Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sunrises are not new beginnings.

Tubbo knows this. He knows it like the back of his scarred hands, or the snow in his work boots. 

When the sun rises each morning— as it inevitably does— things stay the same. The paranoia stays perched on his back with its claws dug in— as it has for so long— and there's no sign of it stopping. The cold seeps into his bones, and deeper still, until all he knows is the ice in his guts and the ache of his joints. 

And he hates to be a pessimist, really, he does. Because he can still remember the times where bad things would happen, and his immediate, blissfully effortless thought would be this, too, shall pass. I can make it through this, and come out on the other side. 

It was as natural as breathing, hope was, and it lived inside him back then. It stayed curled in his chest, warm and bright, and he didn't even have to try. It would sing its song every single day without fail, and he would hear its voice and against all odds, he would breathe. Through the darkest, bleakest, suffocating things, he would breathe.

This does not happen organically anymore. This happens, instead, through self-brainwashing and dirty, filthy lies that fall far too easily from his lips now. 

But that's okay, he figures. That's okay. 

(He is lying, he thinks as the snow keeps falling and falling and his skin cracks. He's lying again. So easily.)

Things do change. He understands that when he thinks himself into a hole at four in the morning, and remembers L'manberg. Before the exiles, executions, and elections. Even before the revolution, when he could wake up after a full night of sleep to the sun high in the sky, and the biggest thing he had to worry about was what he and Tommy would be doing later.

Simplicity. Peace. They'd all laugh as they traded the discs back and forth, like an inside joke in a group of friends, and obviously, that didn't last. The change had been so subtle back then that Tubbo hadn't even realized everyone else was serious until Tommy had pointed it out to him one day.

But they changed anyway, somewhere along the line. Not with the rising of the sun, but with something rotten and ugly that festered and grew until it wasn't avoidable anymore.

He finds that nowadays, if the choice were between that war of his heart— sharpening swords, campfire songs, declarations, duels, comforting hands on shoulders and promises of we'll win this together— or this war of his head— cold hands, empty eyes, dreams that never go away, memories haunting silent halls, stainless steel, radiation sickness, purposelessness— well. Some wars, he's realizing, are easier to fight than others. 

Once upon a time, Tubbo fought for freedom. He heard the bright words of a man with even brighter eyes, hugged those golden promises close to his chest, dreamed of the wind in his hair, and he yearned for it. He would've sacrificed everything for it. He did sacrifice everything for it, again and again, because freedom was Tubbo's God and all he ever wanted was to worship it.

But like all things do, it fell apart. Time kept going, faster and faster, and Tubbo was too stunned to do anything but watch it go. In the rain of TNT and fireworks, between betrayals and executions, he realized that he'd lost it somewhere. Freedom had toppled its way into an endless crater and Tubbo was never, ever going to have it. Or really, maybe he never had it in the first place, and all of the fighting was doomed to be meaningless and impossible from the very start. An unattainable goal, and he was just naive to think it was ever anything but.

The people's war for freedom, fought hand in hand with revolutionaries chasing the same ideal, gave way to Tubbo's war for survival, one he fights now within the confines of his head; a solitary affair. Because Tubbo isn't free, isn't free at all and he never will be, has long since given up on that fight. He can't even strive to be free when it takes everything in him just to breathe, to remind himself that the time of fireworks in chests and obsidian grids digging their claws into the sky has long since passed. It still feels like he's in it, sometimes, up to his knees in the mud with no way out.

But he's in Snowchester now, and there's not really much mud here. Just snow. The ground is too frozen for much else, though with the fast approach of spring, that's bound to change. Snowchester is always cold, but toward the tail end of spring and into summer and early, early fall, it doesn't really snow at all. All the old gunk gets a chance to melt, the ice on the shore of the sea melts, and the biting winds change into something kinder, softer.

It's nice, but he doesn't dwell too much on it. After all, that's months away yet, and there's no guarantee he's going to survive long enough to see it.

So this is the present, where his fingers ache with the cold and his lips stay chapped. Tubbo's been pretty consistently outside for a few days, tinkering with this and that, laying down more stone brick structures that promise stability and safety. Or, as close as he can get to it anymore: just barely out of reach, brushing against the tips of his numb fingers. Just in view, and never closer.

He's gone inside briefly here and there, when the ocean starts whispering horrific things, just to take care of Michael and make sure that he's alright.

Tubbo hasn't eaten in a while.

He's not sure of the specifics, really. It's all a bit lost on him right now, admittedly, but he thinks it's been… half a day, maybe, judging by the ache of his stomach. 

(It's been two, Tubbo knows. He pretends anyway.)

And he should eat. Really, he should, he thinks as he brushes redstone dust from his cold, cold hands. They're almost lifeless now, and so numb that he kept accidentally triggering the pistons securing the vault door as he fixed up the wiring. Whether it's from hunger or the temperature, he doesn't know. 

Spring can't come fast enough, he thinks, as if spring will fix the problem. 

He should eat, he thinks as he realizes that the first shimmering colors of dawn are staining the sky, the slightest hints of pale pink and ginger. The sun isn't out. Sunrise hasn't come yet.

