That’s what Tubbo had said. Maybe he meant something else. Maybe he had meant they didn’t need a physical reminder of their friendship, their memories together. Maybe Tubbo had meant that giving up the discs wouldn’t be giving up their friendship, that he would still be there for Tommy even without Chirp and Mellohi playing gently in the background of their bench talks. Maybe that’s what he had meant. But that isn’t what he said.
---
“They’re the only things that matter, Tubbo”
That’s what Tommy had yelled. In front of L’manburg, in front of their friends, in front of Dream. That’s what he had yelled in front of Tubbo. He felt sick.
Was he really that fucking selfish? Did he really not care about the country, about him? He felt burned.
---
Both of them stood at a standstill, an impass, a jagged ravine splitting them open and shattering the obsidian they stood on. Somebody spoke, or maybe they didn’t, maybe the silence was too loud and were mistaken for whispers, but the tension wouldn’t crack. Tubbo tilted his head, a silent yes, or maybe a no, and Dream stepped forwards. The golem behind the villagers.
He went. The glass surface beneath him tinged with the sound of shiny little gunshots as he was lead away. Everyone was quiet.
Pspsps, talk about the angst of Ranboo also getting hurt by rain... oh fuck would I get hurt by rain?
I think that endermen have this sort of panic-driven hydrophobia that causes them to go into fight or flight, because originally [before they were in the end] their fur had natural oils that kept them from overhydrating, but after years in the end, since their forms are primarily made of the water-soluable proteins in chorus fruit, the materials needed to produce these oils have become scarce and the oils themselves aren’t truly needed for everyday life. Therefore, they’re very susceptible to water.
Any good friend would have an umbrella for their endermen buddy on hand!!
i uh...also wrote a thing :]
---
Ranboo spawning into the server for the first time and immediately screaming in agony as both halves of his body light up red, blindly panic-warping places until he ends up distraught in a desert with ender-ash burnt onto his skin and eyelashes.
Ranboo who stumbles into a random house during a sudden rainshower and uncomfortably asks philza for an umbrella or some sort of wood plank to build himself a dry pathway [philza shakes his head and instead leads the kid to his spare room with a promise that he can stay as long as he needs- phil isn’t told why Ranboo hates rain so much but it’s not hard to infer]
Ranboo getting an invite to Tommys post-exile beach party and staying on the grass the entire time, not even wearing sunscreen because of the water content. Nikki, who doesn’t necessarily like the water but who doesn’t feel pain when it touches her keeping him company so he doesn’t have to find an excuse not to go swimming with everyone else.
Ranboo who gets caught in the middle of a water-gun fight, who keels to the ground like he’s been stabbed while trying to play it off as though his side isn’t rapidly eroding and rebuilding beneath his fur, as though his muscles aren’t torn and blistered and shriveling under the chill of a wet coat. His friends get freaked after a moment when he still hasn’t gotten back up, but he still pretends like it’s okay because he doesn’t want them to connect the dots to a weakness that could be so easily exploited [he’s scared. he’s never known who he was or who he could trust and he’s scared]
Ranboo with a constant store of bandages and a papyrus farm directly beneath his house, ranboo who wears gloves thicker than his pinkie finger when working with cauldrons, ranboo who can only drink chorus juice or milk, who’s so hydrophobic that when he gathers sugarcane he does it all by hand and has all the water sources covered by slabs that can’t be shifted with anything less than two people and a netherite crowbar. Ranboo who has to learn that his friends won’t hurt him just because it’s easy :]
My poetry draft has gone missing, my Anarchist niki fic is stuck on mobile, Tumblr keeps blocking my posts from showing up on the main tag and it’s making me sad because that means I can’t make any posts without them being completely lost to the void of my blog but!!! I do Not care.
Philza fic featuring crowchat.
ALL MY ANGER HAS BEEN CONSUMED IN CROW!!!
---
Philza’s finger glided aimlessly over his friends neck, feathers bunching up in a flutter of light that reminded him of fluffy black bread, and slipping back again until they were pettered smooth in swabs of green and gold chroma. Angela cooed into his hand, thick beak snapping lightly at his fingers in that comforting way Phil loved her for.
