Chapter Text
Tubbo finds that scavenging is a lot less interesting than he thought it would be. He thought that they’d…run into more things. He thought that there would be more people around, more hordes, more old things he could take back. When he was still traveling around with Tommy, that was the case.
There was so much of everything back then, he supposes. Or maybe it was where they were moving from that caused the sheer volume of general bullshit that happened on a day to day basis. In the beginning, everything was new and scary. It was a full time job keeping them both alive at the time. Now, Tubbo thinks he could do it much easier.
All in all, it helps to get out of the compound. He loves the safety he has within the walls, but those same walls can feel so constricting at times. Tubbo is used to having much more freedom. Being out there helps him breathe a little fuller.
The expedition doesn’t even last over a week, but still when Tubbo walks back through the walls, it’s only a minute that passes before Tommy is running and launching himself at him. Tubbo doesn’t exactly catch him. He wishes he could say that he does catch Tommy out of the air in the flying hug he tries to do, but really they both go crashing to their asses. Tommy cackles the whole way while Tubbo hisses out in pain, reaching back to rub at his bruised tailbone.
“I almost broke my ass,” he complains, shoving Tommy’s shoulder.
Tommy hardly budges, still grinning brightly at him. He holds Tubbo’s face in his hands and squishes his cheeks together. There is mirth that dances behind his eyes mixed with the slightest bit of genuineness, so Tubbo rolls his eyes instead of trying to push Tommy entirely off him.
“Oh how I’ve missed you,” Tommy crows, turning his face every which way. “Tubbo my Tubbo, how dare you leave me in these cursed walls for days on end. I can’t believe my bestest friend in this whole wide world would abandon me.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Tubbo tells him, knowing already how much Tommy is exaggerating.
“Well, stupid Wilbur has been bugging me the whole time you’ve been gone, so clearly you don’t know anything about how terrible my week has been.”
Tubbo finally shakes Tommy off of him so he can stand up. He pulls his gloves off so that when he reaches his hand out to help Tommy off, their bare palms connect. It’s comforting, that point of contact, while Tubbo searches Tommy’s face. He wants proof that nothing bad actually happened, and he finds it in Tommy’s tongue pushing his cheek slightly out from the inside. It’s a little thing he does when he’s full of shit.
“Uh huh.” Tubbo crosses his arms. “So you have nothing to do with the fact that Wilbur’s still here? Despite the fact that Technoblade must be just fine to go by now?”
“Well, you can’t prove anything,” Tommy hums, walking backwards away from him.
“Don’t doubt my resources,” he warns, sliding his gloves back on.
He figures he’ll go right back to doing work with Sam, so he should probably have his hands covered and protected. He can’t see himself doing anything else. It does seem these days that he spends most of his time in the warehouse. It isn’t so bad, in fact Tubbo really enjoys the warehouse. It’s quiet there, and he gets to work in his own comfortable silence. Besides, all that technical stuff keeps his mind sharp.
Tommy’s eyes track the movement, and his smile quirks down.
“Don’t you want to see them? I’ve been getting on really well with them, and I think you would too, if you just–”
Dream specifically told Tubbo before he left that he was worried about the new group getting too close to Tommy. He told Tubbo that if he came back and they weren’t gone, to just err on the side of caution. To stay away.
And at the end of the day, he trusts Dream as a leader more than he wants to please Tommy as a friend.
“Tommy, I’m really tired, man,” he excuses.
He’s not really lying. He is tired, the expedition wasn’t necessarily difficult or anything, but being out on the move for a week straight takes its toll regardless. But normally he’d still be up to do whatever, no matter how tired he was. He’s always been very good at working through his exhaustion, and he knows that Tommy knows that. For a moment, he’s sure that Tommy is going to say something about it. In the end Tommy’s eyes rake up and down him, his lips pressed tightly together, and he does not say a word. He just nods, turns away, and Tubbo’s heart pangs at the slight hurt in his eyes.
But the last thing he wants is to tell the truth, that he still doesn’t trust these newcomers at all. The last thing he wants is to go talk to them in the middle of the night, when Dream is no doubt out watching the walls rather than patrolling inside them. He just wants to lay down right now, not have to uphold some sort of appearance in an attempt to not upset Tommy. He supposes that this upsets him anyway, but he figures at least he can go curl up in his own bed and close his eyes for at least an hour.
