the band-aids are in the left cabinet

Chapter 2

tubbo is a terrible cook. he never knows where to start in a kitchen, and more often than not, things end up getting burnt, with too much salt, or doused in ketchup. he's truly terrible at cooking. and honestly, tommy was no better.

ranboo was better at cooking than both of them. he would be in the kitchen a lot of the time, humming to himself while chopping something up for some kind of soup, or making tomato soup whenever anyone was sad('tomato soup cures all!" he would say). other times he could be found smiling softly, putting something in a blender for michael on particularly lazy mornings when no one really felt like doing much of anything. he was good at cooking, at channelling love through the tips of his fingers, and into fresh bread dough, at wrapping up apologies for petty arguments in cookies and stew.

standing over uncut carrots, knife in hand, tubbo can't stop his hands from shaking. incredibly inconvenient, considering the fact that he's holding a knife, but no matter how hard he grips the handle his hands still have light tremors going through them.

he hates cooking.

he straightens his grip again and brings the knife down, successfully bringing it through the carrot. he cuts another slice. his hands don't stop shaking.

he can picture it even now: ranboo standing at the counter while michael is waiting in his high chair. tubbo would draw a little smiley face on the corner of michael's paper, where there would be a drawing of what looked to be some sort of mutated unicorn or something else kids draw. ranboo would turn around a little bit and smile, crack some stupid, stupid pun, and no matter how terrible it was, tubbo would laugh. his husband would ask about their days, and michael would babble nonsense in response, then tubbo would talk about something he was working on, a conversation he had with tommy, his thoughts about making a bee farm or a greenhouse in the backyard to introduce michael to some proper plants. then ranboo would share something about his day and serve dinner. they would eat over light conversation, and ranboo would reach out to take tubbo's hand. tubbo would laugh so hard he almost choked. michael would make a mess of his food and tubbo would clean him up. ranboo would clear their dishes away and press a kiss to tubbo's hair as he went to get michael ready for bed.

it was so close.

it feels so far away.

tubbo is bleeding. his hands are still shaking. there's a tiny cut on his finger.

he doesn't move to clean it right away. he feels stuck.

ranboo would fret over him, he would guide him to the sink and watch as tubbo cleaned the tiny, tiny cut, then he would bring a band-aid and wrap the cut. gentle, always gentle. then he would say "are you ok?" and ignore the burns left on the pads of his fingers from the excess water on tubbo's hands.

he was here. he was in this kitchen, and he was laughing, just a couple months prior. he was here, he was alive, tubbo could reach out and touch him.

tubbo is still bleeding.

he doesn't know where the band-aids are.

he's fucking angry. seething, more like it. he's breaking, he's shattering more than he thought he would. he can't fucking do this today.

first his husband, then his son.

when will enough be enough? when will he be able to fucking leave this hellish place? why was ranboo so, so stupid?

he's shaking.

the letter in his hands crinkles around the edges.

he doesn't say anything.

he doesn't know what to say.

"...tubbo?"

he doesn't say anything. he's trembling.