Archive of Our Own

"Listen, Tubbo, my advice," Quackity says, leaning forward into the lantern light and drawing Tubbo's eyes to him. "Don't fuck with any of that soulmate shit, okay? It'll just get you hurt."

Tubbo hums.

He swirls his drink around. The pearlescent grey and blue mix together in the plump body. He takes a sip.

Quackity's soulmarks were on his face; he wore them proudly, would gush over them and frame them with his left hand so the rings would glint just so next to the metallic markings. Quackity's soulmarks were on his face until Technoblade took up a pickaxe and cleaved straight through them.

For a server so rife with war, no one knows what losing a soulmark means. Tubbo knows what Quackity thinks, that it severs the bond, and sometimes he figures that he's right. Ever since his own burns wiped away his own soulmark, it's like Tommy and him have never been the same.

It was Tommy-and-Tubbo.

Now it's Tommy and, oh yeah, Tubbo.

"I married Ranboo because Endermen don't get soulmarks," he admits, to the bottle.

Quackity slumps back.

"Smart," he says.

Tubbo made them burgers, with the dregs of today's ingredients, but they sit untouched, cooling in the desert night air. They look, somehow, less appealing under the distant neon and polluted stars than they do under the harsh fluorescent lights of Tubburger.

"I guess," he says, but he doesn't really mean it. He thinks to himself, am I really having this conversation with Quackity? and then he's continuing, "Sometimes I make myself sick wondering if our relationship's actually worth something if we've got no soulbond."

Quackity's incessant tapping ceases and Tubbo can almost hear him having the exact same incredulous thought.

"Look, listen–kid, it's like… um," he says, and that's answer enough.

Relationships built without a soulbond are worthless. Quackity just doesn't want to say that to his face.

"Tubburger's quarterly earnings are twice as good as Wilbur's godforsaken van," Tubbo says, stretching. He sets his bottle aside. Clearly, if he's saying that type of shit out loud, he's had way too much to drink.

Quackity grasps at the distraction.

"Good. We're gonna show him, Tubbo, just you wait. His stupid business is gonna crash and burn–metaphorically, of course. We don't need any more fucking explosions on this server."

Tubbo snorts.

"Whatever. I'm gonna head home, Big Q."

"Right, right. Say hi to your spy on the other side for me."

Tubbo waves over his shoulder.

In Snowchester, he passes the mansion, which they built and never moved into, and pauses when he sees a figure sitting on the front steps. The mansion doesn't have a warm porchlight to guide anyone home, and it's too far away from any streetlights to be lit up, but he can still tell who the figure is just by their slouch.

"Tommy? What're you doing out here?" he calls.

"Tubbo! For fuck's sake, Ranboo sent me this cryptic fucking message about you being late coming home." Tommy bounds down the steps and socks Tubbo in the shoulder. Tubbo rocks back and rubs at the absence of his soulmark under the faint throb. "I've been waiting for a fucking death message to come through the chat for hours."

"I stayed late at work. You couldn't have checked there?" Tubbo asks.

Tommy scoffs.

"I don't know where you fucking work."

Tubbo has to bite down on the ache like it's a physical thing. There was a time when the two of them knew everything about each other. Even on opposite sides of the revolutionary war there were no secrets, no distance but the physical.

"I work at Tubburger, in Las Nevadas. It's like, my project. It doesn't matter–why the fuck are you just sitting out in the cold? You don't even have a coat."

Tommy trots next to him. Tubbo can see the goosebumps rising on his exposed skin but Tommy himself doesn't seem to notice. Ever since his resurrection, he's been more disconnected from reality.

"Well, Ranboo didn't answer when I knocked, so I figured he was asleep and I didn't want to wake up Michael by breaking the door down."

Tubbo frowns. Ranboo usually waits up for him, even when he tells him "don't bother, I probably won't be back until sun-up anyway." He keeps his worry to himself, though, as he unlocks the door and finds most of the lights still on.

"Ah, well, mystery solved," Tommy says, amused, from the entryway to the den.

Ranboo's asleep on the couch, communicator cradled to his chest like a teddy bear.

"Oh," Tubbo says. "I guess I'll go check on Michael. And then–you want dinner?" Anything to keep Tommy lingering, to keep him from stepping out the front door.

"Nah, I can't eat much these days," Tommy says. Tubbo's disappointment plummets into his stomach. "But I don't s'pose I can crash here? I don't really want to go out into the dark with Dream here." He lifts his white and blond bangs, lets them flop back down. "If he catches me too many more times, I'm gonna go white before Phil, and how embarrassing would that be?"

The disappointment twists and curdles and rises up his throat. Tubbo's glad he'll stay the night but fuck, he wishes he would stay longer. Tubbo wants to beg him to stay permanently, beg him to stop letting Dream catch him alone and kill him just to bring him back–but he can't, not anymore. He's not Tommy's soulmate so he hasn't got the right.

What he can do is rifle through the barrel just inside the kitchen and pull out the spare key.

"Of course you can stay," he says, pressing the key into Tommy's hand. It's too cold and trembles, but he doubts either of those are from the snow outside.

Tommy smiles faintly.

"Thanks." He lifts the key. "For emergencies?"

"For whenever," Tubbo corrects, firmly.

The whir of fans and sizzle of frying burgers aren't enough to drown out the sound of shouting just outside Tubbo's shop. He wipes his hands off on his apron and lifts his axe from the corner of the kitchen, just in case.

Tommy bursts through the glass door.

"Tubbo!" he bellows.

"Jesus Christ, you little gremlin, get back here!" Quackity yells, just a second too late to get in his way. "You better not be here on some weird Wilbur mission or I swear to Prime, I will kill you."

Tubbo puts down his axe.

"I'll kill you first, bitch. And obviously I'm not here for Wilbur, I'm here for Tubbo." Tommy turns to him with a blinding smile.

Tubbo is helpless to resist smiling back.

Tommy slides over the counter and butts their heads together just like they used to as kids. Back when Tubbo's horns were first coming in, he headbutted everyone and everything just for the hell of it, and Tommy always went along with him, at the cost of a concussion or two.