He waves to Bad and Skeppy where they’re sorting things outside of the storage shed, where Skeppy is handing something over to George who’s watching them, averting his eyes when they don’t even turn to look at him, too focused on their task. That’s sort of how it felt going out as well, they were so focused on each other and what they were doing that it felt like Tubbo was invisible. It’s not really a new feeling.
Tubbo heads into one of the older buildings, although it was newly renovated when he arrived with Tommy for the first time. It was originally cleaned up for him and Tommy, but Tommy kind of drifts around now. Tubbo tends to sleep here alone, which means that he can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time without needing to get up and check on Tommy. It’s one of those many quirks that Tubbo developed during the apocalypse, and it used to be helpful when they were out there on their own, but has since become useless. There’s no danger here, not really.
Still, he checks around every corner carefully before he finally goes to settle in his bed.
He kicks his boots off and shucks his gloves onto the corner chair, shedding his jacket to lay over the top of the door to let anyone who comes in know he’s in here. He makes sure the window is locked, testing it to make sure it doesn’t budge.
Only then does he collapse on top of the sheets, curling up into a ball and shoving his hand under his pillow to curl around the hilt of the knife he keeps there. It helps him sleep at least sometimes, and he’ll take that over nothing. He has enough trouble falling asleep as it is. He faces the open door, unwilling to shut it just in case Tommy wants to come in.
He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and after a couple of minutes he’s floating into sleep. The kind of sleep where his mind goes empty, but it doesn’t quite fall asleep. He’s always been such a light sleeper.
Because it feels like only a second later that a noise startles him out of sleep.
It’s the lightest of creaks, but it has his eyes blinking open and his hand flexing over his knife.
He figures it’s just Tommy. It’s usually just Tommy when he hears something in this house, but when there’s no immediate follow up sound he sits up. He turns and makes direct eye contact with the figure standing inside his room, the window open behind them and a smaller figure crawling in. The window that Tubbo could’ve sworn he made sure was locked before he went to bed.
He pulls his knife out from under his pillow and levels it at the figure, not at all calmed by their arms going slowly into the air. Anybody can fake surrender. If Tubbo trusted everything outsiders said and did without question he’d be dead by now.
Tubbo slowly slides off his bed, stalking closer and closer, only satisfied when the edge of his blade is to the intruder’s neck. A true threat. It loosens some of the tightness that’s made a home in his chest.
“Wow. You’re very fast. Your eyes are incredibly striking,” the intruder says, voice raspy but also high in fear. “Intense, I mean.”
They speak despite the fact that every word works their throat against the knife, and that can’t be comfortable. Tubbo knows, from experience, that it hurts.
Tubbo considers slitting their throat. It would be a mess, but if someone has made it inside the walls and is now standing in Tubbo’s room, they must be a threat. Tubbo’s hand even twitches slightly at the thought, and the intruder hisses in pain.
In the next second of silence, there’s a whine and then a loud sob. It’s at this moment that Tubbo realizes the smaller figure is a child. He supposes he should’ve guessed as much, considering how small they are, but he wasn’t thinking straight. His mind hadn’t quite woken up, but now he’s wide away, blinking his eyes through the dark in an attempt to catch a better glimpse.
“Don’t cry,” the taller figure begs, something like desperation leaking into their tone.
Tubbo backs away. He doesn’t lower his knife, but he takes a few steps back until he can switch on his lamp. It flickers a few times, but eventually stays on. Tubbo finally gets a good look at the two in front of him, first tracing his eyes along the taller one, bandana pulled up over their nose and mouth, eyes intensely locked with Tubbo’s, split colored hair, but it must be natural because there’s no roots coming out. There’s patches of much lighter colored skin peppered around what exposed skin Tubbo can see, and he knows there’s a name for that but he can’t pull it up right now. His mind is racing too fast to focus on such a detail.
“Please, my name is Ranboo and this is Michael, he’s just a kid, you have to let me explain, just hear me out–”
Tubbo tunes him out as his eyes slide to the child, immediately realizing why he’s being begged right now. There’s clear signs of this child being infected. He’s calmed down crying, which is a good sign the kid probably is still sound of mind. For now.
“You know better,” Tubbo says, tightening his grip on his knife. “Come on, you haven’t gotten this far into this absolute hell without knowing better. In two days, the kid won’t even be aware anymore. Give him mercy, put him down easy. Nobody wants to become that.”
“No! No, you don’t understand what’s going on.”
“I think I do,” Tubbo scoffs, sliding his knife to point at the kid now. “And if you don’t want to do it, I will. You don’t have to stick around and watch, but I won’t let infection take this compound any more than I’ll let a child suffer. Not while I’m standing here alive.”
