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When Tubbo was little, he loved cornflowers. They were his favorite, and back then he would grin wide whenever he saw a field of them while out exploring, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes and scrambling down into the dirt to tug them out and carry them home. These days, Tubbo can’t even imagine liking any flower more than pink tulips. He keeps them on his kitchen table in a glass vase, sometimes a gift from Ranboo, other times some that he’s pulled from the Snowchester community greenhouse.
It’s a small thing to be sure, but it’s one of many small things that Tubbo feels strange about.
Tommy told him the other day about a time the two of them made bamboo rafts and rode down the creek behind Phil’s house, and how their ‘boats’ crashed into each other and they had to swim to shore. Tubbo doesn’t remember any of that. In fact, Tubbo doesn’t remember a lot of things. It’s something he huffs a laugh at to himself sometimes, the way that his memory is almost as bad as his husband’s.
And because he is endlessly curious- always in need of more data on things- he takes a proverbial page out of Ranboo’s book, and starts writing things down so he can keep track of how much he doesn’t remember. It starts out as something almost silly, a way for him to just write down stories that Tommy tells him. The story about the rafts, the time they tried to craft enchanted apples, the nights around the campfire in L’manberg. The last one makes Tubbo more nervous than the others because L’manberg wasn’t that long ago in comparison. The stories get more recent too, about beet fields, bath water, he was a lawyer at one point, he went by the name Charlie for a bit, he apparently has something called The Archives? More and more stories of things he’s done fill the journal. And the stories keep piling up until Tubbo has filled fifteen pages with just small summaries of things that apparently happened to him.
The latest story is the most concerning one, because it’s not from his time with Tommy. This time, Ranboo tells him about a moment back when they were first married when Tubbo apparently sat in a boat under Phil’s house while cradling a small slime. He doesn’t remember that day at all, and somehow Ranboo does? Ranboo ?
“You called it ‘squishy fuck’, and kept spinning around in circles while Phil was digging out a room underground. You don’t remember that?” they ask, concern lacing their voice as they watch Michael set his toys up for a very intense battle, and Tubbo feels like he’s diffusing a bomb suddenly. Which is odd, considering these days he would probably tell Ranboo what’s on his mind. But the thought of delving further into this with them is setting him on edge.
“It was just so long ago, you know?” Tubbo laughs, waving a hand.
“It- it really wasn’t though,” Ranboo replies.
“Hey three years is a long time, big guy. And who are you to tell me about not remembering things, Mr. Memory Book?”
Ranboo sighs, clearly wanting to ask more but too nervous to speak up, and for once Tubbo is grateful because it means he doesn’t have to keep coming up with excuses for why he can’t remember things. They turn back to Michael, and continue playing with their son. Tubbo knows Ranboo wants to help, but he doesn’t… want help? He doesn’t think he needs help? He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong? That last part isn’t true, and he knows it. Later that night, Tubbo is dancing with Ranboo in the kitchen, and he swears he was stressed earlier but he can’t recall what it was about.
He’s started keeping track of ‘changes’. That’s what he’s calling them; the changes between when he was younger and now. He writes two columns on one of the pages, the left one reading ‘Before’ and the right one reading ‘Now’, and he starts filling them with his old likes and dislikes compared to today.
He likes pink tulips now as opposed to cornflowers.
He likes sweets a lot more than when he was younger.
He doesn’t like his eyes showing from under his bangs.
He can’t handle loud noises anymore.
He… feels different.
Tubbo doesn’t know what that last one really means. What does he mean by ‘feeling different’ anyways? But it’s true, he feels different. When Tubbo pulled out pictures of himself to show Ranboo, he didn’t know how to feel looking down at himself. Who was that? Because it definitely didn’t feel like Tubbo. Or maybe, maybe that was Tubbo, and he’s someone else now. Maybe the fireworks and fatherhood and all the wars had turned him into someone entirely different. But he’s Tubbo, he responds to the name and it generally sounds correct unless he feels particularly weird, but also his hearing has gotten worse after all the explosions and he reckons it just sounds wrong whenever that happens.
