@beeduo nation who wants 15k canon divergence completed fic with autistic Michael _B???? Come get y'all JUICE
In notes on things once dead by @ttrebizond Tubbo is reunited with a revived Ranboo, but the month and a half it took to get him back has passed as years in limbo for Ranboo. We've got angst, we've got hurt/comfort, we've got extremely married beeduo trying to relearn how to exist around each other, and yes, we even have Technoblade cameos
I really like the characterization in this one? There's desperation and determination, time for grieving and time for hope. (also there are just some very sweet parts that made me do the queerplatonic yearning thing. Just. Both of them are queer and disabled and HOW am I meant to be normal about that??)
The prose is a little floral, which I think worked well. Really nice h/c if you're looking to be in your feelings and then end on a positive note.
Things really start to pop off in chapter 2, so like, maybe check it out!!!
Ranboo's standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed, staring down his husband (idiot (affectionate)) and son (beloved).
"Yeah?" Tubbo says, as if he's not fully-aware of why Ranboo is giving him that Look.
Ranboo does not say anything, just turns the Look up to 11.
Michael is sitting at the kitchen counter, happily twisting a screwdriver with clumsy child hands on... /something/, and Tubbo is carefully measuring out some kind of powder into a beaker that immediately puts Ranboo on high alert.
"Look, Michael has safety goggles on," Tubbo says, almost pleadingly as he gestures to his son. "And we haven't blown anything up."
"Yet!" Michael cheers, throwing his hand in the air and almost beaning Tubbo in the nose with the screwdriver.
Ranboo sighs.
"Please don't blow up our house," he says, reaching across the table to pick Michael up and wincing as Michael immediately grabs his hair. "Foolish works for Las Nevadas now, and I don't want to have to move again."
"You got it," Tubbo says, continuing to mix powders in the beaker as if Ranboo had never spoken. Michael tugs at Ranboo's crown, and Ranboo laughs, shaking his head as he pries Michael's fingers out of his hair.
"Michael, why must you do this to me?" he asks, amusement underneath his deadpan words as he settles his son into his high-chair (which he and tubbo had built together when they'd first found Michael, all those months ago).
"I think it's funny," Tubbo says, adding fuel to the fire as he scoops a tiny spoonful from a little glass jar, only to discover that Ranboo is holding his beaker above his head.
"Dinner first, science later," Ranboo says. Tubbo makes a swipe for the beaker, but Ranboo just holds it up higher.
"Why are you so tall?" Tubbo demands, jumping towards the beaker.
"I'm half enderman, Tubbo," Ranboo reminds him. "We've been over this. I will give your science back after we have dinner." Ranboo places the beaker far above Tubbo's head, next to the fireworks, TNT, knife, and other things that children, Tommys, and Tubbos should not touch. Tubbo pouts for a moment, trudging off to the table with a twinkle in his eye that tells Ranboo everything he needs to know about how Tubbo is feeling. He can hear Tubbo whispering to their son, and as much as he fears their collaboration (both being entities of chaos), it warms his heart to watch his family together, because he loves them, he really does, even when Michael is pulling his hair and Tubbo is blowing up their kitchen again and when it is cold and dark and they are all hungry and tired and scared. He chose them, he reminds himself as he pulls out food from the fridge for himself and Tubbo and golden carrots for Michael (a trick he'd learned from Techno, a while back).
And maybe that night there'll be a storm, or zombies will get into the basement (again), or Dream will break out of prison to terrorize the server, or a million other things, but for the moment, it is just them, and they are happy.
My entry for the @mcytblraufest ! Hopefully, this is ok @nerdiestnerdtoevernerd !
Words; 1k+
A/n; This is Ranboo-based angst [-ish] fic! There is an implied C!Ranboo x C!Tubbo [Or however you call it hguwo-] at the end. [Which might not be that good due to me trying to get an ending out >-< Apologies for that!]
