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It was a cold day in Snowchester, as usual. In the snowy shoreside nation sat a small house. Smoke rose from its chimney and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen. From the window, a small, round, pink face can be seen, one eye white and the other an empty socket. Michael patiently waits for his father.
Ranboo carefully lifts the bread from the furnace and sets it on the table. Taking a small knife, he cuts the loaf into thick, steaming slices. Taking a pad of butter from the dish on the table, he spread some butter onto three of the still hot slices and put them on a plate. Placing the plate on a small wooden tray, he turns to the counter nearby and grabs two waiting mugs of steeped tea. He added them to the tray before making his way to the fridge, grabbing a green sippy cup from the cabinet on the way and filling the cup with cold apple juice. He placed the lid on the cup and put it onto the tray beside the other two cups. Lifting the tray gently so as to not spill the tea, he makes his way to the ladder near the back of the house. He knocks thrice on the trapdoor at the top.
“Tubbo, I got some bread for you guys!”
“Oh, sweet! Hold on Michael!” Tubbo said as he trotted over to the door to let his husband in. Ranboo passed the tray through to him first before making his way up the ladder and into his son’s room. Tubbo put the tray onto the small table, taking a seat in the high-backed chair nearby. Michael toddled over to the table, taking a piece of bread in his little cloven hands and taking a bite. Ranboo sat down on the floor next to Michael before carefully taking his mug of tea from the tray. Tubbo blew some air into his mug to cool down the tea and took a sip, a small smile of satisfaction washing over his face at the rich, sweet flavor. They sat there for a moment in amicable silence. Michael finished his bread quickly before moving on to his juice, picking up the cup by its two handles and popping it in his mouth, happily.
“Did you make this yourself?” Tubbo asked as he took a slice of bread from the plate.
“Yeah! Is it good?”
“It is literally amazing, dude.” Tubbo stated matter-of-factly, mouth already full.
“I’m glad!” Ranboo replied cheerfully as he took his own slice from the plate.
Taking a small bite, he reveled in his creation. The bread was soft and warm, with relatively large bubbles, a chewy crumb, and a thick, shiny, browned crust. The butter had melted and soaked in, making the already delicious bread into a delicacy. He couldn’t help but smile, knowing he had made something truly great.
Sighing contentedly, he looked around. The room was warm, heated by the fireplace downstairs, and lit with blue soul lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Michael’s bed stood in the corner, neatly made with white bedsheets and a yellow comforter embroidered with tiny cartoonish bees. Next to the bed stood a wardrobe, filled wall to wall with all of Michael’s various outfits. The walls were decorated with family portraits.
His family.
Himself, his loving husband, Tubbo, and his adopted son, Michael.
He looked up at Tubbo from his place on the floor. Tubbo’s eyes were closed, with a small smile on his face. He was leaned back in the chair, still holding the warm mug. Ranboo can’t help but think he looks so tired.
Tired, but happy.
Not that that isn’t totally understandable. Tubbo’s been through so much over these past years; wars, presidency, execution, Dream, more wars. Who could blame him? After all that, who wouldn’t want to just settle down and start a family?
Ranboo glanced up at his husband’s face, then back down into his mug. Scars splashed across Tubbo’s face and hands like scalding water, tinted dark pink and mottled compared to his normally smooth and pale skin. He can’t even imagine the kind of injury that could have caused that. The thought makes him cringe. It must have hurt so much.
Ranboo balanced his mug in one hand on his lap to trace his own scars with his fingertips. Small thin tear tracks coming down from each eye, rough at the edges and lighter in color than the surrounding skin, tinted green on the black side of his face and red on the white side. His own tears burned him like acid, causing blisters wherever they touched his skin. All water does. He tries to remember the last time he cried.
Shaking his head, he took a sip of his tea, careful not to spill it. Gotta think about something else.
He turned to Michael. His beloved son Michael. He was sat at the window with a coloring book on the windowsill, a crayon in one hand and his juice cup in the other. He covered the entire page in harsh, jagged scribbles, moving vigorously and showing no regards to the lines. Ranboo snorts and stifles a laugh as his heart swells with love for his son.
Tubbo sits up a bit from where he was slumped in the chair to see what the fuss is about.
“Oh! He’s goin’ to town over there isn’t he?”
“Haha, yeah! He’s a little artist boy!”
“Little Picasso lad!”
