a series of sbi oneshots

we care about you

"...does he make you happy?"

Tubbo was hanging off Ranboo's arm when Tommy had asked. Supposedly, he was only dead for two days. Two days. Tubbo shares a glance with Ranboo at the question, a look Tommy can't quite decipher. Two days ago, he could've.

"He does, he does." Tubbo hums uncertainly. Tommy watches the sun glint off the ring Tubbo wears around his finger- in two days, Tubbo had married Ranboo and adopted Michael, and to be quite frank, Tommy feels real replaced about it all.

Two days- it felt like two months to Tommy. It was two days to Tubbo, but he still looks at Tommy like he's expecting to see through him. He and Ranboo walk on glass around him, toes catching the shards, trying to pretend that they don't think he's dead. If they think he's dead, does that make him dead?

"Good, good," Tommy echoes. He tugs the white strand of hair in front of his eyes absently. There is a large, gaping hole in his chest- something that feels abyssal and black and never ending. It sucks every bit of happiness Tommy has in him out, pulling it away like ice applied to a fever. "I'm just gonna uhh- go now boys. Big man shit to do, you know how it is." The words sound weak, even to him.

His hands curl around nothing but he can still feel the black sludge of the void sinking deeper into him, Wilbur's crazed ramblings heavy in his ears.

Tubbo nods briefly, eyes already pulling away to where Michael is prancing in a field of flowers. Every so often, the zombie piglin pulls some petals up and scatters them around, squealing with excitement. Tubbo leaves to his son's side.

"Take care of him, yeah?" Tommy raises one hand. He doesn't bother making eye contact with Ranboo- before, he might've. But it wasn't worth the energy now. He traces the edges of Ranboo's frown with his eyes as the hybrid struggles to answer. Tommy knows the feeling.

"You'll still be around to make sure I am," Struggling for words often feels like drowning in air. Choking, spluttering. Tommy has torn Tubbo's bandana off his neck- it has been gone for a while, now -so Dream's handprint is still stark on his skin. He knows Ranboo is staring. "Right?" The question is weak and Tommy knows what Ranboo's really asking.

"Take care of him." Tommy drops his hand and turns away. The white bobs in front of his eyes and he knows when Ranboo stutters, almost takes a step forward. Maybe he would have tried to help two days ago.

But Ranboo has the backbone of a chocolate éclair, so he just goes back to his son. Back to Tubbo. Tommy doesn't bother looking over his shoulder to see if Ranboo bends down to whisper in Tubbo's ear, to express everything Tommy has not said. And oh, wouldn't it be a lovely dream for Tubbo to stand and shout, to take notice, to drag Tommy by the arms into Puffy's office and force him to spill. To guard Tommy's bedroom door when the nightmares come for him every night, to make sure he eats when he forgets, to wear his red bandana like a source of pride instead of the shame it has become.

But there are no footsteps, no yells, no bruising grip on his forearms- and Tommy knows.

He is always the fighter.

Never the fought for .

He unties the green bandana around his wrist, curls his fingers into the fabric for the last time. He lets it go and doesn't watch it drift away to settle into the dust. To Tubbo, Tommy is already dead. Gone, buried, a problem he is no longer responsible for. Tommy doesn't blame him, and by the gods , does he want to die.