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It is Tubbo’s birthday today.
He never really cared much for his birthday. Well, he did, once, when he was small and young and unharmed by the world.
He is not that Tubbo anymore.
He has not been that Tubbo for a very, very long time.
That Tubbo is just another thing, another person he has lost. Another person he has looked over his shoulder to grin at, only to watch him fade away. Another person he has let slip through his fingers, another person he has watched break and shatter as he does nothing, another person he has let die.
That Tubbo was bright, that Tubbo was bold, that Tubbo had reason to live, reason to love living, had pollen in nose and flowers in his hair and mud under his fingernails.
This Tubbo is not.
This Tubbo is dim, this Tubbo is quiet, this Tubbo does not care for his own health, has oil on his fingers and a tie in his hair and ice in his veins.
Ranboo did not fall for this Tubbo.
Tommy did not call this Tubbo his brother.
Michael’s dad is not this Tubbo.
But this is all Tubbo can be.
Hopefully it is enough.
Phil was the one to remind Tubbo that it was his birthday today. Well, Phil and Michael, but Tubbo doubts the four year old remembered of his own accord.
There was cake this time, actual cake, not bread and jam and matches and shards of porcelain, not screaming and crying and desperation. No, Michael was grinning, hoisted on Phil’s hip with one hand on the plate, the other grabbing at Phil’s tunic.
Phil had knocked on the door of Tubbo’s room—once the guest room, now definitely not—had pushed the door open with his shoulder and Tubbo had had to look up from his work.
“Hey, mate,” Phil said, smiling softly over at him, even when Tubbo had to try to hide the burnt patch on the table. He didn’t mean to ruin Phil’s furniture, it just… happened. Frequently. “Me ‘n Michael here’ve got something to tell you, isn’t that right?” he continued, turning to the toddler.
“Happy birthday bee!” Michael almost shouted, beaming from ear to ear and holding out the plate with cake.
“Christ, little fella, not so loud,” Phil bemoaned, but Tubbo only smiled. At least someone was excited.
“Aw, thanks you two,” he said, shucking his gloves from his hands and taking Michael from Phil’s arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead and holding him close.
“You’re supposed to take the cake,” Michael protested, but he gave Tubbo’s chin a loud peck regardless.
“I’ve got the cake too, see Mikey?” Tubbo took the cake from Phil, nudging his son with the side of the plate to demonstrate. “Did you help make it?”
Michael nodded proudly as Tubbo carried him downstairs, following Phil when he beckoned for them to follow.
“‘S got chocolate in it,” Michael whispered, as if it was some big secret. “Grandpa Phil said you- he said you- that you would like chocolate more than boring normal cake.”
“I dunno,” Tubbo said, “‘boring normal cake’ can be pretty good too.” It had always been Ranboo’s favourite. To make, to eat, to give. He used to just… appear with cake, a whole cake that he’d ‘just grabbed’ because Tubbo looked down. Sometimes Tubbo was convinced he was creating cake from thin air, but he’d stood shoulder-to-waist with Ranboo at the countertop before, stealing fingerfuls of batter and cackling when he got whacked by a fluffy tail plume, having competitions as to who could crack an egg from the highest height and not spill it, deliberately ruining the perfect symmetry of the cherries Ranboo always meticulously placed.
Those days were long gone, now.
He doubted they’d ever return.
That kitchen was gone now, that home was gone, Ranboo was gone, and… that Tubbo was gone too. Lost to the far reaches of time and pain and loss.
“Yeah, but chocolate is better,” Michael said, snuggling into the crook of Tubbo’s arm.
“If you say so.”
The cake was nice. It tasted like cake, not ash, as so much had for so long. It was sweet and dense and moist and so unlike anything Ranboo used to make. Everything was so unlike it was when Ranboo had been alive.