Ranboo edges the kid, Michael, behind him. That’s what Ranboo called him, wasn’t it?
“Michael,” Tubbo calls, letting his voice slip into softness. “My name is Tubbo. Before all this, I used to really like bees. And I would make flower crowns, and write music, and I chopped wood in the winter and was studying chemical engineering. Do you understand what’s happening to you?”
Ranboo’s grip tightens on Michael’s arm, but Michael is peering at Tubbo with only one uninfected eye, and that gaze on him is clear and focused.
“Don’t try to manipulate him right in front of me,” Ranboo hisses at him.
But you know who has a weapon drawn and who doesn’t? Tubbo gives him a dangerous look, then turns his attention back to Michael.
Michael nods, though.
“Can you tell me about it?” Tubbo prompts.
Michael opens his mouth, half rotted already, but he doesn’t end up saying anything. He hesitates, then clicks his jaw shut.
“He doesn’t really talk,” Ranboo mutters.
Tubbo went through a bit like that, back when he was still traveling with his father. When he could afford to be nonverbal. But it wasn’t for long, because then his father dumped him in the middle of the night and left Tubbo to the wilderness. When Tubbo and Tommy found each other, they had no other choice other than strong communication. It’s how they became such good friends. It’s how they lived.
He doesn’t bring that up now. He can’t lose his point, his foothold here. He refuses.
“That’s convenient for you.”
“If I tell you the truth, you’re going to call me crazy. If I lie to you, you’ll accuse me of something ridiculous. We’re just trying to get past.”
“You could’ve gone around,” Tubbo snorts.
“Not when there’s a horde out there,” Ranboo sighs.
For just a second, Tubbo’s grip on his knife loosens, but he pulls himself together fast.
Isn’t Dream out there? What’s going on? Shouldn’t Punz have alerted them?
“There’s a horde?”
“A big one.”
Tubbo bites his lip. He does want more information, and he doesn’t think he’s going to get it by threatening here. Not to mention the fact that he doesn’t really want to hurt this child in front of him, even if it would be for the greater good and all that.
“Listen–”
Tubbo still levels his knife at Ranboo one last time and warns, “I could cut your throat. That would shut you up. I won’t be the one listening here. You listen to me. ”
Ranboo opens his mouth like he’s going to retort. But then he shuts it again, as if he’s thought better. He still has his hand rested on Michael’s head as if there’s no danger there.
“Michael. When did he get bit?”
“A month ago,” Ranboo claims.
“Don’t lie to me,” he quickly snaps.
But when he takes a moment, faced only with Ranboo’s raised eyebrow, he studies his face. He finds nothing wrong there, but he just knows it can’t be right. Maybe it’s because he can’t see Ranboo’s mouth. Tubbo flicks his knife blade back into the hilt, then shoves it in his pocket.
He crosses his arms, still confident he could take Ranboo in a fight if he were attacked. He knows he’s stronger. Ranboo is tall, and he doesn’t look entirely like a wet spaghetti noodle, he has some muscle definition. But Tubbo is still definitely stronger.
Tubbo has survived for a long time all but on his own, taking care of Tommy through the most difficult and dangerous things. He was able to do that, not because he was stronger than everything else physically, but because mentally he was willing to do things that others may not have been. That iron will of his got him through the worst parts of the apocalypse. When Tubbo was trying to protect both himself and his best friend from the horrors that the world fell into. This is nothing. That strength will serve him well now at eighteen just as much as it did then.
“Then explain to me how he hasn’t turned. I’ve seen people turn in a day. You have to understand why I can’t believe you,” Tubbo reasons, tilting his head with a slightly softer expression.
He doesn’t want Ranboo to continue seeing him as a threat. He wants to have a conversation as equals. It takes a lot of energy to school his expression into something more palatable, but he manages it just fine.
He’s done this before, he will do it again.
“I’m immune,” Ranboo says.
And now Tubbo knows he’s lying.
He can’t help the edge in his voice when he responds, “I know we all feel like the protagonist of our own zombie apocalypse movies, but I know you did not just imply you’re humanity’s savior or something equally as ridiculous. I’m trying to treat you with respect, please return the favor.”
“I know what it sounds like, but I’m telling the truth. I’ve been bit more than once, and I’ve never turned. I am being as honest as I know how to be.”
