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There were no calendars in the arctic, no pieces of paper tacked to the wall to count the steady passing of the days. Tubbo had had to ask, to unearth his forgotten communicator, ignoring the many, many messages of hollow support and unfeeling pity as he sent one off to Eret, asking what the date was.
Usually, he wouldn’t care. Usually, Tubbo would leave it, would hide the communicator under the blankets in the chest at the end of the bed Phil had let him stay in. Usually, Tubbo couldn’t care.
But it was valentine’s day today.
But it was Michael’s birthday today.
And today, he had to care. He had to.
There was lead in his feet and lead in his joints as Tubbo took himself downstairs, each step an effort he wished he could just… not take, but he had to. He had to. It was Michael’s birthday, and Michael deserved at least one dad there with him.
The ghost wasn’t his dad. The ghost wasn’t Ranboo.
The ghost was a ghost, and that was all he’d ever be to Tubbo.
After breaking down in Phil’s arms, after feeling months upon months upon years of grief swallow him whole and spit him back out, broken and battered and hurting so much, too much, Tubbo had finally let himself rest and mourn. Phil had sat with him—for how long he didn’t know, time had been a haze recently, marked only by the shadows shifting across the unfamiliar floor—had comforted him through the pain, had dried his tears and let him cry because Phil understood .
A ghost was never a person.
A ghost was never whole.
A ghost was never the same.
A ghost was an echo of someone, a caricature of who they once were, a cold hologram of someone who had been loved. It was disgusting, seeing them try to replace the person that had been taken so harshly from the world, disgusting, to see them responding to their name, wearing their clothes, their face.
Ghostboo was not allowed in the house when Tubbo was there. And considering Tubbo had had no reason nor energy to go anywhere but, the ghost had had to make do in other places.
Because Tubbo didn’t want to look at him.
Step by agonisingly slow step, Tubbo pulled himself downstairs, spurred on by one thing, and one thing only—Michael. He wasn’t doing this for himself, he wasn’t doing this because he wanted to, because he had it in him to, no, he was doing this for his son.
It was the first time he’d been out of bed for more than simply necessity in days.
“Tubbo? Is that you?” Phil’s voice sounded surprised from the sitting room where it came.
Tubbo didn’t answer.
He knew where the kitchen was, sort of, he knew that this door led to storage and this one to the outside and so surely this one led to the kitchen, right? He knew he could just ask Phil, but then Phil would ask more questions, and Tubbo didn’t know how to answer those questions, he didn’t know what to say or how to say it, he just didn’t have the energy.
It was valentine’s day today.
It was Michael’s birthday today.
And he needed to make it special.
They didn’t actually know when Michael’s birthday was, they didn’t actually know how old nor who his birth family was, so really, today could be just any other day. They had found Michael alone in the Nether, a tiny child concealed between the rocks, clutching tightly to a chicken, scared and alone and no one had come back for him. Tubbo and Ranboo had brought him home, then, had lifted him and his chicken from his hiding spot and cradled him in their arms, his figure so small as they did so. They had nursed him back to health and to happiness, only… only for…
It was a wonder Michael seemed to be as happy as he was any more. Tubbo certainly wasn’t.
The door did lead to the kitchen.
It was a small room, no table, benchtops on three walls, a stove and an oven and cupboards and potted plants on the windowsill. It was quaint, it was homely, and it made something in Tubbo’s chest ache.
The kitchen in the mansion had never been as warm as this.
But he pushed that ache aside, he stowed it away in a corner to be forgotten about because he didn’t have the time nor the energy to deal with it because today was Michael’s birthday and he needed to do something, anything.
He didn’t know where anything was in this kitchen.
Ranboo was the one who always made cakes, he was the one who liked them most, who knew what you needed and how to combine it all.
Eggs, Tubbo knew there were eggs in cake. And flour, and sugar, and- and milk. Milk, that was it, he needed milk. But he didn’t know where anything was.
Methodically, he searched all the cupboards, opening and closing the doors, scanning the shelves but seeing very little, not for lack of food, but for the haze in his mind, clouding his thoughts and dulling his senses, a constant drone interrupted only by thoughts of Michael, Michael, he was doing this for Michael.
There were no eggs.
There was no milk.
He could go out and get them, he could pull on his boots and trudge through the snow with a bucket in one hand and grain in the other and he could get the eggs and the milk, but that was so much effort.
Head in his hands, he sat on the floor of the unfamiliar kitchen in the unfamiliar house, eyes prickling but no tears falling.
It would all be so much easier if Ranboo was here.
It would all be so much better.
“Tubbo?” Phil asked again.
Tubbo hadn’t heard him open the door.
“Hey, mate, what’s up?” Phil was crouching down now, was beside him, looking at him with such understanding in his eyes, such concern.
Tubbo turned as he stood, looking away.
“I’m fine,” he murmured, voice somehow level. Because he was fine, this was all fine, he was fine .
“You sure?”
There was a rustle behind Tubbo as Phil stood, not a note of accusation in his voice, simply concern. He was always concerned.
