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Ashswag had finally been able to return to The Regime at dusk. Most of the other members would teleport back using way stones, but he would consider himself more… old-fashioned. Walking back to The Regime on foot also gave him time to think, time to clear his head, time to just breathe in the fresh air as he strolled down the familiar trail of desire he created.
His face stung with each gust of wind that hit it. Ash pretended his lack of caring for the still bleeding gash on his face was a way to wake himself up.
His dark silhouette cut sharp lines against the fading blood-orange sky. The Regime was quiet, well, save for the metallic whirring of the current projects Tubbo had been working on. He internally noted down to remind Tubbo just how well a job he'd done, that being a curt nod and deadpan praise, if you could even call it that. His thick, black boots scraped stone as he strode past the railways, chin lifted, posture perfect, every inch the “Supreme Leader” the server believed him to be.
Even if there were a few cracks in that facade. Ones that couldn't be patched with sheer charisma, ones that made his heart drop and dread fill the gaps in between his ribcage.
One of the few, but recent examples being a new, shiny, fresh line dragging down his cheekbone: the raw, angry red of a fresh wound, already drying in streaks against his brown skin. The fight had been quick—pathetically so, actually, he had to hold back a smile. The North’s protege had barely lasted a minute under his blade. But he’d been sloppy, he's man enough to admit his own faults, and he had been too high on his own power to dodge the glint of a blade.
He’d won, yes, but at the cost of a stark, unkind, harsh imperfection carved deep into his face.
He had shown weakness, an unbearable amount. His enemies knew he could be hurt, that he could bleed; he couldn't show that type of weakness again, could never be that foolish enough to let himself slip up. He had to be perfect, he had to never show any fault, careful not to let any speck of emotion slip through his tone.
(If you asked Ash why this was, he would stare at you with a blank expression, as he wasn't quite sure himself).
That scar was the only substantial thing he had gained from that fight. Along with a migraine that only seemed to get worse the more he thought about the incident.
He could barely even remember the other person's name.
“Woah, man.”
The voice, bright and unbothered as ever, carried down from the scaffolding. Tubbo hopped lithely from the final rung of a ladder, grease-stained fingers brushing off his jeans. Ash couldn't tell if the area that Tubbo's fingertips could reach on his jeans was ever blue before, he doubts it. Tubbo squinted, then whistled highly.
“Gotta say, Ash,” he said, walking toward him, and then circling him like a shark with too much energy, “You look like shiiitt… Like capital 'S' Shit. No offense man, but that’s—uh—kinda a gnarly gash.”
Ashswag’s lips twitched. He forced them into a flat line, willing the dragon-hybrid to see only detachment. “It’s nothing,” he states, monotone, tasting like copper coating his throat. “Barely a scratch.”
“Barely a—? Buddy, it’s bleeding down your face.” Tubbo had already ducked under an archway,leaving Ash right next to the building of another one of his factories as he began rifling through the pile of tools and supplies he’d left by one of his machines. Ash faintly wonders if he's ever going to make a tool rack for himself, and a deeper, more selfish part of his heart wants to make it for him as a gift.
A moment later, one that had felt like an hour, but was probably just five seconds, Tubbo had finally emerged with a bottle of red, glimmering liquid and a rag that had, once upon a time, maybe been white. “Healing potion. Hold still.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re invincible. Supreme Leader of The Regime, blah blah blah—just hold the fuck still.” Tubbo’s hands were small but firm, and before Ashswag could swat him away without looking like a jerk—Supreme Leaders did not flinch, he had to remind himself—Tubbo dabbed the rag against his cheek. The sting was immediate.
Ashswag hissed, a scowl coming across his face before he could force it down.
“Relax,” Tubbo replied to the face, grinning like this was all a game to him, like this was fun. “You’ve had worse, right?”
Ash tried to roll his eyes, but Tubbo’s palm pressed to his jaw to steady him, and he began to push him back. Ash faintly registered how Tubbo took a split second to look both ways before he forced him down on a— When was there a bench placed there, better yet, when did he allow himself to be pushed down like that?
The gesture was casual, meaningless, likely thoughtless on Tubbo's end—but it froze Ash in place, his leg muscles tensed, shoulders raising as Tubbo's tongue stuck out in concentration, dabbing the rag faintly across the more scabbed places of his face.
He could feel a physical part of him start to spasm and glitch out, as if responding to the other man's touch.
No one touched him like that. Not without permission. Not without fear.
Tubbo didn’t even hesitate.
How soft had he gotten? How hadn't he noticed— why hadn't he noticed sooner?
“Honestly,” Tubbo continued, voice lowering as he focused on his work, “if you’re gonna get into fights, you could at least let me come with you. I can make machines that explode now. It’d be fun.” Tubbo didn't mention how his machine exploding was an accident, and not a happy one.
Ash swore he didn’t laugh. Supreme leaders didn't laugh, totally not.
…Okay, maybe the corner of his mouth jerked upward a little, but that was it.
“Fun, you say, while lecturing me about bleeding all over the place.”
“Exactly!" Tubbo's voice got higher, a glimmer in his eyes that Ash thinks he wants to see more of, "You need like, a mechanic-slash-bodyguard-slash-healer-slash-whatever-the-fuck. Quadruple threat!" Tubbo leaned his head to the side, and the grip on Ash's jaw tightened.