“There you go mate.. There you go”
Beady black eyes shuttered halfway when his nails made its way underneath her ear. Stroking longways against pretty black wings Phil relaxed into his big overstuffed armchair, fabric pinching against his shape, and absentmindedly stared out the window as he continued stroking one of his murder. It had been snowing this morning, sun glinting off the ice crystals like a flurry of broken chandelier, and he thought back to his conversation with Foolish a day earlier. He smiled to himself under his robes at the memory.
“Are you sure you aren’t going to go insane?”
“They’ll make use of the room,” a jittery hand sprinkled more ground diamond onto the white enamel pane. Phil couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t shatter in his grip “I just didn’t expect- I just didn’t expect it to get this big”
“There’s twice the bedrooms in this place than there are people on this server, Foolish” lips pinching trying to hold back a piteous smile at the absurdity of it all, a man who could control life itself bending to the will of two teenagers and a piglin.
“They’ll make use of the room.” He said more firmly. Philza left him to it.
Angela squawked when his fingers once again grazed a pinfeather, a new waxy stub being slowly rubbed away in indignance of her sensitivity. She bumped away his hand once it had scattered in determination to complete the preening herself.
“I see how it is then. Go, shoo, get one of the others to help you before you hurt yourself with that clumsy beak of yours” He mumbled, not unkindly, and patted her away until she took root with the others. “You’re so stubborn sometimes” Phil called to the aviary, the only answer he received being an offended squawk from the other side of the room. A grin, and he was back to staring thoughtlessly out the window being frosted with snow. Another few crows lifted off to join him while he sat.
He wondered how long it would be, until Techno arrived back in the time between noon and sunset. The crows picked at his bundled kimonos, quilts, scarves, while he did, wings twisting in discomfort after hours of sitting and reading and poring over the week's events as he had always liked to do on a Friday evening. The blizzard continued to pick up in an antagonistic fury, but all Philza did was think. It was one of his favorite times to be living, he decided, in a flurry that covered up the pinkish clouds and laid the sun down in its soft blanket with crows nesting amongst his layers that ever so often nuzzled or nipped or played with his hair. The night fell away before him, opening up to a long stretch of stars and snow and pale blue Dark, and calmness overtook that little spruce cabin.
Late into the night, Techno pushed open the door to a cabin adjacent with numb limbs and cold-encrusted bristles. Shoving past the harsh winds and fumbling the lock closed, he decidedly collapsed against the wooden chair set towards the table and looked down, hesitantly pulling open the laces on his boots. Completely shorn-through socks greeted him and he groaned, head in hands, tusks poking into his palms fiercely, until a kind of purred chirp disturbed him out of his own head. Technoblade looked up only to be met with the face of a member of Philzas chat. The voices rang out inside him for a moment, yelling about how cute the little raven was when it cocked its head, choirs of “Technochirp” “Birdnoblade”, but he shut them all out in favour of scrutinizing the beady black eyes poring into his soul. It was too late at night to deal with their noise. The crow gently tapped Techno’s snout before cocking its little head towards the fireplace; Techno hadn’t spared the brick and mortar a glance since he’d come in.
The fire was lit, playing silently and scooping up ash as it went, sleeping bag rolled out a little ways from the hearth. There were a couple furs over-top of gray featherdown pillows, and next to those a thicker one made of hay-stock. The quilt laid underneath for extra padding was a nice touch.
Techno snorted and turned back to the bird still standing comfortably on the table. It had tucked its head a little, better access for nipping at the stitches dug into the soft red cotton that made up his robe. He couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed.
“C’mon bud. You hav’ a letter for me?” The bird finally backed off and started pecking at its leg, trying to get the tie undone. Instead, the beak was blocked by a hoof -courtesy of Technoblade- and clumsily untied until a roll of yellow sugarcane no bigger than its carrier’s wing was lifted off. The minuscule writing had this carrier labeled as Michelangelo, and Technoblade nodded approvingly.
Coming over in the morning.
Let M.A. light the fire. Thought you’d
be cold.
Make sure you’ve eaten.
Go to bed.