"Welcome to Tubburger, big T," Tubbo says. He glances past Tommy at Quackity. His smile starts to slip. He desperately tries to pin it up at the corners, ready to try and convince Quackity to leave Tommy alone just this once, because even if he is here because of Wilbur, at least he's visiting Tubbo.

Quackity's already looking back, eyes darting over his face.

He groans and drags a hand down his face.

"Fine, have fun causing chaos. I'm not Schlatt, I'm not about to separate you two." He levels a finger at them. "Don't burn anything down and do not go into the strip club."

Tommy flips him off.

Tubbo laughs but it's an action he performs from far away. All he can hear is 'I'm not Schlatt,' looping on repeat. Schlatt didn't care about separating soulmates, even when Tubbo appealed and pleaded and begged. When Tubbo admitted Tommy was his soulmate in a desperate bid to get his exile repealed, that was probably the final piece of evidence Schlatt needed to execute him.

Tubbo watches Quackity go and wonders if he knows. Did he overhear that fateful conversation? Does he know Tubbo and Tommy aren't soulmates anymore? Tubbo feels like the loss sits more prominently on his face than the godawful firework scars.

"So this is Tubburger," Tommy says, poking around in the kitchen. He steals a loaf of bread. "Nice place."

Tubbo allows him to pull his focus; he tries to fold up the panic and the pain and leave them for later (or never).

"Isn't it sick? I've got my own burger place!" Tubbo says, spreading his arms wide.

"Make me a burger," Tommy demands, mouth full of bread. "Then I can know for sure yours are better than fucking Wilbur's."

Tubbo's smile twitches.

Right. Wilbur.

He makes Tommy a burger and pretends he doesn't see the soulmark on the palm of his hand that links him to Wilbur. Seeing it used to make him happy. It used to make something warm swell in him–it was a reminder that he had the same sort of unbreakable bond as brothers. Now it just makes him so jealous it burns and burns and burns.

He slips in information about Quackity's plan, about how much money Tubburger makes, and expects Tommy to go.

Tommy doesn't.

He sticks around in a booth, helps out behind the counter during rush, and makes a nuisance of himself by drawing dicks on the front glass with the window pens.

"If Quackity kills me for ruining his aesthetic, I'll kill you," Tubbo threatens, and then joins in.

He leaves the dicks when he locks up.

Tommy shuffles around next to him, glancing at the pulsing lights of downtown Las Nevadas.

"Wanna come to dinner?" Tubbo asks.

Tommy hesitates.

Tommy never used to hesitate over this sort of stuff, before.

"I mean–I don't know, big T. Aren't you gonna want to have dinner with your husband?"

Tubbo's still pretending to lock up even though the doors are already thoroughly locked. He jingles the keyring, for something to do, just so he doesn't have to turn and look at Tommy and see on his face that he doesn't actually want to hang out around Tubbo any longer.

"I mean, sure, he'll be there. I can't hang out with both of you at once, or something?" he asks.

Tommy scoffs. Tubbo can see the nose wrinkle without even turning around.

"It's Ranboo. He always gets to monopolize your time."

Tubbo laughs.

He barely sees Ranboo these days, except after work when Ranboo waits up for him, or on the scarce days when they can't find a sitter and Ranboo drops Michael off at Tubburger.

"Then steal it back, dickwad. Come home, c'mon." He clicks his teeth shut. Why would he say that? Tommy made it clear Snowchester wasn't his home.

But Tommy huffs, and goes, "Y'think we can make him cook everything?" and they walk back to Snowchester together.

Quackity is standing outside Tubburger when Tubbo comes for his morning shift.

"Really?" he asks, pointing at the dicks.

"We didn't even burn anything down," Tubbo says, making his eyes all big and innocent.

Quackity groans.

Tubbo can't keep up the facade and snorts out a laugh. He shoulders past and unlocks the front doors.

"We are a professional establishment. Las Nevadas is the party destination, and this is what you want our customers to see as they're coming into the city?" Quackity asks, following him inside.

"You haven't seen the graffiti on the sign, have you?" Tubbo asks.

"Graffiti? Wha--" Quackity, all inflated and loud, suddenly cuts off. Tubbo glances over his shoulder.

Quackity cranes his neck to look outside. Tubbo follows his eyes.

Sapnap, of all people, walks down the main road, heat rising off the asphalt twisting his silhouette. Tubbo reaches for his axe, but it isn't there–he'd forgotten it at home that morning, too distracted trying to force Tommy to take one of Ranboo's extra Snowchester jackets.

He inhales and exhales, trying to center himself, but Quackity is already waving him off.

"I'll be right back. I'm gonna go… say hi," he says.

Tubbo watches him go and forces his hands to unclench.

It can't have been ten minutes before the bells over the door jingle.

"What'd he want?" Tubbo asks, head buried in a smoker as he tries to scrape out the burnt remnants of a dropped burger.

"What'd who want?" Wilbur asks.

Tubbo hits his head on the top of the smoker in his haste to stand up. He swears, clutching at it.

"Whoa!" Wilbur laughs. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Tubbo levels his spatula at him, as if it makes a good replacement for his axe.

"If you've come here to fight about Quackity, or because Tommy said something that piqued your interest, then I don't want to hear about it. Leave me out of this," he says.

Wilbur holds his hands up.

"I'm here about Tommy, not Quackity or burgers. Pinkie promise."

Wilbur holds his hand out.

Tubbo doesn't reach his own hand out, just stares at that familiar soulmark.

"What about Tommy?" he says, and he thinks about Tommy repeating, "Dream's his hero," with tears thick in his voice, and finds no reason to stop his lip from curling.

Wilbur drops his arm and takes a step back.

"I wanted to know how he is. Ranboo keeps telling me to ask Tommy, but Tommy won't be honest with me, so you're my last bet," he says.

"He's fine," Tubbo says, icily.

"See, that's what he says, too, but you and I both know he's lying. He's been all lonely, and weird, and–something's changed."

Tubbo scowls.