Ash allowed himself to be moved, he could hear the blood rush in his ears, the silence stretching as his gaze dropped to the hand that held his face, and then back up to Tubbo's eyes.
"There, all done.” Tubbo stepped back, admiring his own work. Ash doesn't think he's ever been sadder to hear those words.
The cut still stood out, raised and slightly discolored, but the angry red had dulled, and a faint shimmer of magic knit the skin together. “You’re gonna have a scar, though. Kinda bad-ass."
Tubbo lamented this as if he didn't have countless scars littering his body, even if they were covered by welding masks and baggy clothes that covered every square inch of his skin most of the time.
Ash had been lucky to witness a few bullet scars on the dragon-hybrid's back before Tubbo had shrugged on his jacket again.
Ash straightened, he didn't want to admit he missed the sudden loss of pressure on his jaw, didn't want to admit just how long that moment had felt for him. His migraine worsened by the number of times he could feel the glitching on the side of his face intensify the more he thought about it, whether in embarrassment or elation, he didn't exactly know.
He let the silence drag long enough to seem unimpressed, just enough for Tubbo to not know how much he cared, “...It’s acceptable,” he finally said, in that same perfectly flat tone that Tubbo's become well acquainted with. He hoped his glitching had calmed down.
Tubbo only grinned in response, a flush coming up from his neck. Ashswag was an open book, or at least, the glitching made him know of Ash's true emotions. He always knew, one way or another.
And for some unfathomable reason, that made Ashswag’s chest feel… lighter.
The core of his chest felt like there was a pressure welling up within, he chose to blame the redness on his cheeks on the healing potion's side effects.
Tubbo gave one last little wave, still grinning as he turned, attitude casual and bright. As he entered the factory farthest away, Ash could hear him shout, breezily, “Stay safe, yeah?” over the loud sounds of machinery that seemed to increase every day, surrounding the area of the entire capital. The words tasted like candle smoke, only registering to Ash's brain as white noise.
Ashswag stayed seated on the wooden bench far longer than he intended, staring at the ground between his boots as if the stone itself would offer clarity, maybe words magically etching themselves into concrete, offering him guidance. Ash had never been that lucky, so he gave up on that idea fairly quickly.
His pulse thrummed in his ears, hot and insistent, and the sting in his cheek had transformed into something entirely different, something practically foreign to his being.
He couldn’t describe it without tripping over the edges of it. He raised a gloved hand as if to touch the half-healed skin, the texture of leather brushing against the faint shimmer of magic, and felt the ghost of Tubbo’s hands there instead.
He wasn’t sure if he liked it or if it terrified him.
He didn't know when he started to think things like that.
He didn't know when he started to see Tubbo as more than a 'yes-man'.
…
A part of himself that he wasn't aware of admitted that being patched up by Tubbo had felt better than winning the fight itself.
Maybe part of him wanted to bleed again if it meant Tubbo would look at him like that—cheeks pink, eyes bright, unbothered by the sharp edges of who Ashswag was supposed to be.
Maybe that part of him wanted to be selfish.
Not selfish in the way he wanted to take control of the server, but in the way that seemed almost indescribable. Maybe he wanted to be taken care of, to be pampered and treated like he was—…
Like he was human, capable of being hurt. And being cared for despite that fact.
He scowled at the thought, but it didn’t leave, in fact, the idea of it only seemed to root itself deeper in his skin, embedding the thought, the concept of being cared for in his very being. It felt like cold water was doused over him, but it didn't feel like shame, not like when he lost a fight or missed a slash of his axe, no, it didn't feel like that at all, it felt more like cruel admittance, a cruel, biting, practically earth-shattering admittance.
The Supreme Leader should not crave softness. He couldn't crave this attention, comfort… whatever this was, that almost seemed to radiate from Tubbo.
Yet he sat there, flushed and confused, the iron grip on his own image faltering with every echo of Tubbo’s laugh in his head, every time he smiled, every time Tubbo had said yes to him despite any reluctance he might have had.
A part of Ash's mind wondered if it would be so wrong to pick another fight, just to let someone get close enough to hurt him—not fatally, never fatally—but enough to warrant that same rough, careful touch, that same easy scolding and playful banter. He could already picture it, the cycle of violence and relief.
Maybe he could go back to the north and demand a rematch over and over, a never-ending process of violence that only seemed to appeal to him.
Ash could feel a part of his soul twitch and spasm at that, glitching in and out of existence as it seemed to agree with him. At least, he hoped it agreed with him.
Ash leaned back against the bench, tilting his head toward the sky as the last tinge of orange bled into indigo. His heart felt… odd. Heavy and light all at once. Maybe this was dangerous. Maybe it was irrational. Maybe he was already in deeper than he dared to admit, already five feet in a grave he dug for himself.
The Supreme Leader does not falter. But Ash, alone in the dim wash of twilight, let the thought whisper throughout him anyway. He let the very idea of it course through his veins; reveled in it, even,
Maybe he wanted to be hurt—just so Tubbo would be there to heal him again. It wouldn't be all that bad, plus, he's pretty sure Tubbo can make an automatic potion brewery anyway.