-Phil
Looking up bewilderedly at the tiny little thing on his table, he grunted a quick “You lit this thing?” The bird nodded and he very quickly decided to start hiding his flammables from his friend's flock, before finishing the letter and placing it on the table. He’d worry about food later, for now the bone-chilling wetness that coated him was the main issue. Seeing as his socks were already little more than scraps at this point, he threw them off to the side and started on undoing his thick coats, button by button, until they had been hung up. By the time a clean pair of sleep clothes had been fetched and the laundry had been cast into the basement to be washed at an unspecified date [never, techno knew, it would be washed never] the windows were so dark that they could barely be called windows. Pits to the void, more like, and void pits were much too dark and cold to eat beside. That would have to be saved for morning, then, wouldn’t it. Technoblade would just deal with the fallout later.
Tucking the blanket farther up to his chin and wrapping them tighter around himself, Techno melted against the warmth of his cabin. It unfroze his limbs, still stiff and rigid from the outside chill, relaxed his muscles further, yet still he thought that something might have been forgotten and it kept him awake.
A small unassuming feather fluff alerted him to what he had missed.
“Alrigh’, alrigh’, get over here” Technoblade rolled over and patted the pillow roughly at the confused animal “You’re gonna freeze, n’ then where’ll we be? You’re sleepin’ with me tonight bud” at the realization, Michelangelo gave a quick excited squawk. The run-up, flapping over and landing messily on the piglin’s face, curling up in a whirling ball of crow fluff underneath his chin,and it all ended up in a few cheek scratches and the young fledgeling letting out a happy peep below him. Techno made a surprise oof at the unexpected claws on his face.
“If you slit my neck while we’re sleepin’ kid, Phil’s gonna be real angry” he grumbled, with no real heat behind it, and, finding that the crows feathers had already grown puffed in sleep, succumbed to it himself.
The warm, flickering comfort of the fire cast a lovely scene for Philza to walk in on after the snowstorm had ceased.
Frustrated with my stitches because I dropped one, therefore going to project my emotions about yarn onto 1 [one] Mister Tubbo Underscore.
[No Major Warnings/Triggers!!!]
Tubbo cracked his fingers as he stared at the maroon needles that lay at his feet. Three loops, three of them, completely messed up and twisted. He’d done them four times already, four, his forearm was aching because he always tightened the yarn too much [and he knows he shouldn’t do that but it looks better tommy,] and now here he was with an aching forearm and a messed-up row that he’d tried, tried to fix, and he couldn’t deal with it. Tubbo scrubbed at his face and let out a frustrated and pent-up groan. Knitting was supposed to be relaxing.
He groaned again. “Tubbo don’t need no fucking needles.” and tossed the ball of yarn away from him, watching the thread twist and spin off from its center. “Tubbo don’t need no yarn either” and dropped his project next to him. The half-finished flag blanket crumpled beside him in a wooly mess as he stuck the needles through the pile. Who cared if it bunched, it would never see the light of day anyways. The brown-haired boy shoved his head downwards into his knees and wished for everybody to stay out of his room for just a little while while he drowned in his crafting sorrows.
Alas, twas not meant to be, as Tubbo’s best friend and L’manbergs vice-president [he wondered, silently as his friend burst through the door, if those titles still applies in Snowchester- I mean, it was technically just a crater now] skipped straight past the “Do Not Entre” sign with no common courtesy or hesitation in mind.
“Ey, Tubbo! Big Q wanted to know if he an’ Nikki could stopp off ‘ere on their way to TryHarders or wha’ever, you okay with tha’?”
Tubbo merely sighed and shrugged, hoping that Tommy would turn the lights back off on his way out. Tommy didn’t move though. Instead, he got this weird look on his face and stood still, in the middle of the room. Tubbo looked up.
“Dude, you okay?”
Tommy walked over, sat down, adjusted his legs to the side and plucked the unassuming pile of yarn to his side up off the ground, still with that weird look on his face, holding up the needles. He expected him to mess around with the yarn, or question what he was making, or rib him for a while about the little holes at the end that showed where he messed up. Instead, though, the only thing that came out of Tommy’s mouth was-
“Why’d you stop?”
