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“Oh, I don’t know how to say this, uh—“ Techno sighs and avoids Tubbo’s eyes the best he can. “Okay, I saw—I saw Ranboo being taken into the prison. By Sam.”
Tubbo, in full armor, blinks at Technoblade. The man is on his porch.
“And, uh, today I broke in to rescue Dream, Ranboo, and Connor, for some reason he was also there. We broke him out.”
Tubbo stares.
“But after we escaped, uh.” A pause. Techno stares at the image in his hands, of a child who reflects him in the most painful ways. He looks up abruptly.
“Sam murdered Ranboo.” He looks back down at the image. “In the escape.” Tubbo doesn’t even move.
“And, before he died, he—he gave me—he gave me this image.” Techno hands the picture of the son to the father. Tubbo picks it up, looks at it. It’s Michael, in his room.
“Do you—do you know what it means?”
Does he know what it means?
Well, that’s a loaded question. It means many things.
It meant safety, and his family, and his home he created from nothing. It meant security, and forgiving himself, and it meant finding the room to love again.
It means fear that he’s lost that, now.
He doesn’t say anything, and he hears Techno speak again, and he sees him leave, but he doesn’t say anything. He stands on the deck, in the snow, and holds the picture of Michael. There is a family photo behind him, and for a split second Tubbo is back in that room, taking that picture, laughing and looking forward to the future for the first time in a while. When he comes back to reality, he does’t cry, or scream, or show any reaction at all. He folds the picture carefully and puts in his pocket.
Tubbo takes a deep breath. It’s all happened before; he’s heard this song. He hums as he walks down the dock, into his home, and climbs up the ladder to Michael’s room. And, to his twisted satisfaction, the boy is not there. Michael’s chicken sleeps peacefully on his bed. Tubbo stalks over to the bed and sits down. The wooden frame creaks under his weight. He reaches forward and pets the chicken gently, scratching under it’s beak when it stirs.
“Sorry for waking you,” He whispers. He dangles his legs over the side of the bed and studies the wooden floor he built years ago, and how the only thing that’s changed is the people who stand on it. He remembers, without breath or twitch, walking over the top of the hill just after Doomsday. He feels the phantom afflictions from the fireworks, the Withers, and the jagged stone. His head spins as he reaches out for Tommy’s shirt, bows his head at the smell of smoke, and nearly hurls when he hears something fall on the other side of the room.
His head shoots up to see the noise then falls back much like a boomerang as a wave of nausea fills his lungs. He holds his stomach, chokes, and the chicken clucks. He shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head vehemently, trying to just get it out of his head—all of it.
On patient legs, Tubbo tries to hoist himself off the bed and leave the building, but the sheets spring forward. The baby blue blankets wrap like vines around his wrists. He whips his head back in panic, then falls into himself due to the sudden movement meeting the nausea. The covers snake down and wind through and around his legs, tightening steading, contracting, like a python. Tubbo’s breath quickens as he tries to rip himself away from the bed. It become a harried effort, straining and painful. His shoulders ache as he pulls, pulls again, pulls harder, harder still. They begin to weave around his stomach and his breath is so panicked, he’s shaking. He kicks as hard as he can, strains, hands in fists, and he fights to breathe. He fights to get the threads out of his hair, detach them from around his horns, and breathe for a few seconds.
Michael's chicken stares at him. Tubbo begins to cry.
He stops pulling on the sheets despite the fact that he can still feel them moving. He lets his limbs go, but they don’t fall to the mattress because the are wound too tight. He cries, quietly, into the stale air of Michael’s room. At some point, the sun fell, and the stars greeted the floor. The moon pours melodically over his feet, which are wrapped in baby blue. The world sings to him, in quiet hues, and he cries in harmony. He tightens his fist in a last show of soul and immediately relinquishes as he feels the fabric slither along his throat, like a blade.
“I’ll cut you,” It seems to warn. “I’ll swipe your head clean off.” It tightens.
“Do it,” Tubbo chokes out. “Do it.” He pleads with finality.
The blanket is soft. On any other day, it would be a caress, and not a threat.
As the edges of Tubbo’s vision get darker, he swears he hears a knocking at the door, and a voice too green for his heart. He keeps his eyes open and trained on the door for as long as he can. It swings open, and he attempts to stay focused, but his airways are beyond constricted. He chokes, strains his arms in natural instinct, and keeps fearful eyes trained on the boot that steps into Michael’s room.
“Tubbo,” It taunts. “Tubbo, Tubbo.”
Tubbo chokes, begins to loose feeling in his fingertips.
“Tubbo,” calls the wicked song. “Tubbo, Tubbo, Tubbo. Tubbo.” It begins to shout at him.