After his second slice of cake—they were only small slices, so Tubbo was okay with him having two—Michael was practically bouncing off the walls, talking a mile a minute about how he had helped ‘Uncle Techno’ with the horses, how Carl had eaten out of his hand, how Phil had let him help make the cake, about all the things he had done that day already.
Half of his words got mixed up with each other, leaving Tubbo smiling fondly at his son as he barrelled onwards, unrelenting. Oh, to have that sort of strength, that sort of energy.
There had been a time when Tubbo had, when his thoughts went too fast for his tongue to keep up with, when his ideas grew and grew and grew, when he was doing five things and once and loving every single one just as much as the other.
That Tubbo was gone now. That Tubbo had finally grown tired, grown still, grown up.
It was hard not to when loss struck as deep as it had done.
Technoblade had appeared at some point, snow in his hair and steam fogging his glasses as he stepped inside, pausing a moment to press his forehead with Phil’s, to nod at Tubbo, to catch Michael when he ran at him.
He joined the party—if it could even be called that—taking a seat on the floor around the fireplace and helping himself to the cake, only sometimes batting Michael’s hands away when he reached up from his lap to steal even more cake.
Eventually, though, Michael’s exuberance caught up with him, and Tubbo watched as his eyes started to droop, as his comments lost their coherency, as his face scrunched into itself when he yawned. Tubbo set his plate aside, he pushed himself first to his knees, but before he could go anywhere else, Phil’s hand was on his shoulder.
“I’ll take him to bed, don’t worry,” he said softly, lifting the child from Techno’s arms. “Techno, do you want to go get the…” he finished his sentence with a nod of his head that Tubbo did not understand at all.
It seemed Technoblade didn’t either, at least, not for a few moments. But Tubbo saw something spark in his mind after Phil had taken the stairs, and he too got to his feet.
“I’ll be right back,” Techno said, and then suddenly, Tubbo was alone.
There was half a chocolate cake on a plate in front of him, his own plate covered in nothing but crumbs. The fire was crackling and the house was warm, even if it was perpetually snowy outside.
Tubbo was alone.
Last birthday… last birthday had been different than this. Him and Tommy and Ranboo, and sure, they weren’t as bright and bold as they had once been, but they were still able to laugh and shout like they had used to. To celebrate, even if the world wasn’t being kind to them, because they had each other’s kindness instead.
Ranboo was gone. Tommy hadn’t visited, hadn’t written, hadn’t tried to reach out. Tubbo was different.
And nothing showed that difference so much as his birthday, as the concrete marker that he had grown, he had aged, he had changed. He wasn’t a kid anymore, he wasn’t free and fanciful. He had a child of his own, he had a black grief in his heart, he had half a horn and copious scarring, a deathly fear of fireworks and attachments.
The door creaked, and Tubbo looked up, tilting his head curiously at the package Techno carried in his arms. It was decently sized, wrapped in parchment paper and tied with twine, and it crinkled as he moved.
Techno sighed as he sat down, beside Tubbo this time, and handed him the package. The present.
“It’s- it’s not much,” he said, adjusting his glasses and looking away. “Phil ‘n I worked on it for you, Michael… ‘helped’. You’ll probably be able to tell where. Absolute nightmare trying to get that kid to keep quiet.” Techno chuckled, shaking his head. “Thought you should get at least somethin’ on yer birthday, ‘specially since you’ve… you’ve been having a bit of a rough time.”
The package wasn’t solid, it bent and gave under Tubbo’s touch, and he picked at the string.
“Thank you, you didn’t have to get me anything, I would’ve been fine without,” he said. And he really meant it. He had very little care for his birthday, he… it didn’t really seem like a celebration anymore. Another year alive, when others… weren’t. Another year of loss, another year of pain. Another year of the steady march of his life.
When had he become so grim? When had his joy been taken from him like so? When had he lost hope, when had this all happened? And perhaps- perhaps he had not lost all hope—no, not all, not anymore, because he had Michael, he had Phil, he had Techno all to keep him on his toes and keep him steady—but he was so different. So changed.
