Archive of Our Own

Tubbo's life feels like its been the same for a long, long time, and it's fucking exhausting.

It's not really that he can't do anything about it (at least not about the smaller things) but more of the fact that he just doesn't want to. He doesn't enjoy this— sitting back against the same concrete ledge of his local overpass with a cigarette balanced between two fingers, tapping the ash off the end and watching it drift to the sidewalk bellow that chronically aches his tailbone. But then again, he doesn't have literally anything better to do.

Even though its about a mile from where he lives, this overpass is starting to feel more and more like the place most people would call home than the house they'd return to at the end of the day. Kids his age wake up, go to school, go to work (if they even have a job), and then go home. Tubbo wakes up, goes to school if he feels like it (which is becoming less and less, these days) and either does or doesn't go to his house for a bit but always ends up back here; the freeway he had never bothered to even remember the name of but has known since he was young.

He doesn't know why he likes coming here as his chosen place of solace from the shithole that is his house. It's always busy which means it's always loud, at least, the highway is. The road he faces is never busy. At this time of night it's basically dead, the only cars using it are peppered over the slow hours between four a.m. to around seven p.m. He doesn't like it. It's a little creepy, if he's honest, but he supposes if it was really that dangerous he'd put in the effort to bring a pocket knife or something with him, but he doesn't.

The point is, it doesn't make him feel better, but he doesn't care about that. It's not like he needs to feel better, or anything stupid like that, it's just.. a place to be. To exist. Tubbo knows he could do that anywhere, really, he's just too lazy to find another place to hang out that he isn't so used to.

So this is where he finds himself for the fifth time this week; smoking at twelve in the morning, staring off down into the road before him and letting the sound of racing cars below him numb his mind once again.

Usually his days are pretty predictable. Repetitive, hateful and full of apathy, if that's angsty enough, but tonight is only different for one reason.

There are rarely people walking around this late at night, these streets just don't seem to appeal to the homeless or hobos or wanderers. Even then, they'll usually offer Tubbo a glance at the most— don't you have some place to be? they might think— and be on their way, but the universe seems to really hate Tubbo tonight, more than usual, because for some reason the stranger that was supposed to have walked past Tubbo decides to pause before him, and then for some godsforsaken reason, silently sit down beside him.

The person spares him a few feet thankfully, but they sit down all the same. Tubbo worries the inside of his lip between his teeth, turning his head to look at the person staring out in front of them as if Tubbo isn't even there.

He can't tell how old they are, but they're tall as hell even though they're sitting; they have to have at least a full foot on him. As if the situation couldn't get any more peculiar, the guy is also wearing a beanie in humid weather, and sunglasses despite the only light being from head and tail lights of cars that aren't even near them and a couple flickering street lights. A beanie, and fucking sunglasses. At night.

It's so, so strange. For a long moment Tubbo thinks he might be hallucinating— that the menthol in his cigarette has been laced with some kind of crazy drug (and really whose to say it isnt, considering he found the quarter empty pack behind a shabby drug store?), until the guy actually says something.

"Did you know that 1980, a show orca in a Florida seaquarium killed itself after being forced to do tricks for twelve years?"

Tubbo's immediate reaction to this information?

What. The. Fuck.

Putting the fact that one, that has to take the cake for being the most insane conversation starter he's ever heard, two, people don't just talk to Tubbo, let alone spout some random sad shit he could 100% have lived without hearing at him, specifically if you don't count school. Tubbo never had a ton of friends, and when people did talk to him it was regular every-day hello's and how's it going's, and nothing beyond that most of the time, even when he was more well-liked. He'd only had one other real "best friend", but even that, well— that's just complicated right now. 

Tommy would probably call this guy a freak, Tubbo muses, right to his face too. And then he promptly tries to make an effort not to think about Tommy.

Tubbo can't tear his gaze away, even as smoke falls from his lips and the buzz mixed with the insanely random fact he's just been told makes him a brand new kind of dizzy.

Now, he could've done one of two things here. He could get up, ignore this random freak and walk back to his house— because who the hell starts a conversation like that?— or, he could actually engage in some type of enigmatic conversation with this deranged guy that has to be on at least four different types of drugs at once.

One of those options sounds like hell. The other revolves around Tubbo leaving his smoke spot.

Tubbo takes a long moment to think of how the fuck he's supposed to respond to that. He settles on, "Wow. You must really be fun at parties." and mentally pats himself on the back.

Tubbo finally turns back away, taking another drag of his definitely drug-spiked cigarette. It tastes like shit, but Tubbo can't seem to get enough of it.

He watches the guy shrug from his peripheral vision. "His name was Hugo— the orca. The years of isolation drove him to the point of acting aggressively towards his keepers, and then eventually banging his head against the side of his tank." Tubbo doesn't understand the way this guy's words make his heart squeeze with an uneasy feeling, if even for a single moment. He narrows his eyes down at his nearly fully smoked cigarette and tries not to dwell on it. "He died of a brain aneurism. Orca's have been recorded living even up to eighty years old in the wild. Hugo died when he was fifteen."

Something about the way he talks about the animal makes Tubbo's skin crawl, combined with the darkness surrounding them and the roaring of the cars on the highway, he's starting to feel increasingly more and more uneasy. It's probably the first thing he's felt in months that isn't complete apathy, among dangerously few other things. Even so, he isn't sure if listening to this guy talk about some dead animal's sob story is better or worse than enduring his dad's drunken bullshit back at his house.

There's a beat of silence between them, where all Tubbo does is put his cigarette out on the pavement and breathe. The air is sticky as much as it's warm, like the clouds want to rain just to spite the heat.

