DSMP oneshots

Grief

Tubbo watched as the icy cold water hit the ice and snow that made up the shore of Snowchester. It was oddly quiet—even the water didn't dare to make a sound. It was almost as if it too was grieving.

But why would the world grieve? The death of one person out of millions shouldn't make the world grieve. Soon enough, someone else will be born, and fill the small gap that was left by the silent Enderman hybrid.

He wondered what it would've been like if they raised Michael to adulthood. Maybe having Tommy raise Shroud alongside them. Maybe they would've finished up the mansion, and given Michael his own room, one that would've been a lot bigger than his tiny room in the little cabin. The five of them would be a weird little family, but did that really matter? None of the teens really had a family that raised them, so who cares if the only family the teens had was the family they made?

...does he even have a family anymore? Before Ranboo's death, they weren't necessarily on the best of terms, and now Michael is who-knows-where. He was sure that the piglin was safe with Eret, but...

And Tommy is dealing with his own shit right now, especially with Dream being free from prison.

And what about Tubbo? What is he supposed to do now?

He looked at his reflection in the water. He had bags under his eyes, and his hair and horns were longer. He looked like he was an adult, and technically, he was.

Except...

Sure, his age told him that he was an adult, but he grew up long before he turned eighteen. Was it when he fought a war for his freedom? Was it when he betrayed his only family for his life? Was it when he suddenly became the president of a crater? Was it when he formed his own semi-nation? Was it when he got married and adopted a kid?

He couldn't remember if he was being honest.

He touched the scar on his face. There were multiple small ones, actually, but the most obvious one was the giant scar from his execution. Actually, that scar also covered most of his neck and right shoulder, but those are easily covered with his coat. His face was another story.

Suddenly, his head and eyes hurt, and he saw droplets fall into the water.

He was crying.

For the first time in who-knows-how-long, he was crying.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeves, cursing the entire time. But he couldn't seem to dry his eyes.

"You shouldn't wipe your eyes." A familiar voice said. "You should let yourself cry."

He turned to see Ranboo's ghost. He only knew he was a ghost because of the bleeding stab wound, the fact that both of his eyes were a solid color, and that he was slightly transparent.

Tubbo scoffed. "That's rich, coming from a guy who literally can't cry without burning himself."

Ranboo—er, Ghostboo—sighed as he sat down next to him. "Tubbo, I've known you for a little over a year now, and I know you well enough to know that you literally never cry. Last time I've seen you shed so much as a tear was when you told me about your execution."

"I thought you were supposed to be happy." Tubbo snapped, wiping his numb cheeks.

Ghostboo sighed. "I'm free of my stress and anxieties, but I'm not suddenly less empathetic."