“Yes.” His answer was clipped, but it seemed to satisfy Phil, because Tubbo heard him leave.
He didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t want Phil to believe him, he didn’t want to be alone, to hold himself up, to shoulder the memories of a year past and the reality of a year now.
But he had to.
But it was valentine’s day today.
But it was Michael’s birthday today.
He couldn’t make a cake—even with the proper ingredients Tubbo had little faith he would’ve been able to do anything with them—but he still needed something, anything. It was Michael’s birthday, and he deserved it. He deserved so much more than Tubbo could give him, but Tubbo was selfish, but Tubbo was broken, but Tubbo couldn’t bear to let the last pieces of his family go.
So again, he scoured the cupboards. Jars of honey, jars of sweet berry jam, a sack of potatoes, and one of carrots. Wheat yet to be ground to flour, oats, bread, dried meat. Mushrooms in a basket, pumpkins filling a shelf on their own. He didn’t know what to do.
There was no cake, so Tubbo pulled out a loaf of bread. It seemed fresh, but who was he to know? Perhaps Michael would like the berry jam, it was probably sweet, just like he always liked. He was four now, probably. Maybe. He could have jam, even though Tubbo knew Ranboo had given him jam when his back was turned.
Toddlers weren’t always the best at hiding the sticky messes they made on their snouts, but his smile made it worth it.
Hopefully it would make this worth it too.
The knives were easy enough to find, stood up in a block, only their handles visible over the rough hewn wood. Tubbo pulled the first one out that he could, not caring if it would cut the bread well or not.
It didn’t, the first slice rough and falling to pieces in his hands. He pushed it aside, and tried again. The second slice wasn’t much better, but it was- it was something. Just. It would do, it would have to do.
The knife slipped as he cut a third, blade momentarily sinking into the flesh of his finger with a sharp sting. It was the most he’d felt in days. For a moment, he simply stood, transfixed as blood pooled on his skin, a bead of such deep red gleaming in the perpetual winter sunlight that filtered through the window before rolling down, leaving a morbid trail behind it.
Tubbo didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
So he cut the third slice—really the second, since the first had been so bad—and he set it beside the other, movements mechanical and unfeeling, bare for the heat that now smouldered in his finger.
The jam hid the stains. They were almost the same colour.
He had no candles, none to stick into the cake that didn’t exist, none to stick into the bread and the jam because it was valentine’s day today, because it was Michael’s birthday today, and he deserved candles on his birthday.
A match would have to do. It would burn quickly, but that was okay. So did Tubbo.
It was cold, the short walk between Phil’s and Ranboo’s old house. Ranboo’s house, not the ghost’s. Ranboo’s. Michael was there now, and Tubbo really should be, but he- but he couldn’t, he couldn’t be in such a place for long, with all the memories and all the pain pushing at him without stopping, without ever once relenting.
Phil had said he needed time to grieve, so Tubbo was taking that time. Phil had said he needed space, so Tubbo was giving himself that space. It was all he could do.
Technoblade opened the door when Tubbo arrived, because Tubbo had missed the button twice and was struggling to try for a third time. He seemed surprised.
“Tubbo?” he asked as Tubbo pushed past him.
“For Michael,” Tubbo replied, even though Technoblade hadn’t asked about the bread or the jam or the matches or the blood on his finger or the weariness to his every step. “It’s- it’s his birthday.”
It was valentine’s day today. It was Michael’s birthday today.
“Oh, right, he’s upstairs, but-”
Tubbo didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the sentence. He didn’t have the energy to.
The stairs were hard, each step a mission in and of itself, but Tubbo managed, the plate only slightly unsteady in his hands.
It became far less steady when he reached the top.
The jam looked like blood on the floor, shards of ceramic like chips of bone. There was nothing to catch the plate as it fell, nothing to stop it from shattering to pieces, just as there was nothing to stop Tubbo when he did the same.
Michael looked over, confused in the ghost’s arms. The ghost, the ghost that bore his husband’s form, his face, his name, his memory.
And Michael was clinging to him, pudgy hand wrapped securely around a long, white finger.
“Give him back!” Tubbo shouted, reaching out for his son. “Give him back, he’s not yours!”
There were footsteps on the stairs and a deep voice behind him and an arm pulling his own but Tubbo ignored it all, pushing forward, pulling himself free, clamouring for Michael.
Michael, who was scared by the sudden yelling, was scared by what was happening and turned his face in, hiding in the crook of the ghost’s arms.
“He’s not yours!” Tubbo yelled again, voice cracking just as much as the plate had. Just as much as he had. “He’s not yours, please, just give him back.”
The footsteps went back down the stairs, and Tubbo thought he heard the door open and close. He wasn’t sure.
“But it’s his-”
“I know it’s his fucking birthday!” He could feel Michael now, had his hands on his abdomen, trying to pull him from the ghost’s hold without hurting him. He didn’t care about hurting the ghost.
“I know it’s his birthday,” Tubbo repeated, bundling his son up close, holding him, clutching him, curling around him. “You don’t get to celebrate. You don’t- you don’t deserve to. You don’t deserve anything .”