Tubbo inhales sharply, turning towards the stranger. "Who the hell are you?" he asks finally, using one hand to push the hair of his bangs away from his face when it falls over his eyes.

Before now, he was sure he knew everyone in this small town he was raised in. He feels like he would've remembered seeing someone like this guy, but when Tubbo tries to think hard about it, his mind draws a complete blank.

A part of him kindof wants to reach out and touch him just to make sure he's real, but Tubbo subconsciously figures it might be safer not to. For all he knows this guy could have a switch blade up his sleeve, making it the perfect opportunity to shank him and end his life right on this very spot, or something.

The guy finally turns to look at Tubbo. His brunette hair is dark, but not as dark as Tubbo's, and mostly shoved into his beanie, but from the front bits that are starting to loosely spill out he notices that the hair on the right side of his face is predominantly a paper white color— at least, the front parts are—something he hadn't been able to see at first since he's sitting to Tubbo's right and it was mostly facing away from him.

The guy doesn't remove his glasses, and the corners of his lips pull just the slightest bit as he speaks, "The guy who's fun at parties." he answers, pushing off the wall and turning to fully face Tubbo, crossing his long legs into a more comfortable sitting position, as if they're friends and they're hanging out or something.

Tubbo considers going back to his house. Instead, he pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

By his body language, it looks like the guy isn't going to leave him alone anytime soon. Despite being caught off guard at first, Tubbo decides that he doesn't really mind the company— not yet at least— and this whole situation is way more intriguing than not, even though he'd never admit it. "You smoke?" Tubbo asks, holding out the package.

The guy quickly purses his lips, shaking his head.

Another beat of silence. Tubbo signs, humming, "Alright. Out with it."

"What?" the guy asks.

"Your name." Tubbo says, tilting his head as if he really cares. He speaks again after not receiving an answer for an unreasonable amount of time, "Most people usually start with telling someone their name when they first meet them. You know, instead of spewing randomly distressing facts about—"

"Ranboo."

A pause.

What a weirdo, Tubbo thinks probably for the fifth time in the past seven minutes, as if things with this stranger couldn't get any more. A weird guy, that looks kinda weird and has a weird name. What are the chances of that?

"Okay." is all Tubbo can seem to manage, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"And yours?"

When be blows the smoke away, it catches in the night's breeze and nearly goes straight into Ranboo's face. If he's bothered by it, he doesn't show it in the slightest. "Tubbo."

"Nice to meet you, Tubbo." Ranboo says, holding out a hand, presumably for Tubbo to shake. Tubbo decides he isn't having it.

"Yeah," Tubbo drags out the word looking down at the hand, "something like that."

Instead of being offended or pissed off like he probably should he, Ranboo laughs, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Tubbo looks at him like he's actually deranged, and either Ranboo doesn't notice or he doesn't care. It's probably the latter. "What's so funny?" Tubbo asks, only slightly amused at the display. This guy has to be the most unpredictable person Tubbo's ever met, and he doesn't quite know if that's a good or a bad thing, but he can't say he's too genuinely worried about it.

"You. You're funny." Ranboo says, leaning back and using his hands for support in an incredibly lax way, like he doesn't have a care in the world. Tubbo envies him for it, just a little.

He then decides he doesn't like the feeling— envy. It's given him a bitter feeling in his chest, and suddenly it's like he's lost all his interest in one singular moment.

His hair falls over his eyes again, and he leaves it like that.

"Right, well," Tubbo groans as he stands up, deciding he's had enough of this fever dream. His muscles protest with the movement, and the majority of his upper half hurts for reasons he'd rather not think about, but he thinks he'd like to wake up now, thank you very much. "I've gotta go."

"You've got somewhere to be." Ranboo asks, standing in heel with Tubbo. The question comes out more as a statement, and all wobbly around the edges.

He definitely has to be somewhere around Tubbo's age, but at his full height, Ranboo has to be at least six feet tall. Despite his trying poise, Tubbo is.. slightly intimidated, considering how much shorter he is. But he'll be damned if he lets his mask slip now. "Yup." he says matter-of-a-factly. I've got the side of a tank to hit my head against, he thinks about saying, just to spite the guy for some reason. He doesn't, of course.

"Want me to walk you?" Ranboo asks, a little too perky for Tubbo's liking, following like a naively excited puppy as Tubbo starts walking.

"No, but thank you." he says, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. "Goodbye." he says, and assumes that would be that.

Ranboo gives a small smile as he ducks his head slightly, stuffing one hand into his pocket, the other resting on the strap of the messenger bag hanging off his shoulder. Tubbo hadn't even noticed it was there.

He looks back up, the smile falling away. "Seeya." he says, giving a small wave.

Something about it gives Tubbo a bad feeling in his gut, and he's had more than enough of that lately.

He doesn't know what Ranboo's point of talking to him was. He mostly hopes it was just a one time thing, that all of this really was some kind of dream, and that he could wake up and tomorrow he could come back and his smoke spot would he 100% Ranboo free. Ranboo is intriguing, sure, but that would still be nice.

The walk to his house is the same as always. Dark, quiet, warm. Lonely.

Tubbo doesn't know why anyone would want to take any interest in him anyway. It doesn't make sense, especially considering the fact that it was in the middle of the night, among any time. The thought only serves to convince Tubbo it was all in his head again, and maybe he's just really tired from the lack of sleep, but its becoming increasingly, worryingly more believable that none of the past fifteen minutes was real.

Great, I'm schizophrenic. Just one more problem to add to the list, he thinks twenty minutes later when he's reluctantly rounding the side of his house, pushing up his bedroom window and sneaking back into his dreaded, dark room.