Not that it matters.

Tubbo knows he should eat. It's just, Ranboo hasn't visited Snowchester in a while. And it hasn't really been all that long— a few days, maybe, but then again, time seems to move so strangely recently— but for some reason, Tubbo can't shake this nagging feeling in his gut.

He knows the feeling, obviously. It's paranoia, and it's currently worming its way up his chest. Soon, it'll swarm his brain, and eat the worthless appendage alive in a vicious feast. He wonders if his brain bleeds, when that happens. If you cut open a brain, is there blood inside? Or are there just neurons and nerves? There must be blood vessels in there. Do they span out into thin and tiny points, a mess of connecting lines, like the branches of oak trees? Or are they less frequent, larger? He guesses what he's saying is, if you wanted to burst a blood vessel in your brain, just completely slice one open, how difficult would it be?

Honestly, he wishes he could find out. Last time he wished he could find something out, he left in his wake a radioactive crater, miles and miles into the ground. It reached deeper than Dream's bunker, even. 

His cold, cold hands twist the cold, cold ring that circles his horn. If Dream had another bunker, well, Tubbo could take care of it this time. He gasps desperately for breath; he hadn't even realized he was holding it. It makes him feel a little better, almost.

And oh, there's the feast, he acknowledges as he presses the hidden button with the toe of his boot. The clack and tick of pistons and repeaters echoes dully in his ears as the door wills itself open. 

Ranboo is probably dead in a ditch somewhere, he (the paranoia worm) thinks as he hums in satisfaction at the piston door. He tries not to listen. Suitable door, he thinks. Maybe Technoblade finally snapped, and shot a firework into Ranboo's chest, too.

He kicks the stone button a little too hard this time, and he listens as it cracks under his strength. 

Still, the piston door closes all the same, none the wiser about the damage he's just done to it. Maybe the button should be a little bit stronger next time. They probably forgot their armor and fell into the ocean somewhere, the worm reminds him helpfully. He goes back to ignoring it.

And, well, he feels guilty. It's not the button's fault; Tubbo's the one who made it that way, all weak like that. He'll remake it, and it'll be better, this time. Stronger. And then he won't kick it ever again.

Or, maybe he fell, down, down, down into L'manberg's crater, and he's begging for help, and he won't die for another few days yet. Even better, maybe he fell in your crater, Tubbo Underscore-Beloved.

If he even deserves to be called that. 

Maybe he should eat something. He could at least do it for Ranboo. Who is probably, again, lying dead somewhere, somewhere where Tubbo didn't protect him. 

The sun is starting to rise now, the first of its golden rays just barely beginning to glint off the snow. It's a dull reflection, really, because this snowfall isn't fresh at all, and it's all muddy and marred from Tubbo walking the grounds back and forth and back and forth all the time. It's not his fault, though. He really, really needs to move sometimes. All the time. 

The sun's rising. Is it too early to wake Michael up and make him breakfast? Tubbo is fairly certain that's the only way he's going to get himself to eat. Which he needs to do. But he'd really hate to wake Michael too early. He's growing still, he needs all the rest he can get. Or, do baby zombie piglins need as much sleep as baby people do? He actually doesn't know. Does he know anything about his child? Is he a horrible father? What time did Michael fall asleep last night? Did he even put Michael to bed last night? He can't remember.

Michael could be dead too, you know, he thinks as he certainly does not dash to the mansion. Or, worse, he could be alive and stuck with you. Just you, because Ranboo's dead somewhere. And then when Dream or some other guy who hates your guts comes and finishes you off, he'll be an orphan.

Who would take care of Michael, if he and Ranboo were both gone? Phil, maybe? He and Ranboo did say Phil was his grandpa. But, well, the last kid Phil had his hands on was Wilbur, and that didn't turn out so great. Maybe Phil shouldn't be Michael's grandpa.

Maybe none of this even matters, because he's thundering his way through the mansion— he still locks the door behind him— and he's certain he's going to find Michael dead, dead in his little space-themed bedsheets with the model of the solar system-

And Michael is okay, Tubbo realizes after skidding to a halt across his son's bedroom and nearly sliding into the wall from the ice left clinging to his boots. He's perfectly fine, his soft breathing ruffling the fluffy faux-feathers of his plush chicken. The model of the solar system that he and Tubbo built together still hangs securely from the ceiling. There's a blueprint on the wall of a rocket that Tubbo drew himself. It's not very realistic, but Tubbo had made it for Michael, and Michael had loved it regardless.

Michael stirs, probably awoken by Tubbo gasping for air. That staircase is a bitch to run up. Does that make Michael safer, or does it put him in more danger? Tubbo bets he could run intruder drills, and time how long it takes to get to every bedroom, and how difficult it is. It would be hard to move Michael's decorations, if they ended up having to change rooms, but it wouldn't be too much. He'd carry the entire world on his shoulders if it meant Michael was safe. 

Sometimes, it feels like he already does.

Tubbo swallows, and fights to even his breathing as he approaches Michael's bed. His footsteps are loud enough that they can be heard, but not so loud that they're scary. Michael can be so nervous, sometimes. This world really starts them young. How cruel.

