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There are only a few things that make Tubbo feel sick. And one of them is not the cold of Snowchester. Even when he never wears a coat out. It’s not the strong stench of sweat, oil, and machinery that wafts over the town from the much too big concrete building that sticks out like a sore thumb along the nice wooden cottages that house no families or people. And as much as he says it, no. The big sprawling wooden mansion near the edge of town does not make him sick. Even with its intricate details, you can see from the outside, the gazebo in the back that is long forgotten, the snow piling high along paths that used to be used every day by a family.
Tubbo has long since exiled himself to his vault and a cottage he built a little outside of Snowchester. On his bad days, he walks around the snowy village and tries to forget. He walks to his vault and goes in and doesn't come out til much later, smelling of something bad. Tubbo tries to swallow the bitter pills of everything his life has become. And on some nights, when he sits alone in his cabin, he laughs at how cruel it is. How cruel it is that he had everything. Everything he wanted everything he deserved after what he went through.
It’s been much quieter since Ranboo died and took Michael with them.
Tubbo hates the quiet. It’s a new discovery.
Tubbo built his new cabin a few weeks or so after Ranboo, or more like Ghostboo, a husk of his dearly departed husband, took Michael and walked away. He had no clue where the kid was but he had a good enough idea where Ghostboo was. With that bunny hybrid. The one he pushed off a bridge. Aimsey was weird. There was no other way to describe them. They smiled so damn much. It was annoying. (Tubbo tried to ignore how their smile reminded him of his before everything happened. Before he was turned into a soldier before he…)
The goat stands abruptly from his chair in his living room. A very sad attempt at a living room that is. At least a comfortable one. But no living room was comfortable without Ranboo. Tubbo takes a big sigh, rubbing his hands over his face with an angry groan because the more he thinks of anything about the past, the angrier he gets. His whole thing was that he could move on. And he moves on quickly. But why was it taking a lifetime to get over Ranboo? Was it because they were one of the few people to ever show him an ounce of love? Love that he could never give back.
He tries not to think of it as he sits back down in the chair and sleeps.
When he opens his eyes, he’s lying down in a field of green and bright colors blooming every few feet. His head feels supported as he lays on the nice familiar feel of black suit pants. Tubbo can feel Ranboo’s familiar fingers running through his hair and scratching his scalp slowly and softly. “Good morning darling. How did you sleep?” They ask, their hand now resting on his cheek. Tubbo lets the shock of familiarity pass. He’s been here a lot these past few nights. “I cannot sleep well without you,” Tubbo says. “I cannot do anything without you.”
Ranboo smiles bittersweetly at the goat on his lap. Tubbo looks up at the enderian. Eyes semi-covered by thin purple glasses that rested on their nose, the chain attached to the arms of the glasses always made a soft noise when Ranboo moved their head. Tubbo watches as Ranboo just looks down at him, beautiful black and white hair falling over their shoulder. Tubbo thought Ranboo was the most ethereal being he had ever seen. Even when he first saw them in New L’manburg. There was just something about them. Tubbo watched as they took his hand in theirs and kissed his scarred knuckles.
“Oh, Bee. You can do many things without me. You don’t need me.”
Tubbo wakes up with a start, hand over his chest as he inhales heavily. He can faintly hear the morning chirps of birds. For the first time in a while, Tubbo feels sick.
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Tubbo feels sick whenever he thinks of Ranboo. Tubbo feels sick whenever he remembers their soft touches and kisses. Tubbo feels sick whenever he remembers their voice. Tubbo feels sick whenever he remembers Ranboo was in his life. He feels like a fool whenever he remembers he had let them into his life and then left it so easily. He feels as if he is stuck in this spot, in this place in the universe where he is stuck with his actions, he is stuck with getting attached. For Prime’s sake, why did he get so attached?
Was it the glances they gave when they were writing notes for him in meetings in the cabinet? Was it the way their hands wrapped around his when he was at his lowest and they listened? Was it the swift and fast confession while sitting on a soft couch in a small cottage in front of a fire where he heard “I love you”? Was it the poems they wrote for him and left them on his pillow before leaving to go off somewhere for a bit? Was it the vows that bound them together til death do them part? What a joke. They were dead and Tubbo could not for the life of him, part with the memory of Ranboo.
So, it was going to be a normal day. As normal a day can be without such a huge part of him missing. Tubbo stepped out of his cottage, heavy boots hitting the creaking wood of the porch. He could see his breath with every exhale, his fingers felt numb even though the cold didn’t usually bother him. After all, the cold can never bother a thing already cold. Sometimes, it feels as if Tubbo was the one who had died. He certainly feels dead. His right horn feels extra heavy today with the weight of the golden wedding ring. Tubbo tries not to think about how the shirt he has underneath his coat was a gift from Ranboo.
