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Their wedding ceremony hadn’t been anything very special in terms of an occasion. It was just Tubbo, Ranboo, two witnesses, and Bad, signing some paperwork and repeating back a handful of words. It had only been for tax benefits, why was there any need to make a great fuss?
The rings were just cosmetic, really, a nice little trinket to remember each other by, and prove their relationship. To remind Ranboo that it had happened, even. They had been an afterthought, a surprise gift, a silent, mutual agreement that this was no longer just for the money. This was no longer just for convenience.
It had never been convenient, really. Ranboo lived over at the arctic commune, and Tubbo had Snowchester. They were about as far away as they could get. Ranboo liked Phil and Technoblade, and Tubbo… Tubbo had Snowchester. Ranboo had things that caused them trouble and pain, and Tubbo had Snowchester.
He didn’t have Snowchester anymore.
He didn’t have anything anymore.
His coat was hanging up on a peg on the back of the door, and the jacket he’d had on underneath was folded on the dresser. His boots were downstairs and his armour was in Phil’s storage. The clothes he wore weren’t his, the loose shirt Phil had lent him and the pants that had had to be rolled up at his feet. They were comfortable at least.
Michael was downstairs, his bubbling laughs floating up to Tubbo, making him smile. The kid had taken quite the shining to Technoblade, despite the battle-hardened warrior’s protests. Still, no one could quite say no to Michael, and thus Tubbo had watched many a time as his son squealed in delight, latching onto Technoblade’s leg with a grin that was simply too infectious for anyone to resist.
Technoblade had become pretty used to it by now, and oddly enough… Tubbo didn’t mind. He loved Michael, yes, but it was so, so hard to look after him alone now.
While Technoblade entertained Michael, Phil would often sit with Tubbo, and they would simply exist together. Sometimes they would talk, about things that mattered, about things that didn’t, and the more time that went on, the more Tubbo answered Phil’s questions. The more questions he asked Phil.
“How do you know everything?” he’d asked quietly, perhaps a week ago, if that, even. His eyes had been stinging, the tail end of another breakdown—another collapse, another wave of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with—receding slowly, aided on its journey by a hand rubbing gentle circles into his back.
“I don’t.” Phil had seemed to be very ready to admit that.
“You know everything about… about this.” Tubbo had shrugged, not entirely sure how to phrase what he was meaning. Words tended to get stuck in his throat, coming out all wrong whether he liked it or not. “You know everything about how I’m feeling.”
“I don’t, Tubbo,” Phil had reiterated gently, leaning down and looking over at Tubbo with tired eyes. “I don’t know everything, but I know some.”
“How?”
The sigh Phil had let out was big, was heavy, and Tubbo almost regretted asking. But before he could say anything against it, Phil was speaking again.
“I’m not great at dealing with grief either,” he’d admitted to Tubbo, an almost secret between them. “I see myself in you with this a lot, and I wish I didn’t. You don’t deserve this, because I know how hard it is. I’ve been through it too.”
Tubbo hadn’t said anything, hadn’t known what to say. He never really knew what to say, even now.
“When Wilbur died… I know it was different, I’m not even going to pretend I know exactly what you’re going through, but it was… similar. He was everything I had, and I lost him, and fate decided I just wasn’t allowed to deal with that grief properly.”
Oh. That… that had made a lot of sense. Wilbur’s death had been so very different, but what remained of those he left behind felt all too similar. Tubbo understood then, why Phil had been there for him through every moment of this.
"I know what it’s like to see someone you loved more than you loved anyone else return as a ghost. I know how much it hurts, I know how sick it is, I know how hard it can be to properly work through everything you’re feeling.”
It didn’t hurt as much anymore.
Sometimes, Tubbo wished it did.
Months had passed since Ranboo’s death, and it had been at least a month, if not more, since he had seen the ghost for the first time. He hated how it hurt, but at least it meant he cared. At least it meant he had loved him.
The hurt was dull now, no longer stabbing into his every joint. He could move now, he could walk about, he could eat, he could help Phil with small tasks, like kneading dough or sweeping the floor.
There was still an ache, but it was bearable now. It was always there, but sometimes, he could almost forget about it. Almost.
He could feel the ache now, as he sat on the edge of his bed. It sat between his bones, gentle but unrelenting. It made him heavy, it made his mind fuddled, but that was it, really.
Slowly, Tubbo leaned forwards, bracing his elbows on his knees and looking at the floorboards, letting his hair fall around his face. Today was hard—every day was hard without Ranboo—but it was getting easier. It was getting easier to go through the motions, it was getting easier to do things besides just the motions.
Yes, he still found himself faltering, he still found himself stumbling over nothing at all, he still found himself short of breath when he remembered that he was alone, he was alone Ranboo was gone, but he could just about catch himself now.
It wasn’t pretty—it was never pretty—it wasn’t very neat, but he was trying. He was trying, and it was working.