The paper fell away revealing a neatly folded pile of soft fur and rich fabric. Red, heavy, a blue overlayer with white embroidery. The cloak unfurled as he lifted it from where it rested, gold threads shimmering in the firelight with enchantments carefully woven into the hems.
And there, at the bottom. The same gold, but instead of the familiar unfamiliarity of the magical script, there were patterns. Little zig zags, dots, a wobbly flower with an equally wobbly bee. Tubbo laughed, tears in his eyes. He already knew how careful Michael would have been, how determined to get it right.
And the rest of the cloak, it was… it was no simple thing. Expertly made, each inch of it crafted so clearly with nothing but love, but kindness, but care. Tubbo had practically forgotten what it was like to be cared about.
He was crying now—he cried a lot more than he used to, now, the tears coming and going with an ease he had never had before—was bundling the garment close and burying his nose into it.
Because he knew what it was. He knew what it meant. Only three other people had cloaks like this, or rather, two, now. Phil and Technoblade and Ranboo. Tubbo had seen Ranboo’s many a time before, sitting comfortably over his shoulders, long enough to brush their ankles but not to drag in the snow, warm and soft and Ranboo had cared about that cloak so much.
Phil wore his often too, even if it looked a little different, what with his wings. Techno was known for his, the original, apparently.
Such a cloak was a clear sign, a clear declaration. Tubbo was family. He was part of this group, this little collection of people who had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. He was cared about, he was loved, and now he could never, ever doubt that.
He had a family. And that only made him cry harder.
He had had a family before, once. Him and Tommy and Ranboo, and then Michael. They were supposed to be family, they were family. They were supposed to be the ones sitting around the fireplace, cake and presents and laughs and knowing looks, crude jokes and breathless wheezes and cuddle piles when they all inevitably forgot to go to bed before falling asleep.
That was supposed to be Tubbo’s family, not… not this.
Not to say he didn’t like this, he didn’t appreciate this, but it- it was so different. He was so different now.
This life was so incredibly different from what it had been, this Tubbo was so incredibly changed from who he had been, and Tubbo didn’t know how to feel.
His life had been all he needed, all he wanted. A loving husband, a beautiful child, a bright best friend. A mansion, a nation, defence and security and impenetrable walls both exterior and interior.
Should he not still be living that life? That family, even though it would never be the same? Should he not still be clinging to the threads of what once was, because if he truly wanted to, surely he would be able to? Should he not still be that same boy who had fallen for bi-coloured eyes and two toned skin, gentle claws and gentler words? Should he not still be that same father who looked after his own child and put his own child to bed, who had mansions built for his safety? Should he not still be that same leader who had built everything up to protect himself, to protect those he loved because that was the only way they would be protected?
Should he not have changed?
But here it was, in his hands, evidence that he had . Evidence that he wasn’t . He was a new Tubbo now, with a new family, a new life, a new home. And… and everything he had once had was no longer part of what he called his own.
“Hey, Tubbo, are you okay?” Techno asked, and Tubbo sniffled, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “If you don’t like it that’s fine, Phil was a bit worried it ‘wasn’t your style’.”
“No, no, I-” Tubbo’s breath hitched, and he sniffed again. “I do like it, I just…” How did he explain this? How did he explain that this cloak, this simple gift, this single piece of clothing meant he would never be who he once was again?
“This is final, y’know?” he settled on, thumbing over the careful needlework. “This is- this is it, this is my life now, and I- it’s so different.”
“Is there anything bad about different?” Techno asked, laying an arm over Tubbo’s shoulders. “Sometimes different is good, I’ve found.”
“He ’s not here,” Tubbo whispered, because that was what it was. Ranboo wasn’t here, and Tubbo was so different now. He had grown so much already, had moved so far past their marriage, their friendship, their love. He mourned the loss of his past, because it meant a loss of his husband.