Tubbo doesn't go to school the next day, opting to instead walk the pavement of the bridge over the highway and preforming his (increasingly more common) ritual of smoking and watching over the speedy red and white lights of the cars down below. He knows he'll have hell to pay when the school calls home again and he'll inevitably be ratted out for ditching, but he's exhausted and his body hurts and at this point what really are a few more bruises, anyway?

His backpack lays abandoned at his feet, mostly empty besides a few unfinished worksheets and a half-empty notebook because anything else is pointless. School only serves to make him miserable, what with it's standardized curriculum and testing that expects every kid to be a certain level of smart even if you have crippling dyslexia. All school is to Tubbo is a place he's forced to go to that he doesn't want to be at, and a depressing reminder that he's unintelligent and (admittedly) very, very stupid. In conclusion, the people there suck, school sucks, and reading also very, very much sucks.

He only comes here during the day when he does decide to skip instead of sleeping in his classes. On one hand sleeping through his classes gets him in a lot less trouble, and skipping has the complete opposite effect, but really it doesn't matter either way— he'll fail whether he tries to put in the effort or not. Most people would call it laziness or "senior-itis", but Tubbo calls it "feeling like you aren't really going to go anywhere in life anyway so why try at all?", to put it bluntly. It's utterly dismal, he knows, but he just really can't bring himself care. He can't bring himself to care about a lot of things these days.

The grey pollution burns his lungs, sore and achy from inhaling straight chemicals more and more often, but the nicotine gives him a buzz he can't seem to get enough of.

He knows it's bad for him. It's actively ruining one of the few close relationships he has left in his life, if it hasn't completely done so already, his mind spits at him bitterly. His head falls into his arms, and when he sighs, smoke falls away with it.

His head aches, and he feels like he's going to be sick. He doesn't, of course, but the nausea clings to him like a nasty parasite he doesn't have the effort to get rid of. It could be the nicotine, or the fact that he hasn't been eating much lately. It doesn't really help that he hasn't had much of an appetite.

His appetite isn't really at the top of his list of priorities, among most other things.

Tubbo was correct in his hypothesis of skipping school leading him to being in for a load of shit. As soon as he stepped into his house and was so rudely alerted of his (unfortunately, very much) awake (very much) drunk father screaming only slightly (very much) slurred curses, he knew he was fucked.

He didn't stay long— not that he ever does. He managed to escape after minimal overall damage which is better than he expected for himself, if he's honest. At least the gas station he made a stop at had his favorite iced tea on the way to the overpass. It's not magical— it doesn't heal physical pain or mental anguish or anything like that, but it quenches his thirst and leaves his dry mouth feeling less like the Mojave, which (in his honest opinion) is a pretty damn good deal for only $1.99.

The cashier wouldn't sell him cigarettes though. It's a shame, considering how dangerously low he's running on them.

The sun hasn't even set yet, when the stranger that was meant to spare Tubbo a glance and walk past him plops down on the sidewalk to his right once again. They aren't a stranger at all, of course. They're the person— 75% legs and 10% beanie— that talked to Tubbo just last night, signature white streak of hair, obscure sunglasses and all.

It's Ranboo. He's back.

Why, exactly, is the question of the hour.

"I didn't know you liked tea. Is peach your favorite?" is the first thing he says, having taken note of the label on the plastic bottle. Well, asks, more so.

"No. It's shit." Tubbo responds, purposefully letting his hair fall over his eyes. He doesn't know why he decided to lie, but he guesses it could be for number of reasons. Maybe it's because he's bored, or because the guy next to him doesn't know jack shit about him and Tubbo could tell him anything and he'd believe it, because who is this guy to refute it? Maybe Tubbo just wants to see his reaction. Maybe he lied just because he can. Really, now that he thinks about it, there are probably much cooler things to lie about other than the flavor of tea he likes.

"At least it's not unsweet. Unsweet tea is gross." Ranboo says, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they begin to slip. Tubbo kindof wants to throw the tea at him, splash it into Ranboo's face, just to see what would happen. It's a shame that he still has (at least somewhat) control over his intrusive thoughts. His life would probably be much more exciting without it.

"What do you want?" Tubbo asks instead, rather bluntly, taking a drag.

It's a Friday night, which means the highway is stuffed of busy, zooming, loud cars that never seem to stop. It smells like it might rain, and the gloomy clouds above are even more convincing of it. Tubbo doesn't think he would mind if it did.

"I want to know your opinion on tea flavors. I think it's the most interesting thing in the world." Ranboo replies, causing Tubbo to pause. This is one of those times where Tubbo is stupid and can't tell if the person he's talking to is serious or not.

When Tubbo doesn't move or say anything for a long time, Ranboo speaks again. "I'm joking." a pause. "I want to play a game."

Fucking freak! the voice in Tubbo's head laughs, loud and edging on ear-shattering. The voice sounds a lot like Tommy. Tubbo hates it.

"I don't even know you." another drag.

"I told you my name. You know me."

"There's a difference." Tubbo says, taking a swig of his tea after blowing away the smoke.

"It's a question game, I saw it in a movie once." Ranboo says, ignoring Tubbo's stubborn attitude as if it isn't there at all.

It takes a lot in Tubbo to suppress the urge to throw his head back and groan dramatically. Just because he doesn't like this weirdo or his company doesn't mean he needs to be rude. Tubbo may be a fuck up, but at the very least he can have some manners.

Tubbo doesn't say anything, so Ranboo keeps talking. "Basically, I ask a question, and then you ask me a question. You don't have to answer it, but whatever you reply with has to finish with a question, and then it repeats."