Tubbo pulled out his axe as he walked deeper into the forest. It was quiet except for the soft crunch of his boots against the snow. The air is cold and crisp like it usually is, until a few seconds later when he picks up on the smell of strong lavender, blood long dried, and dirt. Tubbo’s shoulders droop, his axe hitting the snow hard. He turns around and looks up at the translucent figure of a fake version of his husband.
As someone who could practically describe Ranboo from memory down to the marks on their skin, Ghostboo felt like a cheap knock-off of them. But it sucked that they wore that face, that beautiful, familiar, loving face. Tubbo would give the world to hold that face once again, his scarred hands trailing soft circles on their cheeks, kissing their tear-tracked scars as they relaxed. Tubbo takes a shakey inhale. The air felt colder, it poked his lungs.
“What do you want?” Tubbo asks, as monotone as he could possibly muster. Ghostboo looked down at Tubbo, face blank underneath a thin white dirt-stained veil. They looked disappointed. Tubbo hated it when Ranboo looked at him that way. But this isn’t Ranboo. “I had a talk with Aimsey. About the bridge. About… us. They are sticking around. We made a nice cafe together by their house and I-” They get interrupted by Tubbo picking up his axe and about to turn around. “Wha- uh, why are you walking away?” Ghostboo asks sadly, reaching for one of Tubbo’s hands, in which he quickly hides his hand in his coat pocket.
“Why are you telling me this shit? I don’t care. Congrats you told Aimsey. Congrats you made a stupid fucking cafe. I. Don’t. Care.” Tubbo growls turning on his heel as he starts to follow his footprints back home, Ghostboo trailing after him. “Well I just- I just thought that uhm since you got so defensive over me and what not that you were over this whole thing of trying to shove me off and- and stuff.” Ghostboo rambles, Tubbo stopping abruptly to give a look at Ghostboo. “I did not get defensive over you. That… that asshole was trespassing on Ranboo’s grave one too many times. That’s my place.”
It’s Ghostboo’s turn to sigh, Tubbo watches as they open their mouth a few times to say something but stops themself. “Uh. Well, that’s my grave and Aimsey is my friend so they can go as much as they like.” Ghostboo says flatly. “You are not Ranboo. I buried them. I made the tombstone. I bring them the flowers that sit on their grave every week. I am the one that takes care of and looks after it so fools like that don’t hurt them.” Tubbo says eyes narrowed under his dyed bangs. “Oh, Bee-” Ghostboo says softly, reaching out to cup his cheek. Tubbo jerks back, eyes widening as he stumbles a few more feet.
“Don’t you dare touch me. Don’t you DARE call me that.” He hisses, glaring at the ghost. Their long hair was all tangled and matted. Nothing like Ranboo. Not like his husband at all. Their clothes were ripped and dirty. Ranboo would be upset if anyone saw them in such a state. This… thing was a copy, a copy of all the things Ranboo wasn’t. Tubbo tried to ignore the ache that swelled in his chest at being called “bee” again after so long. Ghostboo looks sadly at Tubbo, their hand dropping to their side. “I… have a good day, Tubbo.” And that was that. Ghostboo went off, dirty white outfit almost blending into the snow.
Tubbo felt sick again.
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There is a constant ticking noise. It’s one constant Tubbo has always heard. The ticking of the timer during shooting drills when he was a child soldier. The ticking of the loud clock that was always looking down at him whenever he stepped into Schlatt’s office. The ticking of a timer on TNT before it exploded and took the country he loved along with it. The ticking of a clock Ranboo had gifted him on their 1 year anniversary. It was placed on the mantle above the fire in the cabin. Tubbo stared blankly at the small ticking clock from his chair. He couldn’t shake his interaction with Ghostboo from earlier that day. He couldn’t think. All he heard was tick after tick after tick and Tubbo felt like he was going crazy.
He still smelt strong lavender and dirt. Tubbo doesn’t like the scent. Why can’t he for the life of him just hang onto the scent of alliums and ink? The ticking continues as he leans into his chair more. How long has it been since a good night's rest? When can he sleep peacefully again? Has he ever slept peacefully, to begin with? Tubbo can’t think, everything is blurry, his head hurts his eyes sting and he’s crying. He’s crying because he’s alone and what a feeling that is.
Tubbo will never get over that aching feeling of being so alone. He realizes his head doesn’t feel heavy because of the ring. It never has. It’s always been the horns. Those damn horns. And next thing he knows he’s in the bathroom with a file and the door shuts loudly and all he can hear is the sound of his horn being filed down and it hurts. Why does it hurt? Tubbo cries as he sits on the cold floor. He reaches out for something that isn’t there. Someone who isn’t there. He should’ve never let Ranboo in. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could feel two hands on his cheeks and soft lips on his forehead, and a reassuring voice. But Prime knows Tubbo has never tried hard enough.
Tubbo woke up with a fever the next day.