The room spun around him as he struggled to stay standing. His heart was pounding in his ears as his vision began to fill with purple spots.
Ranboo covered his ears in an attempt to block out all noise and focus on staying in control.
Stumbling around the room blindly as he kept his eyes closed tightly, Ranboo ran into bookcases making the books scattered across the floor, and tripping over chests and boxes full of random stuff, making him whimper in pain as they scraped his calves and ankles. His suit became torn and dirty as he continued to trip over things, the objects grabbing at his legs and arms, pulling him one way and then the other.
His head felt like exploding, his eyes burning with tears that he tried to hold back. The few tears that did escape burned his skin, creating more pain for him. Finally running into an empty wall, Ranboo leaned against it for a bit as he tried to regain his breathing.
Sliding down towards the ground, the enderman whimpered once more as he felt the rough wall tear at his suit, ripping even more holes in it.
“Please Please Please Please” The boy whispered to himself, feeling his body begin to glitch in and out of reality. “Not now, not now” As he continued to whisper to himself, tears began to roll down his face like a waterfall, burning his skin.
And just like that, he vanished from the room, only leaving behind purple particles and the mess.
-----
Lying peacefully in the middle of the forest on his side was Ranboo, his eyes closed and breathing steady. He seemed calm and at peace but the blood staining his ripped and dirty suit told a different story.
The sun shines down on the mess of the male, making him groan and roll over to his back, his arm lazily lifting to cover his eyes.
Rambo gritted his teeth together to stop himself from whimpering in pain as he tried to move his legs. “Why does everything hurt?” He said slowly, muscles screaming in pain as he tried to slowly sit up to see where he was.
Looking around at his surroundings, Ranboos' eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he finally realized he was in the middle of a forest. From what he remembers he was in the basement of his shared home last, not in some forest.
Shakily standing up, Ranboo ignored his body that was screaming at him to just sit and not move at all. He had to get home to Tubbo and Micheal, he didn't know how long he was gone from home.
Just as he was about to start walking, he looked down at the ground to see if he dropped anything, only to see the grass covered in blood. Breathing, getting caught in his throat, Ranboo stumbled back and clutched his heart, only to feel the red liquid on his suit making him quickly pull his hand back.
Staring at his hands in horror, Ranboo stumbled back with wide eyes. Whose blood was this? It wasn't his, he was purple! But if not his then who was it?
It definitely had happened after he teleported. So what had happened after he teleported? It looked like he went on a rampage! But that'd never happen, right? He'd never hurt anybody? Right?
“Oh god,” Ranboo panted out, his breathing picking up as his hands shook in fear. “No, I didn't-I couldn't have-” As he began to ramble out excuses and questions, trying to convince himself that he didn't do it and that something happened while he was out.
Falling to his knees, the boy gripped his hair as he stared wide-eyed at the ground below him. He began to glitch in and out of reality once more as thoughts ran through his head.
He couldn't have done it! He wasn't able to hurt a fly without crying and apologizing profusely!
As he continued to shake on the ground, his surroundings began to become blurry before he completely glitched out of reality once more.
-----
Once more, Ranboo ended up on the ground. This time he was in front of the home he shared with Tubbo.
The snow was slowly burning his exposed skin. Yet despite the burning sensation, he didn't wake up. He didn't store or wince in pain.
He simply laid there. The snow slowly burns his skin, turning it purple with blood. The white snow around him looked like a grape.
The door to the cabin creaked open, a tired Tubbo standing there. His eyes scanned the surrounding area.
Once they reached the ground in front of the cabin, a gasp left his mouth.
“Ranboo!”
Rushing down the steps, the Ram-hybrid fell into the snow. His hands frantically tried to pick up the tall boy.
“Come on Come one” He mumbled to himself, struggling to get the boy over his shoulder.
The purple blood of Ranboo dripped down Tubbos's clothes. His laky body was messily draped over the more petite boy's shoulder.
