Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Tubbo!”

Techno’s eyes were wide, and he reached out to grab him. Maybe this was the last thing Ranboo saw, before it all ended. Tubbo stared at Techno, unable to think of anything to say. Nothing good enough worth either of their time.

“Look after Michael for me,” Tubbo whispered, not sure if his voice carried over.

Maybe he’d see Ranboo.

Was that really that bad?

Black. Darkness. Covering everything, everything was spinning. Everything was still. Nothing was. Nothing… so much nothing, everything was that. Nothing and nothing else, everything swirled. Everything was still.

Tubbo wheezed, looking up at the nothingness.

It was just… dark. Nothingness expanding in every direction.

He slowly stood up, looking around.

What.

What the fuck was this?

Tubbo looked around, slowly… surely. Nothing there to help him, nothing there to help anyone apart from the suffocating darkness. He staggered forwards slightly, clutching a wound he no longer felt, merely out of the habit of the thing.

“Hello?” Tubbo yelled.

Nothing.

Not even an echo.

Almost like his voice was taken up in the wind that didn’t exist and destroyed. Until he only thought he spoke. 

Maybe he never said anything at all.

“Hello?” Tubbo yelled again, his voice breaking half down the middle and fracturing into something ugly. Fracturing into something he hated… just a little bit, not a lot. He spun around.

He spun and spun and spun. Waiting for anyone, anything to respond to him.

No one.

No one was coming.

Tubbo fell to his knees, bringing his hands up to his face and making a small noise. A small noise buried deep in his chest from the moment Wilbur pressed that button, that he just kept on digging deeper and deeper.

Until it was almost gone.

“Crying? Seriously?”

Tubbo looked up.

To be met with the face of a man he never wanted to see again, a man who should’ve been dead. With the cruel cold eyes that haunted his dreams and followed him when he simply wanted to live his life.

He wore the same suit as always… with those cold eyes. It felt kind to call them cruel, as there was nothing there. Nothing there apart from a certain apathy, a certain throwing people to the side. Holing someone up and forcing them to wait for their death.

Watching Techno approach the stage, looking at Wilbur and Tommy. Surely they’d do something. Anything.

Tubbo scrambled back, landing before scrambling back and shaking his head furiously. “No, no, no.”

“Crying?” Schlatt drawled, the smallest smile on his face. “I thought I taught you better Tubbo, I thought I taught the entire cabinet better,” Schlatt tsked and shook his head, taking another step forward. “Remember me?”

“I couldn’t forget,” Tubbo spat out, “You bastard. You fucking bastard, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you!” He leapt forwards.

Schlatt stepped to the side, and Tubbo stumbled past him. 

He twisted around and looked at Schlatt. The stupid horns, that Tubbo hated. The same that he was still trying to hide, but no matter how much he hid them… they would still show. 

Tubbo’s fight died… perhaps it died with him.

Schlatt smiled, something sick and twisted and would’ve made Tubbo cold if he could feel anything at all. Anything apart from a long-old sense of exhaustion and a long-old sense of… sadness.

He was so tired.

“I saw you,” Schlatt said quietly, a sick little grin on his face. “Taking after me aren'tcha?”

“What?” Tubbo asked, the confusion sticking to every letter. 

Schlatt smiled a little bit wider, “I saw you. After exile. The wreck you were, the way you eyed the alcohol you never swore to touch. I saw,” Schlatt smiled, something brightened in his eyes.

Tubbo took a step back.

“I didn’t…” he whispered, “I never—”

Schlatt smiled, “The pufferfish.”

“That’s… not the same.”

“Is it not?”

And Tubbo… didn’t know.

The world shifted around him, the darkness and Schlatt shifted with it all. 

Everything was loud, like the screaming of a nether portal in your ears as the world changes from the flowers and the bees to piglins and—

Piglins. Michael.

Nothing. Everything.

A stone ceiling.

He blinked up at the ceiling. A ceiling to a place that he knows better than he wants to. A place that he watched Fundy build hand by hand, stewing in the remnants of a nation ripped apart by its own maker.

Tubbo stared.

The second white house. The one that was barely touched, because despite Schlatt having never stepped foot inside, they could all feel him around every corner. Around every corner were footsteps that staggered. Bottles that were thrown on the ground.

The second white house.