He finally bites the bullet and asks Tommy one day when he’s hanging out with him at his hill house.
“Do you think I’m different now?” Tubbo asks. Tommy looks at him confused, pulling carrots out of the soil and replacing them with a new batch.
“Different how?”
He sighs. “I dunno. Just- just different. From when we were younger.” He doesn’t know how to phrase it.
“Well,” Tommy shrugs, “War will fuck you up, that’s what they say anyways- whoever ‘They’ are. I think you’re probably different, yeah, but I think I’m different too.”
And that’s such a lovely response to give, but it doesn’t answer his question. How do you ask ‘do you think I’m still me?’ without it sounding alarming.
“I guess you’re right.” He doesn’t press it anymore, and instead throws a clump of dirt at Tommy to change the subject.
The more he thinks about it, the more Tubbo starts to feel sick. Genuinely sick, as if he’s come down with something. His head is pounding all the time, and now whenever he opens the journal to take notes, he starts feeling nauseous. Some days when he opens up the journal, there are pages torn out. Other days, it’s been erased entirely. And he knows he wrote something, but he can’t place what it was. It’s honestly starting to freak him out. This was originally meant to be a way for him to try and write down everything he keeps forgetting, but it’s started to turn into something a little concerning, and Tubbo considers tracking down Fundy to help test him for Dreamon contamination.
This all comes to a head when Tubbo is holding the journal over a burning piece of netherrack. Wait… he’s doing what?
“What the fuck…” he mutters, stumbling back a couple steps. Why was he going to burn it? It’s literally just a journal full of memories, why is some part of him so hell-bent on getting rid of it?
He’s starting to understand how Ranboo feels.
Actually… maybe he should talk to Ranboo about this.
Tubbo really doesn’t want to, though. Ranboo is going to freak out, and it’s going to be a whole thing, and Tubbo is fine he can handle this. Probably.
Can he really though?
…
He says it offhandedly the next day when the two of them are out in the greater SMP looking for oak wood.
“What do you do when you can’t remember things?” Tubbo asks. Ranboo shrugs, heaving his massive axe into the trunk of a tree, felling it in a single swing. Were he in any different of a mood, Tubbo would be whistling because wow that was hot. But now is not the time, he’s kind of having a crisis here.
“I dunno,” they say, picking up the logs carefully. “I think I just learned to live with it? I mean, it’s scary and stuff- that’s never really gone away- but it’s manageable. I just kind of accepted it, I guess.” They eye him. “Why do you ask?”
“Well…” Tubbo thinks about whether he wants to commit to this, and while he still really doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have much of a choice. “I woke up yesterday trying to throw my notes into a fire.”
Ranboo pauses, and just stares at him. “What?”
“Yeah, I dunno. I’ve been writing stuff down, and I just- I just woke up from a daze and I was holding it over lit netherrack.”
They’re staring at him with an increasingly concerned expression. Tubbo grits his teeth, turning around to find another tree to chop. He continues nonchalantly, “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything, I was probably just tired and was clearing out my inventory or something. It happens-”
“What were you writing about before you almost threw it in?” they ask in a way that makes Tubbo feel like a puzzle being solved. He pulls the journal out of his inventory, and stares at it.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. His head hurts every time he thinks about opening the journal up. It’s like he’s being shut out, like… it feels like something/someone is trying to keep him from remembering. And it’s making his head hurt so bad. “Nevermind, forget I said anything.”
Ranboo sets down their axe, and walks over to him. When Tubbo finally looks up at them to see the damage, Ranboo looks so worried. They’ve got their brows all pushed together and they’re holding their forearms pretty tightly- likely to keep from reaching out to Tubbo since they know he doesn’t like physical touch (except when he weirdly does sometimes.) “I… Tubbo you’ve been acting weird lately. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ve just been a bit out of it lately, big guy. No big deal-”
“It is a big deal, you’re blacking out and- and not remembering what you did when you come back-”
He clutches the journal to his chest. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I remember some stuff-”
“Tubbo.” Ranboo is actually starting to sound annoyed. “I’m trying to help you. You’re the one who started this.”