Sometimes he wished it wasn’t.
Did this mean he was okay with Ranboo’s death? Did this mean he was okay with having lost his husband? Did this mean he no longer missed them?
Did this mean he didn’t love them?
The thought scared Tubbo, the idea that he was feeling such a way towards the only person he had ever truly loved that way, it scared him. Guilt ebbed deep, and he buried his fingers in his hair, pulling at his scalp to distract himself.
No tears fell, and that only really made it worse.
But he was… he was doing so well. Even Phil had said so, Tubbo was doing well. He wasn’t accidentally hurting himself as much anymore, he wasn’t accidentally hurting anyone else. He was almost smiling, he was talking, he was doing well.
Guilt wasn’t supposed to be any of the stages of grief, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.
So, at a loss, Tubbo did what he always did.
Taking a deep breath, he let his hands fall, closing his eyes and doing his damndest to push the guilt aside. He was doing well. He shouldn’t be guilty. And even if he was, it didn’t matter, it didn’t make sense. He just needed to forget about it.
And he did. He put it aside, he put it away, and he stood up from his bed.
Michael was still downstairs, was still safe and happy and well fed, and Tubbo knew he didn’t need to worry about his son right now. Phil and Technoblade were there for the both of them.
A step, that was all Tubbo needed to do to start moving again. And he took it, a step forwards, and another, and another, walking towards the door and reaching for the handle. He stopped, turning towards the window, the flock of crows drawing his attention.
They were outside, fluttering about around Phil, a shadow where he stood, half way between the steps from the bridge between the two cabins and Ranboo’s old house. The birds were landing on him, taking off again, hopping about in the snow around his feet.
Around the ghost’s feet.
Another stumble.
It wasn’t physical, but Tubbo felt a familiar wrench in his chest, seeing the ghost again.
He had seen the ghost a few times since they had met. Of course, there was the tulip, now pressed carefully between the pages of a heavy book on Tubbo’s bedside. Phil hadn’t let him apologise for the broken plate, telling him over and over that it was just a plate, it didn’t matter. It had taken a day or two to recover from falling asleep amongst the ice, and Tubbo was told to check in hourly if he went away from the house. He hadn’t yet, not since his fingers had gone blue.
Still, he needed a moment to steady himself, to compose himself, to hold himself together. To gather his strength before he looked back.
Phil and the ghost were still conversing, and though the ghost was certainly taller, Phil was clearly the one with the power in the encounter. Tubbo didn’t know what they were talking about, but he didn’t need to. He didn’t exactly want to, either.
Phil’s wings weren’t quite tucked all the way in, he could tell, but held behind him to make him seem bigger. He wondered what the ghost had said to make Phil so defensive.
The conversation continued as Tubbo watched, stepping closer to the window, resting a hand on the sil. It still hurt to look at the ghost, but it was an odd sort of hurt. He knew it was there, but it was almost stale, almost separated.
As he watched, the two figures moved, the ghost leaning down, and Phil reaching up to put a hand on its shoulder. Something more was said, and then they were hugging, and Tubbo looked away. He didn’t want to see this, he had seen enough. He would leave the ghost be, now.
He didn’t look away fast enough.
Hauntingly familiar bicoloured eyes met his own, even from such a distance.
They weren’t Ranboo’s eyes anymore.
Tubbo drew the shutters tight, stepping slowly back towards his door and once more reaching for the handle.
And once more, he found himself stalling, catching sight of something from the corner of his eye. This time though, it was himself.
He had covered the mirror when Phil had first given him this room, had thrown a blanket across the reflective surface lest he see the wreck he had become, lest he dwell in the endless depths that was his own past, written across his skin for all to see. But that blanket had been folded, had been put away where it should be, and the mirror was bare now.
And so was Tubbo.
There were bags under his eyes, and they had been there for weeks. Dark circles that were yet to go away, and a weariness that he wasn’t sure would ever go away. His hair was limp, unwashed, uncared for. The scars were nothing new, were nothing old, either, but they were there, as always. Tubbo’s cheeks were sunken, even he could tell that, and his skin pale. It contrasted starkly against his hair, and the ashen colour of his horns made him look almost grey.
His horns.
And the gold band that encircled them.
The wedding. Or lack thereof.
They were going to have another wedding, a proper one. When everything was safe and everyone was okay, they were going to have a celebration. Cake, dancing, music, it was supposed to be happy. It was going to be so much better than signing a simple piece of paper in Puffy’s office and repeating back a handful of vows while Jack picked at his cuticles, clearly impatient.
Tubbo had had Ranboo, and he had held him. When they had lifted each other up, and when their differences clashed and sparked. When Ranboo had had everything, and Tubbo had had nothing, when Ranboo was burnt by the rain and when Tubbo had toiled away at his projects for hours on end.
To have and to hold. For better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.
‘Til death do them part.
The ring was cold when Phil picked it off the dresser the next day.