"Bee?" Michael mumbles as Tubbo kneels next to the bed, his good eye fluttering sleepily as it registers Tubbo's face.

And breathing comes a little easier. Tubbo smiles, soft and kind, and it comes so naturally once again. "Hi, buddy. Morning," he whispers, and slides off his damp, half-frozen gloves. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Michael blinks once, twice, and grunts quietly. There's a smile on his face, too. "'s okay," Michael slurs, and holds out his little hands.

Michael might never see Ranboo again. Ranboo might be gone, his brain persists despite the odds. It never has been good at shutting up. 

Still, Tubbo laughs, and carefully, gently pulls Michael out from under the mound of blankets. He holds his son close, cradles him against his chest. He hopes Michael doesn't know enough about the human pulse to recognize how fast his heart is racing. 

Of course, Michael doesn't say anything about that. He does, however, shudder.

"Michael?" Tubbo murmurs, running a hand along his back. "What's wrong?" He's sick. Can zombie piglins get sick? Can they get sick and die from things like pneumonia or the flu or tuberculosis?

Michael whines and shivers again, tapping his little hands against the backs of Tubbo's fingers. "Bee. Cold hands."

Oh. Oh.

"Sorry, buddy," he whispers, thankful it's too dark in the room for Michael to see the tears that prick his eyes. Cautiously, Tubbo sits Michael on the floor, making sure his legs are sturdy enough to hold him up before he lets go. "Guess you'll have to walk today, if that's alright."

"'s okay, Bee."

Tubbo gives a cheerful hum, and tries not to think about the fact that this is the eighth time in as many days that this exact conversation has occurred, or that it's becoming a ritual at this point. Even down to the way Michael gingerly pats his hand along Tubbo's pant leg, until he finally finds a dry spot that he can cling on to.

"Boo?" Michael asks as the two of them walk to the kitchen together. His grip is tight around the fabric of Tubbo's pants. 

Maybe one of their stupid strip mines collapsed on top of them, Tubbo thinks bleakly. "Not yet, Michael. They'll be home soon, though, okay? Promise," Tubbo says with a smile instead. He prays to whatever's out there in the great beyond that he isn't lying.

With this promise, though, Michael lightens up considerably. He talks about all the cool things he wants to show Ranboo, like all his recent drawings and cardboard creations, and a book that Ranboo used to read to help him sleep at night. 

"Why would you have to show Boo the book, if he reads it to you?" Tubbo questions somewhat absently as he observes the contents of the fridge. 

"'Cause Boo forgets," Michael says innocently from his high chair, his voice so, so bright. "I remind them. Jus' in case."

Tubbo isn't sure what to do with that. So he just smiles tightly, thankful he wasn't holding the milk in his hands, and pretends there isn't a knife impaling his sick, fragile heart. "You're a good boy, Michael," he nearly sobs, gripping the handle of the fridge door so tightly that it shakes. "Boo loves you, y'know. So much."

Michael's 'mhm!' sounds almost exactly like Ranboo's. "I know, Bee!" Tubbo rests his forehead against the freezer door, and lets the dull vibration rattle his stupid brain. Two deep breaths later, and he lifts his head.

"We'll try and get a hold of him after breakfast," Tubbo promises, and glances over his shoulder so Michael sees the smile on his face. "What are we feeling this morning, little guy? Pancakes? Omelettes?"

There's a moment of almost contemplative silence, in which Michael stares and stares at him. Finally, he says, "Cereal?"

Tubbo blinks, and places the eggs back in the refrigerator. "Of course," he answers, and grabs the milk. "But we're gonna eat extra nutritious stuff tomorrow."

Cereal is, of course, the quickest breakfast ever. Tubbo wonders if maybe Michael did it on purpose, just so he could talk to Ranboo a little sooner. The more he thinks about it, the more plausible it sounds. 

He pours himself a bowl too, even though he hasn't got much of an appetite, because Michael watches intently and waits for him to do it. 

He sits next to Michael, and angles his chair so that it faces him. Just in case he starts choking on his cereal, which he is happily shoveling into his mouth. Michael's terrible eating manners come from watching Tubbo; it's something that Ranboo is increasingly dismayed by, but they don't fault Tubbo for it. In fact, they don't fault Tubbo for anything, really.

"Me 'n Boo love you, too," Michael says suddenly, his spoon stirring his cereal intently. "Lots."

Tubbo's eyes widen, and to his credit, he doesn't cry. 

"I know, Michael," he says, and smiles reassuringly as he reaches out his cold, scarred hand to touch Michael's cheek. Michael looks up, and to his credit, he doesn't shiver. "I love you. I always will."

He swears it.

Michael holds out his small, warm hand and presses it to Tubbo's opposite cheek. His fingers are so small, but they're so gentle as they splay across Tubbo's scarred skin. Michael is not afraid of his scars, and he never has been. 

"You 'kay, Bee?" Michael asks, and he sounds so worried. 

That's my job, he thinks. He'd be a little bemused by it, if it wasn't so… sad.