Tubbo looked up, a bit confused. Rarely did he get a straightforward question out of his friend. He brushed off the thought and unwrapped a hand from his knees; pointing to the knotted loops at the top of one of the needles.
“I messed it up. Can’t fix it, keeps doing the same thing.” he mumbled, chin catching on cotton of his pants. He sat up a bit more and tried to take it back but Tommy held the knots close to his chest and examined them quietly, batting Tubbo’s hands away. He picked at one of the threads and bobbed his head up.
“Don’t touch this, I’ll be back in a moment” and Tommy was gone, pattering through the house and onto the blue carpets that muffled his footsteps. Tubbo looked bewildered, frustration abandoned in favour of wondering whether Tommy had gone mad. The strip of red wool stayed untouched.
Tommy bolted back through the door with a pair of aluminium [when did he learn to walk so quietly, seriously] knitting needles and a book-sized button case. He plopped himself in the same spot, nearly jabbing his friend in the sternum.
“Can I unravel this line?” He gestured to the loops below the needle and Tubbo nodded. Tommy pulled both halves from where they were caught in the middle and tugged them each out, falling in a rippling pattern to the floor. Tubbo set his cheek on his fist and Tommy gave him a quick apologetic look; that was at least twenty minutes gone, maybe more.
The yarn stuck again in the middle of the second unraveled row and was quickly tucked back over to save his place. Out came the button case, and out of that a pair of small, edited steel hand-shears. A wince, and the thread was tucked underneath its blades- but it wasn’t cut. Instead the strand popped free and the rest of that line came with it, shears clipping off warm red fuzz that had twisted up the fabric.
Everything was handed back to Tubbo, and a finger gestured to the leftover fluff on the hardwood. “It got caught, you need to keep that stuff off th’ yarn. And your needle went through the pile so it tangled your fibers up.”
Tubbo looked confused as hell. Tommy realized, and turned a bit sheepish.
“Uh..th’piles are the twisty bits in your string. You put it through one of those..”
Tubbo nodded and hooked one of the kinks, pressing it down with his finger as he examined the now-clean wool.
“How do you know how to do this stuff?”
“Wilbur liked sweaters, An’ I’m the only other person around without hooves. Phil can’t craft for shit”
The other boy nodded thoughtfully, but Tommy still sat there watching him fidget over the fibers. The conversation died, Tommy’s brow furrowed. He almost looked trancelike. Tubbo watched his face, realizing that there was obviously some kind of origin story to his hobbies. He sat there for a couple seconds before an idea surfaced in his mind
“Hey, you- you wanna help?”
Tommy snapped out of it with a quiet “what” and shot his head up, taking a moment to process, then clicked out a confirmation with his tongue; Tubbo tossed him a ball of cotton white and did the math for the stitches while Tommy tried to find his working end. They got it started again and the tapping of needles filled up the room as a sort of conversation, letting one of them just think for a bit. Eventually, Tommy did speak.
“What’re we making anyways?” He tightened one of the binds with his nail.
Tubbo paused for a moment, side-eyeing the growing knit coming from his friends needle. He swallowed and leapt his eyes back to his own.
“The.. The L’Manbergian flag. The original one. I thought it’d look cool on the couch”
His voice ticked upwards on the last word, and Tommy’s needles halted.
He should’ve probably told him what he was making in the beginning, he knew just how badly the fight affected him [it affected Tubbo too- he was distraught after Beeinnit passed, the little grave outside being covered in poppies. His heart hurt for weeks, but Tommy’s- Tommy was worse. So much worse.] but it just hadn’t crossed his mind. Tubbo stared down at the floor.
Tommy grinned. Just a little one, the type of smile that says today would be okay, that everything might be alright, and knocked their shoulders together. Tubbo looked back up and grinned the same. It’d be okay, maybe. Just a little bit okay. More loops were added, more slipknots tied, the ting of aluminium needles from two boys knitting on the floor being softened by the blue-wool carpets, strips of a flag from a country they didn’t have anymore growing outwards. It would be okay, and if the fuzz tangled again, they had a pair of shears. Two boys, sitting on the floor, just knitting.
---
“I can’t believe you were bullied into making Wilburs shirts”