Taking a small, shaky step up the stairs, Tubbos eyes began to fill with tears. His husband had been lying in the snow for who knows how long. His purple blood pooled around him and staining everything it touched.
Who wouldn't be worried? The one they married, the love of their life, on the floor with their blood surrounding them. A horrific sight.
With the thought that if they were there sooner. If they thought to check sooner. Noticed they were gone. They could have prevented it, prevented them from getting hurt.
Tubbo cursed under his breath as he hit the slightly ajar door with his shoulder. The door swung open with much force, slamming against the wall.
As Tubbo dragged the unconscious body of his spouse to the couch. A little figure was peeking its head out of the attic. Their golden eyes were wide with worry and curiosity.
What had happened to their Dad? Why was he purple? Why is he sleeping? Was he sleeping outside?
Many questions filled the tiny piglets mind. Maybe he could ask his Dads after his nap.
With that goal in mind, the child slipped back up into the attic.
5 times Ranboo helps Tubbo with his appearance and 1 time he can’t
2 - Bleach Blond
Tubbo dyes his hair. Ranboo thinks about some things.
read on ao3 or below the cut
Ranboo is no stranger to the cold. They know they’re extraordinarily lucky to get to build a home next to The Blade and the Angel of Death, in a land where the thick flurry of snow is cut through by roaring fires and slashing swords. The frosty air nips at his cheeks as a wakeup call in the morning and lets him fall asleep beneath thick blankets at night. If Ranboo digs as far back into his memories as he can, they sometimes think they used to live somewhere cold, the air chilled but not unpleasant. It’s always taken more for his skin to sting, the cold being refreshing and comforting. Fluffy white flakes tend to come with the low temperatures Ranboo prefers, something he’s found to be particularly fun to toss around and make shapes in.
That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy walking through it.
Ranboo switches his woven basket to his other hand to swat a clump of snow from his cloak. He really would prefer for that not to melt there and turn the fabric soggy. In the few seconds they pause for, they swear the snow digs them in deeper. He trudges forward, kicking up flurries, others whirling against his face with the wind. Consistently, he forgets that Snowchester is larger than his home commune, so it’s a rarity for every path to be shoveled clear.
He never brings it up, a nagging part of his brain worrying its leader would resort back to the mentality of his last country. The fear that Tubbo could wake before the sun to clean every path of the colony himself is a feeling Ranboo imagines is equivalent to silverfish crawling around his gut. No, they think they’ve seen Tubbo under enough stress to cover a lifetime.
Slipping on the ice is worth it, no matter how many bruises they’ve sustained.
The scent of saltwater blows through the air, reminding Ranboo of the commitment at hand. Proper hunting can be done back in the Antarctic Commune, but the best catch of seafood comes courtesy of Snowchester. If no one else notices a salmon dinner, or lack thereof, they can count on Enderpearl and Enderchest to. If a certain amount of time passes without a prime cut of fish, they will complain, yowling at the food dish. Fish reeled in from the frozen ponds of the commune never seem to suffice, requiring a proper trip all the way out to Snowchester. Okay, maybe the cats are a bit spoiled, but Ranboo loves them, and he intends to show it!
Through the swirling flakes, Ranboo scans the terrain, searching for a splotch of brown and green amongst the piles of white. A visit to the other commune could never be complete without speaking with his friend. There’s so much to catch up on! Oh, right, and then there’s the actual trading to do.
After scouring the area and determining Tubbo would have likely been spotted by now, Ranboo sets out for the cottage by the shore. He clears the stairs and gently knocks on the door to the small house. The wind howls around them as they wait, prompting him to draw his cloak closer. Just as he’s resigned to turn around and make the journey back home, the wooden door swings open. Ranboo looks down, expecting Tubbo in one of his usual button-ups or flannels, maybe with a fresh set of blueprints in hand.
That is…not what’s on the other side of the door.