Ever so slightly, Tubbo nods. He leans in, wrapping Michael in a tight hug. Without hesitation, Michael's short arms return it. "I'm okay, buddy." He says it with a smile, even though Michael can't see it. "Don't worry about me, okay?"

"Okay," Michael whispers, just barely loud enough for Tubbo to hear it.

When they part, Tubbo pulls out his communicator, flashing Michael a grin. "And now we get to bother Boo. The best part of any day, right?"

"Right!" Michael agrees, laughing loudly as he scoops up the last of his cereal, and wow, Tubbo is raising the best kid ever. Two on one against Ranboo? It doesn't get much better than that. Tommy would be so proud right now. 

It takes sixteen texts and seven calls for Ranboo to answer, and Tubbo has no fucking idea how he managed to keep it together that long.

"Ranboo," he nearly hisses, a little too urgent, a little too relieved. He doesn't turn the communicator on speaker just yet.

"Tubbo?" Ranboo answers shakily, his shallow breathing audible through the microphone. "Tubbo? Is everything- are you okay? Is Michael okay?"

He wants to cry. He wants to scream and sob and shake and demand to know where Ranboo's been. He wants to say you scared the shit out of me, and never fucking do that again, and I need you and love you so much more than you even know, and thank you for staying alive.

Thank you for staying alive. Thank you.

Tubbo doesn't do this, though, because Ranboo didn't do anything wrong. It's not their fault his brain decided to go all wacky today. In fact, it'd be best if he didn't even mention any of this at all. Ever. 

Tubbo swallows, and takes a breath in an effort to even his voice. "Didn't mean to wake you up, big guy," he says softly, and turns on the speaker. "But your two favorite people in the whole world missed you."

"Oh, really?" Ranboo teases, and his voice is only a little trembly now. "That's, hmm, Michael and…?"

Tubbo gasps in mock offense, staring at Michael with wide eyes, even as the piglin starts babbling over top of him. He's so excited that his words are almost nonsensical, half in the grunts of his native language, and the other half in commonspeak. 

And Ranboo is laughing blissfully on the other end of the phone, that laugh he does that requires his entire body. He's so happy, so thrilled to hear from Michael that he's warbling excitedly too, mirroring Michael's grunts in his own language.

Michael immediately starts divulging into the wide array of topics that he's apparently been stocking up on. Tubbo takes his milk-filled bowl away— what if he knocked it over on accident and it shattered and left scars that wouldn't go away— and heads over to the sink with their few measly dishes.

Ranboo and Michael are still chattering excitedly in the background, but if Tubbo doesn't focus on them, their words get all jumbled and incoherent in his ears. He blinks, and stares down at his cereal bowl, watching it intently. 

He hadn't even stomached half of it. 

With a deep breath, he turns on the faucet, as hot as it can go because his hands are just so cold. 

Is today the anniversary of something? He wracks his brain helplessly, one hand gripping a chunk of his tangled hair, the other stuck under the white-hot water. He doesn't think today is an anniversary. It's just a Wednesday, a random Wednesday.

His breath hitches. Wait, no. Is it Wednesday? Was Wednesday yesterday, or- or two days ago? Fuck. Fuck. 

He thought he would feel better knowing Ranboo is okay, and he does, sort of, but he also doesn't and he doesn't know what to do. He hates this, hates the whole breakdown thing, because there's so much to do and so much to protect and he's so tired.

He's so tired, but how on Earth can he possibly sleep? He hears Michael laugh rambunctiously, and he can tell just from the tone of Ranboo's voice that they're telling some sort of story. How can he sleep with the knowledge that he might wake up the next morning, and the two of them won't? What would he do then? How could he possibly, possibly live with himself?

(He knows the answer. The answer is that he couldn't.)

The sun shines on him through the window, almost completely past the horizon by now, a taunt from Mother Nature herself. Because he's cursed to live the same days over and over, in and out, and there's nothing he can ever do to change the outcome. The sun will rise anyway, and then it'll set, and not a single thing will change through the inbetween bits. 

It doesn't get better. It never gets better. He keeps building and fortifying and building some more and it all just stays the same. 

And packaged neatly in the walls of each and every new project is a piece of him. A small, broken piece of Tubbo, chipped and battered but so, so alive, just screaming to be heard. Every wall he builds tells a new story, the kinds with backstories and expositions and rising actions, the kinds that get put in libraries after people are dead and gone.

In a way, it's art. Something new to dedicate himself to, find purpose in, because who is Tubbo without something to do?

Instead of talking, he does this. He creates things and paints his story on the walls and hopes and prays someone will see it. Usually, they never do. He knows what everyone else sees; just enough to know that he’s a mess, but not enough to really understand why. There’s just enough to know that he’s vulnerable, and not enough for anyone to care.

And he wishes he could talk. He wishes it could be so fucking simple, but he can't, and it isn't, because there aren't any words in his vocabulary to possibly explain this. Him. All he has are his stupid fucking walls, so many of them, and he's built them up everywhere, so high that they rip holes into the sky like obsidian grids and-

What is he doing? What is he doing? He hasn't slept in- in- fuck. And the sun is rising, because it's a new day where everything stays the same and he keeps kicking and screaming, hoping the point gets across somewhere along the line and it doesn't. Because why would it?

