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It was always the silliest things that set Tubbo off.
The sky was bright, soft sun shining over the tundra. What once was his favourite season now only brought on a lost sense of nostalgia, a harsh feeling of what it had once been. The summer sun instead now brought chills to his bones, but he no longer had anyone to make him soup when he was sick.
Everything was different now that he was gone, too. Nothing felt quite the same. Food was bland and textureless. Colours were dimmer, their vibrance long gone. Their home lost its flare, the creaky floorboards acting as the only reminder of the cheerful buzz the old cabin used to have. The house always felt empty now that he truly was alone.
Tubbo was finding it hard to return back home. It started as a good day, it really did. Tommy kept him company while he gardened, and he ran into a few friends when he went into town. On his way home, he had a good laugh at some silly arctic fox he’d spotted in the Tundra. He’d finally felt relieved of the stress that’d built its home on his shoulders and wormed its way into his heart.
That was the problem. He realized that he laughed – a truly carefree laugh – for the first time since Ranboo had passed. He laughed, and it wasn’t forced, it wasn't meticulously constructed to mask his feelings. He didn’t laugh to make himself seem normal – he genuinely laughed. And that stress, that lingering voice at the back of his mind, gnawed on his very thoughts.
Why are you laughing? You can’t laugh anymore, not when he can’t! You are such a horrible person you are such a horrible person you are -
He dragged the voices back home with him, allowing them to burrow into the small of his back and rest, weighing him down once more. Tubbo was tired.
The house didn’t feel the same without Ranboo there.
He trudges up the eroded path to the cabin, the crunch of gravel not as satisfying as it would’ve been. He missed skipping the bigger rocks in the pond behind their house, or building little log cabins with the skinnier pieces of gravel. It was the little things they did to pass the time that made his simple routine so much harder.
He eyes the flickering porch light; the dimming bulb in its fight against all odds to stay on. It’d been on since that night, and Tubbo wasn’t going to be the one to turn it off.
He would give Ranboo the stars. But he would not, could not, let him reach them. He could not let him go. Not yet.
And so Tubbo looked away, and the porch light continued its battle against time.
Boiling a kettle for tea was the extent of his use of the oven over the past week. It was cathartic and pleasingly methodical, the hum of his tea pot blocking out his racing thoughts. Fill the kettle, turn the burner on, and wait four minutes. Remove the kettle seconds before it boils over, making a game of waiting until the last possible moment. Wiping down the stove when it inevitably does boil over. Grab a tea bag, normally chai tea, and dip it into the tallest mug he can find. The tallest mug that wasn’t a gift from Ranboo, that is.
Add honey, stir, sip. Just like his mama used to make it when he was too hyper to rest his head. Just like Tommy had made it when the nightmares woke him up. Just like Ranboo made it when he was too restless to attempt sleep in the first place. He dumps his tea in the sink; he doesn't want it anymore. What’s the point of warmth if you have no one to share it with?
On slower nights, like tonight, he pulls out dusty photo albums from the depths of his closet. The spine is cracked and the dust has long since wormed its way behind the protective plastic that covers the photos. They’ve been here a while, and Tubbo never bothers to clean them.
Tonight he flips through it a bit quicker, not sitting on any singular picture for too long. It’s routine, not remembrance. There is no time to mourn. His bed is empty and his heart is cold – that is all. Though, today a particular picture catches his eyes.
It’s him and Boo, a picture of them side by side on their bench. Tommy must've taken it, back before Tubbo was president and Tommy was gone. Ranboo sat leaning into him, ravenous curls covering his eyes. A mask covered his mouth, but you could tell he was smiling – his deep smile lines told all. He was facing the camera, but Tubbo chose to face him instead, looking up at his partner. Marrying for tax benefits was the best decision they’d ever made – living with his best friend was the second.
He missed this. He missed Ranboo. He missed before.
But that's the thing, isn’t it? The lines of before and after blur and muddle together until there isn’t much difference at all. Their lives were a swirling mess of impulsivity, love, and death – Tubbo supposed he couldn’t ask for much else. Because despite all, it was their life. They had something of their own, and Tubbo knows he would never wish that away.
Maybe it was time to move on.
No, no, move on was a strong word. But accept – maybe it was time to accept his situation. Tubbo had few regrets in life, and Ranboo was none of them. In the end, they tried. Maybe that's what mattered, in the end. They attempted to live, and were destined to die. You can’t fight destiny.
Instead of carelessly shoving the photo album back into the closet, he took care to dust off the front and set it on his coffee table. On the front, in a little picture window, sat a piece of cardstock. It was poorly decorated, but it was theirs. Their attempt at helping Ranboo remember. Their version of trying.
“Bee and Boo’s Memory Book”
Tubbo needed some sleep.
He makes his way to the bedroom they once shared, and climbs into the empty king sized bed. He pulls the checkered quilt up to his neck and holds it tight, willing himself to fall asleep – he does.
The porch light struggles on its own out in the snow, and the lightbulb that once burned so bright flickers out.
You know what they say – it hurts to leave a light on for nobody. Tubbo supposes he’ll have to get used to living in the dark.