Ranboo has no signs of zombification that Tubbo had seen, but it’s possible that it’s simply not visible. There’s no way he’s taking this random guy’s word for something like that, and Ranboo must realize this when their eyes meet again.
“Listen, I can show you,” Ranboo offers quietly. “You can inspect me all you want, until you find whatever proof you need. All I want is for you to let Michael and I pass through.”
Tubbo takes a few steps forward, but before he gets too far, Ranboo is already rolling up his sleeve. There’s a clear bite there, wrapped around his wrist, the skin scarred over ugly likely because some of it was torn out by the bite itself. But there’s no signs of rot around the bite. It looks healed over.
“You have no proof that it was from an infected,” Tubbo points out.
He’s seen other people do worse than some of the infected, it wouldn’t be the first time.
“That’s fair.” Ranboo tugs his collar down slightly, exposing a secondary bite near his collarbone. “What about this one?”
This one looks a bit newer, skin still broken up and irritated looking. It’s not nearly as gnarly as the other one that’s scarred over. But because it’s newer it also means it’s easier to see the bite marks themselves, clearer that they were made by sharper teeth. And it is true that as infected turn, they lose all their teeth and grow sharper ones, ones better for biting and tearing raw meat.
Then again…
“Someone’s guard dog getcha?” Tubbo hums, flicking his eyes back up to Ranboo’s.
He wants to laugh at the expression on his face then, the disgruntled and almost disbelieving thing that graces his face. Even with his mouth covered, his eyes are so expressive. Tubbo is sure that Ranboo has never encountered someone like him yet, and maybe he’s taking a little pride in humbling this disillusioned idiot, but he won’t say that.
“Listen, I can appreciate a good lie, and you’re a pretty damn good liar,” Tubbo gives, stepping closer to Ranboo.
Ranboo shifts backwards, but that just puts him against the wall. Tubbo lifts his chin just slightly, a quiet but strong challenge for Ranboo to talk back to him. He doesn’t.
“But if you were immune, the whole world would know. Surely you would be locked up in some lab, helping scientists or whoever even cares anymore, develop a cure.” Tubbo presses his lips together, and smiles in the kindest way he can. “I understand wanting to protect someone who I’m sure you love. But surviving in the current state of the world often involves doing the right thing, no matter how hard it is. If you don’t want to do it, if you don’t want to watch it, that’s okay. I can do it, and I can live with it.”
Ranboo blinks, holding his eyes closed for a couple seconds before he opens them again. He reaches up to the bandana covering half his face and pulls it down. Tubbo’s eyes unconsciously move to the newly exposed skin, where the right side of his mouth and cheek is heavily scarred. It doesn’t look like rot, or any kind of bite. It actually looks like someone tried to blow his head off his shoulders and missed.
“How long would you give Michael, until he turns fully?”
It’s just a little strange to watch his mouth move when he talks after spending the rest of this exchange with his mouth covered.
Tubbo looks back at Michael, nearly unwilling to do so. But he finds that the kid is already looking at him, that one eye is still sharply aware of him despite how badly infected he looks already. Tubbo has to assume that the zombification hasn’t gotten to his brain yet, because the alternative…it just can’t be possible.
“Twenty four hours,” Tubbo answers.
At least his mind will take a turn for the worse by then, that is something Tubbo is fully confident in.
“You can watch us for twenty four hours. When Michael hasn’t turned by then, you have to let us go,” Ranboo offers, and Tubbo notices his mouth pulls strangely as he speaks because of the scar tissue built up there. “We will stay here the whole time. I swear, we won’t cause any trouble. And if we do, you have my full permission to put a bullet between my eyes.”
Tubbo doesn’t know if Ranboo is bluffing. Maybe he thinks Tubbo wouldn’t actually kill him and Michael if it came down to it, but the truth is Tubbo has killed people he knew better for less. He is not afraid to do it again, even if the nightmares will persist for weeks before he finally wrestles his mind back down to the logic of it had to be done.
He’s been haunted by louder ghosts than a random teenager with delusions of grandeur and an infected kid.
“Okay. I can make that deal,” Tubbo agrees, holding out his hand.
Ranboo shakes it firmly, standing up a little straighter. It’s the most confidence Tubbo has seen him exhibit yet.
Michael tugs at Ranboo’s jacket when both of their hands fall back to their sides, making a series of hand gestures that have Ranboo’s eyes widening.
“You mind if we eat in here?” Ranboo turns to ask Tubbo, tilting his head slightly.