Tubbo thinks that's a stupid game— a stupid idea. He doesn't want to do it, but quickly realizes that it isn't looking like he has much of a choice, considering he's not the type of person to just tell someone to fuck off. But he really, really wishes he was that type of person.

Tubbo doesn't say anything. He's very much not in the mood for this.

"Okay? I'll start." Ranboo says anyway.

Then again, he supposes he isn't in the mood for a lot of things lately.

"How old are you?" Ranboo is facing him, sitting the same way he was yesterday, leaning back on his hands like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Tubbo contemplates lying again as he watches ash fall from the tip of his cigarette. For some reason, he decides not to. "Seventeen."

There's a long beat of silence— longer than any of the ones that have sat between them before. Tubbo peeks at Ranboo through a slit in his fringe, watches as Ranboo tilts his head just the slightest bit. A small smile is playing on his lips again, but it only serves to make Tubbo frown.

"Your question?" Ranboo finally asks.

Tubbo lets himself sigh now. He's really going to do this, isn't he?

"How old are you?" he asks, for some reason hoping there's no rule about repeating any questions. That would be annoying, and Tubbo is annoyed enough as it is right now.

"I'm also seventeen." Ranboo smiles, actually smiles (and Tubbo has a decent idea as to why), and something about it makes Tubbo get another weird feeling in his stomach. He doesn't like it, and he has to play off the way he squirms slightly where he sits as adjusting his position on the concrete. Smooth. "Do you go to school around here?"

"Enrolled, yes. Actually attend it, rarely." Tubbo sighs, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. It's his turn. "What's with the getup?" he asks, and for once, he's genuine. He supposes now is as good a time as ever to get some answers; they are quite literally playing a game about questions after all. Might as well learn a few things, if he's not aloud to be alone and enjoy smoking and drowning in his own thoughts alone anymore.

"What do you mean?" Ranboo asks, his left eyebrow momentarily quirking over his glasses.

"The beanie in nearly eighty-degree weather. Wearing sunglasses all the time— even at night. If you're trying to make sure you're always prepared for a spontaneous, mysterious robbery, you've nailed the look."

Tubbo waits for Ranboo to answer, but all he gets is that stupid smile. He realizes his mistake, and— only slightly more annoyed than a few seconds ago— adds on, "Is that your goal?"

Tubbo can't say he'd be surprised if he said it really was.

Tubbo can't see his eyes, but he guesses Ranboo's gaze falls away with the movement of his head, his lips parting just the slightest bit as he turns to look out onto the road as a car drives by. The backdrop behind him is a lilac sky, cast from the sun beginning to set. It's pretty— the sky. Tubbo wishes he could get a better view of it, you know, without any bizarre dressing, freakishly tall teenagers in the way.

"No, actually. I wear them for a different reason." Ranboo turns to look back at Tubbo. "Why do you keep your hair so long?"

Tubbo pauses, taking in the response. Something about it feels.. off, but he can't put a name to it. He decides to focus his attention more on Ranboo's new question instead of dwelling on the strangely vague answer he gave to his own. It actually takes him a moment to think, why does he keep his hair so long?

Besides the obvious, he hasn't had the time or effort to go somewhere to get it cut. The last time he did had to have been over a year ago, and now it's.. a mess, to put it frankly. His brunette bangs curtain over nearly half his face if he doesn't make the effort to tuck the hair behind his ears, and it curls over the napes of his neck in the back, tickling his skin, even when it's tied up. He doesn't love it, if anything it's kindof annoying, but he doesn't care to do anything about it. Besides, he doesn't hate the fact it allows him to hide away from the world when he doesn't want to be seen, like now, under Ranboo's surely unrelenting gaze behind those dark, dark glasses. He has to be staring daggers into Tubbo's face, noticing every imperfection, every pimple, every scar. Something about being able to hide it, even part of his face feels.. comforting.

"I just like it that way." Tubbo says, opting not to explain it all. Another question pops into his head, and he's already asking it before he can stop himself. "Why did you come back?"

"Well, I mean— why wouldn't I?" Ranboo asks, a little too quickly, a little too surely. As if it isn't strange. As if it's as easy and normal as getting up and getting dressed in the morning.

"People don't usually talk to me, let alone take any interest." Tubbo pauses, deciding whether or not he wants to say what he does next. "I can be kindof a prick, sometimes. People don't stick around people like that."

His mind keeps doing this thing, where it always circles back to Tommy no matter what his thought process is. It's annoying, and he'd rather not think about the other boy if he's honest. He doesn't have much better else to do, he knows, but it still sucks. He hasn't talked to him in a week and a half now— probably the longest they've gone without talking in.. Tubbo doesn't even know how long.

Maybe if you weren't the way you are he'd be here with you right now, instead of having to be forced to answer annoying questions from some stranger that probably isn't even real.

The thought is a bit alarming, if not upsetting. Tubbo has the sudden urge to turn to this Ranboo guy and touch his arm again. Instead he holds himself back, takes another hit of the death stick balanced between his fingers.

"Well? What's your question?" Ranboo asks, snapping Tubbo out of his thoughts. The brunette in question frowns.

"Why are you here? Right now— I mean. Why are you here?"

Ranboo adjusts so he's sitting back against the wall of the overpass, next to Tubbo once again. He brings his legs up and rests his elbows on his knees. "I've seen you here a few times. Wait, that sounds creepy." he breathes with an almost sheepish smile. Tubbo gets that weird feeling in his stomach again. "You looked lonely, so I thought I'd.. check in, I guess. You looked like you were around my age and I figured, fuck it, why not, you know?"

