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Inviting Tommy over for dinner was not an uncommon thing in the Underscore-Beloved household. It was quite common actually, one night every few weeks where the blond would come over with a knapsack of ingredients and help them cook, or he’d entertain Michael and give the married couple a break so they could make dinner and relax, or he’d pull them all onto the couch and just talk - it was something that brought a smile to Tubbo’s face even on the days when most things couldn’t.
What was uncommon , however, was Tommy asking if ex-president, revived corpse, the man who always smelled like cigarettes Wilbur Soot himself could join in on their dinner plans.
Now, the brunet knew his best friend mending his relationship with his brother was a good thing, sure, he deserved that more than anyone in the world, but why in the name of Prime did he have to ask to bring Wilbur Soot here?
Not only was it a personal matter, how he and the older man had never truly made up, how distrust and hate and a million other emotions he would be too agitated to identify flared up whenever he was in the same room with him, not only that, but he had a family now. Back when his decisions and actions were prompted, monitored, and judged by the man, it hurt him. If he allowed someone to weasel their way into his life and boss him around again, not only would it affect him, but it would affect the people he loved more than life itself. He could easily take the man in a fight and beat him to a pulp, but Wilbur had known him since he was a child. He could see Puffy every single day for those godforsaken therapy appointments Ranboo encouraged him to take but Wilbur had known him since he was a child, and as much as he resented the man he always knew what to say to hurt him. Intentional or the unlikely otherwise, Wilbur was a danger. The less he knew about Snowchester, about the marriage and son that got him out of the darkest days of his life, about the rekindling of friendship with Tommy, the three best things in his life - the less that rat bastard knew the better.
And with all this, Tubbo should say no. Because that makes sense, because of all the aforementioned reasons, it’s clear he should say no. He wants to say no, really and truly.
On the other hand, and he realized maybe this is something he should talk about with Puffy next time instead of staring at her silently like he did most sessions, he just couldn’t find it in himself to say no to Tommy.
That did not mean he didn’t regret his decision, because he very much so did.
“Wilbur? I thought you two don’t have good… um, a good history.” Ranboo said when he told him the news, a good half-hour before the two guests were estimated to arrive. They were in the kitchen, the enderman in an embarrassingly endearing handmade apron he, Michael, and Tommy had made as a gift a few months back, previously humming and dancing to himself while Tubbo drank some hot chocolate and sat on the counter next to him. He made a noncommittal noise into his mug as a response. He was trying to follow the line of where his black hair met his white hair through the braid curling around his shoulder.
“A history that is, in fact, triggering to you? Y’know, like, the history you go to therapy for? We’re talking about the same thing, right? Bee-” He continued, words that would have seemed mocking from any other voice full of nothing but concern and worry, worry for the child soldier who had invited over his commanding officer from years ago. Prime, he felt pathetic, letting it get to him so much.
"I'm fine." Tubbo interrupted, short and clipped in a way only his family wouldn't see as rude. He half-saw the way Ranboo was turning away from the stew he was monitoring and golden apples he was cutting to peer at him, the rest of his vision growing a bit blurrier than he would have preferred but getting lost in his head nonetheless. He knew the shoulders of his green sweater were almost so high they brushed his ears at this point, that he clutched his wooden cup as if his life depended on it, that he was curled in on himself as if he was trying to look small. He knew it all, and yet he was stuck, stuck in a way no one was supposed to see. The steam from the stew surrounding the kitchen felt like a certain president's breath hitting the back of his neck, the smell of cooking alcohol just a bit too much in this one second where he was stuck. The weight of the unnatural horns on his head felt like blocks of lead stacked one by one on his skull, in that eternal millisecond. Mismatched red and green eyes met an out-of-focus blue-grey one, pupil damn near invisible it was so small.
Tubbo heard a small warble of concern from in front of him that shook him from the momentary prison of his thoughts, taking a long blink to try and clear up the blur that overtook his sight and forcing an exhale. Opening his eye, he saw Ranboo in front of him, hands up as if to comfort a wild animal and a concerned twist to his lips, ones that formed a frown he always hated to see. Curse his “PTSD induced flashbacks” or "panic attacks" or whatever it was Tommy told him he probably had. Bullshit, he was fine, hearing every sound as though it were nails on a chalkboard was normal.
He saw the boy in front of him give an attempt at a smile, one this time Tubbo knew was from the irony of the situation. He liked those types of jokes, ones that are self-deprecating or at his expense - his worrying chirping husband did not.