Instead, Tubbo has his hair clipped back, a horribly stained towel draped around his shoulders like a cape. The long ears that hang on either side of his face have small plastic bags encasing them, clipped on near the top. Rather than the eyepatch or prosthetic Ranboo’s seen before, a large square of gauze is bandaged over Tubbo’s right eye, hands covered with translucent gloves. In short, he doesn’t look like he expected anyone to visit.
Ranboo really chose the worst possible day to do this. Tubbo looks thrown off guard and the last thing they want to do is infringe on his personal time. Prime knows he needs the break, and they don’t think they could forgive themselves for disrupting that, let alone seeing the other in such a vulnerable position. Ranboo’s not sure this side of his friend is meant for him. Not after everything.
Briefly, Ranboo considers that he doesn’t want his sheets shredded by his cats, but they know what matters more.
They open their mouth to apologize and explain, shifting the basket awkwardly, but Tubbo’s face, impossibly, lights up.
“Ranboo!” Tubbo’s cheeks split into a grin. “Get in here!” He pulls the door open all the way, looking up expectantly.
Ranboo awkwardly ducks his head to pass under the doorframe, feeling it would be rude to hover on the porch while Tubbo looks so excited. They shake snow off their paws and cloak to avoid tracking it in onto the hardwood floor.
The floor that’s already scuffed and stained. It’s the thought that counts. Tubbo closes the door behind him, instantly quieting the howling wind outside.
The cottage is small, with most of the furniture clustered in the main room. It’s a comfortable low warmth compared to the frigid air outside, but the real victory is that despite the size, it’s more comfortable than the office of President Underscore. The bed is adorned with a cushy quilt, red and green patchwork. Scraps of paper scribbled over with complex equations and strange symbols are tacked into the wall near a small workbench.
Usually, Ranboo loves Tubbo’s home, but now they just feel guilty about practically barging in. Their anxiety isn’t helped by Tubbo, barefoot in pajama pants, watching him expectantly.
Ranboo shuffles their feet, blushing ears twitching with embarrassment. “Sorry, I can come back another day—”
They watch as Tubbo continues staring –at their ear, naturally—as he latches three different locks on the wooden door. His smile, vaguely threatening, is really too Tubbo for Ranboo to feel frightened.
“Or I could stay! Okay, yeah, alright.” Despite himself, he’s smiling. Tubbo has a peculiar way of putting butterflies in their stomach.
“There ya go, boss man.” The gloves on Tubbo’s hands crinkle excessively.
Between that and the towel, the curiosity is getting to them. He has to ask. “What are you up to?” If he had to guess, either chemistry or some kind of cleaning. The towel-cape still seems out of place with either option.
“Dying my hair,” Tubbo answers easily, considering the morbid-sounding subject.
“Your hair is dying??”
That makes Tubbo cackle, regardless of Ranboo’s evident concern. This is serious! Ranboo didn’t think that could happen, but maybe it already happened to Jack Manifold?
“Only if I mess it up,” Tubbo promises cheerily, pushing open the door to the bathroom. If Ranboo thought the cottage itself was small, this room is downright claustrophobic. Their companion seems right at home in the small space, returning to the basin where some materials are already laid out. Ranboo just gets a glance at the bowl and brush when Tubbo nudges it closer towards them.
Facing the mirror, Tubbo gestures at the pieces of hair clipped apart at the back of his head. “Can you get the back for me, boss man? I can’t see too well back there.”
Ranboo blankly glances between the bowl and Tubbo’s hair. “I…what am I supposed to do?”
They can only see the reflection of Tubbo’s amused smile, but something about it is still so transfixing. “You just paint that shit on my hair and make it cover all the brown.”
“That sounds easy enough,” he says, reaching for the brush before Tubbo holds out an arm, stopping them.
“You gotta grab gloves or it’ll make your hands feel like shit. Tommy already made that mistake.”
