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“Hey, Tommy, I’m- I’m sorry to— if you’re busy, feel free to ignore this, I just— Michael won’t stop fussing, and I can’t- I mean, he doesn’t— with me, he just, you know, normally, normally Ranboo would— but I know he likes you, and I can’t- I just— so, so, if you’re free, or, if you’re not too far, if you could— I just need, I mean, I could use a little— not that you have to, but, if you could just, if you could come over, just to help put him down— I’ll owe you, I’ll owe you another one, okay? Um- shit, Mikey, hey, no, don’t— I think I gotta run, but, uh. Yeah, yeah, uh, thank you. Shit. Bye.”
-—-
It feels like both a miracle and sudden damnation when Tubbo finally hears a knock at the door. He knows Tommy’s knock apart from anyone’s— rhythmic, almost sing-song, and always just a bit too fast and too loud. His heart leaps with something like relief, and lodges in his throat with something like fear.
It was stupid to call. Stupid. Impulsive. But he did it.
Michael sits heavily on his knee, finally lulled into a tenuous silence that Tubbo tries his best to preserve as he hefts him into his arms, but it’s no use. As soon as he’s moved, Michael lets out a plaintive whine, a noise that soon returns to crying even as Tubbo tries to shush him.
“Come on, Mikey,” he pleads, even though he knows it’s no good. There’s no quieting Michael. The best he can do is try not to join him again, ignoring the prickling in his own dry eyes.
He’s just tired. God, is he tired.
Balancing Michael on his hip, he gives his eyes one last furious scrub before trudging to the door. He flips the lock, then the deadbolt, and then the second lock of the storm door to let a snow-covered Tommy in.
“Hey,” Tubbo croaks, in a voice that barely manages to clear the sound of Michael’s. He doesn’t mean to sound so hoarse. He doesn’t mean to be the mess that he’s suddenly so aware he is.
The house is a mess too, he thinks. He should have cleaned. He could have at least picked a few things up, he knew Tommy was coming, he could have at least tried.
Resignedly, he steps to the side to let Tommy in. There’s nothing he can do about it now, other than duck his head to at least communicate that he feels properly ashamed of the state of things.
“Sorry,” he forces out, trying to place his words in between Michael’s cries to be heard, “it’s, uh— it’s been a busy week, I haven’t really had the time to neaten up,” but Tommy just makes a dismissive noise as he steps into the foyer, habitually stomping his snow-caked boots out on the mat.
“Oh come on. You’ve seen my place,” Tommy says. He taps his toe on the ground for the final time, and gives his boots an appraising once-over. “The big man doesn’t concern himself with neatening up.”
Once he’s shucked off his boots and thrown his coat over the hook, Tommy wastes no time in stepping forward, reaching out to take Michael from Tubbo’s arms and bundling him up into his own. “And hello to you, little man,” he says. “Your dad says you’re not havin’ it tonight, huh?”
“None of it,” Tubbo confirms tiredly, as Michael squeals to prove his point, flailing his tiny, balled up hands and wriggling in Tommy’s hold. Tommy just clicks his tongue sympathetically, gently bouncing him as he passes Tubbo and makes his way into the living room.
Tubbo pads after him, his body already slumping now that he no longer has to stand straight and support the weight of another one. “He’s been cranky all day, and I just need him to sleep, but he won’t.”
“Ahhh, I see.” Tommy nods, his serious tone of voice so exaggerated and comical that it somehow circles back around into being sincere again. “So you need a touch o’ the old Tommy’s talents.”
Tubbo snorts. Tommy is also so completely stupid that he circles back around into being a genius comic again. “Yeah, sure.” What talents those are, he’s not even sure. Just being someone other than him, probably. “I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying yet again, “I don’t know why I called, you were just the first person I thought of, and…” and what? Tubbo trails off, unsure of where he was going, or, at least, if it was a safe direction to follow out loud. Maybe he does know. Maybe they both do. But maybe Tubbo just doesn’t want to have to hear it. “At least he does well when you babysit,” he finishes halfheartedly.
“Don’t worry.” Tommy puffs himself up, hoisting Michael higher in his arms. “The big man can take care of anything.”
Tubbo follows Tommy through the house, watching him continue to bounce the chubby little piglet, rubbing his back and cooing over him. He makes it look so easy, Tubbo thinks. It should be that easy. It is, really, just not for him. Not tonight.
He’s just tired. Just so, so tired.
“You try warm milk yet?”
“It was one of the first things I tried,” Tubbo sighs, “he wouldn’t drink it.”
“Well, let’s try it one more time.”
