[On Hiatus] This Is Love? || DadSchlatt AU

Deadbeat. [Chapter Two]

Here it was. Tubbo's sixteenth birthday. The day he got that damned letter. The letter that had been in a box for years, in the living room. That stupid, stupid letter. He wasn't even sure who it was from, but, he was about to find out, he assumed. He didn't want to know. It had been there for as long as he remembered, just sat on top of the fireplace, taunting him, with his name written in poorly formed cursive; 'To Tubbo, only for 16th'. He sat on his bed and sighed. This was bound to be one hell of a birthday.
He stands up and walks out of his room. Everyone greets him, giving him gifts, and other birthday-related things. He turns to Phil, nonverbally asking permission to leave, to which he accepted, and Tubbo left. On his way to his front garden, his shoulder was grabbed by Techno, who placed the letter in his hand. He held onto the letter and continued on his way to the outside garden. When out on the front porch, he looked down at the paper in his hands. He runs his finger along the seal of the envelope, slightly hesitating on opening it.
He sighs, finally deciding to open the letter. As he pulls the paper out of the envelope, he notices that the page itself was not folded at all, really just shoved into the envelope. Whether that was intentional or not, Tubbo would have no idea. He straightens out the paper and begins to read it.

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To Tubbo.
You're sixteen now huh? Wow. Happy birthday, kid, if it even is your birthday. Given Phil did what I asked him to, it should be. You might want to find a place to sit down, or, if you're already doing that, just brace yourself for the information I'm about to give you, or something along those lines. Fold the paper. Don't read anymore, and when you're ready, open it again.
You might be wondering what this letter was about, or, who sent it. I won't answer that second question until the end, but I will the first. Your life is, to put it simply, completely not what you thought it was. Phil isn't your dad, and the others aren't your siblings. I'm a shitty alcoholic who scams people for a living, and if I'm honest, I'm not a good person for a baby to be near, or honestly anyone to be near. I was with you for like three or four weeks, something like that. You were four months old as far as I knew, and I was given you by your mother who, I won't lie, I didn't recognise and I feel like I was drunk when I was with her, which, obviously, isn't surprising.
I'll be honest, I think I did a damn good job taking care of you for who I am and what I have, but it's not a good place for you. I'm not a good enough person to be a parent, and I know Phil is. Writing this I'm probably the most sober I've been in a while, mainly because of you. If you ever get this, you can make your own decision on whether you want to talk to me or whatever, or you want me to stay a deadbeat and leave you to be with Phil. I don't know how you're gonna take this, obviously, it'd be a lot to take in. Best bet is for you to leave this decision for when you've processed what this letter tells you. Don't make it quickly. If you do want to meet me, Phil knows who and where I am. I'll probably say I don't care about you, but you're literally laying right next to me in the pillow fort I made for you, and I'll tell you now, I don't think I'll ever lose the love I have. I'm one of those people who everyone assumes I fucking hate everyone, but sometimes that's wrong. A lot of the time that's wrong, actually. I just make it seem true because it makes it easier to live. I'll probably forget I even wrote this letter by the time you get it, but I'll probably remember if I get told. I'd never forget you though. I don't think that'd be possible. I wish I was good enough to stay with you, but I just don't think you'd be happy. Love you kiddo, stay safe.
- J.Schlatt

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Tubbo sat there, on the doorstep, staring at the writing on the paper, tears in his eyes. The words seemed to merge together in his eyesight, and as he looked up, everything appeared darker, as if a giant cloud had formed. His hands began to shake, and his head became heavier, harder to hold up. He threw the paper to the floor, just letting it float down, the wind breaking its original momentum. He watches as the paper gets ruined by the wet ground, being it had rained that morning.
He stands up, and stares at the letter for a while, watching the ink slowly scatter, making the bright white turn darker. He eventually jumps on top of the paper, repeatedly slamming his foot down, and tearing it apart. After a few minutes, he stops, letting himself collapse to the floor. He kneels in front of the torn sheet and picks it up. He stands up, holding the ruined letter close to him, and walks back into the house. How the fuck is someone meant to process a thing like that? Does he even remember? What the fuck...