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Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting.
He knew that from the beginning. Ever since the older kids across the street saw him as easy pickings and he’d drag his feet home covered in aches and bruises. When he’d get home his father would patch him up with a quickly dwindling cheap med kit from the dollar store and tell him, like he did everytime, “Don’t go making trouble if you can’t hold your ground.”
Tubbo had never wanted to make trouble. He had wanted to be friends. But the mothers in the neighbourhood would give his father dirty looks, so the mothers gave Tubbo dirty looks too. He’d learnt very quickly that you’re only worth the people you’re associated with.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when CPS came banging at the door and no matter how much he kicked and punched, they still shoved him into the car. No matter how much he cried and yelled and banged the windows he couldn’t do anything to stop his dad being pulled into a cop car.
He was only 14, but spending a year and a half in a foster home was enough for him to want out. It was more than enough of an excuse to let himself get caught up in whatever bullshit he could find to get out of there. He’d gladly snuck out with Tommy and Wilbur that night and never looked back.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t meant for fighting when he ducked behind a tree to chug a health pot mid fight after narrowly avoiding an arrow to the eye. When they were outnumbered, weak and betrayed on every front, all because someone had too much pride. The bitter memories of older kids in the street seemed a little too relevant.
Even so, when he saw Tommy getting cornered something struck. It was like he blacked out behind that tree and woke up to beating off god knows who with strength he didn’t even know he had. Strength that would only come out again when he was mad enough. Which, in his defence, wasn’t that often.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when he saw his dad again, living black out drunk and having completely forgotten his face. He knew when he didn’t have the heart to yell at that scheming fuck that he was looking right at his goddamned son when he’d start to slur his words and bring up the name “Toby”. And when he found himself facing a firework, supposed ally in eyesight and maniacal laughter ringing in his ears he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t curse the name of Technoblade or L’Manburg or even Schlatt.
And when Wilbur pushed and pushed to stir up conflict in the ravine he didn’t want to do anything but rest. He was too tired and shocked to do anything but forgive. Move on. Move on and just keep trying to live because what else could he do at this point?
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when L’Manburg blew up and he saw Wilbur get exactly what he fucking wanted. No one could have stopped him. No one really tried. No one wanted revenge. No one wanted another violent president. Why would Tubbo try to fight when he had to rebuild? Why wouldn’t he let people walk all over him to keep his peace of mind? Why wouldn’t he give into Dream’s demands even if it had hurt worse than anything when he found that fucking tower weeks later and it had hurt even more to find out his best friend was, in fact, not dead.Sure, let him go start shit with Techno, things turned out so well last time someone did that.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when everything he worked so hard for had come crumbling down in a matter of minutes. All that was left was a crater and life-dead eyes.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when he was ready to lay down his life for his best friend. He knew one of them was supposed to die that day, and it wasn’t going to be Dream no matter how nice it would have been.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting when he did everything he could to build a safe place for once in his life. Hidden away behind walls of snow and ocean, because surely no one would cause trouble all the way out there.
Or when he finally had people he actually needed to protect. People that made him wonder why the adults of his childhood had dared to do what they had.
Or when he made those nukes. Or when he grieved a death for the 4th, 5th, 6th time. Or when he started working with Quackity. Or when he rode out to the middle of nowhere with his murderers to find his son.
Tubbo knew he wasn’t made for fighting, but he was damn well going to try.