Ah, that’s the catch. They take the offered box, smeared with shades of yellow, and pull out a pair. “And you’re putting this on your head? Is that a good idea?” As expected, the gloves end up uncomfortably small on him. Glancing back at where Tubbo’s hands rest on the basin shows that the plastic is a much better fit on him.
“Yup!” Tubbo says, completely sure of himself. “I’ve done this load of times and I’m not bald or dead yet.”
It would be pretty useless to argue something Tubbo is set on, so Ranboo picks up the brush. He delicately parts some of Tubbo’s hair and smears the brush over it. Painting the strands with the stuff in the bowl gives the hair a goopy outer layer that looks more of an off-white than brown. Oh.
“So,” Ranboo spreads more of the bleach onto Tubbo’s hair, “dying hair is just coloring hair?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot how weird Common is to learn.”
Ranboo mumbles, “it’s so weird,” exasperated, but apparently, he didn’t do it quietly enough, because Tubbo snorts. Feeling the need to defend themself, they add, “so many words sound the same! Why would a word for death sound the same as something for color!? Who came up with this?” Not to mention nicknames! Sometimes he just feels so lost.
“Beats me, boss man.” Despite Ranboo’s frustration, Tubbo only seems vaguely entertained, eye alight with something. “You’ll just have to teach me Ender.”
Even if he’s joking, Ranboo can’t help but chirp happily. Sharing a part of the heritage he can remember with someone that matters so much is an enticing prospect. They can already picture Tubbo fighting his way through the warbles. It’s too good to pass up. “Well, this would be called ⌇⊑⟟⎎⏁ ⊑⏃⌰⍜⍀,” he warbles, a rumbling sound that’s pleasant on the throat.
Tubbo’s dumbfounded expression is just as priceless as expected. “Run that by me one more time, big guy?”
Ranboo is happy to repeat the phrase for what Overworld Common would designate “change of hair color.” To his credit, Tubbo does make an attempt at the sounds. He ends up producing something closer to “cobblestone dumplings,” which draws a snicker out of Ranboo. Even still, hearing his language from Tubbo feels profoundly special.
The misspoken phrase gets translated, apropos of Tubbo’s desire to know how badly he messed up. “Fuck you, I’m going to make the best fucking dumplings,” he defends, arms crossed, chin raised in defiance.
“Yes, of course, nice and crunchy,” Ranboo adds dryly.
“Exactly,” Tubbo says, possibly trying to be annoying. “My enderman husband will love them.”
Now that has Ranboo fumbling the brush. His ears and tail flick as they try to casually continue sifting through the shorter’s hair. “Uh, husband?”
Tubbo is mischievous. It’s one of his many endearing traits, in Ranboo’s eyes, but now it only serves to complicate the entire encounter. “I like the tall, dark, and handsome type,” he quips with a wink. Or…a blink? It’s probably pronounced enough to be a wink.
Ranboo clears their throat, wishing for something to soothe the warmth that rose so rapidly to their face. Obviously, he didn’t mean it like that. Should he flirt back? Is it like a game? “I, uh, I--“ He ends up clearing his throat again, no words coming up.
Tubbo looks exceedingly proud of himself. Awful, just terrible, really. Even worse, he has the audacity to casually ask how to pronounce the Ender again, leaving Ranboo to repeat the warble in such a state. This boy is going to be the death of them.
The third attempt is nearly there, given that Ranboo can tell what he’s saying through his heavy Overworld accent. They share this with Tubbo, who punches the air in victory. They decide not to voice the bubbly feeling in their chest at an Overworlder making attempts at Ender.
The conversation flows easily as Ranboo threads his fingers through Tubbo’s hair. The brown slowly but steadily gets covered up, and they do a final check to make sure they didn’t miss anything. Finished, the brush gets passed back over to Tubbo, who dips it into the bleach and promptly smears it on his head.