"Are you sure you'll be okay? We can always message Tommy and tell him Michael is sick and needs peace and quiet to get to sleep, or, or, we could say something about the dining room being under construction? How about that?" The words were soft, quiet in a comforting way when all other sounds were not. The fact that Ranboo was willing to cancel dinner plans, make excuses, do anything to help him feel comfortable made his heart swell with affection. The boy with goat-like horns put his mug down mechanically, slowly, setting it down without making a sound before getting off the counter, bare feet against the cold floor in the most grounding way. He forced another breath and gave Ranboo a smile. Sure, it wasn't the most genuine, but it was enough, he bargained when he got a small smile in return.
"I'll be okay." He reassured the other, running a hand through his hair and pushing back loose bangs. Prime, he needed to go wash his face or something, he should not have been that flighty. He'd need to build some mental barricades before Tommy and his unwanted add-on showed. Ranboo wouldn't like how he was thinking, a voice in the back of his head told him. That's why we don't tell him, he responded to the voice, turning to face said husband. "You got dinner covered, bossman?"
He got a nod in return. Good. This was good, now he had time to prepare.
…
Wilbur and Tommy’s arrival was quite frankly… underwhelming. Well, nothing was underwhelming in the blond’s presence, but Wilbur’s was unexpectedly peaceful. Tubbo would never admit but he was surprised and maybe, if it were anyone else, he’d feel bad about expecting so low of him. He had all the reason to with Wilbur, however, so he didn’t feel bad. Maybe he was changed, perhaps death had changed him like his younger brother argued, but to the ex-president, to the boy who hadn’t let his guard down around anyone but his family in years and had no plans to stop - Wilbur’s calm state was suspicious. To someone who’d died, lived, killed, who’d been saved and betrayed and been a leader and follower alike - Wilbur’s kindness felt a grenade pin away from becoming something dark.
He was being a good house guest, but there were still things about him that put the boy on edge. He was making nice conversation, but he had a knack for interrupting the rest of the group. He wasn’t overly intrusive on personal space but when he did make contact he was always a bit too rough. He had freshened up and wore nice clothes but he still smelled like cigarettes and liquor and his gaze was like roadkill. He thanked the Underscore-Beloveds for letting him into their home but didn’t acknowledge Ranboo as a host, only the boy who was once under his command. He smiled and laughed but it never felt fully genuine. He was just ever so slightly off .
But, he was coherent.
He was coherent, articulate, and charismatic, he didn’t make any threats nor did he light any fires or destroy anything, hell he was even polite and respectful not quite fully but enough nonetheless. Wilbur gave no real indication he was going to be trouble, literally none at all, he was simply being himself. His madman, genius, insane self, granted, but he was being nothing more than that.
Tommy seemed proud. Ranboo was more relaxed than they all thought he’d be. Michael seemed to like the voice of the stranger in their dining room, even if he didn’t know half of what he talked about. Dinner was almost ready to be plated. Wilbur just complimented the horned boy on the craftsmanship of the handmade dishes and silverware on the table.
Tubbo couldn’t shake the horrible feeling swirling in his gut.
Food was plated and seats were decided in a flurry of Tommy’s laughter and Ranboo’s stories, of Michael’s wild bouncing hooves jumping around, of Wilbur’s tidbit responses and reactions. Tubbo would’ve found it all so endearing if one deep voice didn’t grate against the inside of his skull. He was sat at one end of the six-seated table, staring into brown eyes with his one, his husband on one side of him and his son on the other, Tommy sat beside the small piglin. There was an empty seat at the table, and for some reason, it bothered him like it never had before. With a glass of whiskey in his line of sight, sitting loosely in the grasp of once-deteriorating hands now slightest grayed skin, he couldn’t help but think fleetingly the empty seat could be filled by another man who’d ruled the dead nation, just to twist the knife into his jacket-covered back. It’d be poetic, fitting, to have one end of the table show his traumatized past and the other his hopeful future. He didn’t say anything, but he put down his wooden fork so he didn’t snap it. He’d poured himself alcohol earlier as well, it now sitting in front of him as if mirroring the man who actually drank it. He regretted it, the way its pungent smell wafted into his flared nostrils. He hated the taste. Tommy asked them to give thanks before eating like he asked every time he was over for dinner and the table complied without hesitation, even Michael, something that made the blond smile and in turn made Tubbo smile too.