Tubbo suddenly feels himself get annoyed back. “And now I’m saying I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You’re worrying me!”
“How do you think I feel?!” Tubbo snaps. “Apparently I change names and black out and act weird and forget about it afterwards! Apparently I do shit and completely forget that I did it! I can’t even remember where I came from before the server!”
“I do that too!” Ranboo replies, their voice starting to slightly crackle. “You’re just- you’re just describing what I have been dealing with the moment I joined the server, Tubbo! Of course I know how you feel; that’s just my daily life!” Tubbo jerks his head away, and Ranboo sighs. “Tubbo, I want to help you. I know how scary it is, and I can help with, like, coping stuff-”
“I don’t need help coping with it, I need it to stop.”
Ranboo stands up, letting out a frustrated and deep sigh, and goes to get his axe back. “Well it doesn’t. Trust me, I would know. Maybe you would too if you’d let me help you.”
They don’t talk on the way home. Tubbo doesn’t know why Ranboo is mad at him the next day, but still notices that there are fresh cookies set out on the counter when he comes back from shoveling snow later that night.
The walls at Snowchester are a mile longer the next time Tubbo looks at them. They look good, nice and even, very well crafted, stop at the sea the way they should. Tubbo sighs. Just another thing to change when he’s not paying attention. He treks along the top of the eastern wall, and sees a spruce chair plopped down facing the ocean with a jukebox next to it. It’s curious to be sure; Tubbo can’t think of the last time he came out to watch the sea from up here. Maybe it was Ranboo?
Tubbo takes a seat, and peers into the jukebox. There’s a disc inside, which is a bit surprising considering he hasn’t heard anything around Snowchester recently. Tubbo pulls the disc out, and hums in confusion.
“13? Who listens to 13 for fun?” he asks himself.
It comes from somewhere deep inside of him, a quiet little “I think it’s quite good actually. It’s haunting but in a nice way,” and Tubbo pales.
“What?” he asks to… someone, apparently.
It answers again. “It’s good, it’s creepy and that’s fun. Sorry, not everyone likes Cat.”
He feels like a fucking loser sitting here talking to the air, but it’s the first time he’s made progress at all on figuring out what’s wrong with him, and so Tubbo bites down the feeling and the budding migraine that’s cropped up out of nowhere, and tries to keep talking to whoever is haunting him.
“Who are you?”
He gets an eye roll. “You’re not possessed, bossman. It doesn’t work like that, the Dreamon stuff. We know this.”
It’s confusing, because it feels like he’s talking to himself. It feels like he’s talking to himself but he’s responding in ways he wouldn’t normally, and so Tubbo is left baffled because who even is this?
“You didn’t tell me your name. What is it?”
The voice sighs. “Do you remember the courthouse? I’m a lawyer.”
“That’s still not a fucking name.”
“Well, Tommy wanted us to have code names, so I picked Big Law and it just stuck. Does that work?”
Tubbo almost laughs. “That’s such a stupid name.”
“Your name is fucking Tubbo.”
… Touché.
Tubbo leans forward against the stone brick railing, and lets the icy wind whip against his face. ‘Big Law’ is muttering in his head about something, but somehow Tubbo can’t hear what it is. He comes back though, and it feels like he’s putting a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder.
“Listen, I- you’re stressed, and it’s getting really freeking hard to keep up the walls in here, so I figured I’d just go ahead and bite the bullet.” Big Law rifles through his briefcase- when did he get that?- and pulls out a key. “You deserve to know what’s going on. It’s kind of fucked up to keep you in the dark like this, and it’s making The Archivist upset. He says we shouldn’t, but I’m a lawyer and above the law, so whatever I say goes. This is all metaphorical brain bullshit, but it should maybe help.” With that, he hands Tubbo the key. Not physically, just… mentally. “It’s to the Archives. You know what I mean.”
