Tommyinnit Oneshots

The Drip Finally Stops

Disclaimer: this is based on the Bojack Horseman audio on TikTok, but I've never seen the show and have no idea what the plot is (except for what my friend who's rewatched it an unhealthy amount of times tells me), so this is only based on that TikTok dialogue snippet, not the plot of the show whatsoever.

TW: Mentions of suicide, discussions about death, possible swearing

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Tubbo shuffled around his hut on unsteady legs, trying to ignore the feeling in the air. He went about his day-to-day activities - he fed the chickens, made himself some eggs for breakfast, and sat down in his armchair. This was his favorite part of the morning; he would sometimes nap, sometimes read or write, pull a photo album out and look through the pictures nostalgically or simply look out the window to the world and reminisce.

Today he didn't quite have the energy to carry a photo album over to his armchair - in his old age, his hands had gotten shaky and his muscles had deteriorated. Despite his symptoms of old age, today felt a buzz under the skin, a vibrating hum in his bones, one that prevented him from sleeping.

On shaky limbs, he lowered himself into the welcoming cushion of his floral armchair, briefly looking over to the matching one on his right. He touched the arm of the other chair gently, feeling the worn fabric from years and years of a sturdy elbow resting against it. He imagined his Ranboo sitting in the chair, looking over at him and smiling before returning to his sudoku puzzle.

A moment later and the vision was gone, the armchair empty again. Of course, Ranboo was gone. He had passed a few years ago, leaving Tubbo all alone in their cozy retirement cottage.

Michael had tried to visit them as much as he could, especially after Ranboo's death, but he was inhabiting another SMP now and couldn't get away more than once or twice a year. It was okay though, because his fathers knew he was doing great things wherever he was in the universe, and they waited patiently for the days when he would come home to tell them his stories.

Although Tubbo passed these days alone, he didn't feel lonely. 

Covering every wall of his little house were pictures, memories of his past. He had never counted, but there were probably hundreds, from staged photos protected by gilded frames to shaky Polaroids held up by a piece of tape.

It was a beautiful day today. Tubbo basked in the rays of sunshine coming in and hitting his lap in the mid-morning light. The wind whispered through the tall grass and weeds he didn't have the energy to pick, sliding in between leaves on trees and giving a wonderful background noise to the distant clucking of chickens, still munching in their breakfast.

As he looked out, Tubbo had a peculiar thought, one that had never crossed his mind in his many years of living - at least, he didn't remember it doing so. He thought to himself, what a perfect day to die. 

It wasn't sad, or regretful. It was just a fact.

The thought was the catalyst of a stream of realizations, falling one after the other, pulling more along with them.

The first thing he realized was this: he was going to die soon. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, but he wasn't long for this world.

The second thing he realized: he would surely die before getting to see Michael again. It was an unavoidable fact, as heavily as it weighed on his chest.

The third thing he realized: he had lived a long life, and it was time to go. He had raised a wonderful son, married his best friend (platonically), and been president of a country. He was okay with these days being his last.

With that, he pushed himself up shakily and made his way to his bedroom. He pulled the curtains wide and opened the window as much as he could, then got comfortable with a blanket over his lap and a pillow propped up behind his back. Then, he turned to look out the window, and he waited.