It had three photos hanging up in it. One of Wilbur, far in his prime and smiling like his world wasn’t about to fall apart at his feet. And oh. How it would all fall apart.

One was of Schlatt, half drunk. Tubbo had remembered how that day went… the answer was not well for Quackity or himself… or even Fundy.

The final was of himself… in what could have only been a… year? Maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime ago. With a still fresh burn, and a tiredness in his eyes that he’d never really get rid of.

Before Ranboo and Michael…

Before exile.

Tubbo looked at the photo of a past self. A few more steps forward, before really looking at himself. He looked… so tired, he remembered that day. He had gotten no sleep, he had barely even closed his eyes.

He was stressed, and scared, and not sure what to do about the obsidian walls that were building up and up around him. He was not sure what to do, and he didn’t think there was an easy fix.

There hadn’t been.

Of course.

Tubbo walked down the hallway, he could almost feel Fundy walking behind him. The quiet moments they had when Schlatt wasn’t around and they had each other. It had been so long since they’d talked.

They’d never get to speak again.

He could almost feel the quiet voices they’d adopted when talking about Wilbur. A man who was long gone, disappeared to memories that only Fundy and Tubbo had. Tubbo ran his fingers across the wall, and brushed the dust on his pants.

He had to get out of here.

He turned into a doorway, before stopping almost completely.

It was… a single table, and on it was a picture of Michael, himself and Ranboo. He almost cried at the sight of it. It was one from when they first found Michael, and Michael didn’t know anything in common. They both had a ring, Ranboo’s on his finger and Tubbo’s wrapped around his horn.

The ring almost made him look different from Schlatt, different enough so that he could look in the mirror without wanting to crack it.

Both of them were smiling, and Ranboo was holding Michael who looked slightly confused but so cute. 

He stumbled forwards, picking up the photo in his hand. Holding it like it held everything important in it, like breaking it would snap apart all of his memories. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Tubbo smiled.

He’d destroyed this photo. In a night of anger where nothing was working, apart from the rage and anger in his own heart. One of the days where Techno wasn't enough, one of the days he couldn’t cry… only destroy.

Techno had given him a sad look, before picking up the pieces of the frame, and handing him the photo back. Face down, so he could only see the back of it. It had been a good plan, but didn’t work.

Neither of them were counting on the little, ‘See you soon, Tubbo!’

Tubbo had ripped the paper out of Techno’s hands. Ripped it in two and left it in the snow. Before running to the basement, where he did not let himself cry.

He did not let himself cry, not now, not yet. He had work to do.

Despite everything… Techno understood, the way perhaps no one else could. The need to be busy, the need to do something, because what else could they do? If they stopped… maybe they’d fall apart.

And Tubbo had fallen.

Tubbo shook himself out of his thoughts, looking at the photo with a fond and sad smile. They looked so happy. 

He hoped that Techno would look after Michael. Despite everything, their differences. He’d hope that in death they could agree on at least this one thing. 

Grabbing the frame, he flipped it over and took the photo out. Looking at the little note on it, and smiling softly at it. Filled with a tenderness and a care that Tubbo could not put into words.

He shoved the photo into his pocket. 

He closed the door behind him, continuing down the hallway. He’d remember this all, he had to. He’d lose himself if not for the memories that tied him to the server. He’d drown in spiralling despair of forgetting.

Another door, and Tubbo found himself opening it.

It was a jukebox.

His stomach dropped.

Tommy. 

This felt cruel, to whatever higher power was out there. It felt… cruel to do this, to show Ranboo and Michael, the things that brought him the most happiness. Right next to Tommy… the thing that had brought him the most guilt and sadness.

(Second most.) His mind reminded, a cruel weight on his conscience. (What about his death? What if he had been there?)

Tubbo took a shaky breath, before slowly stepping in there. 

‘Cat’ started playing.

And that took all the breath out of Tubbo’s lungs. The song was too happy. It was too happy for what it all represented.

Death being dangled in front of Tubbo’s face. Yelling over the remains of a blown up community house, that they each blamed the other for. For… Tommy’s death in prison and the way that broke Tubbo.

Would his death break Tommy the same way?

Tubbo ran to the jukebox, hitting his hand against it. Trying to get the disc to stop playing. 

It kept playing. 

A symphony, an ode to the people he left.

A symphony, forever unfinished. 