“Boo?” Michael’s voice was small, was still scared, and he shifted in Tubbo’s arms this time, his tiny arm extending back towards the ghost.
The ghost stepped closer.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Tubbo hissed, shielding Michael from the figure of his dead husband.
“Boo?” Michael said again. He sounded close to tears.
“It’s okay, Mikey,” Tubbo whispered, ignoring the ghost beside them both. “It’s okay, bee’s here, bee’s got you.”
“Wan’ boo,” Michael mewled, and Tubbo didn’t know that there had been anything left inside of him to break.
“That’s not boo, Mikey,” he told him, rocking slowly back and forth. “That’s not boo, I wish it was but it’s not. It’s just pretending, pretending to be boo, but it’s not, boo’s gone, he’s gone and he’s- Mikey, boo’s gone.”
“Wan’ boo?” Michael tried again.
Tubbo felt the ghost behind him, standing over him, felt Michael look up and reach out.
“Go away!” Tubbo shrieked at him, desperate, so, so desperate. “You’re not him! You’ll never be him!”
“Tubbo!” It was Phil, again. Why was Phil here? Wasn’t he over at his own house?
Technoblade was in the room too, murmuring something to the ghost. Whatever it was got the ghost to leave, its stolen, lanky form disappearing down the stairs with a mournful look at the figure Tubbo held so close.
“Tubbo, hey, Tubbo,” Phil continued, kneeling in front of him. He was so concerned.
Why was he so concerned? It was valentine’s day today, it was Michael’s birthday today. He- he shouldn’t be concerned. Not for Tubbo, Tubbo didn’t need the concern, he didn’t deserve the concern, he was fine, it was fine, it was all fine.
Another box in his mind, another parcel of emotion, another compartment to fill until it burst and fill it some more, hide it away in the dark and never quite forget about it no matter how hard he tried, because there were other things to deal with, other more important things, more important people, more important than him.
Michael was crying and so was Tubbo, Phil was gently tugging at his arms and Tubbo didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to let go of his son, his son, Michael was his son.
“Tubbo, c’mon now, you have to let go,” Phil coaxed, and Tubbo only held Michael closer.
“We’re not gonna hurt him, okay?” Phil assured, loosening Tubbo’s grip. “Me ‘n Techno, we don’t want to hurt him, just like we don’t want to hurt you. But we don’t want you to hurt Michael either, okay?”
“I’m not going to hurt him, he needs to be safe, he needs me, it’s his- it’s his birthday,” Tubbo argued, but he barely had the energy to.
“I know, I know you care about him very much, Tubbo,” Phil said, “But none of us want you to accidentally hurt him. I know you would never do it on purpose, but you’re… you’re going through a lot right now, you’re allowed to ask for help.”
Tubbo clawed at the air as Michael was gently lifted from his arms, as Phil handed him to a waiting Technoblade, freeing his hands to pull Tubbo close and restrain his desperation.
He had so little tears left to cry it felt like fire in his very eyes.
“C’mon, let's get you home again.”
The rocking of Phil’s steps through the snow lulled Tubbo, his limbs going heavy, the shot of adrenaline he’d found himself with dissipating to nothing, the tired ache of everything returning as Phil shouldered open his front door.
His bed—it wasn’t his, but he had spent so much time in it that it was beginning to feel like maybe it could be, one day—was a welcome comfort, blankets pulled up around him, pillows propping his head up.
Tubbo watched, hollow, as Technoblade handed Michael to Phil, as Phil took the child in his arms and sat beside Tubbo with Michael on his lap. Technoblade left the room silently.
“Bee?”
“He’s right here,” Phil whispered.
Tubbo reached out a hand, fingers trembling no matter how much he tried to stop them. He reached out for Michael, holding tight when he felt his hand in his.
“Is bee okay?” Michael asked, looking curiously up at Phil.
“Bee’s… bee’s very sad,” Phil told him, bouncing his knee gently. Tubbo was glad he was the one to speak, because he… he didn’t have the energy to.
“Why is he sad?”
“Lots of reasons, I think. He’s very sad because your boo is different now, and he’s still very sad and scared because you were missing.”
“But I’m back. Bee ‘n- bee ‘n Uncle Tech ‘n Auntie Ert got me back.”
Tubbo almost smiled.
“They did,” Phil agreed, “but he was very sad when you were gone, and being sad takes a long time to go away sometimes.”
There was silence in the room, and Tubbo curled a little closer, blankets shifting on top of him.
“Can I give bee a hug?” Michael asked Phil, his whisper easily reaching Tubbo’s ringing ears.
“Of course you can.”
The blankets shifted once again, Michael letting go of Tubbo’s hand, crawling close to him and wrapping his tiny arms around Tubbo’s neck. Tubbo leaned into him, burying his face into Michael’s side, moving his hand to his back and holding him close once again, whispering silent apologies again and again and again.
It was supposed to be valentine’s day today.
It was supposed to be Michael’s birthday today.