They cross into the kitchen, and Tubbo cringes at the plates still on the table, the food having gone cold long ago. There’s more dirty kitchenware abandoned on nearly every surface— a dirty baking tray left out on the counter, and a pan of glossy white grease still on the stove, both left over from making dinner, and both of which Tubbo had planned to wash once they were cool enough to touch. Well, they’re certainly cool now. The sink is full of dishes, and there are a handful of emptied metal cans and a cardboard carton next to the recycling that Tubbo couldn’t fit in the bin without emptying its current contents, something else he planned to do and just didn’t.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but he’s running out of energy to even put proper air behind these apologies, the words empty and barely audible.
Tommy, for his part, doesn’t comment on it.
He walks straight to the stove instead, shifting Michael into one arm and rummaging around the lower cabinet for a small pot.
Tubbo fetches the milk from the fridge for him, along with a small jar of honey from the cupboard, and lets Tommy measure them into the pot. Tommy clicks the gas on, and settles himself leaning back against the counter.
“You still farming your own honey?” Tommy asks.
Tubbo leans against the fridge, resting his hands behind the small of his back. “Yep, wax too,” he says. “Make most of our soap from it, and whatever’s left over goes into stuff like hand lotion.”
“Jesus, is there anything in this house you don’t make yourself?”
“Not much.” Tubbo gives a small shrug. Just about everything around here is his handiwork, all the food they rely on gathered from his farm. It’s hard work— exhausting work, but it’s good to be self-sufficient out here. There’s no real other way to be. “It’s easier that way. I don’t have to leave to buy stuff.”
Michael begins raising his voice again and Tubbo can’t help but cringe, while Tommy just cradles and shushes him. “Hey, bud, hey,” he says gently. “I know. I know. You’re cranky, aren’t you?”
“I’ll watch the pot,” Tubbo offers, “you go sit,” and Tommy looks up, flashing a smile and a small, “Thanks, mate,” before crossing to find a place at the table.
Tubbo takes his spot by the stove, and, grabbing a wooden spoon he carved ages ago, keeps himself busy making sure the milk doesn’t film or overheat. He can hear Tommy talking to Michael behind him, patiently and soothing, and absently thinks that if it doesn’t put Michael to sleep, it just might do it for him.
Eventually, Michael does begin to quiet. Eventually, the milk is warm enough to pour into a small mug for him to use. Tubbo brings it to Tommy, and takes the seat nearest to him at the table, watching him patiently coax Michael into trying it.
It takes a few attempts, but eventually, Tommy gets him to drink, and Tubbo snorts softly in halfhearted exasperation.
“See, he does it for you, but not for me.”
“Told you, man,” Tommy says. “I’ve got talents. Kids love me.”
“Tommy, name one kid you know besides Michael.”
Tommy puts his lips together, humming as if on the verge of a response, spitting out just as Tubbo expects him to give up, “Jebraska.”
“Who’s Jebraska?”
“Oh, you know.” Tommy waves a hand. “She’s, uh— Karl’s kid. Yeah. Big scandal actually, no one’s sure which one of his husbands is the father.”
“Oh my god.” Tubbo comes the closest he has all night to a laugh. “You think I wouldn’t know if Karl had a kid? And you think if he did, he’d name her Jebraska?”
Tommy shrugs. “Well, I had you for a second.”
“You absolutely did not.”
Eventually, even though he’s only halfway through his cup, Michael’s eyes begin to droop, and Tubbo thinks he could cry with relief.
“You done with this, little man?” Tommy asks, holding up the cup, and Michael just huffs. “Alright, alright.” Tommy shifts his position on his lap, and Tubbo holds his breath, half-expecting him to cry again, but Michael stays quiet and content as Tommy lifts him up, carrying him in one arm and the cup with the other. “We’ll take it upstairs just in case, yeah? But let’s get you to bed.”
They climb the stairs to Michael’s room, where Tommy settles into the rocking chair with Michael and Tubbo leans back against the wall. Tommy uses the top of the nearby bookcase to rest Michael’s small cup of milk, after nudging an open book Tubbo had left there out of the way. He ends up picking it up, glancing at the cover before turning it back over.
“Are you reading this?” he asks, looking at Michael as if the question is directed at him.
Tubbo huffs, too tired to laugh at Tommy’s bit. Not that it’s particularly worth it— it’s probably more eyeroll worthy than anything. But that’s Tommy. That’s always been Tommy, and Tubbo has always laughed.
“It’s been our bedtime book,” he says. “He seems to like it. At least, I think he does. I don’t know. Maybe it just bores him to sleep.”
“Long as it works, ey?” Tommy says, tousling the furry side of Michael’s head. Michael tucks himself closer to Tommy’s body as Tommy leans back in the chair, settling his elbows on the armrests to hold the book open in front of them both. “I think he’s on his way out, anyways,” he remarks, looking Michael over and then turning his eyes towards Tubbo. “I’ve got him, if there’s anything you need to take care of.”
Tubbo thinks first of the plates on the table, muttering, “I should probably go clean up from dinner.”