Tubbo doesn’t react. Tubbo can’t think anymore.
”Tubbo,” It screams at him. His chest feels cold as he falls, and falls.
And it is black. And it is quiet. And he can no longer hear, nor see, nor feel the bed beneath him. The room is gone. The sheets are gone. Michael is gone. Ranboo is gone. Tubbo is gone.
And then he gasps, is cast into blinding light, and then he hears the squawk of a chicken. He whips his head int he direction of the bird, and finds Michael’s chicken sitting on his pillow, in the sunlight.
Tubbo is in the sunlight.
“Dream,” He coughs out. “Dream, just….a dream.” He licks his lips and throws the yellow comforter off of his lap. He’d fallen asleep in Michael’s bed.
Much to his disappointment, the nausea was still very real. As soon as he stands up, his head spins in warning and his hands find his gut. He lurches forward, and stumbles to the ladder. He glances at the sweet light that graces his son’s bedroom and quickly climbs back down so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. He makes his way to the front door with surprising effort and barely makes it before he’s giving his intestines up to the snow below him.
It all comes up, scorching the insides of his throat as he braces himself, stomach and surrounding muscles tensing with each lurch. It stains the snow an ugly color, and the only reason Tubbo knows he’s crying is because his face is warm despite being knelt in the snow for ten minutes now, heaving.
A branch cracks. Tubbo heaves, lurching, straining, sobbing. He shakes, and cries.
It is ridiculous, he thinks, that he is crying. He has been killed, scarred, beaten, abused, and held his tongue for the entirety of it. He is not in any real pain, no cuts or bruises. No one has hurt him, no one has even spoke to him today, and yet, he cries. There is no gun to his head. No grip on his wrist, or horn. No stare leveling his character to a pawn, and yet.
“God,” He sobs into his hands. ”God,” he rubs his eyes so hard he sees specks of colors. They look like spices, little red and blue dots that dance in the black of his vision. Through this he knows there is no god for him.
He hears his own name faintly. It comes from the trees, soft and curious. He frantically shovels clean, pure white snow over his mess. He hurriedly wipes the tears from his face, breathes deeply, and settles back into character.
“Hello,” He calls, eyes still trained on the ground.
“Tubbo,” Comes the voice. “Tubbo?” Comes the voice.
It’s Ranboo.
“Boo,” Tubbo stands up, quickly, and runs for the trees as fast as he can. “Ranboo, Ranboo, please, please, please, I need a hug—“
The figure on the hill has no feet. The figure on the hill has no life, no substance at all—but it is still Ranboo.
“Tubbo,” The ghost smiles. “How are you?”
Tubbo gapes at him.
“You said you needed a hug? Is everything okay?”
Tears begin to fall down Tubbo’s face. Ranboo smiles wider.
“Guess what, I can touch water now! Isn’t that awesome? I’m kind of really excited to feel the rain. Aw, man, this is the best!”
“What?” Tubbo gets out. It is a mere whisper. Ranboo tilts his head to the side, still smiling.
“Here, I’ll come and hug you.” He says. He floats down to the bottom of the hill, and then right in front of Tubbo. His skin lacks color and character. His crown is matte. Most obviously, there is a gash going straight through the middle of his chest. It is glowing, oozing red and green, endlessly. The drips seem to be stuck in a loop, almost like an animation—like infinity. Like infinite. Forever.
Tubbo closes his eyes as he anticipates Ranboo’s hug. He waits a few seconds.
“Did you go…?” He asks helplessly.
“What do you mean?” Ranboo’s voice is directly in his ear. “What do you mean? I’m right here. Hey, man, are you feeling okay?” Tubbo opens his eyes to see Ranboo’s hands on his shoulders. He’s looking at him with concern. Tubbo sees the concern written in his brows but he doesn’t feel anything. There is no touch.
“Boo,” He coughs, because it’s one syllable. “Boo,” He says again, then begins squeezing and pinching at his own skin to make sure he still has his sense of touch.
“Hm?” Ranboo replies.
“I can’t—I can’t—“
“What, what’s up?” Tubbo shoves himself backward.
“No, no no. No.” Ranboo quirks his head again and moves toward Tubbo, again.
“Tubbo, you gotta talk to me, man, c’mon.”
“I can’t feel you,” Tubbo sobs. He grabs his own arms and cries, without shame, to his ghost.
“Oh,” Ranboo replies, arms going still at his sides. “Oh, oh. Okay, well, don’t worry! Okay? Don’t worry, it’s—yeah. It’s alright, man. You should go inside.” Ranboo urges.
“Can’t,” Is all Tubbo says before promptly passing out in the snow to the mercy of his ghosts.