Work Text:
"he's dead."
ranboo feels a jolt in his chest at sam's words. he glances to the boy at his side, waits for words, cries, screams, anything. somehow, the blank look on tubbo's face pains him more than anything else could've.
"that sucks."
confused, ranboo tries to think. an itch, a weight in his pocket is crying out to be touched, pages to be turned. he feels like he should be writing this moment down.
tubbo and tommy are friends, are they not? he remembers that much at the very least. he also remembers that tubbo is just a boy; a boy who's already lived the life of a soldier, a revolutionary, and a president. ranboo doesn't like to look into people's eyes - there's a part of his brain that tells him it's wrong, so wrong - but he can't help it in this moment.
there should be tears there, right?
ranboo himself cannot cry. his skin burns and the pain only makes him feel worse. tubbo, though, is only human. his flesh is too, cheeks soft and pink, where tears should be streaming.
but there isn't a single one.
he follows tubbo as he wonders aloud to himself. sam has already retreated into the prison, voice wrecked and full of guilt. there's something in ranboo that tells him, however, a red tug in his chest, if he'd looked into those eyes, it would be a very different story.
tubbo starts leading them back towards their hotel, rambling on about the stages of grief, and ranboo wishes that were true. he wants tubbo to drag him back there, to yell out as he claws at obsidian walls. he'll sit right beside him, hold him as he grieves.
instead, he sits beside him while he rifles through chests of materials.
if ranboo turns just to the right, he has a clear view out of their front window. black and red towers there, across the way, and it fills him with all kinds of strange emotions. why are they building this hotel anymore? everything they were aiming for seems to have been snatched away in a cruel instant.
it's only after a few moments that he becomes aware of the silence. turning to tubbo, he wants to cry, burnt flesh be damned. the boy seems to have sunk in on himself, hands white knuckled clenching at his thighs where he kneels, head tilted over his own lap. all ranboo can see is the mop of brown hair and the small horns peeking out.
ranboo reaches out, tentative and anxious, to place his lighter hand on tubbo's curved back. the smaller boy does not even flinch.
"he's... really gone?"
even now, it doesn't even sound like he's crying. ranboo feels as confused as tubbo sounds. when he took his friend's hand in marriage he thought he was prepared to support him through everything, but ranboo really could not have anticipated this.
"yes."
feeling like a stranger in his own skin, barely recognising the word leaving his mouth, ranboo feels helpless. tubbo nods, stands, the hand slipping off of his back without a fight. glancing upwards, ranboo sees the clenched fists and hunched shoulders.
"i can't do this today," tubbo whispers, and ranboo reaches a hand towards him, immediately falling back when the boy flinches away. "i can't."
ranboo is sure he hears a 'see you tomorrow, big guy' echo past the scaffolding as the hotel's front door swings shut again. he can't quite bring himself to smile.
minutes, or hours, later, ranboo stands too. the sun has only just begun to drop in the sky but his legs ache.
he takes a mindless wander down the prime path, not even sure himself where he's heading. businesses are starting to sprout up everywhere on the server now and ranboo feels a little sick to his stomach.
everything makes sense when he stops.
he's stepped through that doorway a few times. even though wars raged, ranboo seems to remember it as a simpler time. but sides weren't people and people picked sides and then they got hurt. but people still get hurt.
scribbled handwriting spells out tommy's name; while the residents of this server built countries and colonies and kingdoms, one home remained. amongst other belongings, inside sits an ender chest, and ranboo thinks of two discs, a cause for a boy to keep fighting, never to be played again.
it would be wrong to go inside; leaving the place untouched is the sliver of hope that maybe tommy will come back. ranboo knows he won't.
he can't leave the place like this. remembering the flowers he'd picked for the hotel, ranboo pulls a bunch out, kneeling to plant them into the ground around tommy's home. he's sure tubbo won't mind - someone else needs them more.
someone's watching him, passing by behind him. ranboo doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to see the pain on jack's face, on anyone's. he can't take anymore of that today.
finally, he stands, satisfied with his work. the flowers look a little limp, but they're bright, and ranboo hopes that they flourish. dusting the dirt off his knees and raising an internal salute, he turns and takes off down the path.
my first friend: goodbye.