The youngest - besides the toddler of course - ducked his head and pulled a necklace from under his shirt, holding it in entwined hands and beginning to lead a prayer. Before the ex-president tucked his head to join in, he caught Wilbur’s gaze and upright stance, caught the inklings of an eerie smile ghost his expression before his vision was filled with the woodgrains of the plate in front of him. When their prayer was over, Tubbo was almost certain he had not moved. The undead man’s stare seemed to taunt him, challenge him to mention it.
He didn’t.
“Amen,” Tommy said with a smile, not seeming to notice the strangeness of his brother, and the rest of the table repeated it back, even if they didn’t believe in the thought behind it, they all repeated it as a courtesy - except Wilbur. Their conversation started back up and they went to eat - except Wilbur. If his husband himself hadn’t cooked the food he’d suspect the man had somehow poisoned it, the way he just stared. Before anyone could take a bite, they were stopped by a hand lifting a glass, whiskey on the rocks swirling within it, much like his insides did at the horrible horrible motion. The room felt more humid than it should, warm and suffocating in a way that seemed to only affect Tubbo.
“Before we eat, let us make a toast, something to honor the host of the night’s events.” The rugged man announced, words spoken in such a way it felt like a speech made from a podium, a speech everyone was made to hear not just in their ears but wrapping around their heads and their arms and their bodies, a wicked smile on his face that matched the vile sound of his voice. Everyone argued the man had good intentions, but his gaze, Prime his gaze cut deeper into his soul than any knife. His sweater suddenly felt like a suit once more, the scarred side of his face felt numb, as if covered in bandages like it was so long ago, his horns felt like the weight of the sky itself, Atlas trying not to crumble at the weight of his memories and history and experiences, piling on one another like bricks, creating the perfect obstacle. Without thinking he felt his hand curl around his own glass. How he hated the rotten drink. He distantly could hear the rest of the table’s cups being lifted, their delicate kitchenware, the stuff they brought out once in a blue moon, sliding across the table and into the air in a deafening way to sensitive non-human ears. He hated glass, porcelain, the things that could break in an instant if dropped, if held onto just a bit too tightly.
“A toast to the presidency and its unfortunate survivor,” Tubbo felt his heart stop, for just a second, the words like a punch to the chest, winding him in a way he forgot was possible for words to do. He could see Tommy’s shocked face, how his jaw fell open. Ranboo’s lips pursed in confusion, like he wanted to interrupt and ask but something stopped him. He worried he’d break the glass in his hand but couldn’t move a muscle to do anything about it, frozen to his seat, frozen to his bones. Steady drumming filled his head, it took him a moment to realize it was his heartbeat.
He could only watch, damn near hyperventilating through his nose the longer the bastard paused, creepy misplaced smile only growing. His teeth were straight, it was something he noticed, but they weren’t white. They were a horrible lemon-washed yellow, like a putrid bile film.
“Once a president, always a president.”
In the same moment he watched Wilbur toss back the drink, he heard something shatter. His hand was wet, later with what he’d find out was a mix of whiskey and his own blood. The world around him went out of focus, sounds were muffled and unintelligible as he felt his body go into autopilot, shoving his chair away from the table, slamming his hands down on the shard-covered wood to bring him to a stand. He swore in the back of his head he heard a maniacal cackle, a concerned set of warbling, and some yelling, he swore he could hear the sound of his son’s surprise-induced crying. His breaths still came as fast as the flashing of memories behind his eyes, suits and alcohol and insomnia and fireworks and the curse and arguments and spiderwebs and nightmares Prime the nightmares and the curse and the crushing weight of responsibilities and horns and he’d become a beast, his own worst enemy- the curse of L’manburg- he couldn’t breathe, was he just a husk? Was he dying? He knew what that felt like this was different-
“I have to go.”
He couldn’t hear his own voice, but he knew he spoke - he could feel his dry tongue in his cotton mouth - storming out the front door.
He’d thought Wilbur was a grenade pin away from destruction, that he’d break something or tear the house down, that he’d hurt someone.
He realized a shard of glass was in the unfeeling side of his jaw, there more were lodged into the palms of his hands.
He saw a few red dots peppering the snow he was only just now noticing, eyes and mind focusing only on the contrast of deep red on blinding white in his disjointed state.
He was bleeding.
He'd left his coat inside.
He was wrong.