“‘S hard, isn’t it?” Technoblade’s voice rumbled deep in his chest, comforting where Tubbo was pressed against him. “To lose someone you love.”
“You’ve lost someone?”
“Yeah. Ranboo.”
“Oh.” Tubbo hadn’t realised. Of course, now it made sense, now that Techno had said it, Tubbo couldn’t really believe he’d had to ask. Of course Techno had loved Ranboo, he had let him live with him, he had given him the same cloak that he and Phil wore, he had looked after him when he needed it most.
He had avenged him, he had fought for him, he had rescued him. Of course Technoblade had loved Ranboo.
“Hey, it’s okay. I know I don’t exactly… advertise my feelings. But I did love them. Maybe not the same way you did, but that’s okay. Love comes in many different forms.”
It really did. Though he hated it, though he tried to stop it, Tubbo did love. He loved so hard. He loved Tommy, his brother, his other half, his Tommy. He loved Michael, his son, his world, his everything. He loved Phil and Techno, quietly, slowly, thanks for taking him in when he had collapsed.
And he had loved Ranboo. Fuck, he had loved them. With every part of him, Tubbo had loved Ranboo, and now… now those parts had changed.
“What’s botherin’ you about this?” Technoblade asked, giving Tubbo a gentle nudge as he did.
“That he’s not here” Tubbo repeated, taking a shaking breath. “That they’re not here, and… and they’re not supposed to be.”
“What d’you mean by that?”
“My life,” Tubbo tried to explain, the cloak in his arms and Techno at his side. “It’s different now. He used to… there was a hole. And it hurt, because he wasn’t there. I wore his ring, I saved him a spot at the table. I don’t think there’s the same hole anymore.”
“Has it stopped hurting?”
Had it? The ache was still there, sometimes, but… but it didn’t really hurt anymore. It was just an ache. Tubbo missed Ranboo, he missed that life, but everything was different now. He was older, he had changed.
“Sometimes. A lot, I think. I… they’re gone, and I miss them, but it- it’s different.”
“Then I’d say that’s a good thing,” Techno said, simply and softly.
“How? I- I’ve changed, I’m not- I’m not like I was. Everything’s different, it’s… why is it different?”
“Because you’ve grown,” Techno said, and he sounded so sure. “Different is okay, Tubbo. It doesn’t have to be bad. Just because you’re not hurting as much doesn’t mean you never were.”
“I don’t want it to be different, though.” He wanted it to be the same. He wanted to be bright and young and bold and loud. Why couldn’t he be bright and young and bold and loud? Where had that Tubbo gone?
Technoblade sighed, his chest rising and falling deeply, and he turned his head to look at Tubbo. “But it is. And it’s not gonna stop being different either. I know you miss him, we all do. I know you want the life you had back, but… you’ve grown, Tubbo, and look how far you’ve come.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you had a hole where they used to be, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Tubbo nodded hesitantly.
“An’ you said it used to hurt.”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I might be wrong, but I’d guess that at one point, that hole was all you could think about. That hole, an’ how much it hurt. How much you missed them, how much you wished he had never left.”
He was crying again. Tubbo was crying again, quietly, calmly, making no sound and no movement, simply letting the tears roll down his face. He remembered that ache, that pain, that all consuming grief. But he did not feel it. Not anymore. That Tubbo was gone. He was different now.
“And that’s okay. You’re allowed to hurt like that. ‘Course you are, you loved him. You still do. But the hole isn’t everythin’ anymore, is it? It’s still there, but you’ve built around it. You’ve grown, Tubbo, of course it’s not the same.”
“I don’t- I want it to be like before, though. It feels- it’s wrong, though,” Tubbo argued, trying to put his thoughts, his worries, his fears to words.
“Why? Because you’ve moved on?” Techno asked, and Tubbo only cried harder.
Because he had. He had moved on. No longer did he spend every day in tears, no longer did his loss consume his every waking moment. Everything was so different, and Tubbo simply did not know what to do about it all.