"Something? Dream's out of prison." Wilbur stares at him, blank, like this isn't an explanation at all. The expression makes Tubbo want to scream and kick and shout because Tommy won't tell him anything. Ever since he lost his soulmark, things have been different between them, but he thought–he thought that Tommy was at least confiding in his leftover soulmate, or the ghost left behind. "Really? The fact that his murderer's out of prison doesn't seem like a good explanation, to you?"

"He brought him back," Wilbur dismisses, but then he shakes his head and continues, "but I'm not talking about that. I'm saying–" He frowns. He massages at his palm, right over his soulmark. With a jolt, Tubbo realizes what he's talking about when he says again, "Something's changed."

Bile rises in his throat.

He can't help but rub at where his own soulmark used to be. He can feel the phantom raised lines, can imagine the intricate symbol like he saw it just that morning in the mirror.

"I don't want to talk about that," he says, clipped and measured.

Wilbur, predictably, latches onto it like a hungry dog.

"So it's not just me! Do you think death affects soulbonds, then?"

"What?"

Wilbur ruffles his hands through his hair and paces, back and forth, before the counter.

"Ever since I've come back, Tommy wants nothing to do with me. I feel like our bond is hanging on by a thread. And sure, I get that I made some mistakes but–I'm back, now. Shouldn't I get a clean slate?"

Tubbo gapes at him.

"No, you don't get a clean slate. Death and resurrection aren't some cheat code. You still have to reckon with your actions." Tubbo shakes his head. Of course Wilbur wouldn't care that Tubbo lost his bond with Tommy. Wilbur was still tied to him, by fate and unbreakable love. "He's your soulmate. He'll never leave you. You better be grateful for it and you better fucking apologize to him for taking Dream's side. Now get the fuck out of my restaurant."

Tommy looks all dazed when he lets himself into their house that evening. He plops down next to Tubbo on the couch and says, disbelieving,

"Wilbur apologized to me. I'm not really sure for what, but–never thought I'd see the day."

Tubbo refuses to look at Tommy's palm and instead forces a shaking smile.

"That's good. Soulbonds are important."

Tommy stares at his hand.

"Yeah," he says. He glances up. "Speaking of–I'm sorry. That I haven't been around, I mean."

It's okay, Tubbo wants to say. I'm not your soulmate anymore. You don't owe me anything. The words stick in his throat.

Tommy must take his silence as condemnation, because he ducks his head.

"It's just–exile was shit, and then I got stuck in the prison, and I just–there was so much fucked up shit going on that I lost sight of what was important."

"It's okay," Tubbo says, closing his hand over Tommy's shoulder. It's a practiced move. Pressure on his soulmark as a tangible reminder of how important they are to each other.

How important they were.

Tubbo yanks his hand back.

Tommy smiles at him, anyway. Tubbo bumps their foreheads together, mindful of his horns.

Tommy stays for dinner again, but even better, he creeps into the den to claim the couch after dinner. Tubbo doesn't have to watch him shrug on his borrowed coat and vanish into the darkness and wonder if tonight was the night he'd see Tommyinnit was slain by Dream.

He flops across his and Ranboo's bed and lets out an explosive sigh of relief.

Ranboo sits cross-legged against the headboard.

"Wilbur says he tried to talk to Tommy about everything. I have my doubts about what he actually managed to say, but still, that's progress," Ranboo says.

Tubbo nods.

He ignores the spike of mournful jealousy the thought of Wilbur causes. He wanted to be Tommy's person and Technoblade stole that from him. Now Wilbur gets the spot and he doesn't even have to fight to earn it.

"He talked to me, too. Thought it was some soulmate problem I'd be all buddy-buddy on." He grits his teeth and wrestles down the beast in his chest. "Tommy says he apologized, though. It'll have to be enough."

Ranboo's hands thread through his hair and sort out the tangled strands caught on the ridges of his horns.

"Does it? Tommy doesn't owe him anything," he says, in that measured way that says he's asking himself the same question and inviting Tubbo to problem solve with him.

Tubbo doesn't want to solve this problem.

A terrible part of him wishes Wilbur was still dead.

"He's his soulmate," he says. "You wouldn't get it."

Ranboo withdraws his hand.

"Wouldn't I?"

Tubbo sits up.

"Ranboo, that wasn't what I–"

"No, I get it," Ranboo says, and it's such a shock to have Ranboo cut him off, when he always listens to everything Tubbo has to say, that Tubbo shuts his damn mouth and looks away. "I knew going into this that you and I had differing opinions on soulmates and relationships but--Tubbo, this is Tommy. You really think just because Wilbur is his soulmate, he gets free reign?"

"It's different," Tubbo says. "Tommy needs someone he can depend on to always be there for him."

"That's not Wilbur. I don't care what some mark says. Wilbur hasn't been there for him. Not like you have. Hell, not like I have."

Soulmarks are a highly individualized thing; some people, like Quackity, would probably advertise them even if they were smack on their asscrack. Tubbo was never one of those people. His mark was personal, something for him and Tommy and no one else.

At moments like this, Tubbo's discretion bites him hard enough to draw blood. Ranboo doesn't know Tubbo and Tommy were soulmates, so he doesn't know how deeply his words hurt.

Tubbo can't tell him.

How can he look his husband in the eye and say, I used to be the person Tommy could depend on. How can he explain that he exiled Tommy and it was the worst decision of his life? Freshly markless and bondless, he did worse for Tommy than Ranboo, a stranger back then, did. The universe took their bond away because Tubbo doesn't deserve it. He just didn't know it yet.

Tubbo rolls off the bed.

"I'm going for a walk," he says, and doesn't wait around.

Tommy makes a routine out of visiting Tubbo when he's at work.

The table right at the front becomes his table. Tubbo starts telling customers to move if they sit at it, on the off chance Tommy comes in to say hello.

He leaves an extra apron on a hook in the back. He tells Tommy if he wants to hang around eating all the food, he is going to work for it. Tommy complains but makes a game out of creating new, ludicrous specialty burgers for each day.