Michael deemed this page of his book thoroughly colored, discarding the old page for a new one and resuming his colorful assault, making little grunts of effort as he put way too much force behind the crayon, inevitably coloring all over the windowsill.
“Mans is just goin’ for it, dude,” Ranboo commented with a chuckle.
They both laughed, basking in the moment. Michael, oblivious to his parent’s laughter, snapped his crayon clean in half, earning a squeal of surprise from the small piglin and a new peal of laughter from the two men at the table. Michael looked up at his fathers with an upset snort, holding up his crayon to show it was broken.
“Awww, buddy! You broke your crayon!” Ranboo laughed, getting up from the floor. “Let's get you a new one!” Ranboo walked over to the shelves near the window and pulled out a small storage bin from the top shelf.
“Here, bud. Pick which one you want!” He said, holding the bin toward Michael, offering him his choice of the crayons. Michael deliberated his choices for a moment before selecting a purple crayon from the bin, gently head-butting Ranboo in the side as a show of thanks.
“Oh, you’re welcome, Michael!” Ranboo said in reply, returning the boy’s gratitude with a pat on the head. Michael moved his workspace from the windowsill to the floor and returned to his hard work. Tubbo’s eyes shone with joy as he watched his son scribble all over the paper, including the floor in the process. Ranboo walked back across the room, standing behind Tubbo and leaning his elbows on the back of his chair.
“He’s gonna grow up into an incredible person, Tubbo,” Ranboo spoke with sentiment.
“I know, he’s already come so far! He’s actually trying to color on the paper this time! And he’s wearing the jumper I got him!”
“I- Yeah. And he hasn’t destroyed this cup yet. That’s a miracle.”
Ranboo thinks back to the first six cups, all chewed nearly to shreds. The shirts had met a similar fate, shreds of yarn and cotton fabric tangled up in his tiny tusks. It had taken so much effort to release him from that self-imposed clothing prison!
“Yeah, he really has! And he’s, like, learning and stuff!” Ranboo agreed.
“He knows his ABCs!” Tubbo proclaimed excitedly.
“He’s our smart little guy!”
He truly had come so far, socially, learning how not to eat crayons and that beds were for sleeping and such things. It took months to even get him to let go of his sword, which now leaned against the wall in the far corner of the room. After he stopped trying to stab things, his personality began to shine through, Ranboo thought to himself. He turned out to be a mostly reserved yet stubborn boy, prone to anger issues when he didn’t get his way, as many children are, but with a gleam of generosity and empathy that Ranboo felt separated him from any other piglins. The natives of the Nether were a gold obsessed warmongering people, whereas Michael seemed to care for living things, caring for his chicken like a little pet and missing his parents when they were gone. Ranboo can’t help but wonder if that’s because it’s in his nature or if he learned compassion from him and Tubbo. He can’t speak yet, so they can’t really ask him. Not that they didn’t try. They do read to him from time to time and he knows how to write his ABCs and his name, but he doesn’t quite know how to make the association between the letter sounds and the letters in words. He’ll get there, Ranboo thinks.
“He kinda says “what” sometimes, too, yknow? He’s learninggg!” Tubbo pointed out, leaning back in the chair to look at Ranboo upside down.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a little weird but he’s gettin’ the hang of it.” Ranboo thought aloud.
As for speaking, he’s made a little bit of progress. So far, he has been somewhat crudely mimicking syllables and sounds in common phrases. He does kind of blurt them out of context though. He figured out when to say “hi” and “goodbye” and “huh?” or a rough equivalent of the necessary sounds. Ranboo considers this a significant improvement to the ungodly screeching and squealing at unholy hours of the night. He and Tubbo had been awake for a week or so putting up with that before Ranboo had an idea. That night, he cuddled Michael in his little yellow bed, curling his gangly limbs up into the rails while Tubbo slept in their bed. He fell asleep before he knew it, and when he woke up, he heard little snores. Looking down, he saw a sleeping Michael curled up against his chest. He still remembers how adorable his little face was, finally, asleep, and the way Tubbo’s eyes lit up when he texted him to come have a look. He had come in so quietly and gave them both the most gentle hug so as not to wake him.
“I love him so much.” Tubbo said quietly but sincerely.
It’s these little moments, these tiny steps in the right direction, that make all the effort worth it. All those sleepless nights, all the minor stab wounds, all of it was worth it for the love he felt for this little piglin.
Ranboo sighed.
“He’s the best thing to ever happen to us.”