And no, Tubbo doesn't "know". He also doesn't know how to react to that information, so he doesn't say anything.

"Do you.. want me to leave?" Ranboo asks, a little hesitant for some reason Tubbo is unsure of.

And that— well, Tubbo doesn't really know about that either at first. Part of him wants to say yes, hurry, get away before I ruin your life, or something stupid like that, but he's more conflicted and confused than anything. At first he didn't really like the company, thought Ranboo was some kind of cracked out crazy person (and rightfully so, in his defense) but now.. he isn't sure he minds it so much, surprisingly enough. He has to admit it, he's intrigued.

"I don't know. I don't think so." Tubbo responds, taking another sip of the tea. It's gone lukewarm in the heat of the slowly growing night, but it is what it is. "Can I see your wrist?" his mouth asks for him.

Wow, you massive fucking idiot, Tubbo thinks, wanting to punch himself in the face. Why did he even ask that? Well, he knows why but you— well, you don't just ask people that. Especially people that don't seem the most mentally stable, right? It's like some kind of unspoken rule, not that Tubbo thinks that this guy— at least he hopes he doesn't—

You idiot! Say something! Fix the mess you've made for once in your damn life!

"I— I mean, uh, I just—" Tubbo shakes his head, and a horrifying, new wave of warmth washes over his whole body. "Sorry. You don't have to—"

Before Tubbo can even begin to pull himself together, Ranboo's left hand is extended out in front of Tubbo, palm facing up.

What the fuck?

When Tubbo looks at him, the guy just shrugs like it's not a problem at all. And thank goodness it isn't— Tubbo is fucked up, and Ranboo definitely has something going on with him but at least that's out of the question.

Tubbo doesn't waste another second, reaching out and taking ahold of Ranboo's wrist, his sleeve riding up a bit. Tubbo's arm aches with the movement but he can't bring himself to pay too much attention to it as he puts a thumb at the base of Ranboo's palm, and there it is— a heartbeat. It isn't slow by any means and gives away Ranboo's surprise immediately, but that's besides what Tubbo was looking for.

As soon as he feels it— skin on skin, a heartbeat underneath— he pulls away, not wanting to linger any longer than he has to. Even with those stupid glasses on Ranboo looks a bit perplexed, until he realizes it's his turn.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks, his tone purely curious.

"I wanted to make sure you were real." Tubbo answers honestly.

The short amount of contact leaves a rippling buzzing feeling on Tubbo's hand when he pulls away. Something inside him wants it back, but that's utterly ridiculous, so he shoves the desire into a safe with three different locks on it and hides it away, never to be acknowledged ever again.

Ranboo laughs again, and this time the sound is.. nice, Tubbo finds. "Wow, I've been told I'm a bit of an anomaly before, but— wow." he shakes his head, quickly moving on. "Do you have any more questions to ask?"

Something in Tubbo feels a bit lighter after that. It's a weird feeling— a friend he hasn't had the pleasure of having the company of in a long time. A flicker of light in a dreaded, dark, room.

"Yeah." he's genuinely curious, even having forgotten for a bit about the cigarette he was supposed to be feverishly smoking as he moves to turn so he's facing Ranboo better. "Is your hair like, dyed, or is it just like that?" he asks, referring to the white streaks that curl neatly tucked into Ranboo's burgundy beanie.

Suddenly, surprisingly, Ranboo's smile falters. It's only for about a fraction of a second, and he clearly tries to cover it up but it's too late. Tubbo caught it, and for a second he thinks maybe he's asked something he wasn't supposed to— something too personal. But, no, when he backtracks on what he said he can't find anything that might outrightly be too personal at all.

"Um.." Ranboo turns his head, dropping it a bit. "Yeah. It's just like that, I guess."

"You 'guess'?"

Ranboo shrugs, looking back up at him.

He is so, so strange.

Tubbo wants to change the subject, so he takes a leap. "So like, do you always go up to random people and start telling them about animals that kill themselves, or is that just an obscure hobby you have?"

Ranboo laughs again, and Tubbo can't think of a single explanation as to why it makes him feel as relieved as it does.

He shrugs again. "I just really like sad animal facts." he says, and Tubbo can't tell if he's being serious or not again, but it's looking like he's leaning towards that he isn't. But then again, Tubbo isn't good at reading people, so hell if he knows. "I'm also a professional eccentricist. What can I say?"

"An eccentric-ist? Look, I might be someone whose on the more stupid side but even I know that's not a real philosophy."

"Sure it is. You can make a philosophy out of anything if you try hard enough." Ranboo shrugs. "And you're definitely not stupid. I've seen stupid, and you're not it."

Tubbo scoffs at that, and he can't help the way his mouth hangs open or his eyes narrow behind his bangs at the boy next to him.

He is absolutely, positively bewildered.

They sit in silence for a bit after that, and Tubbo looks down at the cigarette in his hand. He puts it out in the pavement and flicks it into the road in front of them. It seems that neither of them have realized that they've stopped playing Ranboo's game, or at least, Tubbo definitely hasn't.

The sun has set and it's getting late, and even though the game is supposedly over Tubbo has to ask, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Yeah, but my parent's aren't too strict about a curfew. What about you?"

Tubbo wants to lie again. He wants to make up a living situation he has that isn't his own, because the reality isn't something he wants another soul in this world to know about.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, no— I'm—" Tubbo shakes his head. What is wrong with me? "Same."

Ranboo nods, as if Tubbo isn't a stuttering mess and whatever he's spewing makes any sense at all. As if this situation is completely normal. "Cool." he says.