Tubbo shifts back and takes a seat on his bed, shoving his hands back at the last second to hold himself up. He shrugs.
When Ranboo takes the backpack off his back and sets it on the floor, opening the main pocket to start rifling through it, Tubbo takes the moment to open the bottom drawer to the dresser by his bed. He reaches in, all while never taking his eyes off Ranboo, and pulls out his bolt action shotgun. He drags it up into his arms, not doing anything but holding it for now.
He kicks the drawer shut, snickering when Ranboo jumps hard, raising a hand to his chest. On the other hand, Michael doesn’t seem phased by the loud noise, just pats Ranboo’s arm.
“Is the gun really necessary?” Ranboo asks, eyeing it cautiously. “I don’t even have one.”
“I think I remember your wording giving me full permission to put a bullet between your eyes if you step out of line.” He shrugs, then grins. “I figured I’d be prepared, just in case. And speaking of weapons, I want yours set aside.”
Ranboo lays three things out on the floor, an axe that he had strapped to his back, and a pipe and bat from inside his backpack. Tubbo stands to grab them and set them in the corner. In the event that at the end of this twenty four hours, Ranboo lets Tubbo take care of the infected and he goes on his delusional way, Tubbo handles the weapons with care. He doesn’t want to break any of them, he knows how hard it is to get your hands on these things out there.
Meanwhile, Michael is happily eating the bread that was laid out for him, biting at it with only one front tooth. And Tubbo doesn’t know if the missing tooth is from turning or just because Michael is at that age where he starts losing teeth or if it got knocked out somehow.
He doesn’t know how much it matters at this point.
“Are you really going to sit there stoic for twenty four hours?” Ranboo questions, sitting back on his legs next to Michael.
Tubbo’s hand twitches, he can feel the way his finger automatically tightens over the trigger on his gun. The safety is on, so it doesn’t give way, and he just takes a deep breath. He keeps having to remind himself that he needs to at least give this guy a chance. That was the deal. But it goes against everything he knows about survival now, the idea that nobody can be trusted, that all you have is yourself and the people you have to protect. The part of Tubbo who only knows that wants to shoot both of these people for the good of his compound, but he also wants to be honorable. Maybe a part of himself still wants to believe that Ranboo is telling the truth, that humanity has a chance.
“I’m good at keeping my mind occupied,” Tubbo dismisses.
His shoulders are hiked up around his neck, the tension pulling his muscles taught and coiled. He’s ready, at any moment, to spring up and attack.
When he glances back at Michael, he’s found that the kid has wooden blocks that must’ve also been in Ranboo’s bag. He’s stacking them carefully, hands gentle to prevent anything from getting knocked over. He’s staring in complete concentration at his wooden building, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth every time he adds a block.
He looks almost normal, if not for the rot clinging to his skin.
“Michael is seven,” Ranboo comments.
Michael makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat, the noise coming out warbled.
“Seven and a half,” Ranboo amends. “He was two when the apocalypse started. I don’t know if you had or have any younger companions to look after, but a two year old is not fit for an apocalyptic scenario.”
“I can only imagine,” Tubbo grits out.
His chest tightens something fierce thinking about Michael’s age, of course he’s outwardly a kid, but hearing it spoken out loud is something else entirely. Two when the apocalypse started, too young to understand anything that was going on.
“He’s not my younger brother or anything, but within the first week after all hell broke loose, I found him abandoned in a house I was scavenging through,” he continues, either unknowing or uncaring of Tubbo’s uncomfortableness. “He was incredibly sluggish, I wasn’t sure…he pulled through alright once I started taking care of him.”
“Why are you telling me all this? It’s not going to change what I do at the end of these twenty four hours,” Tubbo says firmly.
“I don’t expect it to. I just figure if you won’t make conversation, I will.”
Ranboo’s strong expression twitches into something more confused, and it’s the only warning Tubbo gets before he hears, “Tubbo?”
He doesn’t turn because he doesn’t need to. He recognizes Tommy’s voice better than he recognizes his own. Especially right now, when all the work he put into learning to relax and let other people protect him for once has gone out the window. He finds his voice hardened and cruel again, unrecognizable from the softness and intelligence he began to take on. He’s thrown it out in favor of sharpness, and it’s not the first time he’s taken several steps back. He never learns.
“I know you heard me. What the fuck is going on?”
Ranboo’s glance back at Tubbo is full of challenge, a slight eyebrow raised as if he’s just patiently waiting for him to explain exactly what this scene is.