“Hey, Tubbo, it’s okay,” Techno assured, giving him a gentle, steady squeeze. “Nothin’ about what you’re feeling is wrong, alright? I promise. Stuff like this, it’s… it’s hard. It’s messy, and it doesn’t just go away. It doesn’t just fix itself. An’ it doesn’t make sense. Which is okay.
“You’ve grown, Tubbo, you’ve changed. But you haven’t stopped carin’. You haven’t stopped matterin’, either. Just because it’s different and it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.
“Your love isn’t less valid because it’s not the only thing you think about. C’mon, you know how much Ranboo squirmed when people gave ‘im attention. He wouldn’t want that all day, every day, would he?”
Tubbo shook his head, because he knew exactly what Techno was talking about. The way Ranboo would blush, would look everywhere except at who he was with, their tail would curl and Tubbo would keep prodding with compliments and grins if it was the nice type of attention, or he’d grab Ranboo’s wrist and they’d find a quiet corner together if it was the bad type. Techno was right, with the amount of time Tubbo had been thinking about Ranboo, he would’ve hated it.
“Now, I wasn’t married to him like you were, but I knew Ranboo,” Techno continued, just as steady and confident as ever. “He loved you. Man, he loved you so much, always worried you wouldn’t know it. I reckon you do, but kid liked to worry. Most important thing to them was always makin’ you happy, and keepin’ you ‘n Michael safe. Kid even joined the Syndicate to protect you, gods, he cared so much.
“An’ I think it’s pretty clear you cared just as much about him. Still do, I think. It’s just… a different type of care now. Y’ care for his memory.”
Their memory. Their legacy, what they had left behind. A wild laugh through pointed teeth, a snarky sense of humour, an earnest concern always. Lazy mornings and energetic afternoons, spontaneous escapades and domestic moments. Each one more important to Tubbo than any valuable item, any weapon or material gift or piece of armour.
“You’ve grown. Your hurt is softer now, b’cause it stings less. You’re smiling thinking of them, not crying. I can see it now.” Techno poked Tubbo gently, and… and he was smiling. He really was.
“Jus’ because he’s not here anymore doesn’t mean he’s gone. It’s not the same, yeah, but everythin’ has grown. And isn’t that something beautiful? Isn’t that something to be proud of?”
And perhaps it was. Perhaps Techno was right, because… because he was. It was as simple as that. Tubbo had grown, and perhaps he shouldn’t be scared of the change. Perhaps he should be proud of himself.
“Look how far you’ve come, Tubbo, look how much you’ve done.”
“But I haven’t done anything,” Tubbo said, looking up.
Technoblade smiled at him, and shook his head. “Nah, you have. You got out of bed, you ate cake, you smiled. You cried, you let yer'self feel emotions. You loved, Tubbo, an’ that’s one of the hardest things anyone can do. You loved, and you lost, an’ you lived.
“Things have changed, but isn’t that something to be proud of? You’ve got a family again, yeah? You’ve got people who love you. Isn’t that amazing? You’re a different person, sure, but you’ve come so far.”
Tubbo curled closer into Technoblade’s side, his warmth and his weight against him oh so comforting. He was steady, he was grounding, and every word he spoke, Tubbo could tell he meant with the utmost earnest.
“Ranboo would be proud. I’m sure of it. Hells, he probably is proud, to see you like this. Proud of everythin’ you’ve done, even if it doesn’t feel like much. Proud that you’ve kept going, proud that you haven’t stopped forever, proud you’re still rememberin’ him.”
“Are you sure?” Tubbo asked, even though Techno had said he was. Because- because this was what hurt, now. A tightness in his chest and more tears at his eyes, but it was not a bad hurt.
“I am sure,” Technoblade said, and Tubbo knew he was telling the truth. “Everythin’ you have done, Tubbo, is amazin’. Ranboo would be proud. I know I am.
“I’m proud of you.”