the band-aids are in the left cabinet

Chapter 1

tubbo is sad. he is excellent at hiding it.

and tommy knows this because he's tubbo's best friend; he has always been tubbo's best friend. tommy knows tubbo better than he knows himself, sometimes -- the way tubbo will lock his door when he's crying, the way he will collect information through just passively overhearing things, only to bring it up at the least opportune times, the way he'll smile and wave off any negative emotion he happens to be feeling. tubbo does nothing but work, some days. but that's just who he is.

tommy knows him well.

so he knows that tubbo is sad.

he just doesn't know why. and tubbo won't be telling him anytime soon.

"bossman, your pie is shit," tubbo says through a mouthful of pumpkin pie filling. "you added too much sugar, i think," he takes another bite.

tommy glares at him. "you're eating it, asshole."

"it's still shit."

prick.

michael babbles something in piglin that roughly translates to 'spaghetti pie hungry'. tommy can't really fault him for poor grammar, the kid was only three or four.

"how old is michael again?" he asks, because he doesn't remember. he wasn't there when michael was picked up from the nether. maybe he feels a bit bad about that.

tubbo is silent for a moment. "technically he's turning four next week," he looks down at his plate. he doesn't say anything else.

tommy doesn't know what he's supposed to do. his friend is obviously upset, but comforting tubbo is something he was never really good at, which he knows isn't fair. tubbo is so kind to him, and he tries to return the favour, but the words always seem to get stuck in his throat. it's annoying, mostly. "what're you thinking about?" is what he chooses to say after a while. he can keep it light; puffy always tells him to focus on what he can do, rather than what he can't do.

"lots of things," tubbo replies. "do you want me to say anything specific?"

tell me what's wrong, tommy asks in his head. Tell me how i can help you. "i dunno," is what he says out loud. "what's going on in that big stupid brain of yours?"

tubbo kicks him under the table. "you're a dick," he says. "i'm just thinking."

"about...?"

"wouldn't you like to know, motherfucker," he shoots tommy an evil smile. it stretches the scars on his face, and it looks painful. tommy knows he can't feel it at all. the nerves on his face are all fucked.

tommy rolls his eyes. "i would like to know, dipshit."

tubbo is looking at him. he hides his eyes behind his hair nowadays; tommy hasn't seen them in ages. "i want you to organize my funeral," tubbo says finally.

"y- what?!"

"i want you to organize my funeral after i die."

"but- no, you're not... tubbo, you're not dying for a long time, what- why are you- what the fuck?!"

"i know that. i just... well, y'know. just in case."

"you're not going to die, tubbo. jesus, what the fuck-"

"tommy, i never said i was going to die," tubbo says, calm as ever. he takes another bite of the pie. "i just want you to organize my funeral if i do. i trust you."

tubbo is a weird fucking guy. tommy knew that when he first met him, and he sure as hell knows it now. but this was definitely not a normal conversation, even for tubbo, who once tried to convince tommy that you could make drugs out of drywall. (tommy ate a lot of drywall that day. it was terrible.) "tubs, big man, my friend. what the fuck are you on about?"

tubbo shrugs. "ranboo and i had this chat a while ago. just thought we'd get on the same page."

"oh," tommy says dumbly. he feels confused, but that's normal with tubbo. he's a confusing fella. "well, ok, then who's going to plan my funeral?"

tubbo blinked. "dude."

"what?!"

"i planned your funeral," tubbo sounds... hurt. he sounds hurt. and maybe angry. "we already fucking had your funeral. i'm not planning it again."

oh.

right.

tubbo takes another bite of pie. "i don't count that funeral as a real one, though."

"because i came back?" tommy says, voice small. he doesn't like where this conversation is going, actually. tubbo opening up is new, it's scary. he doesn't know if tubbo's going to cry or yell － probably neither.

"no," tubbo says. "because i didn't get to bury you."

"...oh."

"i've organized three funerals," tubbo laughs. he would sound lighthearted to anyone else, but tommy knows him － he's hurting. "isn't that fucked?"

it is fucked, it's really fucked. tubbo probably meant it as something funny, something unfortunate can still be humorous. but he sounds upset about it, genuinely upset, so it's hard to take it as anything other than a cry for help. unless tommy is just making assumptions about his friend again, assuming he knows everything usually ends up in disaster, just judging by his track record.

tommy takes a breath. "tubbo," he talks gently, trying not to sound too desperate. "are you ok?"

silence.

tubbo is looking at him, or looking through him; it's creepy. he barely even seems to be moving, the rise and fall of his chest being the only give-away to the fact that he isn't a fucking statue. his hand is shaking. he doesn't move. tommy can hear him breathing, faintly, shallow. he curls his hand into a fist, his knuckles turn white, it isn't shaking anymore.

he's so quiet － has he always been this quiet? no, never with tommy. he's never quiet with tommy.

the seconds tick away. tubbo says nothing.

"...tubbo?"

michael starts to cry. it's piercing, it's loud, and it's the only sound in the room.

tubbo stands up without a word and goes to pick up the boy, holding him carefully. he doesn't say anything as he leaves the room, carrying michael's cries with him, until all that's left is a faint echo.

tommy sits alone at the table.

what is he supposed to do now?

he reaches forward and takes a piece of pie from tubbo's abandoned plate.

...yeah, it does taste pretty shit.