Two days, maybe. That might be how long it's been since he slept, and who knows how long it's been since he slept properly. Months, he figures. October 16th, he figures. 

And part of everything stays the same is the fact that Tubbo is living on borrowed time. He's being hunted, he knows it, and it doesn't matter if it's Dream or Technoblade or God themself, and it doesn't matter if it's in one year or twenty, he won't bring his family down with him. Not for anything in the world.

He built the nukes because he was so tired of feeling so helpless. He was sick of being kicked to the ground, but he was even sicker of being unable to kick back. He created the nukes because he wanted choices, and you don't get choices if you don't have power.

How is he back here? How is he back here, falling victim to his own head, when he owns the most powerful, detrimental thing to ever exist in this world? How is that not enough?

(Weapons are pointless if their holders are too weak to use them.)

When Tubbo's gaze refocuses, he realizes his hand is very red and very blistered. Soundlessly, he pulls it from the stream of water, blinking at the steam that clouds his vision. He turns on the cold water to rinse the bowls now, if only because he doesn't want to agitate his… burn… further.

It doesn't feel right, calling it a burn. Not when his skin is mangled the way that it is. The raw, tender red blisters sprouting along his smooth skin now are nothing. Nothing at all. It's why he doesn't even flinch, simply rinsing and washing the dishes as normal.

His hands are freezing by the time he shuts the water off. That's okay, he thinks (lies). He can't really remember a time where they were anything but.

Ranboo comes over the next day.

"Hey," Tubbo greets him with a smile, a little bit breathless as they engulf one another in a tight hug. I missed you so much, he says.

"Hi," Ranboo mumbles fondly into Tubbo's mop of hair, and they card a hand through it so, so gently, their clawed fingers just barely scratching Tubbo's scalp. They work their fingers so carefully through all the knots and tangles. I know. I'm sorry, they answer.

Tubbo sighs, sinking into Ranboo, who laughs, but doesn't stop. He only would if Tubbo asked.

"Someone's needy," Ranboo hums playfully. Their tail wraps around Tubbo's waist.

You have no idea, he thinks desperately. "You're one to talk," Tubbo snorts quietly. 

"Hush."

Tubbo doesn't push. He still hasn't gotten any sleep, and he barely feels the consequences, even three days later. He knows that's worse. Frankly, he's a little scared by it.

He can tell that Ranboo is worried when, three minutes later, the two of them are still standing in four inches of melting snow, completely wrapped in one another. And he's not complaining, really, he's not. 

But his feet are aching so deeply that he can't help but feel like they might never stop, and there's a voice in his head whispering bitterly, you did this, you did this to yourself. And the voice is right, it's always right, but that's also a hole he should spiral down when he's sitting safely somewhere, not swaying on his feet in the middle of Snowchester.

Softly, Tubbo taps Ranboo's shoulder blade. "C’mon, big guy. Freezing out here.”

It’s with a great amount of reluctance that Ranboo untangles himself from Tubbo, and even then, he threads their fingers together the moment they’ve parted. “Really?” They question as they squint up at the sunshine. It’s already well past noon. “It’s kinda warm today, I think.”

Tubbo blinks as they walk side by side, shooting a glance toward Ranboo, whose eyes are lingering on the latest expansion of the wall. It’s warm today?

“Is it?” Tubbo hums, and tries to phrase it conversationally, but the surprise must bleed into his tone, because Ranboo’s eyes shift to him with a newfound urgency.

“Tubbo,” they start in a way that promises a conversation that Tubbo is, frankly, unwilling to have. 

But once again, the look on his face must give them some pause, because suddenly that conversation topic stops before it’s even really been breached. Tubbo gives their hand a squeeze: an undeniable apology. Ranboo’s thumb brushes along the edge of one of his scars: unequivocal forgiveness. It’s a dance the two of them know in and out.

The day is spent calmly and uneventfully, or as calmly as it can be when you're with an excited little kid. 

And that's okay, that's familiar. When Tubbo is with Michael, he can push everything to the side, throwing himself into being present for his son. Today, of course, is no different. 

Aside from the fact that Ranboo's eyes hardly ever leave Tubbo, watching him cautiously, like he's concerned Tubbo might just disappear into thin air if his gaze falls for even a moment. And Ranboo— poor Ranboo, his Ranboo— has always been rather transparent with his emotions, can't even begin to hide the way that he's feeling.

It's obvious they're biding their time, working up the courage to… to what? Ask Tubbo if he's okay? Probably something like that, Tubbo figures, because there's a good chance he looks like hell right now, and though Ranboo has never been pushy about things like this, Tubbo must look so terrible that they're drawing the line.

They don't get a moment alone, though, until the sun has long since set, and they've tucked Michael gently into his bed, taking turns reading bedtime stories until he dozes off.

The two of them creep out of Michael's room. Softly, Tubbo clicks the door shut, sighing quietly. Another night of frantic patrolling, he assumes as his gut twists and turns in the way that promises the paranoia is going to make its entrance soon.