Ranboo hovers awkwardly, no longer sure what to do with their hands after trashing the gloves. They hold them behind their back, then switch to holding them up in front of his chest. He wishes he had a grass block.
“Almost done,” Tubbo promises, glaring with intensity at a clump of his hair. His tongue peeks out past his lips as he carefully smears the goop at his hairline on the right side. Scars cut into where part of the scalp likely used to be, leaving the hairline uneven and blotched. A strip of brown remains at the edge, a stubborn piece he’s unable to change. A fraction of something he enjoyed simply for himself taken forever.
True to his word, the remaining strands are painted over in a matter of minutes. Even as Tubbo puts the supplies away, Ranboo’s still mulling over the injury, and what could have caused something so brutal.
“Done!” Tubbo turns, stuffing his hair into a cap. Ranboo’s not sure what that does, exactly, but it looks incredibly silly. “What brings you here, anyway?”
“Other than visiting my friend,” Ranboo begins, because that’s important, “I wanted to trade for some fish.”
Tubbo closes the washroom door. “That’s it?”
Oh no, there were expectations. Is lunch too small of a reason to travel all the way out to Snowchester? They never thought the trips were wasted. Ranboo nods slowly, unsure of the question as a whole.
“Cool, I just gotta put actual clothes on first or I will die outside!” Tubbo says brightly, gesturing to the pajamas. The loose fabric looks comfortable, weighing Ranboo’s chest down with the guilt of making him change. “Stay here.” Tubbo climbs up to the second story, leaving Ranboo to fidget and look around.
They’re familiar enough with the home, even as piles of various materials cycle through it. He eyes the logs and stone haphazardly tossed into the corner, thinking it might be nice to build something together. A flip through his journal reveals that they had already, and Ranboo can’t help but smile at his own writing, looping penmanship laced with affection. The page describes how his companion had sung and rambled as they set a foundation together; Ranboo certainly wouldn’t mind another project.
A low thud draws his gaze back up, Tubbo having skipped the ladder and dropped back down to the first floor. “Let’s roll, boss man.” He finishes pulling on his coat and grabs a fishing rod, out the door before Ranboo can open his mouth.
The wind is just as sharp as it was earlier, but the snow seems to have slowed down. Tubbo leads the way down to the docks, sitting so his legs swing over the edge. His companion doesn’t dare get so close to the frothing waves, settling behind Tubbo instead. They instantly regret it when Tubbo’s cast nearly knocks them in the head. Semi-awkwardly, the two put some space between themselves.
Fat flakes lazily drift along, settling onto the dock and the two upon it. Ranboo watches the flurries come to rest on Tubbo’s sleeves and shoulders, stark against the brown and deep green. They don’t, however, stand out against the translucent cap covering his hair. Tubbo glances up at the perfect time to catch Ranboo’s confounded stare at the headpiece.
“The first time Tommy did my hair,” he begins, “we didn’t cover it and it turned half orange.”
“Wh—orange?”
“Turns out you gotta let it develop or some shit. The bathroom got completely wrecked.” Tubbo grins out to the sea. “Phil was pissed.” Ranboo doesn’t have much time to process the information as Tubbo continues. “He had to buy more dye and fix it. I pretty much know how to do it now, though.”
“I didn’t know you used to live with Phil,” Ranboo treads carefully,
“Yeah.” Tubbo is unreadable and Ranboo worries they’ve made a fatal mistake. “Man has an adoption problem, but I got food and brothers out of it, so I can’t really complain.” He shrugs, but his lips turn up in a sudden grin. “Phil dyed his hair black once.”
The mental image of Philza with dark hair has Ranboo choking on air.
Tubbo’s laughter bubbles up. “He wanted to try dying his hair with me!”
“Why black?” Ranboo wheezes out. Of all colors, that is not one they thought to imagine on the blond man. Oh Prime, goth Philza? Their cheeks will soon be burning at the rate their eyes are watering.