And then Tubbo is stuck. He can't go to his house, not now, not after earlier— not yet, at least. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back to his house ever, but he supposes that's nothing new.

The night drags on, slow and empty with the only interruption being quiet conversation that doesn't go far, but isn't the worst thing in the world. Tubbo isn't sure what time it is, when Ranboo finally decides to call it and walks home. The goodbye is more awkward than Tubbo would like to admit, but he knows it won't be their last, and he isn't quite sure how to feel about that.

When Tubbo begins his own way back, he's too tired to think about anything too deeply. All he knows is that he isn't schizophrenic, the nausea is back, and he's almost out of cigarettes. It's unfortunate, that only one of those things brings him any comfort.

Over the weekend, Ranboo is nowhere to be found in Tubbo's trips back to the overpass. He tells himself he doesn't miss the company, and the way his heart squeezes and restricts is because it's more likely the cigarettes are catching up to him and he's going into some kind of cardiac arrest instead of it being because he's pathetically alone once again.

On Monday he's glad Ranboo hasn't visited him, when he isn't worried by the thoughts in his head telling him he's being abandoned by a person who probably never even considered him his friend in the first place. Not that Tubbo wants that.

Because the truth is, Ranboo isn't Tubbo's friend. Ranboo doesn’t know him. He's just a guy who knows his name, and there's a difference.

On Monday, Tubbo gets in trouble again. He didn't skip school, but his dad was pissed off at him all the same. He's glad Ranboo didn't visit him, because he isn't sure he could spit any witty one-liners when every move he goes to make makes him want to crawl into a hole and—

He's fine. Good. Great, even. He has a few cigarettes left, had enough money to buy more tea from the gas station, and once again, he has the overpass all to himself.

It rained yesterday, which means the roads are still wet and the air is foggy, which doesn't mix well with the smoke but beggars can't be choosers, and whatnot. It also means the temperature is finally beginning to drop, and Tubbo gets to wear his favorite beige corduroy jacket.

It's late, when Tubbo is looking over the highway and watching the cars again. Something about it is incredibly mesmerizing, and as he watches the lines of light streak by he lets the fog seep into his head, the dampness into his bones. It's comfortable, and quiet, and Tubbo tries to convince himself he wouldn't rather have it any other way.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's one of the few times he's brought the device with him, charged and everything. When he pulls it out of his jacket, the notification isn't anything important. It's not a text or a call, so he turns it off and tucks it away again in favor of polluting his lungs and watching people speed past below him.

Sometimes Tubbo wishes he was one of them. He wishes he had a car to drive wherever he wanted, to go anywhere he wants without being told what to do or judged for it. He wonders what it's like to be able to have that.

He talked to Tommy earlier. It was rather brief, mildly awkward and overall miserable. Tubbo still smokes and Tommy is still angry, but people being angry with Tubbo is nothing new. It sucks. It sucks a lot, but he isn't good enough to do the things he should to fix it.

He puts the cigarette to his lips and doesn't feel anything. Tommy doesn't understand that he needs this. He doesn't understand that Tubbo has things he doesn't want to talk about— he doesn't like it. It's fair, Tubbo knows, but it still sucks.

It is what it is.

Tubbo scuffs his shoe against the ground, sighing. He wants to watch the cars more, but standing hurts and leaning against the wall of the overpass doesn't do much for him in that regard. When he turns around to sit against it, he nearly jumps out of his fucking skin.

"Jesus fuck man!" Tubbo exclaims, putting a hand to his chest and nearly dropping his cigarette. Ranboo stands before him, tall and intimidating with the way it's so dark, his silhouette backlit by the street lamps behind him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Ranboo smiles sheepishly, backing away a bit as he rubs the back of his neck. "I was— wait. What happened to your eye?"

Oh, that. Tubbo forgot about that.

He panics for a second, mentally scrambling for a reasonable explanation for the bruise blooming on his upper cheek, which apparently has spread up to his eye. Great.

He gets the urge to hide behind his hair, but forces himself not to in favor of not looking suspicious. "I got into a fight." he says, shrugging nonchalantly. At least, he hopes it come off that way. Technically it's not really a lie.

"Oh. You did?" Ranboo does that thing he does where his head tilts the slightest bit, and Tubbo imagines he's probably narrowing his eyes at him behind the sunglasses.

"Yeah."

"Oh." Ranboo rings his fingers together, almost as if he's anxious for some reason. It makes Tubbo a little anxious in return. "At school?"

Tubbo scoffs. "Yeah. Shit was wild." he plays it up. He thinks this could be fun, if he decides to make it. "Yeah, it was real bloody. I won it though."

Ranboo hums, sitting down against the wall. Tuboo follows along. "I didn't pick you to be the violent type." he says after a beat.

I'm not. I'm really, really not. Tubbo shrugs. "They started it, not me."

Technically, it's not really a lie.

"Sure." Ranboo nods, dragging out the word. As far as Tubbo can tell, Ranboo believes him. "Well, are you like.. okay?"

Tubbo opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates. He tries to cover it up by taking a drag. He doesn't remember the last time anyone ever asked him that question.

He blows away the smoke. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

"That wasn't what I asked."

The sentence draws Tubbo's attention, and he fully turns his head to look at Ranboo. It's too late when he realizes what he's done, but he looks away with haste anyway, hoping Ranboo didn't have enough time to look into his eyes and read all his secrets through his pupils.

When he swallows his saliva is thick, and suddenly it's really hard to talk around the ball building, building, building up in his throat. "'Okay as I can be, bossman." is all he can find himself to manage.