Tommy doesn’t seem to have forgotten either, but he gives him a careful look. “You even eat yet?”
“Not really.”
“Well go fix yourself something.” Tommy nods his head towards the door. “Go on. I told you, I got this.”
“Thanks, mate,” Tubbo says, offering a half-hearted smile before taking his cue to leave.
He shuts the door lightly behind him as he slips out of the room, muffling Tommy’s voice to a low murmur as he begins to read. Without the warm, artificial light from Michael’s room, it’s easier to see the sky dimming outside the window, what little he can see beyond the trees beginning to turn orange around the edges.
It’ll probably be dark by the time Tommy has to leave. Maybe Tubbo should ask if he’d like to stay in the guest room. Snowchester can become truly frigid at night.
Tubbo pads down the steps and makes his way back towards the kitchen. It feels strange, somehow, to walk through his own house alone. In a way, it’s a relief. In another, though, he can’t help but feel tense, like he’s forgotten something but just can’t remember what. Was it an item? A person? Something he needed to do?
Finally, his feet meet cool tile again, and he flips the light, looking absently around the kitchen.
It’s fine, to be here. It’s fine, to leave Michael. He’s with Tommy. It’s fine.
Tommy told him to go eat. So, that’s what he should do.
Tubbo glances at his plate of food on the table, and considers it. Is he even hungry-? It’s odd, how sometimes he doesn’t notice. Now that he’s trying to pay attention, he thinks he might be nauseous instead. There’s nothing about cold meat and potatoes that looks particularly appetizing. It’s a shame, really after he went to the trouble of cooking it— he’s just not sure that he could even keep it down.
With a sigh, Tubbo picks up his plate, as well as Michael’s smaller one, and empties them both into the trash before taking them back to the sink for washing.
At least he has the chance to just wash them now, instead of leaving it for later. That’s a bit more responsible. Maybe he can get through some of the other plates that have been waiting to be cleaned.
Grabbing a rag and dousing it in soap, Tubbo gets to work. There’s a decent amount to get through. It’s just been a while since he’s had a chance to take care of it. He tries– he swears, he tries, but there’s always more piling up. Every day there’s more cooking to be done, that leaves pans needing to be scoured and dishes needing to be washed just to cook the next meal and create more to be cleaned. There’s always more food to be farmed, more trash to take out, more laundry to be washed, more toys to be picked up all while someone needs to watch over his boy and keep him happy.
He’s just tired. He’s just so, so goddamn tired.
At least Tommy is sometimes able to help, would probably be willing to help more if Tubbo just asked more, but he doesn’t want to ask. He hates it every time he does.
This shouldn’t be Tommy’s job. Tubbo doesn’t want to saddle him with this, he doesn’t want the time they spend together to be filled with chores and parenting and work he never signed up for, he doesn’t want their relationship to become work.
Tubbo sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of just how tight his throat is becoming.
He doesn’t want Tommy to resent him. He knows he couldn’t bear it, not now. Not again. He just wants them to be friends— best friends, or whatever they are, whatever they used to be. He wants them to be able to have fun, the way they used to be able to have fun.
It’s just– so much has changed. And so much keeps changing. There’s hardly anything left of the world they grew up in, too many people now gone, too many homes reduced to rubble. Tubbo doesn’t recognize the person he used to be in whatever he is now, he’s not sure there’s even any of him left. He’s too bitter. Too tired. Too weak to carry all the responsibilities he’s been left with, too slow to keep up with the pace life has set, too pathetic to stop the mess from piling up all around him and his life from falling apart.
It’s not fair.
It feels petulant– childish, immature, but it’s the only thing Tubbo can think. It’s not fair.
He’s not supposed to be like this. He doesn’t know what went wrong. He should be a better person, a better father, a better friend. He should be able to stand on his own two feet, and put his own son to bed, and keep his own house clean and not–
A sob tears itself from his throat, and Tubbo drops the plate he’s holding back into the sink, clutching the edge of the basin and doubling over.
There’s something wrong with him.
What happened?
What’s wrong with him?
What–
“Tubbo?”
The dam is broken. There’s no taking it back. All Tubbo can do is cover his face as he cries, not even as much to hide as it is to keep himself from looking at Tommy. He can still hear his footsteps, though. Still feel the arm wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer, encouraging him to turn towards him. Tubbo shoves his face into Tommy’s collar, choking on sob after sob as everything pours out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he barely manages to say, only for Tommy to shush him, pressing his cheek against his temple.
“Hey, hey.” Tommy’s voice is soft— gentle, but confused, worried but careful. “Hey. What’s wrong, man?”