“I don’t know!” Tubbo cries. “Tommy laughed so hard he threw up!” He snorts in the midst of his giggles, absolutely glowing. Ranboo’s laughter eases in favor of watching the way his friend’s face expels a bright and unfettered kind of joy, strands of blond escaping from his cap. Crouched in a snowbank, sea air sharp against his cheeks, Ranboo realizes Tubbo is extraordinarily pretty.
The stray locks and the fur of Tubbo’s coat ruffle in the chilled wind that whips through the valley. Ranboo was glad to not have to touch the goopy hair product, but Tubbo’s hair tends to look soft without it. Maybe not always soft, they amend, considering how tangled it can get, but generally fluffy. The texture seems like it would be nice, Ranboo thinks. Like a grass block. The rest of Tubbo’s frame is already dressed in greens and browns, so it’s not too far off. Warmth rises into their cheeks at the thought and he shakes his head to clear it.
Tubbo catches their eye for a fleeting moment, something flashing between them. Both look back out to the sea. Water sloshes over the bobber as it dips below the surface, quickly drawn back into sight by Tubbo’s pull on the fishing rod. Ranboo draws back, wary of the spray as the salmon is pulled in, its thrashing causing its scales to sparkle in the light. Not a single drop reaches Ranboo.
The time passes easily as the sun trails across the sky. Tubbo reels in fish, humming to himself, until Ranboo gives approval on the number. They almost consider asking for more. It’s nice staying out on the dock, regardless of the waves.
Ranboo wrings out their cloak on the way back into Tubbo’s cabin. Warmth immediately envelopes them both with the opening of the door.
“Here,” Tubbo says, handing off the bucket of fish to Ranboo. “I gotta wash my hair real quick.”
Ranboo sets the bucket and its strong smell onto the floor and settles onto the edge of the cot to wait. There’s a clattering from the bathroom and a muffled “everything is fine!” that makes Ranboo chuckle to himself. He can so easily imagine Tubbo growing up alongside Tommy, the two stirring up mischief in Phil’s home. They might also like to imagine what it would be like if they lived with Tubbo, though it doesn’t feel quite right to slot himself into that time frame. He can’t imagine seeing Tubbo as a brother the way Tommy does; no, it’s… something else. He’ll blame the language barrier for his inability to place the emotion.
Still, it's a particularly nice thought, stirring up fuzzy feelings in their chest. The concept of the two of them doing dishes after a dinner has no right to make him smile as much as he does.
The bathroom door swings open and they quickly fight their smile down to what’s probably a normal one. That would be a little embarrassing to explain. Tubbo steps out, rubbing a fuzzy towel around his head. When the material is tossed away, Ranboo’s breath catches at the stark change in his locks. This is fresh daisies in a field, it’s sweet honeysuckle, it’s the soft sunshine that grows them.
“It looks good,” Ranboo says instead. There’s something fitting about it, but that could just be how Tubbo looks so happy with it.
“It turned out good,” Tubbo agrees, peering at the newly blond hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t like yellow for a while.”
It would be easy for Ranboo to ask why, the curiosity already tugging at him. But Tubbo’s eyebrow is creased, mouth pulling downwards. Instead, they reach for a memory to lean on. They find multiple that lead to the same conclusion, so he’s about as confident as he could get. “Bees are yellow,” they point out softly.
To their delight, Tubbo smiles. Nothing blinding, but a smile, nonetheless. “And your hair is black for the stripes.”
Something childish within Ranboo squeals at being part of a duo. Outwardly, he nods solemnly, hoping to get two-for-two. “Much like Phil’s.”
Tubbo cackles, and it’s the greatest thing they’ve ever heard. Pride swells in his chest because he was the one to cause such a sweet reaction. Ranboo tries to catch all the details: how blond bangs fluff up as Tubbo tilts his head back, how his laugh is slightly gravelly, even the scorch mark on his flannel sleeve. Ranboo wants to bottle up this moment, promising themself to transcribe it later.
