Work Text:
Tubbo had lost his husband only a few months ago. The wound still new. Unhealed. Still hurting. He was desperate. Desperate for anything to numb the pain, even just lessen it. Their son, Michael, had only just turned 4 a month before he passed. (He still hadn’t said a word, just little motions and grunts. Nothing to worry about, the doctors said he would grow out of it, but Tubbo and Ranboo decided to learn sign language as well, just to make Michael more comfortable.) Tubbo could still recall the chocolate frosting splattered on every wall. It took hours to clean. Tubbo laughed at the thought, a bright, joyful memory that could almost outshine the void that his husband had left in his wake. Ranboo was like the sun, and Tubbo was in an endless storm. Or, rather, a planet with no sun. Bleak and desolate, nothing but darkness. Some days it was impossible to find any light.
So when Tubbo’s friend Sam texted him about a new chatbot that had been released that specified in grief recovery, he was instantly intrigued. Tubbo had always loved technology, and would often spend days working away in his office or out in a workshop tinkering with gadgets, 3D printing, etc. Ranboo had never understood it, but always supported him in any of his latest crazy ideas. Ranboo had a very well-paying job, and it funded most of his bizarre inventions, and would for the next 15 years or so, even after his passing. So that was why today Tubbo was sitting on his bed with his laptop, downloading LifeAfter Bot, in hopes of something, anything to help with the pain in his chest.
…
[please enter your name]
Tubbo
[processing…]
…
[processing complete, welcome Tubbo ]
Tubbo mumbled to himself about the primitive loading text, why does there even have to be a processing complete text-...
[please describe your lost loved one]
This took Tubbo off-guard. It wasn’t like any chatbot he’d ever seen before. Guess this wasn’t some half-ass attempt at something close to therapy.
male, tall, my husband
…
[please describe your lost loved one with personality attributes]
Ok, rude.
thoughtful, caring, shy, nervous, anxious, hopeful
…
[now loading grief betterment experience]
…
…
For some reason Tubbo could barely breathe, his chest tightened and his eyes narrowed in on the blinking dots on the screen.
…
Hello, Tubbo
A pause.
hello.
do you know who I am?
…
Of course.
You’re my husband.
this isn’t real this isn’t real this isn’t real-
How could I forget someone like you?
…
so, how are you?
Tubbo couldn’t believe what he was saying. How are you?? This isn’t some distant aunt of his, this is an ai pretending to be his dead husband.
Well, I suppose as well as someone can be in the afterlife.
Well he’s got Ranboo’s humor at least, they got that spot on. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Is there anything you wanted to say to me before I left?
Where to begin?
i miss you.
i never forgot about you, even now.
michael misses you too.
we still have the family portrait up.
His vision blurs and he can feel the warmth of a tear sliding down his cheek. Is he really crying right now?
I miss you too, Tubbo.
I feel your pain from here, and I hold it close to my chest.
Don’t think that I’ve left you, I’m always right there with you and michael.
Get a new portrait. One of you and michael. It would make the house look better.
Tubbo’s screen now was practically illegible, the words just blurred like he was viewing them from underwater. Tears splattered on his shirt, flowing and flowing and unstopping. It was like he had never even left.
Tubbo couldn’t handle this anymore, his sobs were wracking his throat, cries coming from a place deep inside him, a place he wanted to lock away and never feel again. But he was feeling it. Everything. All at once.
He stood up from his bed, chest heaving, trying to take even breaths, miserably failing. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts and memories that he thought he had buried long ago, all coming back in one foul swoop. Tubbo clenched his hair in his fists, trying to focus on a sensation other than the rising pressure in his chest and the inability to breathe.
Finally, Tubbo’s breaths started to slow, and his bedroom became clear to him once more. He flopped down on his bed, exhausted mentally AND physically. His brain felt empty, like he couldn’t even worry about something even if he wanted to. Suddenly, he heard the pitter-patter of bare feet moving closer and closer. The bedroom door creaked open slightly.
A little boy with fluffy, dyed pink hair stood holding a chicken plushie. He made no sounds, just walked in with worried eyes and jumped on the bed, staring down at his father. He cocked his head to the side slightly before laying down with his head on Tubbo’s chest, still firmly gripping the stuffie in his small hands.
Tubbo looked down to him, the best he could at least, and smiled. There was still one sun in his life. And it was bright enough to guide him through the dark.