“Look at the kid, Tommy,” Tubbo says calmly.
He never shifts his grip on his gun, not aiming it, just holding it where it is.
Tommy steps further into the room. Michael looks up at the movement, only one eye responding to it. The other looks pretty rotted away already.
Tommy takes a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers.
Tubbo goes to tell him he has it handled, but it’s Ranboo who speaks up, “No, it’s fine.”
“How can it possibly be fine?” Tommy questions, stepping forward with his chest puffed up.
He’s always been protective when it comes to these things.
“I’m immune,” Ranboo says again. “He’s not going to turn, I stopped it.”
“Are you fucking crazy? Are you actually losing your mind? Do you think I’m fucking stupid? That’s bullshit, that’s totally bull,” Tommy snaps.
“I made a deal with him,” Tubbo sighs.
But he’s inclined to agree with Tommy, even though he wouldn’t phrase it quite so harshly. If only because despite himself he doesn’t really want to swear in front of a kid. Even a half-zombified one.
“ Why?” Tommy asks, sounding so genuinely baffled.
Tubbo presses his lips together, trying to think of how to respond. It’s true that this isn’t like him, to show mercy in this way. He never did while they were out there. He was stronger, smarter, faster. He shot first and didn’t care enough to ask questions.
It’s hard to remember what he was like before before, it’s hard to connect to that person. He doesn’t feel like he even knows that old self anymore.
But he thinks that this is something he would’ve done before, give these people a chance at least. He thinks he would’ve just believed them, before the apocalypse, he’d see a kid and he’d just give them the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe it’s a little of that old Tubbo shining through that he didn’t shoot them both on sight.
“I’m curious,” Tubbo answers simply.
Tommy probably realizes that he isn’t telling the whole truth, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
“Well what if something bad happens? I know you’re kind of a badass, but just in case I should probably stay here,” he rattles off instead.
He’s already sitting beside Tubbo, jostling him slightly as he moves to take Tubbo’s gun. Tubbo doesn’t give it one inch, and Tommy frowns at him.
“Get your own weapon,” Tubbo mutters.
“Do you really think they’re such threats?” he scoffs back, gesturing broadly at the two intruders.
And the answer is, not particularly. Tubbo is very confident that he could quickly end a fight if one were to start. But this isn’t really about that, not just about a difference in strength.
“I don’t trust him,” Tubbo answers vaguely.
Ranboo peers back at him with highly intelligent eyes, and despite how much anxiety he’s showcased so far, there have also been times when an intense willpower has shone through. All in all, this entire exchange so far has been, at most, five minutes. But Ranboo did convince him to at least give him a chance, didn’t he? He prevented Tubbo from immediately acting, there was something in his voice that begged to be believed, that was actually believable on top of that.
Tubbo isn’t about to underestimate this guy, he thinks it would be a mistake. And Tubbo isn’t one to willfully make mistakes like this.
“You don’t trust anybody,” Tommy points out.
He doesn’t make a move to grab a weapon, which is…fine. Tubbo doesn’t shouldn’t needlessly get worked up just because Tommy doesn’t feel the insatiable need to protect himself at all times. Ranboo is unarmed now, Tommy is totally fine in assuming that he’ll be safe here. Tubbo will keep him safe.
“Bo, bo. Ub-bo. Tub-bo.”
Tubbo finally breaks the eye contact he was holding with Ranboo and looks over at Michael, where he’s seemingly sounding out Tubbo’s name on the floor.
Michael is looking at him while he does it, and something about that hurts in the depths of Tubbo’s stomach, not his chest. It makes him feel ill.
“Good job, buddy,” Ranboo responds immediately. “Close to my name, is it?”
“Bo, Boo,” Michael says, as if in answer.
“I’m glad you grasp that they still sound different. Two o’s make a longer sound,” Ranboo explains.
Tubbo doesn’t know that Michael really understands that, but he knows better than to speak on it. He’s not exactly a role model.
He knows this is going to be a long twenty four hours already, and he dreads what he may have to do at the end of it. But then again, he thinks he’s more scared of the possibility of Ranboo telling him the truth.
He’s not sure he’ll know what to do in that case. He’s not sure he’ll know how to relearn his optimism. He’s not sure how to trust anymore.
And yet he still hopes that this child will get to walk away from this. He hopes that Michael will keep smiling, and talking a little at a time. He hopes, even, that Michael will someday be safe. Maybe that’s a fatal flaw he’ll never be able to get rid of.