Tubbo forgot how fun Tommy made every stupid task. He commits the reminders to memory. He enjoys each day Tommy visits and basks in everything Tommy is still willing to give him.

And if anyone were to ask, he doesn't mope on the days Tommy remembers he has a life outside of Tubburger's walls.

"Hello, Tubbo?" Quackity calls, waving a hand under his nose. He jolts away from the corner of the countertop he wiped down for the last five minutes while lost in thought. "Where were you, man? Not planet earth, that's for sure."

"Fuck off, I was busy thinking," Tubbo grumbles.

"Uh-huh, looked like it was a bit hard for you," Quackity says, with a shit eating grin. Tubbo slings the soiled rag at him.

"I don't care if you're technically my boss, this is my restaurant and I will throw you out," Tubbo threatens.

Quakcity holds up his hands.

"No, no, man. I just want two burgers. I'm showing Sapnap the highlights of the city."

Tubbo's eyes dart among the patrons, searching for that familiar shock of black hair. His fingers itch for his axe or sword.

"Relax," Quackity says, smile losing some of its genuine shine. "I left him outside. Figured you wouldn't want him in here."

Tubbo frowns.

"I thought, with the whole-" He gestures to his cheek. "-thing, you wouldn't want anything to do with him."

Quackity's smile freezes, like a bug pressed flat beneath glass mid-struggle. Tubbo recognizes the expression. Quackity wore it a lot around Schlatt. Like Tubbo, he learned to smile through anything, but because they developed that skill together, Tubbo never has a problem differentiating the real from the fake.

He regrets putting the look on Quackity's face, but before he can reroute the conversation, the expression eases and melts.

Quackity scrubs at a speck on the counter with his nail.

"It's–well, y'know, I think maybe I made things simpler than they were. Like maybe soulmarks don't magically make or break things, you know?"

Tubbo whips around to start two burgers.

He doesn't want to hear this, actually.

Quackity keeps talking.

"'Cause Karl, I mean, Jesus, I'll probably stab him if I see his ugly mug anywhere near Las Nevadas but–Sapnap's putting in the effort, you know, to fix this huge mess."

"That's good," Tubbo chokes out.

Quackity pauses.

"Sorry. You probably don't want to hear this, huh? But, I mean, I heard Tommy's been hanging around." It's coaxing, faux-bright. "Are you two okay?"

And Tubbo has imagined confessing to people before; sitting Ranboo down to explain the added layer to his and Tommy's relationship, or explaining to Jack just why he broke his nose when he found out about Niki and the nuclear test. No version has him turning to Quackity under too-bright fluorescent lights and snapping so loud the room goes silent,

"What does Tommy have to do with this?"

Quackity isn't fazed. No, he stares back at Tubbo like he's an idiot.

"What does your soulmate have to do with a conversation about soulmates? Dude, everyone knows that you and Tommy were attached at the hip until all that Dream-exile shit happened."

Tubbo gapes at him.

The thought that everyone knows, can look at him and see what the universe saw fit to offer only temporarily, makes his eyes burn. Something awful and sharp burrows through his spine and finds a home in his throat.

"He doesn't have anything to do with it," Tubbo croaks, "because I lost my mark." He shovels the burgers into a box. They're only half-cooked. He eschews everything but the bun and throws the bag at Quackity. "Nothing can fix that, just like nothing can fix you and Sapnap. Go away."

Quackity stares at him, stricken.

"Go away," he repeats.

Quackity goes.

Tubbo ignores the stares of the other patrons and takes a break he shouldn't, just to sit in the back room and let tears press at the backs of his eyelids and never fall.

There's voices outside.

Tubbo grabs up his axe and debates on armor. The door is thick and strong; it'll hold for the few seconds it would take him to strap on a chestplate.

He creeps into the entryway.

"I'm not inviting you to dinner and I'm not asking them to invite you either," Tommy snaps, muffled by the wood.

"C'mon, I literally work with Ranboo," Wilbur says. "What's so bad about asking?"

"I don't want them to uninvite me."

Tubbo opens the door just in time to see Tommy kick Wilbur in the shin.

"I'll never uninvite you," Tubbo says while Wilbur hops around clutching his leg and narrowly avoids pitching backwards down the stairs. He can't help but stare him down; he feels this too-large elation and hopes Wilbur sees 'Tommy cares more about dinner with me than his stupid soulmate' on his face.

"Tubbo! Sorry Wil is here, he wanted to walk me back because he's trying to make up for being a huge jackass–stop complaining, I know that didn't hurt."

Wilbur puts his leg down and laughs.

"Can I come to dinner?" Wilbur asks Tubbo.

Tommy stands at his shoulder and looks hopeful.

The elation snuffs out.

Tubbo really, really wants to say no. He wants to scream that dinner is for family only. He can't because Wilbur is Tommy's family. If Tubbo wants to keep Tommy he has to say:

"Sure, whatever."

Tubbo cooks dinner and Tommy helps and Wilbur predictably doesn't. Ranboo gets home with Michael on his hip and seems surprised but not unhappy to see their guest.

It's not that bad until it's time to sit down for dinner, because Tommy sits next to Wilbur. It makes sense; Tubbo and Ranboo sit across from them with Michael in his high chair between them. Of course Tommy wouldn't want to sit next to a toddler intent on slinging food everywhere but his mouth. Tubbo gets it. Having to shower after every meal gets old.

Understanding doesn't stop him from staring a hole into their palms whenever there's a flash of those glimmering matching marks.

He wants his back. He wants to be able to pull his collar to the side and look down and see that mark and be reassured that there is one person who won't leave him in a box on the side of the road.

After dinner, Tubbo assigns himself the pleasure of walking Wilbur out.

"Thanks for having me," Wilbur says, all polished politician.

Tubbo grunts.

He doesn't expect Wilbur to hesitate on the threshold of the open front door.

"Tommy said–uh, Tommy said you weren't very happy to see me resurrected."

Tubbo blinks up at him.

"You got me executed." More importantly: "You wanted Tommy up on that podium when you knew you were gonna blow it up. Should I be happy?"