But it’s just that: a moment. In the next, Tubbo is stepping over to what could generously be called a kitchenette, cheeks still harboring a grin. Ranboo falls into place beside him, passing over the bucket of fish.
Considering he’s lacking depth perception, Ranboo is incredibly impressed at how well Tubbo handles a blade.
The first fish swiftly loses its head and guts. Tubbo absently clicks his tongue as he passes the finished cut to Ranboo’s side of the counter. They retrieve the seafood parchment from the top cabinet and pull out a piece to start with. The current light air is nice, but Ranboo knows they still have unfinished business.
“Sorry for- for showing up on your day off,” he apologizes.
Tubbo blinks at them, head tilted to where Ranboo can see the pad of gauze pasted over his eye. He rolls his eye and grabs another fish to slam the cleaver into. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and Ranboo’s hearts immediately sink. “Obviously I want you around.”
He continues work on the fish like Ranboo’s perspective hasn’t just flipped upside down. They wrap up the first fish with a goofy smile, chest swelling. Tubbo likes him! He still wants him there! Every mistake feels like it could be the tipping point that drives Tubbo away, and yet…
Here they are, standing side by side in Tubbo’s small kitchen-slash-living room, snowflakes drifting around outside the window. The tuft at the end of Ranboo’s tail subconsciously swipes against Tubbo’s ankle and their fingers brush as Tubbo passes over another fish. Despite the cold scales and the clamminess of the smaller set of hands, the contact is warm.
“Want anything else?” Tubbo asks as he guts the final fish. “Puffy and I pulled in some shrimp yesterday.”
Ranboo places a wrapped fish into the basket they had brought. “Well…I only have this small basket.” Their eyes glitter, hopeful. “Guess I’ll have to come back soon for more.”
“Tomorrow, maybe? It would be a shame to waste it,” Tubbo proposes cheekily.
“I really don’t think there’s another option,” Ranboo agrees, given away by their smile and crinkled eyes.
All bright smiles and flushed cheeks, the portrait of young affection is disrupted by the butcher’s knife in Tubbo’s hand. It’s shattered by the heavy bags under both of their eyes, by the tear tracks permanently carved into Ranboo’s cheeks.
But they’ve earned a few kinder moments, haven’t they?
The rest of the seafood gets packed into the basket, and Ranboo withdraws a bundle of redstone dust, filled to the brim. Small flecks of crimson that didn’t quite make it into the bag sparkle in the light. Tubbo eagerly snatches up the pouch, eye alight in the way it is when he’s got an idea. It’s a great trade; Ranboo likes mining anyways.
“Make sure you put that on ice when you get home,” Tubbo reminds them, gesturing to the basket with one hand. The other has the redstone bundle slung over his shoulder.
Oh. Right. When he gets back to his- his real home. Their spawn isn’t set in Snowchester after all, nor is their cabin rooted in this soil. Technoblade and Philza will likely be awaiting his return and a supper of smoked cod. Enderpearl and Enderchest will be aggravated if their owner is late.
But Tubbo is right here with hair he’s bleached since he was small and scrapes on his hands and a coat lined with fluff. His cheeks are pinched into a rose color from the cold and cowlicks curl up around his horns. The particular upturn of Tubbo’s uneven lips reminds Ranboo why they hate picking sides.
“Well,” Ranboo starts, tail curling around their leg, “maybe we could freeze it here until I leave? If you still-“
Tubbo’s already snatched up the basket, a wild grin on his face.
Snowchester is cold, nestled in Ranboo’s favorite climate. It has beautiful sunrises and northern lights and hills that are perfect for sledding. More importantly, it has scrawled equations left around and determination set into every plank of wood. Snowchester has Tubbo, and so, per his instructions, the catch of the day is packed into the freezer. Right where it belongs.