And with that, he’s gone.
And Tubbo is sitting there on the wall, alone. His head hurts a little less.
Tubbo stops thinking about it as much, the whole other versions of himself that he can talk to thing. He does still think about it though, and weirdly he finds that it isn’t as stressful. Big Law- still ridiculous that he calls himself that- apparently did do something, because now Tubbo can open up the journal again. When he checks it, he finds handwriting he doesn’t recognize adding on likes and dislikes that he doesn’t ever remember having. Big Law loves cookies, someone just called “Unhinged Tubbo” loves slimes, and Big Crime hates Big Law. Apparently there’s some kind of drama going on in there, but Tubbo has a family and a job so he doesn’t worry about that.
In fact, Ranboo says he’s been happier lately- says that it’s in his jaw, that it’s more relaxed. Tubbo tells them about the conversation with Big Law after Michael has been put to bed.
“Well… that does explain a lot, now that I think about it,” they say, leaning back in bed.
“It doesn’t weird you out?” Tubbo asks.
Ranboo laughs. “Tubbo, I told you. That’s just my daily life.” They sigh. “Actually, I’m kind of jealous. You can actually have a conversation with your other half.”
“Well there is more than one-”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, I do. Well, mostly. I don’t know if it’s the exact same thing, bossman.”
Ranboo raises a brow. “What makes you say that?”
Tubbo looks up at the ceiling. “I mean… you just… you’re- I don’t know. You know?”
“I really don’t, actually. Like at all.”
He grumbles. “I just- you’re so much more put together about it! I’m a fucking mess. You’ve been doing the memory book thing, and even though you never talk to the other guy, you manage perfectly well!” Tubbo gestures with his hands up at nothing, just flailing them around as he rambles. When he looks over at Ranboo, though, he sees this melancholic and slightly bitter smile on their lips.
“Tubbo, I think you maybe just don’t see the times I am a mess,” they say, fully rolling over to face him. “I’m a mess too. I, uh, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I built a box under the water outside of L’manberg where I would go whenever I was freaking out.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Mmhm.”
“Did it help?”
“No, not at all,” Ranboo chuckles. “It actually just made everything so much worse. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, an obsidian box underneath water? Water that I had to swim through? Horrible idea, just- just absolutely terrible planning on my part.” Ranboo reaches for Tubbo’s hand, and Tubbo lets them take it. Their hands are so much bigger than Tubbo’s, it’s crazy. Tubbo finds himself tracing scar trails and splotches of white speckled against the black before he even realizes it, and Ranboo squeezes his hand lightly. “What I’m trying to say is that I know it’s really scary, and- and I don’t have all the answers myself. But I want to be there for you.”
Tubbo furrows his brow. “What if there’s a part of me that is completely different?”
“I’ve met some very different parts of you so far, Tubbo. That’s not changing anything.”
He sighs. “This is so stupid,” he mumbles, flipping over to rest on their chest. “Why can’t I have normal problems like taxes?”
The chuckle slightly bouncing his head is laced with purring. “I thought that’s why we got married? Are you telling me you want to get divorced so you can experience taxes?”
Tubbo pretends to think for a bit. “Mm, no. I guess not. You’re too sexy to divorce.”
“Oh, well that’s good. I’m glad that’s the only reason we’re still married.”
“What can I say-” he pauses to yawn, “You’re easy on the eyes.”
Ranboo laughs again. “Okay, bed time now.”
“Whatever.”
“Mmhm, whatever. Goodnight Tubbo,” Ranboo coos.
“Goodnight Minutes Man,” Tubbo coos back, smiling at the jump in their chest underneath him and passing out afterwards.
It’ll be fine.
He should probably tell Tommy though.