For so long, Wilbur could do no wrong. Tommy worshipped him so Tubbo worshipped him. Tommy followed him so Tubbo followed him. Tommy loved him so Tubbo, dare he say it, loved him too.

Then all that came crashing down around his ears.

It feels like it's crashing all over again when instead of looking him dead-on and weaving some explanation that's only convincing until Tubbo thinks about it later, Wilbur's eyes slide away.

"I'm working on it," he says. "I had thirteen years in limbo to figure my shit out. To figure out my priorities."

Tubbo frowns.

"If Tommy hasn't made it to the number one spot, I'll kill you," he hisses. "And I don't mean the way I threaten to kill Tommy or Ranboo. I mean I'll make it look like an accident and I'll hold Tommy while he cries at the funeral."

Wilbur blows out a breath that's half a laugh.

"Noted," he says. "Thanks again for having me."

Tubbo gets to shut the door too close on his heels and stand in the entryway alone to collect himself.

Tubbo can't stop thinking about Quackity saying "maybe soulmarks don't magically make or break things." The words wormed their way into his brain and he can't knock them out no matter how vigorously he tries, so he goes to the one person he knows with untraditional views on soulmarks.

"Ranboo?" he asks, hovering in the doorway. "Can I talk to you?"

Ranboo glances up from his memory book and smiles.

"Of course! What's up?"

Tubbo sits on the bed, cross-legged. Ranboo abandons his book and quill on the desk and sits next to him. He sits shoulder-to-shoulder. He doesn't look at Tubbo. Ranboo's aversion to eye contact will always be something Tubbo is grateful for, especially when he feels so raw and exposed.

He tries to figure out how to approach the conversation and what comes out is,

"What do you think about Wilbur? I mean, Wil and Tommy, specifically. You said their marks didn't matter."

Ranboo twists his hands together.

"I'm sorry I said that," he says. Tubbo startles–that isn't the response he expects. "I didn't mean to imply soulmarks and soulbonds aren't important. I guess what I was trying to say was… well, sometimes I think you forget that a soulmark isn't everything." Just like Quackity said. "People are people. Relationships are relationships."

"Relationships without a soulbond are just as important as relationships with one," Tubbo tries. It doesn't feel right in his mouth. It sounds too much like a question.

He can't bear to look at Ranboo because he can feel the hurt oozing off him.

"Right," Ranboo says, calm anyway, though his hands still twist. His tails twitch.

"How do you know?" comes plaintive out of his mouth. He feels stupid for it.

Ranboo sucks in a breath and holds it.

"Is this about Tommy and Wilbur? Or is this about you and me?" he asks, at length.

How is Tubbo supposed to answer that?

"Both. Neither. I–I know you won't leave me, because of Michael, okay, that isn't what this is about."

He expects the tension in Ranboo's frame, painfully tangible where they're pressed together, to unspool. He expects his breathing to ease. He's put them back on the same page, hasn't he? Without coming out and asking the real question eating at him.

None of that happens.

Instead, Ranboo inhales sharply and repeats,

"Because of Michael?" Tubbo's ready to bolt but Ranboo grabs his hands. He's still not looking; in fact, he's staring at the ceiling and blinking rapidly. If he cries, he'll burn himself. "Tubbo. I love you. I will tell and show you every day, okay? Not because of Michael, not because of–I don't know, Snowchester, but because of you."

"I know," Tubbo says, because he does know that Ranboo thinks he loves Tubbo.

"I don't think you do," Ranboo says.

"Well, I don't–how am I supposed to?" Tubbo asks, feeling his own frustrated tears come knocking. He refuses to acknowledge them.

"Okay. That's alright." Ranboo sounds like he's saying that to himself, mostly. "What will make it tangible to you?"

A soulmark.

Ranboo can't get soulmarks and even if he did, why would he get one for Tubbo? Tubbo couldn't even keep hold of the one he had.

All Tubbo wants is a guarantee from the universe that the love he has will be permanent, but even when he had that, it didn't end up being true.

"I don't know," Tubbo says.

"That's okay," Ranboo answers. "We'll figure it out together."

Tubbo presses his knuckles into his eyes.

"I didn't mean to ruin things," he says. His voice betrays too much, all plaintive and thick and quivering.

"You didn't ruin anything," Ranboo refutes, fiercely. "This is just something we have to work on together. I'm glad you came to talk to me about it."

That makes Tubbo feel worse.

"I didn't come about this," he admits. "I came to ask–" Came to ask what? It's not like Ranboo can roll back time and give him his soulbond back. "Do you think Tommy and I will ever be best friends again?"

Ranboo finally makes eye contact. His expression is confused, but gentle, when he says,

"Did you ask Tommy? Because I'm pretty sure you never stopped being his best friend."

Ask Tommy.

Sure, Ranboo can say that. Ranboo talks about his feelings and cries openly even though it hurts him in more ways than one. Ranboo got letters from Tommy when he was in exile.

Tubbo didn't get letters. He didn't deserve letters. He was the reason Tommy was in exile.

Tommy never told him what happened, not really, but Tubbo sees the way it haunts him. There are so many tiny things he could point to, pieces of evidence that damn him for making the wrong choice, but there's one he's been stuck on the last few days: Tommy doesn't like the beach anymore.

This doesn't affect everyday life, but if Tubbo is going to talk to Tommy, he's going to do it in a neutral location with no chance of eavesdroppers.

The comfort of the ocean, waves muffling conversation, is out.

He finds a balmy flower forest instead.

"Hey, Tommy?" he asks, once he's fully scouted out the area and buried several weapons caches close by just on the off chance Dream crawls from wherever he's holed up. He raps his knuckles on the doorframe. "Do you want to go flower picking with me sometime? I found this sick flower biome."

Tommy's face scrunches.

"Are we picking flowers for Ranboo, 'cause if the answer is yes, I'm not fucking doing it."

Tubbo laughs and rolls his eyes.

"Shut the fuck up, he's your friend too. And I just want flowers. Can't a dude want flowers? Maybe I'll make another bee dome."