He slammed his hands against the jukebox. He refused to cry, he simply refused to cry. He could not cry. He did not deserve these tears, these tears were Tommy’s to shed. Not his.

He caused this, he didn’t get to cry about it.

Tubbo hit his hand against the jukebox.

He saw the way Tommy shook when people got too loud, and the tremor in his voice that he could hide from everyone else apart from Tubbo. The way he flinched when people moved too fast and the screaming nightmares that happened when no one was supposed to be listening.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, before sliding down against the jukebox. Using it as some sort of twisted seat, as if this wasn’t the thing that had ruined everything. Yet, saved everything.

Deep down, Tubbo knew the discs were more than just discs. They were a promise… of when times were better, when Wilbur had told them beautiful lies about the world they were all going to create. Beautiful, beautiful lies, that slowly but surely festered into ugly truths. Ugly truths that tainted everything the country had been, no longer were the quiet nights with the guitar. No longer was the gentle whisper of spring as they all laughed over whatever stupid song Wilbur thought of.

No.

That was gone, and Tommy had clung onto it with everything he had. He was the only one who refused to forget about Wilbur and Niki and what L’Manberg was supposed to be. That L’Manberg was built on freedom, and music, (and drugs.)

Tubbo had let himself forget.

They all had.

Apart from Tommy, stubbornly brave Tommy. Who was an idiot, who was an utter idiot for letting himself remember.

And Tubbo… who was the reason Tommy was always so scared, he’d given away his best friend. For what? The remains of a country that everyone knew was never going to work? Now he was… terrified of everything.

Tubbo could have stopped that.

He could have visited, he could have—

“Please,” Tubbo whispered to the roof. “Whatever is out there— some higher power, whatever has me here.” He let tears fall, slide down his face and onto the ground where they’d rest forever.

He was a traitor to everything that ever mattered to him. He couldn’t protect anyone that mattered… Ranboo was now gone. He was nothing more but the shell of a ghost that Tubbo hated more than anything. He had betrayed Tommy, again and again, living his life with Ranboo and not including Tommy. 

He had chosen sides, and none of those sides mattered because nothing could keep anyone safe. He’d never been safe, Tommy had never been safe. He hadn’t been able to save L’Manberg, it was never a lost cause, it had fallen apart in his hands. 

It had all fallen apart.

He had fallen apart.

Tubbo’s shoulders shook with the sheer effort of the sobs.

He hadn’t done enough, he hadn’t even gotten revenge for Ranboo. They’d found Michael, but Tubbo hadn’t even gotten a chance to hug him before he was yanked back with an axe swinging about his head.

It was never enough. He was never enough… why else would he keep losing the things that mattered the most to him.

Wilbur… L’Manberg… Tommy… Ranboo.

Where were the simple times of guitars and music and laughter?

Tubbo looked up at the ceiling, wiping away tears faster than they could fall. “Please,” Tubbo whispered, his voice breaking slightly, yet he could not bring himself to care. “Please.”

Silence. Nothing answered.

Nothing would answer.

“Let me forget.”

And he would not.

He could not, no matter how much he tried.

And perhaps that was the greatest pain of all… remembering after everyone else would forget.

No one was here to catch him as he spiralled. He’d stay here forever and let himself fall into his own despair, drowning and drowning and nobody would catch him. Because nobody could catch him.

Tubbo whimpered. 

He was so cold.

He was so, so cold.

“Please,” Tubbo whispered again, closer to a prayer than anything else. “I want to forget. Let me forget! Please. ”

But he couldn’t.

No matter how hard he’d try, he just… couldn’t forget. Nothing. Baking with Michael, and getting cookie dough all across the floor and letting Ranboo clean it up rather than himself.

The cookie recipe he got from Niki when L’Manberg was free and nothing but goodness and a sort of euphoria and happiness he’d never get until long afterwards. Until he met Ranboo, and found Michael.

He was made of memories, of scattered broken people who had trusted him with the mundane.

Tubbo stood up, legs shaking, holding onto the jukebox that still chimed at him.

He couldn’t forget. 

He’d refuse to.

He would remember every petal, every quiet whisper of the wind. Every breakdown, every time he fought back with nothing but fire in his heart. Fireworks exploding in his face.

He couldn’t forget it. It was a part of him.

Tubbo stumbled towards the door, falling out of the room and tumbling onto the floor. 

He laid on the floor for a long moment, shaking. 

