the band-aids are in the left cabinet

Chapter 12

tubbo is working. gathering wood for fire, for tool repair, and for making michael a new bed frame. he's working, swinging his axe dutifully, taking comfort in the rhythmic sound of it hitting the tree with a solid whack. it's a good repetitive motion, something consistent. consistency is good. it's warm outside, which is a nice change of pace from the constant stupidly cold weather in snowchester. why did he even choose to live here? because it's far away, he answers in his head. and you're running from the place you left behind.

tubbo chops down the tree with one final hit.

he starts to bundle the wood with thick ropes from his belt, tying tight knots to keep the bundles of logs together. he'll probably have to make two trips, but that's fine. as he stands up, and starts walking, he forgets to zone into his surroundings and hits his forehead on a stray branch. he swears under his breath, but keeps walking; it doesn't hurt too badly. as he approaches the mansion, he sees tommy sitting on the porch in a ball, knees to his chin. tubbo smiles and walks quickly. he'd like to talk to tommy. he kind of always wants to talk to tommy, if he's being honest.

he drops the first batch of logs at the front door, and tommy squawks. but not at the loud noise of the logs, apparently. the first thing he does is go to tubbo and grab his face in his hands. "dude, you're bleeding!" he yells. "what the fuck happened?!"

tubbo blinks. he raises a hand to touch his forehead, and, sure enough, right where the branch hit him, there's a small bit of blood. he didn't think he hit the branch that hard. "tree," he answers simply.

tommy stares at him incredulously, then he sighs. "fuck off, man. i'm getting you a plaster."

"let's get you a band-aid," tubbo can practically hear ranboo saying. his heart pangs but he follows tommy inside anyway, letting himself be led by his wrist into the bathroom. tommy opens the left cabinet, the one beside the toothbrush graveyard drawer, and pulls out a package labelled 'band-aids'.

"fuckin band-aids," tommy rolls his eyes. "ranboo ruined your vocabulary, big man."

tubbo huffs out a laugh. "you're a dick," he says halfheartedly. he stays still, as tommy picks up a cloth, and wipes the small wound on his forehead. it's a scrape, more than anything, and it doesn't hurt. tommy carefully puts a band-aid on, anyway, his hands are shaking, too.

"you need to be careful, dumbass," tommy is saying. "one of these days you're gonna get injured, and i'm gonna have to put you in a cast, man. you think i know how to do that?!" he sighs, putting on his usual annoyed facade. "i'm not a medic, man. be careful."

and then, embarrassingly, tubbo starts to cry. it's sudden, and he tries his best not to, but he starts crying anyway, all because he suddenly remembered where the band-aids were. he fucking forgot. look, ranboo! i'm just like you, now!

tommy is frozen, "tubbo, i'm sorry, did i hurt you, or-"

tubbo shakes his head and lets it fall into his hands. and he just... he just can't seem to stop crying, so he doesn't even bother trying. he's fucking tired.

he doesn't even know why he's crying. it's just a band-aid.

but ranboo isn't applying it. ranboo isn't here, he should fucking be here and he isn't.

"i miss ranboo," tubbo breathes, his voice quieter than he thinks it's ever been.

tommy is quiet. "i... yeah," he pulls tubbo into a hug again. they've been hugging a lot more recently. it's kinda nice, if tubbo's being completely honest. "yeah. i miss him too. he was good."

tubbo wants to yell, to push tommy away and just scream. tommy didn't know anything about ranboo. ranboo was this, ranboo was that. bullshit. bullshit.

ranboo is good, ranboo is a worrier, but he'll do dumb shit just for the hell of it, ranboo is loud, ranboo is quiet, ranboo is always preoccupied, never home, he keeps secrets and wakes up screaming. ranboo knows how to cook, tubbo does not. ranboo knows how to get michael to fall asleep, tubbo does not. ranboo is the one with tear tracks etched into his face, tubbo is not. tommy doesn't know what it's like to live around ranboo, tommy has no fucking idea. tommy doesn't know that ranboo will sometimes shut down and shut everyone out, even his own son. tommy doesn't know that ranboo needs to have his memory refreshed every morning. tommy doesn't know that ranboo is teaching tubbo how to embroider properly. tommy doesn't know that tubbo will never fucking know how to embroider properly because the only person that was teaching him is fucking dead. ranboo was all these things.

tubbo wants to burn this stupid house to the fucking ground.

tubbo doesn't yell. he's silent. he's too fucking tired. he's tired of this. he's so, so tired of this. he'd already mourned tommy, he's still mourning tommy. it's tiring. he's tired.

he can't think.

he can't stop crying.

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next time he gets a cut because his hands are shaking too badly to be able to cut carrots, he knows where the band-aids are.