Tubbo forces down a deep breath, trying desperately to swallow the rock in his throat, to find a way to steady his voice while his entire body trembles. “I don’t know,” he croaks, although it’s not entirely true. He doesn’t know how to say it, he doesn’t know where to start. “All of it, everything, I just— I can’t—“
Whatever fragile control he managed to reign in tears away from his grasp, and his words are smothered by another ragged sob.
“Okay, okay.” The arms wrapped around him tighten, and he can feel Tommy shift his weight, slowly rocking them back and forth. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
Tubbo balls his fists in the back of Tommy’s shirt, letting himself be held as he cries. And cries. And cries.
He’s not sure how long they stand there like that, how long he spends uncontrollably heaving and how long Tommy spends quietly listening to him. It could be forever. It feels like forever. Tubbo feels terrible, that he’s made this their forever.
But his body can’t carry it on forever. Eventually, his tears begin to run dry, sobs turning into whimpers, then sniffles, then nothing but thin, shuddering breaths. His chest aches, but there’s nothing in him left to express it. His throat is too raw, sore and shredded, and his eyes sting for lack of tears every time he blinks.
Tommy doesn’t move though. Tubbo makes no attempt to either. It’s easier this way, he thinks. He feels like he might collapse on his own— and he doesn’t think he could handle standing back far enough to look Tommy in the face.
So they stay. They just stand, Tommy rubbing his back as Tubbo waits for his breathing to feel whole again.
“Why don’t we go sit down, yeah?” Tommy offers eventually, and Tubbo nods, finally relinquishing his hold on Tommy shirt and letting himself be guided to the living room instead.
A light is flipped on, and they sit together on the couch, Tubbo still leaning against Tommy’s side, picking at the hem of his shirt and sniffling.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Tubbo stays quiet. He doesn’t know if he does. He doesn’t know what he would even say.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually, even though that isn’t an answer.
“What for?”
How can he even begin to vocalize it? Where can he even begin? How can he stand to hear any of it said aloud, how can he look at the mess he’s made and stomach it? “This,” is all Tubbo can think to say. “All of this.”
“Hey.” Tommy tilts his head as if to try and catch his eyes, offering a gaze Tubbo can’t bring himself to meet. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing, yeah?”
“It’s not nothing,” Tubbo insists, “asking you to drop everything just cos— just cos I can’t—“
“Hey, hey,” Tommy cuts in. “I’m happy to do it, man, really,” he insists. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”
Tubbo sniffles, squeezing the gathered hem of his shirt and swallowing the lump in his throat. He might cry if he thought he had any strength for it left in him– but as it is, his tears are spent.
“We’re in this together, aren’t we?” Tommy asks.
“You don’t have to be.”
“Yes I do.” Tubbo can practically hear Tommy’s frown in his voice, can just picture the way his brows always furrow and his nose crinkles up when he’s trying to make a point. “And I want to. I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine, yeah? That’s how this works! Cos it’s just us left, now, it’s just—“
Tommy cuts himself off, and “We can make this work,” he says quietly. “Come on, man. I think we’ve stuck it out through enough shit so far.”
“Yeah.” Tubbo huffs out a soft breath, something that’s either a sigh or an exhausted attempt at a laugh. “I guess we have, huh?”
“So, we stick this out too. You’re not getting rid of me,” Tommy says, an assertive finality that feels good. Feels assuring. “Not even if you want to.”
Tubbo manages to find a half-hearted smile in him. “Good.”
Tommy sighs, threading his fingers through Tubbo’s hair and pulling his head against his shoulder in a half-playful gesture. “You know I love you.”
“I love you too,” Tubbo echoes. The words sound so quiet in his voice, so rusty and unused. It’s been so long since he’s said them.
Maybe it shouldn’t be.
Tubbo looks absently towards the window. It’s gone completely dark, now. If he listens carefully, he can hear the rustle of the wind in the pines. He can also hear Tommy breathing. He wonders if, if he just rested his head a little lower, he could also hear his heart.
“S’gettin’ late,” Tommy murmurs. Tubbo can feel him shift slightly, and a stab of fear jolts his heart, the kind that urges him to move, to say stop, to clamp down and never let go. But Tubbo doesn’t. He can’t. He can only stay still, and hope his weight is enough of an objection to Tommy standing. Tommy ruffles his hair instead. “Should probably get out of your hair so you can sleep.”
“Stay?”
Tommy’s face softens, not quite smiling, but sweet. “‘Course,” he says, like there’s no other answer. “Guest room still down the hall?”
It’s a silly question. But it’s not what Tommy’s asking. “Just sleep in mine.”
“What, like, sleep with you?”
“Bed’s big enough for two” Tubbo says. “It’s not like it’d be the first time.” He doesn’t mean to say more, but the ache in his chest rises up his throat and he hears himself muttering, “I think I slept better when someone else was here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Tommy says. His hand is back on Tubbo’s shoulder, and he gives him a light squeeze, pressing him into his side. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed then.”