"Are we gonna- uh, head to bed too, or?" Ranboo stutters nervously, fiddling with his hands. Still, his eyes give him away; they always do. Please say yes.

Of course not, Tubbo thinks guiltily in response. He smiles weakly, and sets off not for their bedroom, but for the staircase. "Nah, I've got some stuff to finish up," he says, and can't quite keep the exhaustion from his voice. Ranboo hurries after him. "You can go on without me, if you're tired?" 

Tubbo offers, but he knows what the answer to that will be. There's no way in hell Ranboo is going to let Tubbo out of their sight.

"Um! No, that's- that's fine, I was just…" Their anxious rambling comes to a slow stop, their brows knitting together. "You're heading back out? It's- it's late, Tubbo."

"I've got to," Tubbo replies simply. Ranboo must not have enough courage to breach the subject yet, because he stays quiet, but follows after Tubbo anyway. 

It takes him another couple hours to get to that point. 

The moon casts Snowchester in a beautiful silver glow, bright enough tonight that Tubbo doesn't struggle to see as he kneels atop the wall, brushing his hands over the stone, feeling out any structural weaknesses. Ranboo sits just nearby, perched next to the edge of the wall with his legs crossed underneath him. He hasn't spoken a word in at least an hour, and his bottom lip is raw from chewing on it so much. 

Tubbo, needless to say, isn't surprised when Ranboo finally breaks the silence between them. 

"Don't you wanna take a break?" He asks, practically begs, and the worry is dropping from his words like honey.

Tubbo pauses, his hand ghosting in midair over the chilled stone, and he considers. No, he thinks solemnly, he doesn't want to take a break. Because the second he stops moving, stops thinking about dimensions and structural soundness and palettes, he's going to be eaten alive by the beast that lingers inside of him. 

But Ranboo is pleading, and his eyes are so impossibly wide as they flick over Tubbo, taking in the state of him, and he's worried. He's so unfathomably worried about Tubbo and it's hard not to let himself get a little lost in that fact. Mostly, though, Ranboo looks like he might just die from stress if Tubbo spends even a minute longer on his feet.

So, with Ranboo's expectant gaze on him, Tubbo relents. Slowly, he pops his back, and stretches his arms above his head. Hope shines in Ranboo's mismatched eyes now, shameless and warm.

Tubbo gives them a smile, and after seeing that look in their  eyes, he finds it's completely genuine. "Sure. Just for you, boss man."

Ever so slightly, the furrow in Ranboo's brow melts away, and the corners of their lips tip up in a tentative smile. They lean back on the heels of their hands, watching with an affectionate sort of expression as Tubbo lowers himself to sit next to them.

Neither of them talk immediately, and that's fine with Tubbo. He knows this conversation is unavoidable, and no matter how long Ranboo takes, Tubbo's never going to be ready for it. So he might as well just be satisfied with what he's got. 

The moon is really beautiful tonight, and the stars are just as bright. There's not a single cloud in the sky, and save for the ocean's eternal song, it's quiet. 

Snowchester is always different at night, Tubbo thinks. There's a certain peace in the solitude whenever it's illuminated by the pale, soft wash of the moon, something so entirely different to the relentlessness of the sun.

Ranboo is always different at night, too.

Tubbo can't help but think that under the dark blanket of the night, Ranboo feels just a little bit more at home. He sees it in the way he gazes up at the stars, his eyes filled with so much adoration that it makes Tubbo's stomach flip. 

Ironically enough, Tubbo knows that Ranboo loves the ocean, too, despite how deadly it is for them. It's obvious tonight, with the way their eyes refuse to look anywhere else. They just watch with wide, observant eyes as the tide rises and falls. Usually there's a lot more awe in there, but it's absent tonight, stifled by the frown on their lips.

He really is pretty, Tubbo thinks as the moonlight shimmers in Ranboo's eyes, so bright they could hold constellations within them. He stares at Ranboo the way Ranboo stares at the stars, because he would be a fool not to. 

The second Ranboo takes a deep, steadying breath, Tubbo blinks and readies himself, too. They've built up their courage, it would seem.

"I'm… never gonna be able to fill that hole in you," Ranboo breathes, and his eyes still watch the ocean, searching it like he's expecting something. A rescue party, maybe. Who's drowning? Tubbo wants to ask, and pretends he isn't watching himself thrash in the waves. "I'll never be able to. Will I?"

Tubbo isn't sure what Ranboo wants him to say. Lying won't do either of them any good, he knows, but the idea of anything else is ripping him apart. He's lying on the surgical table, and Ranboo, with their gentle hands and kind, kind eyes, holds the scalpel. 

Let me, Ranboo's eyes say. Let me see.

Okay, Tubbo finds himself agreeing . Only because Tubbo knows that if he asks later, Ranboo will let him know whether or not his brain bleeds.

"Maybe not," Tubbo answers honestly, and the casual tone that he'd been going for is lost in the crack of his voice and the hushedness of his words. The ocean will swallow him up for this, one day. "Maybe not," he repeats, expecting a different outcome like the fool that he is.

Ranboo's gaze is on the ground now, his grip tight on his crossed ankles. He's thinking. Too hard, in Tubbo's opinion. Something squirms inside of him, slimy and alive, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to take back his words, because it's the truth.

