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There was something terribly, desperately wrong with Tubbo.
His health had been declining for a while now, pain returning to his scar for the first time in months. Most night he woke up in cold sweat, burning agony shooting through his eye as he tried to shake the remnants of whatever terror had plagued him that day.
More often than not the bed next to his was empty. On those nights, Tubbo would get up with a sigh, cursing the fact that he was slow to wake when Ranboo’s particles once more grazed his skin. By the time he blinked the sleep from his eyes, feet hitting the plush carpet, it was too late.They’d tried everything, sharing a bed or tying Ranboo down, but nothing helped, only sending his husband into more and more spirals of panic. So they’d simply given up, resigned to an eternal lack of sleep. Neither of them really minded.
But it meant that when Tubbo shot up, retching in pain and struggling to catch his breath, there was no one there to hold him. The bedroom door was open a crack, letting in light from the hallway, and his ears were ringing, his own desperate panting drowning out all other sounds. What if Michael was screaming for him right now, desperately calling for help while Tubbo couldn’t hear, didn’t know? What if Michael was suffering all because his dad had once made the mistake of trusting the Blade? Something was wrong.
He knew he had to get up, check on his kid and find Boo. He had to go. His family needed him. Bile rose in his throat as he realized he had no idea what was happening to either of them right now. They could be dead. Kidnapped. Lost. What if the war was back? Panic constricted his throat and his insides screamed as he pushed himself up, the pain that had been slowly building over the last year now nearly unbearable.
When he rose from the bed he stumbled, falling to his knees and trying to suppress a scream. It felt like someone was taking a hot poker to his stomach, a feeble attempt to check that there wasn’t any blood staining his shirt thwarted as he collapsed fully, curled in on himself as tightly as he could muster. Hands clawed at his throat as he struggled to breathe, to sob, barely anything but whimpers escaping between dry coughs.
Tubbo didn’t cry.
He felt like he’d exhausted all his tears in the aftermath of the festival, watching himself silently sob as his hearing recovered, as he learned his eyesight never would. So he lay shaking on the floor of their room, nothing but shuddering breaths to keep him company as air finally returned to his lungs.
It took what felt like hours until he felt he could move again. The pain only receded a little as he remained in exhaustion, hand trailing over the edge of his scar. He barely noticed that it was stained with blood.
Only when the sun started to creep in from behind the curtains did he finally push himself up, barely sparing a glance for the mess he’d made of the bedroom and instead heading straight for the door. The red stain left by his fingers was barely visible against the dark oak. If it had been, he wouldn’t have cared. The only thing that counted was that his child was okay. He only stumbled once on his way too Michael’s room, too tired to even curse as he lost his balance.
Half an hour was spent, standing in the doorway to his son’s room and watching with unwavering eyes, carefully trained on the barely moving figure.
It took a while for Tubbo to feel clean again after, snot, grime and blood washed from his face and hands until the water running into the sink finally seemed clear enough. The carpet would stain, he knew, and the taste of iron lingered on his tongue as he went to deal with the bedroom.
When the light flickered on he could barely comprehend what he saw. The formerly green carpet was splattered red, though the dry stain seemed nearly black against the bright fabric. He knew he’d been coughing blood, the way his face looked like he’d come from a battlefield when he’d finally dared to check the bathroom mirror had been hint enough. But what Tubbo hadn’t realized was how much blood there actually was.
And, perhaps more terrifyingly so, among the dark there were speckles of white. He could feel the panic clawing up his throat once more as he fell to his knees, hesitating for a moment before he finally grasped at one of the light spots.
In his hand lay a petal.
Vibrant crimson stained the pure white as he started for a second, not understanding. Then the panic took hold, scrambling to gather up the remains of shredded flowers as quickly as he could, before rushing down to his lab where he chucked all the evidence of his sickness into an incinerator.
Tubbo watched as all, except for a singular blossom, a nearly intact white Lilly, went up in flames. He studied it carefully, small and fragile in his hand. It was nearly beautiful.
When he hesitantly returned to the room he found Ranboo, standing over his bed in silent confusion. Their gaze seemed to be locked on the pool of blood, but that didn’t matter. There was only one thing Tubbo needed right now.
He approached his husband quickly, for once not hesitating as he wrapped strong arms around him. The reaction was almost instantaneous, a flurry of particles and he stood alone once more. Ranboo reappeared by the bedroom door, twitching nervously, looking like he was about to teleport to safety.