Tommy groans and stretches.

"Fine. I'll let you use me for manual labor."

Tubbo can barely talk on the walk, but Tommy doesn't mind; he talks enough for the both of them. He's not even to the biome yet and any words he could say stick in his throat, whether they relate to the predicament or not.

When they get to the biome he sets upon the flowers with a viciousness they don't deserve.

"Oh!" Tommy says. "We're gathering-gathering flowers. I see how it is. I'll get more than you!" He tears off to the opposite side of the clearing.

Tubbo's chuckle is frail.

He clears a massive swathe before he finds the nerve to walk to where Tommy has been distracted by digging up chunks of dirt.

"You remember when we were kids, and we found out our soulmarks matched?" he asks.

Tommy sits back.

"'Course I do, Tubs," he says, and tugs aside the collar of his shirt to admire his mark with a smile. Even with the dirt smudged across it by his soiled fingers, the gold doesn't shine any dimmer.

Seeing it makes Tubbo homesick, not for a place, but a time.

He misses being able to see the mark on himself. It's gold, instead of silver like Wilbur's mark, and full of thick, chunky lines that Tubbo thinks look an awful lot like a sun peeking up over a mountain.

He swallows.

"Right. Of course." He finds he can't say anything else.

Tommy sits back on his heels and looks up at him.

"You okay?" he asks, though they both know the answer.

Tubbo sits down next to him and starts ripping a poppy apart petal by petal.

"You promised we'd be best friends forever. The mark was proof," he says.

"And I still mean it," Tommy says. He sounds sure of what he says but cautious of what terrible news Tubbo has for him.

Fuck, he used to have so much confidence in Tubbo before exile.

Tubbo grits his teeth.

"But how can you, now? How can you still care about me when there isn't a soulmark making you?"

It's as if TNT detonates under Tommy. He reels back so hard he falls flat on his ass.

"What?" he demands, breathing all funny and trembling.

Tubbo hunches in on himself and whispers,

"After the festival. After my mark got burned off. Everything went wrong. How do we know we still have a bond?"

Tommy hits him like a minecart at full speed, crushing him face-first into the disturbed dirt.

"You're stupid. You're so stupid, I fucking hate your face," Tommy yells. Tubbo grunts and tries to wriggle free. Tommy is taller but he isn't stronger, but in this moment his grip is so tight Tubbo can't get free. Tommy can't seem to decide whether he wants to smash Tubbo flat or hug him. "I made a promise and you made a promise and whether we can see that promise doesn't make it any less real. Is this what's gotten you so upset?"

Tubbo throws him off.

"Real? We don't know if it's real! How do we know the bond wasn't severed when I got burned?"

Tommy grabs Tubbo's face and squishes his cheeks.

Tubbo stares into his eyes and tries very hard not to cry under the intensity of his best friend's stare.

"Tubbo. Tubs. Big T. Me and Wilbur's bond survived death. Should-have-been-permanent death." Tommy releases his face and grabs his shoulder instead, palm flat over where his mark would be. "I'm sorry for all the shit I pulled that drove us apart, okay? But I'm back and as long as Dream doesn't eventually decide I'm not worth resurrecting, I promise I will try to be the person who deserves to be your best friend again."

Tubbo sniffles.

"I'm not letting Dream kill you again. Can't you just move into Snowchester?"

Tommy laughs. It's a bit wet, too.

"I didn't know if you wanted me there. You kind've started a whole new life without me."

Tubbo shakes his head.

"I didn't. I didn't. There was this big gaping hole and I–" Oh, fuck. He tears up. "I miss you."

Miss, present tense, because even with Tommy dragging him into a bone-crushing hug, Tubbo still isn't sure if love is a thing he gets to have.

Tubbo clutches Tommy's shirt and hugs him back just as hard.

Tommy's dirt hut is painfully empty. Tubbo sneezes away the dust and empties several of the chests to carry back.

Ranboo peers through a crumbling hole in the floor.

"What's down there?" he asks. "A shrine?"

Tommy's jaw ticks.

"Yeah, there's–yeah, I didn't build that. I never want to see it again."

"Okay," Ranboo says, and starts collecting his own batch of items to carry home.

It only takes one trip, that's how little Tommy has. Too busy giving everything to Wilbur, Tubbo thinks bitterly, and can't find it in him to feel bad about it. Tommy still being his soulmate despite the lack of a mark feels unreal, so Wilbur still feels like competition.

At least Tommy's measly possessions fit neatly into chests lining the den.

Four of them makes for a tight fit and Tubbo finds himself staring out at the mansion more and more often--but ultimately, he likes the closeness.

He likes tripping over Tommy in the kitchen, and fighting over couch space even though Ranboo always agrees to take the floor, and walking together to Tubburger and back home again. He likes calling it home and knowing that's what it is. He likes being able to check on Michael, then Tommy on the couch in the den.

Tommy doesn't sleep often, and when he does it's with high-burning lanterns to chase away the dark and cold. Tubbo doesn't mind interrupting his own night to sit beside Tommy when he's haunted by things he'll probably never tell Tubbo about. Tubbo doesn't need to know. He just wants the opportunity to be there for Tommy in whatever way he can.

That's what soulmates do.

If he can't have that–but he can, he reminds himself–then that's what best friends do.

That's what Tubbo will always do for Tommy.

Be there.

Tubbo tugs his netherite boots on and something crunches beneath his toe.

Not the horrific crunching of some bug, thank fuck, but more like a dropped page of paper. Tubbo fishes it out and is all set to crumple and toss it before he realizes there's words scribbled on it.

I'm glad I married you, it says in Ranboo's loopy and too-fast scrawl.

Tubbo's face flames.

He folds it carefully and stuffs it into his pocket, never to be seen again except in private, on days when he feels exceedingly vulnerable and needs a reminder.

Part of him misses when everything between them was a lot more unspoken, when he was just dicking around with a member of his cabinet. But first came a kid, then came taxes, and at some point Ranboo became important.

Tommy was important. He was the only person who ever cared back, until Ranboo.

