Ours poetica

you hurt because there are things/you've never been taught to do

TWs (please please read they're a lot but important): mentions of attempted suicide and suicidal ideation (not too graphic!), overdosing, pills/medication, panic attacks, general themes of grief, self-blaming, mentions of car-crashes, cursing, fireworks, ugly crying.

They had run to the bathroom first.

It had been an impulse, as natural as breath. As soon as Wilbur had motioned towards the stairs, face twisted into a determined grimace, Ranboo had kicked off their shoes and started running. The thunder of his heels hitting hardwood, breath ricocheting in his chest; Tubbo was behind them, was clamoring up the steps, harsh gasps; they both were running. They couldn't slow down, not now, not when they were so close. Not when Tommy was just behind a door.

(And Ranboo was not afraid, did not feel the mind-numbing terror that had gripped him and Tubbo on that porch, suffocating the flames of anxiety and rage licking at their lungs. He was not afraid because he had been here before—running, gasping, eyes blown wide as if it would all come collapsing with a single blink. Please, he had asked before, please give me a chance, let me just get there. Give me a chance to fix this)

"What the—hey! Why are you running?" They could hear one of the brothers (Techno, they remembered dimly, Pinkie Pie's alter ego) shout, voice pitched upwards in panic. Faintly, there was the mumble of Wilbur cursing whatever god still was up there. Ranboo payed them no mind, leaping over the final step and dashing down the hallway heavy with early-morning shadows. It was muscle memory that had them taking a left as the hallway split into two, had them passing the first door where light flickered underneath the crack and its hinges began to squeak open, past the second that was open wide and empty, and to the third door down the hall.

They stopped abruptly, ignoring the quiet oof! Tubbo let out as he ran into the taller teen. A chill danced its way up their spine, teasing at the tenseness in their shoulders as they stared blankly in front of them. At It.

Ranboo sucked in a breath. Behind him, Tubbo sighed a gentle oh.

The bathroom door: a pristine white framed by hung childhood art-projects and pictures of first-days-at-school, bottom lip warped from water damage and age. Ranboo didn't remember the pictures from the first time they had come over; they had barely processed the way the floorboards whined under their feet, how the doorknob wiggled stuck before Ranboo had forced it open with a harsh twist. Really, it all was a blur of panic and raised voices, of Tubbo yammering nervously in his ear as he banged on the bathroom door. There's no room in my memories for the minute, he had explained to his father once, not really. I get vague impressions of something, never details.

The water damage hadn't been there either. Not before...

"Ranboo?"

(A shout, a jammed door. A boy's quiet sobs, him screaming open up! Please! I'm right here! Water's muffled chattering, pipes yawning; someone was crying, why were they crying? Everything was fine, it was fine, it had to be fine—)

"What are you two doing—"

"Fuck off! Let me just...Ranboo, can you hear me—"

(Their hands on a too-warm body, a frantic search for a pulse, grasping, reaching. Look at me! Look at me, don't go to sleep! And then there was gagging, gagging, just spit and vomit and Oh God, oh God they couldn't breathe—)

"Ranboo!" A hand latched on their wrist, and Ranboo eyes fluttered as they were pulled from the door. Their lungs stuttered as they sucked in a breath they didn't know they were holding, hands wildly grabbing at the person's forearms, trying to keep themselves upright. In front of them stood a concerned Tubbo, offering a small smile as he squeezed Ranboo's elbow. "Hey—hey. You alright, tall guy?"