglin hybrid is staring down at them with eyes the darkest crimson Tubbo’s ever seen them.
“Oh,” he says, suddenly a lot more scared of his own legal guardian than the man lying in their illegal living room, but Ranboo’s lip quivers, and Tommy refuses to wait altogether before throwing himself at the man, wrapping himself in the folds of his clothes. For a second, Techno hesitates, but carefully, the demeanor fades slightly, and he wraps an arm around Tommy. When the older man shifts to make room, Ranboo folds into his other arm like clockwork, resting their head on Techno’s shoulder.
Finally, the pink-haired man looks up expectantly, but Tubbo crosses his arms. “Don’t have three arms, but there’s room,” the man offers gruffly, a rumble to his voice that leads Tommy to press his ear to his chest, and Tubbo shifts, shaking his head gently.
He’s always been the least close to Techno. It’s never been a personal thing— it’s not like Techno’s ever greatly wronged him, or been any meaner to him than he already is to most everyone else— but something about the sappy, goopy, hug it out stuff feels funny.
Tubbo’s pretty sure it’s not just him, either; Techno glances at the two messes he’s gathered in each arm with something that spells fond but also vague discomfort. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them. He just doesn’t express himself through touch. Tubbo gets that. Tubbo knows it all too well; there’s nothing like being friends with a bunch of suckers who can’t go without physical contact.
Finally, Techno grunts, and Ranboo lifts their head, pulling away and skittering back over to Tubbo. They offer a weak grin, and Tubbo smiles back, the storm inside of him finally calming. They did it. They’re safe.
“C’mon, runt,” Techno urges quietly, and Tommy whines, remaining stagnant before finally peeling himself off of Techno. Finally, he trots back over to Tubbo and Ranboo grumpily, grumbling something under his breath about hoes and loyalty. He’s never quite been able to master the art of a poker face, after all.
“Hm,” Techno says finally, straightening to his full towering height once again. All softness exits his body in an instant, and suddenly, he’s somebody to be afraid of again. “You’re all idiots. You’re lucky I’m not leavin’ you behind.” The three hang their heads in unison, smart enough to know what’s good for them, until Techno lets out a rumbling sigh. “Come on, then. We’re goin’ home.”
Phew, thinks Tubbo as Tommy eyes Techno and then pulls ahead with Ranboo, beginning to blab his mouth off immediately. Loser, he thinks to himself, and then kicks rocks, trying to pick up the pace to avoid an awkward interaction with Techno.
Too late. The piglin hybrid reaches for him, mussing his hair up and then shoving his head. “Little brat,” he grunts, but he’s got the patented Brother Blade look about him (the one he denies ever having to begin with). Tubbo, surprised, pulls ahead to walk with the other two, feeling a little heat creep up his collar.
Maybe it’s a little nice every once in a while.
—
“So you went and got prismarine,” Techno replies from the other room, where dinner is slowly being chopped up and thrown into the pot to roast for just a while longer, as promised by the chef himself. “And that was all you went for.”
“Yeah.”
“Yep.”
“Uh-huh.”
There’s a beat of silence. Something slides across the counter, and then there’s a loud bout of sizzling from the kitchen as Techno presumably dumps ingredients into the pot. “You’re all morons,” he mutters, which Tubbo is pretty sure was supposed to be quieter than that. “Who raised you? Prime’s sake.”
Silence dawns on them, and Techno’s footsteps fade into a different part of the house. The couch, and the presence of his other two living family members, has never been so comforting. Tubbo’s whole internal monolog about the stupidity of physical contact has been wasted, too, because they’re all pressed into each other on the couch, a warm (and admittedly sort of comfortable) ball of safety.
“I am never, ” Tommy pipes up, face smushed against the couch cushion, “going on any adventures ever again.” Ranboo hums in exhausted agreement, Tubbo snorts at the obvious lie, and the three sink further into their exhausted pile on the couch, a tangled, sweaty, jittery mess of family.
And then Techno comes around the corner with a toothbrush and a furious gleam in his eye.
“Whose idea was it?”