It's scary, sometimes, is all. Unfamiliar.

He expects that note to be the culmination of their talk, which he has been pretending never happened save for the clear consequence of Tommy taking residence on their couch, but the notes keep happening.

One pinned to Michael's door that says Ranboo already cleaned it and for him to enjoy his day off. It's accompanied by a crude drawing of their family: a pink blob that is probably Michael, and a tall noodle that is definitely Ranboo, and a spikey outline of red and yellow that's Tommy. Tubbo smiles particularly hard over that one, even if the version of Tubbo his son drew is, unfairly, about as tall as the Michael. He even pins the drawing up in the bedroom, rather than hiding it away in his stash, and doesn't miss the way Tommy gets wide-eyed over seeing himself in the family portrait.

Many appear on his bedside when he wakes up alone, each something Ranboo likes or appreciates about him and each making him feel embarrassed even though there are no witnesses. He's not sure he believes the words, not really, but he's closer to believing when Ranboo leaves him gifts.

Mostly it's tools to replace the ones he breaks or loses, but sometimes it's more exorbitant, like the one Tommy finds in the kitchen.

Tubbo hunches over the kitchen table, laboring through the tiny fine print trying to find a way to evade taxes without evading taxes, when Tommy makes a wretched gagging nose.

He jumps up, expecting to find Tommy shot with a poisoned arrow, but no–he's clutching a sheet of paper between thumb and forefinger like it's the poisonous thing.

"Can't he leave these where I can't find them?" Tommy demands. "They're gross."

Tubbo snatches it from him.

"Don't toss it or anything," he says, in a hurry, taking only a moment to read, I'd give you all the emeralds in the world with a smiley face that, crucially, looks nothing like Dream's, instead with big silly heart eyes and an open mouth.

"I wouldn't," Tommy says, all soft in the way that means Tubbo hurt his feelings, but before he can apologize Tommy hands him a massive block of emerald. "Came with this."

Tubbo can't even look him in the face.

He fumbles the block, almost drops it when it proves to be too heavy, and shoves it into his pocket along with the note.

"Thanks. Sorry. I don't know why he keeps doing this. I'm not sure what he wants from me. I tried to write a couple notes back, but they just sounded like insults, when I managed to spell shit right."

"I don't think he's doing this 'cause he expects repayment. Not really his style, is it?" Tommy says.

Tubbo still feels red-faced and embarrassed. He goes back to the table. Tommy follows.

"Why else would he do it then? It's just weird." He considers telling Tommy about his and Ranboo's disastrous talk, but just the thought makes him feel ill. Even so, it doesn't matter, because it's like Tommy knows what they talked about when he says,

"I think he just wants you to know. That he'd give you all the emeralds in the world, and whatever other sappy shit he's written."

Tubbo curls over his paperwork.

He can't look at Tommy when he mutters,

"Doesn't make sense, is all."

He half-expects the sigh. He doesn't expect the hand, closing over his shoulder, over that spot.

"Ranboo told me you said you hadn't been happy since L'manburg. Since you had something to do. That true?"

"He told you that?" Tubbo asks. He'd half-hoped Ranboo had forgotten about that fight, but of course he hadn't–of course, no matter what, there was probably a page for it in his memory book.

"He sure did," Tommy says. He doesn't keep talking, doesn't fill the silence and ease that needling feeling in Tubbo's spine. He's waiting, Tubbo realizes, for an answer.

"It was–half true. I didn't want to tell him what really happened. The whole festival was when–when the burns happened. When I lost you." It's weird, to speak the grief aloud. He carried it alone for so long.

Tommy squeezes his shoulder.

"You didn't lose me, you big dumb fuck."

Right. Tubbo forgets.

"Shut up," he says, anyway.

Tommy doesn't let up. He turns Tubbo, and shakes him.

"Get it through your thick skull," he says. "Your best friends care about you. More than is considered normal, in fact, because you are one of a kind and special and very important."

Tubbo splutters.

Unable to find the words, he headbutts Tommy affectionately–and much too hard. Tommy falls flat, and sees stars if the way he blinks furiously is anything to go by.

Tubbo gives Tommy a job, an official job.

This entails adding a name tag to the apron he already used and not much else, but Tubbo likes the commitment of forcing Tommy to make burgers with him.

Even so, it's not every day they work together, and when he steps outside on one of those rare days of loneliness, he isn't happy to see Wilbur leaning against the wall, waiting for him.

"Hey, Tubbo," Wilbur says, eyes crinkling in a smile.

"Wil," Tubbo greets, setting off down the street without looking at him. Wilbur falls into step next to him.

Wilbur clears his throat, says, "It's nice that Tommy moved into Snowchester."

Tubbo glances at him.

"Tommy tell you that?"

"Ranboo, actually."

Tubbo hums. He needs to have a talk with Ranboo about who he trusts. Then again, Ranboo splits his time between Snowchester and the Syndicate's arctic base. Wilbur is probably a lesser threat these days. He's still got that Pogtopia fervor, but it's tempered by the same disconnect from the world around him that Tubbo sees in Tommy. Resurrection wasn't easy on either of them.

"It's been good for him. I can tell. It must've been what was bothering him; he's much happier now," Wilbur adds, when it's plain Tubbo won't be doing the talking.

Tubbo isn't sure how to respond to that. On the one hand, awful guilt twists through him at the thought that he was the reason for Tommy's suffering (more than he already was, with exile and every other mistake). On the other, Wilbur says Tommy is happier now. Happier stuffed into their little lodgepole cabin and working shifts at Tubburger.

Tubbo manages an, "Oh."

Wilbur chuckles.

"I was a bit too busy thinking about myself and forgot he's got a perfectly good soulmate other than me." Tubbo opens his mouth to correct him. Tommy doesn't believe the bond is gone, he thinks. He closes his mouth. He isn't keen on giving Wilbur that kind of ammunition, anyway. "Anyway, the point is–I came to say thanks. And apologize."

Tubbo stops dead.

His feet sink and shift in the sand but that's not what unbalances him.