"Who…?" he trailed off, seemingly straining to remember, hand already drifting to the book he kept by his side. Clarity returned to their eyes only slowly.
"Tubbo. I- I’m sorry." it was barely a whisper, but he knew his spouse well enough to know what he was saying despite not being able to hear. Not that it was ever hard to guess, Ranboo only seemed to be apologizing nowadays.
“Don’t worry about it bossman!” the cheerful words felt wrong as they left his lips and for once he was glad that Ranboo didn’t hold eye contact, if only so they wouldn’t see the strain behind his smile. “I’ll go make breakfast.”
He didn’t touch his husband again as he passed him in the doorway, needing nothing more than to be held, but knowing that any contact would simply trigger another flurry of purple particles. And he couldn’t stand an empty house right now.
In the kitchen he settled on making pancakes. It seemed they’d both need some comfort food today, and preparing the ingredients kept his hands busy. Though unfortunately it also left his mind to wander. Tubbo knew what the flowers meant. He’d become obsessed with flower language when he met Niki for the first time, and he’d stumbled across multiple reports detailing cases just like this. It was rare, for platonic love to cause the disease, but he had always been lucky.
As he stirred the batter a wave of nausea hit him suddenly, and he stumbled towards the sink retching. He could feel the flowers scratching the back of his throat. Muttering curses through gritted teeth did not help ease the pain and he knew better than to supress the coughing that was now so violent his entire body seemed to curl in on itself. Blood and petals painted the sink, quickly disappearing down the drain as Tubbo grimaced, finding the medicine cabinet and taking a couple of pills that really did nothing to ease the pain.
It would only be so long until the white lilies spread, slowly closing up his airways, breaking from his mouth and neck, maybe even bursting through his chest until their beauty became his death sentence. He hoped it would look peaceful, at least. Spare them the funeral flowers. He hoped Michael would be safe.
Hanahaki was not incurable, of course. It only required for the unrequited love that had caused it to diminish. Usually, because the person you were after started to love you back. This was not a hope for him. Because for however much they tried, Ranboo would not be able to return the care his husband offered. He could not love Tubbo back the same when he didn’t recognized him at all half the time. To have so little memories of someone means to barely know them, barely know enough about them to love, much less in such a warm, familiar way as one loves their best friend.
There was no such thing as soulmates, this he knew for certain. Because when he woke up each night to search for his husband, he didn’t regret a single thing. When he cared for their son alone most days there was nothing more beautiful than the hand drawn family picture on the fridge, childish squiggles depicting all three of them. And he knew, if the roles were reversed, Ranboo would be the same. Yet still he only saw a friend in Tubbo on the good days, a stranger on most. How often had he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in so that that might change?
He was done, pancakes only a tiny bit burnt as he went to collect Michael, waking up the little piglin who squealed in excitement at the smell of fresh food, jumping down the stairs in an instant, only pausing for a moment to hug his dad’s legs. Tubbo nearly broke down crying.
He collected himself quickly, making sure Ranboo was doing okay before heading down, waiting for his husband to appear while putting out plates and making hot chocolate. Michael stuck by his side, nearly tripping him up multiple times in an attempt to help and overall being a wonderful child. It was impossible to keep from smiling whenever he looked at their little ball of excitement jumping around the room.
Breakfast was ready by the time Ranboo came down, a smile spreading across their face as they watched the kid smear atrocious amount of chocolate onto his pancake. Tubbo noticed the fondness in the expression, and despite the way it pained him to speak, voice scratchy and iron on his tongue, he grinned. “Morning boob boy, what’s up?”
He wished he had a camera to capture this moment, Michael with chocolate now all over his face, Ranboo with a smile, a real, true smile, trying his best to run damage control, fully present for once. A stack of pancakes and a plate of fruit laid out to form a rose. This moment alone would make it all worth it. And it was his moment, his to love, and cherish and care about.
The illness might take him over in due time, and hopelessness still settled heavy over his heart as he coughed another flower into his hand. This one was still a bud, petals curled tightly, but big enough that the pain made him wince. Carefully he placed it in his pocket.
Tubbo hoped Ranboo might remember him, when he was gone. Keep a picture in his memory book to know that they would always be family. He hoped they would be happy.
Because the flowers might not be beautiful right now, but they were striving for light, fighting for a chance to grow. So at the very least Tubbo would leave a flower crown made of his love.