"Is... are you hurt anywhere else?" Ranboo asks. And fuck, he sounds genuinely concerned, but Tubbo doesn't know what to do with it. It's like someone has handed him a cinderblock of sorry, a rather burdensome gift, and expected him to do something with it even though it's heavy and relatively useless, and he doesn't know where to put it.

"I don't really want to talk about it." Tubbo says, even if he comes off suspicious. He can't bring himself to care. He is not about to get into this with anyone, let alone some guy he's known for less than a week.

Ranboo doesn't push it after that, and Tubbo's grateful. Despite his dwindling amount, Tubbo offers him a cigarette again. Ranboo politely declines, and then silence falls between them again.

Until Ranboo speaks up.

"Did you know that there's a type of wild ram that have horns that never stop growing? They twist and curl, until they end up piercing their own faces."

Tubbo nearly breaks his neck with the way his head snaps to the side so fast to look at the other boy.
"Wh—"

"I mean like, there's gotta be something they can do about it, like breaking them off on purpose or something right? But they don't, and usually their horns just keep growing as the ram lives, and sometimes it just.. kills them." he says, as if he was talking about his day or something, completely casual. Tubbo thinks maybe he imagined it at first, but no, Ranboo definitely, in fact, did just say that out of nowhere.

Tubbo moves back, turning his body to face Ranboo. "You are like— wh— are you like actually demented or something?" he asks, the other looking right at him. "I'm serious. Do you like, kill small animals and keep them in jars or some shit? Because I don't fuck with that—"

"N— of course not! Who do you think I am, Ted Bundy?" Ranboo asks, offended, as if Tubbo was the one out of line here. No, hell no is Ranboo going to spin this on him, because what the fuck who just says shit like that? Serial killers actual serial killers that's who—

"For all I know, you might as well be! Fuckin'— saying random fucked up shit like that out of nowhere!" He exclaims, only slightly worried for his safety, if only out of human instinct.

"Okay— okay, I'm sorry. I'll stop if you want me to." Ranboo says, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Please!" Tubbo sighs, dramatic annoyance and a hint of played up disgust in his tone. He isn't sure how much of it genuine, but there's has to be at least a part of it that is. Although, it can't be the majority, because he knows that if he really wanted to get away from him, he definitely would have long before now.

They lapse into another, more awkward silence after they resume their positions of sitting back against the wall. Tubbo take a drag from his cigarette (and if it's a little longer of one than he usually would, nobody says anything) and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. What the fuck is this guy's deal?

He drops his hand, worries his lip. There are crickets chirping somewhere in the distance, and the cars are still racing in their infinite adventures below. Tubbo speaks up, sick of the silence. "You know, I'm holding back. I have a friend who would probably freak out on you way more drastically for saying shit like that than I have." he says, before inhaling more chemicals. "Well— had, maybe. Whatever, the point is, I'm not calling you names and telling you to get lost even though I probably should have by now."

Even that was an understatement, Tubbo knows. If Tommy was here he'd be losing his everyloving shit, and it would probably be hilarious. It would have been hilarious.

He isn't sure why he's referring to Tommy like he's dead. Tommy isn't dead, he's just very, very pissed off at Tubbo.

"Fair enough." Ranboo levels. "I'd explain myself, but honestly, it just doesn't feel like the right time."

Tubbo doesn't even know where do begin with that. So, Ranboo has an explanation, but it's "not the right time"? When would "the right time" even be to explain something like that?

Bewildered. Tubbo is absolutely bewildered.

"What do you mean 'had'? Did something happen between you two? Or.." Ranboo asks, clearly changing the topic.

Not that it's any of your business, "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?" Jesus, you're nosey, Tubbo thinks, but obviously doesn't say.

"He's mad at me. Because I smoke."

"So... stop smoking?"

Tubbo mentally rolls his eyes. Ranboo clearly isn't stupid, surely he must know it isn't that easy. What does he know anyway? He's just some guy who decided to bother Tubbo one night and introduced himself in only the most outlandish way possible.

It's not like Ranboo hasn't annoyed him yet. But right now, the dramatically large urge to cuss him out is practically burning inside Tubbo, and it's getting increasingly more difficult not to with every passing second he doesn't say anything else.

"Wow, you are so right! Why didn't I think of that?" Tubbo says, probably louder than necessary, sarcasm dripping off his tone thick and sticky and full of stewing indignation.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, I had to say it." Tubbo wants to tear his hair out, the only thing stopping him being the familiar buzz of nicotine. "What's he like?" Ranboo asks.

"Who?"

"Your friend."

He's... Tommy is—

Tommy is a lot of things. He's loud, boisterous, passionate, and the most unapologeticly-himself person Tubbo has every met in his life. He's obnoxious and overwhelming and can be a lot sometimes, and his laugh is as ear-splitting as it is alive. But Tommy is also kind, and he's taken a lot of shit from others and somehow still came out the other end a good person. He cares a lot for the people he considers family because it was something he didn't have growing up, and as childish as he can be, Tubbo has looked up to him since the first day he's known him. Not that he'd ever admit that to the blonde.

Tubbo knows Tommy considers him family. He knows Tommy is only angry because he cares and he's just being difficult, but Tubbo can't help it. He can't help himself.

Tommy's been through a lot. Tubbo is going through a lot. Really, it should make sense that he'd open up to Tommy when he first asked him to, but he couldn't. He couldn't do it, and Tubbo is too stubborn to save himself. Too stubborn to admit that anything would be wrong.

And so, Tommy is mad at him. Tubbo isn't sure if anything will be the same between them again, and if he's 100% serious, he's scared. He's scared one of these fights might be the one, and he'll have nobody left.

Well, maybe not nobody.