Slowly, he got himself back together again. It felt like building himself back together, brick by brick piece by piece. The good. The bad. And the terrifying.

Tubbo wiped his tears.

Before slowly rising to his feet and continuing down the hallway.

Fuck that.

He was getting out of this shitshow.

He stumbled down the hallway, it seemed to never end. Just getting longer and longer, everytime Tubbo thought it couldn’t be much longer. It was that much longer, he stumbled forwards and forwards.

It was a never-ending hallway, he swore. Only being made of stone and torches, with some doors that Tubbo kept firmly closed. Every now and again he’d stop and hold himself up by grabbing onto the wall.

Clutching a wound that did not hurt anymore, and did not leave any mark apart from a rip in the fabric, he surged forwards. He didn’t know why anymore, just that he refused to stay in the echoes of his past.

He was fucking dead, he did not have to deal with his trauma.

The end was almost in sight… he swore.

A door was opened, to his left.

Tubbo paused, looking to his left.

It was Benson. The stuffed toy that Michael loved more than anything.

Benson was a well-loved toy. With patches and stuffing falling out, Benson was falling apart a little. Covered with patches and failed attempts at those patches.

Tommy made Benson. When he came back from the prison. Tommy was barely talking and instead he picked up a needle and some thread and some fabric and sewed like his life depended on it.

He sewed the small toy for Michael.

Tubbo had tried to fix Benson once, but it didn’t go very well and Beson was a mess of a toy. Tubbo had somehow managed to rip out most of the stuffing. He was never good at creating or fixing afterall.

Michael was inconsolable. He called Ranboo on the verge of tears, and Ranboo had basically sprinted all the way from the Arctic. 

He had shown up out of breath, but was going to fix Benson nonetheless, his hands reaching towards Benson and the fabric and several more bits of thread.

Ranboo was not good at sewing. 

But he spent all night fixing that stupid duck toy up.

Tubbo smiled, before reaching for the door handle and closing the door with a quiet click. 

He walked down the hallway, footsteps scuffing against the ground slightly. Before he reached what he’d call the end. A door that perhaps led to nothing, perhaps it led to everything.

With a deep breath, he slowly pushed the door open and stepped out into the darkness that didn’t feel so dark anymore.

He looked behind him, and the second white house was gone. Tubbo smiled, that felt like a sign of something good.

He turned back around, and his breath was almost ripped straight out of his chest.

Standing in front of him… surrounded by the darkness that seemed to almost swallow them whole. Almost overtake them completely. It was Ranboo. 

Ranboo. 

Any words Tubbo possibly had died on the tip of his tongue. 

What else could he say to him? That this was all for him? That Ranboo’s death had ripped him up inside and spat him out? That he’d never be the same, that he was supposed to return for Michael? That he was supposed to bring Ranboo back?

What else could Tubbo say? Apart from looking at Ranboo like he was everything… and in some way he was. Ranboo was the reason to fight, and the reason Tubbo eventually fractured into a broken shell of what he’d once been.

“Ranboo,” Tubbo whispered. It was not enough, it would never be enough.

His Ranboo. Not the apparition of Ranboo that Tubbo hated with every inch of his being and then some more, and then some more after that.

“You remember me?”

A long moment of silence that held the promises of lifetimes together and more, it appeared that even in death they would be

“How could I ever forget?”

And the darkness swirled. Everything was nothing, and nothing was everything. 

As fast as he appeared, Ranboo was gone.

That seemed like a fitting metaphor for his life. Tubbo swiped at the empty air, like his mind was just playing tricks on him. It wasn’t. The air showed nothing, and Tubbo perhaps would’ve thought it was his mind playing tricks on him.

It wasn’t.

He was too real, his mannerisms, the way his voice rose and fell and the way his face twisted into both relief and fear when he saw Tubbo.

Tubbo stared at the space that should have had Ranboo.

It did not.

And so… Tubbo waited.

He waited for Ranboo, he had no reason not to. There was little left for him in limbo. Maybe if we wanted to he’d stop existing completely, but he wanted to see Ranboo.

Maybe they could be in this sick little limbo together.

It had been three months.

Three days in mortal time.

He would remember them, every smile, every laugh. 

The good and the bad, and the things he wished would be lost to limbo. He’d remember Michael and Tommy and Ranboo and Techno and Wilbur and… everything.

And maybe, they would remember too.