Tubbo had loved L'manberg, maybe more than anyone else. He'd cherished it, sacrificed everything for it, built it from the ground up time and time again with broken, bleeding hands. L'manberg was everything, and L'manberg is gone. L'manberg is gone, and all he has to show for it are burn scars and ringing ears, and how is that fair? How is it fair that the thing he loved so dearly, the thing he poured every piece of himself into, can die so easily and leave nothing in its wake?

"Is that okay?" His voice is tiny, and it breaks as he speaks. He ducks his head to hide the tears in his eyes, fists clenching the fabric of his pants. He's begging, he's begging, you can't fix this, I can't fix this. Don't leave me because of it, please.

"It's okay," Ranboo promises. "Of course it's okay. As… as long as you're okay."

I'm not, he cries in his head, and the piece of him that he embedded into this stone wall on the day he built it echoes the sentiment. 

Tubbo's shoulders shake, and when his tears spill over, they almost burn his skin; crying is such a foreign feeling, nowadays. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, so hard it wouldn't be surprised if it bruises, suffocating the whimper that tries to escape him.

"Will I ever get better?" He whispers, voice quivering, because he can't help himself. The tears drip from the tip of his nose and splatter on his clenched hands. "Do you think I'll be this way forever?"

Ranboo makes a strained sort of noise in the back of their throat, but Tubbo doesn't look up. He can't. He can't do anything.

"I don't," they breathe, and it almost gets lost in the crash of the icy waves before them. "I think- I think you've been fighting a long time. And- and I think that you're the best person I've ever met, and I think- no. No, I know. I know you're the best person I've ever met, and you'll get better. You will."

They say the words with more conviction than Tubbo thinks they've ever had in their life. A sob falls from his lips, and he doesn't try to stop it. 

"My brain doesn't- it doesn't work right. Anymore," he gasps between sobs, curling in on himself, and he wishes he could be a turtle or something, wishes he had a shell he could hide in. This is too much, and he's so cold. Do turtles get cold in their shells? "And- and if you'd met me before, before it stopped working right, you could've- could've loved me, and it would all be better."

"I already love you," Ranboo tells him firmly, resolutely. In the corner of his eye, Tubbo can see Ranboo's tail flick, settling next to Tubbo's leg, but it doesn't touch. "You don't need to change for that. I love you. And your brain, even if it doesn't work right."

Tubbo inhales sharply, and tries to fill his lungs with air. When he unfurls his fists, his fingers ache painfully. Cautiously, he touches Ranboo's tail, resting his hand on top of it. 

Ranboo gets the idea, scooting just a little closer. Their tail curls around Tubbo's shaking hand, and then uncurls, draping over his thigh. The tuft on the end flicks up and down his pant leg rhythmically.

"Do you think it bleeds?" Tubbo asks, his words strangled as he fights to breathe. 

Softly, Ranboo hums. Tubbo sort of wishes they were hugging him, so he could feel the vibration of the noise in their chest. "It? What's 'it?'"

"My brain," he explains with a hiccup. "I was- I was thinking about it. If you slice open a brain, does it bleed?"

The frown on Ranboo's face is thoughtful, contemplative. The movement of their tail doesn't stop. "I mean," they say after a long moment. "I think so. Don't all living things bleed? Your brain's alive."

"Plants- plants don't bleed," he utters shakily. 

"Oh, god," Ranboo laughs. "You're right. They're alive, too. But… well, y'know 'head rushes?' That's blood rushing to your head, isn't it? Into your brain?"

Tubbo nods, hiccups again. "But- does it bleed all over?" His voice stays so small. He wishes he knew how to fix it.

"I guess we'll never know," Ranboo murmurs. 

You're right, Tubbo whispers in his head. And that kills me. His fingers thread through the fur of Ranboo's tail. 

"Or, well," Ranboo perks up all of a sudden. "Maybe it's like skin? Like… doesn't matter where it gets cut, it'll always bleed. Always."

And the thing that crashes around inside of him settles at the words, that violent itch dying, at least until it finds something new to thrash about over. For now, he exhales. For now, there is quiet. "Yeah," he croaks, and tries not to wonder how long the peace lasts. In his experience, it's never a good train to catch. "I think that's right."

"Hey, Tubbo?" Ranboo starts hesitantly, his ever-present anxiety seeping into his tone. In times like these, Ranboo speaks to him as if he were a wild animal, and Ranboo is trying so hard to win his trust. Maybe the comparison isn't too far off. "You're… you're good. And you always have been, since the day I met you. I- I just… hope you know that."

"I don't believe you," he answers softly, because something inside of him is begging him to be honest, to dump it all out on the table and not look back. You could be so happy, I think, it utters sweetly. It's a dangerous little voice, that thing is. 

I'm afraid he'll leave me, if I don't give him something, he thinks— no, rationalizes. This is something that, in the long run, he has to do. A means to an end. Like tossing a dog a bone and hoping it shows up the next day, expecting another. Purely clinical, purely logical. (As if the parasite that eats at his brain day in and day out lets him think logically about much of anything anymore.)