"You did?" he asks, turning to look Wilbur head-on.

Wilbur worries at the collar of his trenchcoat, popping and refolding it repeatedly.

"Yup," he says, popping the 'p'. "So, Tubbo–thanks for taking care of Tommy while I was gone."

Tubbo thinks about exile and everything he doesn't know and everything he does, including that tower built up into the clouds. He thinks about losing Tommy over and over and every time getting another chance.

"I didn't," he says, the words too quiet, lacking power.

Wilbur indulges him with another smile.

"Sure you did. Even before I was gone, you were always his right hand man like he's mine." A pawn, Wilbur means. "I appreciate it because, well, you help remind me that part of my ultimate purpose here is to make the little garbage panda happy." He pauses. Clears his throat again. "Also, we've been talking lately about everything that happened before and after I died so… I owe you an apology."

It's not the words I'm sorry in that particular order, but this is more than Tubbo ever expected from Wilbur Soot.

Still, he blurts,

"You owe Tommy more apologies than me."

Wilbur laughs again.

"Yeah. I've been working my way through them, don't you worry. I don't want to throw away my new sunrises quite yet."

Tubbo looks at Wilbur and Wilbur looks back. In that moment neither is a president or a traitor; they are Tommy's best friend and Tommy's brother, and unified over one common goal.

Tubbo finds Quackity at that same mesh metal table where they sat all those weeks ago. He's cradling another drink, this one a bright green Tubbo's never seen brewed before.

He sits next to him in the uncomfortable metal chair and says,

"Hey, Big Q."

"Hey, Tubbo," Quackity says, and Tubbo feels uneasy at the lack of enthusiasm. Quackity hasn't talked to him since his outburst.

"I wanted to say I was sorry. You didn't deserve me taking out my own stuff on you and Sapnap. Uh–how is he?"

Quackity regards him for a moment, bright eyes calculating, before he slumps and shakes his head with a laugh.

"He's good." Apology accepted. Tubbo lets himself relax. "He keeps trying to convince me to go to Kinoko Kingdom instead of making him come here, but I told him 'No way in hell.' Karl can eat my dick."

Tubbo snorts.

"How's Tommy? You seem happier," Quackity asks.

Tubbo looks away. That shame and anger and embarrassment never went away; the thought that he's been so obvious makes him burn.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be embarrassed," Quackity prods, when Tubbo isn't fast enough at wrestling away the wash of emotion. "We're ex-Schlatt-cabinet-members, we have a special bond. Tell me your soulmate woes."

"They're not woes. Uh. Not anymore." Tubbo braces himself. "I lost my soulmark, right? After the festival." Quackity makes a soft sound. "I thought it meant Tommy and I–well, I figured it meant I didn't matter to Tommy anymore, but we talked about it and he finally agreed to move to Snowchester and stuff."

"That's great, man! I did notice a new addition to the payroll. I hoped it meant things were patching up."

Patching up. That was a good way to describe it. Everything they went through wouldn't magically go away and he could never cover it up properly, but maybe he could mend it. Like a hole in a boat or a dent in his armor–the original damage would always be there but it wouldn't always be a death sentence.

"Yeah," Tubbo says, because he's not quite sure what else to say. "I hope they are."

Quackity nods.

There's never really silence in Las Nevadas. Sure, Tubburger is closed and the streets around it are dim and empty, but the heart of Las Nevadas still pulses with the muffled beat of club music. Tubbo lets it wash away the tension settling over their table.

Quackity sets his bottle down with a hollow clink.

"You know, I didn't try again with Sapnap because of our soulmarks," he admits.

Tubbo freezes.

"I–why not?" he asks. It feels awful to say it. Ranboo tries so hard with everyone, soulmark or no. Even Tommy doesn't seem to care if Tubbo has a soulmark to match his. Tubbo wants to be like them but it feels impermanent and risky.

Quackity shakes his head.

"You remember Charlie–er, Slime?"

"The slime guy? Of course." Tubbo remembers the one time he visited Tubburger and what a pain in the ass it was to clean the green slop off the floor. He had wet floor signs up for weeks just to avoid Quackity yelling at him about lawsuits.

Quackity laughs, probably remembering the same thing.

"He was a real pain in the ass," he says, fondly. "He didn't get marks, being a slime and all. Hell, I had to teach him what soulbonds were. And you know what he does, when I tell him? He comes out and asks me 'can we be soulmates?' I was like fuck no. Tried to tell him that wasn't how it works and he said–" Quackity breaks off and laughs again. He shakes his head. "He was all, 'Why, Quackity from Las Nevadas? That sounds the same as a best friend to me, just with an extra step.'"

Tubbo's afraid to speak, afraid to move, lest he break the spell that has Quackity talking more freely with him than he has since Pogtopia.

Quackity takes up his bottle again, but not to drink; he swirls it and watches the green inside fizz and pop.

"I kept thinking about it when I was talking to Sapnap. Best friends with an extra step. Fiancés with an extra step. I wanted to be friends with Sapnap again, wanted to start there, you know? The mark didn't matter–him coming back for me did."

Quackity finally, finally looks up at Tubbo.

"What I'm trying to say is that I think the soulmarks are a mark for potential, and I don't think we need them. You love Ranboo, don't you, and your kid? You loved Tommy before and you love him after your mark?"

Tubbo nods, because he does, he really, really does.

Quackity inclines his bottle toward him.

"There you go."

Tubbo sits with that, for a moment, tries to imagine not caring about a soulmark. He's not sure he can.

"But–" he starts. He hesitates. "How do you know, then? If someone loves you back? Won't leave?"

Quackity's back to staring down the neck of his bottle.

"Believe them when they tell you, I suppose."

Believe them. Tubbo thinks of Ranboo's note stuffed in his shoe. He thinks of Tommy waiting on the steps of the mansion when he was late coming home. He thinks of Michael hugging him every day after work and he thinks of Wilbur apologizing and he thinks about Quackity taking time out of his day to talk to Tubbo about soulmates and not-soulmates.

"I can do that," Tubbo says, and it's mostly for himself.