Or maybe you just trust him, the voice suggests tentatively. Dangerous, Tubbo thinks, and it takes him for a fool. Like trust has anything to do with this.

Does it?

Ranboo smiles at Tubbo then. "I know you don't. Doesn't make it any less true. And I'll keep saying it 'til you do." 

Silence fills the air between them, and though it's a soft thing, the ringing in Tubbo's ears is not. It is violent and sharp and loud, amplified in the quiet of Snowchester. Even the waves have dulled in its wake.

Despite the tension that laces his muscles and squeezes them tight, the exhaustion is settling in. Three— four, now? He can't remember— days of sleeplessness and a good cry make a deadly combination. So deadly, in fact, that when his brain starts vomiting urgent, paranoid thoughts, he only half understands what they're saying amidst the fog in his head.

"Michael's a good boy," Tubbo mumbles, and there was a thought that encouraged the statement, but he's not sure now what that thought was.

Ranboo chuckles in that Ranboo way of theirs. "Uh-huh. He gets it from you."

"I just want you to be happy. And safe," he pushes on, because the silence is chasing him and it's right on his heels, and he can't stop because of it. Even if it means spilling things he doesn't want to spill. 

Ranboo doesn't hesitate. "I am, when I'm with you." Briefly, they pause, consider. "Tubbo, when- when's the last time you slept?"

"Long time." Tubbo holds Ranboo's tail gently in his hands. "Just… can't." I'm scared, he thinks, but even as tired as he is, the words don't come out. I'm scared I'm gonna lose you, and Michael, and everything else I've ever loved that the world just hasn't ripped from me yet. I don't know how much time I have until that happens. 

"Let's go do that, okay? Please," Ranboo pleads, and shifts carefully toward Tubbo, sitting on their knees now. "I'm worried."

"You always are," Tubbo points out. The second Ranboo is close enough, he lets his head fall to the side. His ear rests against Ranboo's chest; the pounding of their heart suffocates all else. 

"I'll stay with you the whole time," he says, his arms holding Tubbo loosely. "I'll stay awake and watch, if you want me to."

Tubbo blinks. "You will?"

"As long as you need me to," Ranboo agrees without missing a beat. "Forever, if I have to."

"And if… if something happens, you'll wake me up."

Ranboo squeezes him then, warbling quietly at the words. "In a heartbeat, Bee. I'll keep you and Michael safe. I promise."

And Tubbo blinks again. It takes three times for the words to finally sink in through the cotton clogging his head, but his shoulders fall the second they do. He slumps against Ranboo, closing his eyes just briefly. 

"O-okay," Ranboo stutters quietly, to themself, probably. "Okay, okay, okay."

Ranboo carries him all the way to the mansion, and even manages to get him up the staircase without having to put him down. He thinks if he were more awake and aware, he'd probably feel bad for it; the stairs aren't the kindest path, especially not for someone with their hands full.

But Ranboo is safe, and they are warm. Between quiet mutterings meant for their own ears, they hum absently. There is no silence. There is comfort, and there is peace, at least for tonight. At least for right now.

He doesn't force his eyes open, even as Ranboo carefully places him on their shared bed. He doesn't flinch or jump when Ranboo slowly unlaces his ice-covered boots. Ranboo pulls them off, mumbling apologies, and Tubbo's feet scream and ache in a simultaneous protest and relief. His cold, snow soaked socks go next, and the warm air slowly brings the feeling back to his numb, bruised toes.

Ranboo is still rambling softly, his clawed hands gentle as he peels off Tubbo's gloves. When he touches Tubbo's cold, cold hands, he doesn't move away. He just holds them tightly in his own, sharing his warmth as he frets.

"Your hands are freezing, Tubbo," they mutter anxiously, and squeeze a little. They touch the raw, blistered area from yesterday with the tips of their fingers, and they coo quietly. "Did you get hurt?"

"Keep talking?" Tubbo nearly slurs, because between Ranboo's warm hands and their warm bed, the world is so, so fuzzy. His eyes don't open. "'s so quiet."

"Y-yeah, yeah, of course," Ranboo rushes out. The bed creaks as he rises, his reluctance palpable as he releases Tubbo's hands. A couple brief moments of soft rustling pass, and then Tubbo's being shifted around. Somewhere along the way, he loses his coat— sorry, I'm sorry, it's just so damp, do you need one of mine— but the sweater underneath is warm enough, he thinks. 

And then his head is in Ranboo's lap, and there's a thick blanket tossed over him. He curls close to his husband, clings to him for dear life, so scared he might drift out to sea and get lost in the haze again. But there's a hand in his hair, still working so gently at the knots that are twisted in it.

And Tubbo sighs. 

"I'm here. You're safe." Ranboo's voice is soft, kind. Tubbo feels like he might be fortunate enough right now, in this moment, to be holding the world in his hands. "Sleep. I'll keep talking, so you just sleep."

Tubbo knows all too well that sunrises aren't new beginnings. But this— Ranboo's warmth and the honey in his voice, all his promises and his quiet strength, and the assurance of sleep even in the loudest, darkest of days— just might be.