"Tubbo?"

"Hm?" Tubbo's head snaps up, and he feels like he's been dragged away from his thoughts by his hair. "What?"

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Ranboo says, soft and grossly sincere.

"Oh." Tubbo runs a hand through greasy hair. "Yeah."

And then something's wrong, but Tubbo isn't sure what it is. He put out the cigarette at some point, and when he looks down at his hands they don't feel like they're attached to his body. His body, that usually aches all over but he suddenly doesn't feel any of it.

His head feels wrong, like it's stuffed full of cotton. He blinks and suddenly he's standing, and then worst of all, he's talking.

"I have to go. I have— um." Tubbo shakes his head, but all that does is make him feel dizzy. "I have to go."

"Tubbo—"

Ranboo says something else, Tubbo thinks, but he's already walking away.

The highway has never been more quiet.

"I'll take the glasses off if you tell me what really happened."

It's a few days later, back at their usual spot over the highway (calling it "their spot" was Ranboo's idea, for the record, after all Tubbo would give him after he asked why Tubbo always came back to it was that he "liked listening to the cars below", even though they both know there is clearly much more to it). It's the first time Tubbo hasn't started his evening with a cigarette, mostly because he really has to ration the last few he has. Ranboo showed up with fast food for them to eat as the sun sets, and they began talking (not about Tubbo's freak out a few days ago, thankfully) which lead to truth or dare and then.. Tubbo trying to get Ranboo to take off those stupid, stupid sunglasses. Under one condition, apparently, because the universe is never on Tubbo's side which means it clearly has no reason to start being.

In summary, Tubbo showed up with a split lip and dry blood crusting his nostrils, and Ranboo was worried, for some reason. Tubbo gave the same excuse he did with his black eye, but Ranboo isn't having it, for some reason.

"I told you!" Tubbo says, trying to simultaneously talk and shove fries into his mouth. For once, he is starving. "I got into another fight. Shit happens."

"You get into a lot of fights then?" Ranboo asks, sipping some type of soda from a plastic cup.

"I told you. I can be kindof a prick, sometimes." Tubbo shrugs, avoiding any eye contact. It's pretty easy to do, it turns out, with Ranboo wearing the glasses.

Ranboo hums. "Fine. But I'm not taking off the glasses."

Tubbo makes a noise of annoyance, his mouth too stuffed to fully express it all. It takes a second for him to chew and swallow so he doesn't choke, and man, would that be an embarrassing way to die. "Come on man. I'm curious, humor me."

Ranboo doesn't say anything for a bit, and it takes a moment for it to catch Tubbo's attention. When he looks up, he's met with a stone-faced, majorly unimpressed looking Ranboo. His mouth is a tight slit edging on a frown, and he's holding out the cinderblock of sorry and concern to Tubbo, who still very much does not want it.

Tubbo's facade is slipping; just one more thing he can't afford.

"I'm being serious. I don't know why you're so worried about me, it's a little bit funny, if I'm being honest." Tubbo shrugs, closing his eyes behind his bangs with the slightest bit of pride flickering inside him because of how believable it sounds aloud, even to himself.

The pride flickers for a reason, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Like whatever the hell Ranboo is hiding under those glasses.

"I thought you said you rarely went to school." Ranboo deadpans.

"And why do you think that is?" Tubbo quips, raises his brows, sipping his own soda and looking at Ranboo through slits in his hair.

Ranboo sighs, clearly reluctant. "Are you sure you're o—"

"I'm fine man. Jeez, loosen up." Tubbo says, his tone clipping towards the end. His chest aches with each breath, but Ranboo doesn't need to know about that.

"Fine. You wanna know the real reason I always wear them?" Ranboo asks, sitting up and crossing his legs.

"Yes! Gods, just— out with it already, please."

"Alright." Ranboo's shoulders rise and fall with his dramatic sigh. "I.. I—"

And then.. something clicks. Or at least, it looks like it does. Ranboo drops his gaze and turns his head away. His bottom lip quivers when he opens his mouth the slightest bit as if he's— no. Tubbo thinks for a horrifying moment Ranboo might actually start crying or something like that, and the mere thought causes panic to shoot through his entire nervous system.

Tubbo opens his mouth to say something, anything. To apologize, or take the request back or—

"I— I have lazer eyes." Ranboo suddenly cries out.

"Lazer eyes, that shoot lazers! They're so bright they even blinded a person once—"

"Oh my—" Tubbo buries his face in his hands.

"—and I have to hide them, or else I'll blind you too!"

Ranboo laughs so hard he nearly keels over completely even though he's sitting, and Tubbo can't even bring himself to be genuinely mad at the guy. "You absolute asshole!" he lurches forward to shove Ranboo's arm. "You really had me as well. I— I actually hate you. I do, I've just decided it."

Ranboo doesn't stop laughing for a good few minutes, and Tubbo can't find it in himself to force away the smile pulling at the corners of his lips despite himself. It hurts his cheek and lip a little, but he figured it's probably worth it.

"Oh, that was so beautiful. My stomach hurts so much." Ranboo says, trying to catch his breath and wiping the presumable tears from his eyes behind the glasses. "I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"And I thought I was the prick. Turns out it was you all along." Tubbo sighs, eating a fry.

"No— okay. Okay, for real this time." Ranboo says, pausing as he lets the only noise between them be the cars of their highway below. Now he's serious, Tubbo lets it sink in, feels a little nervous for a split second when the pause lasts a little too long. "Just.."

Ranboo purses his lips, fidgets with the hems of his sweater sleeves for a few seconds after he pulls them over his hands. "Go easy on me, okay?"

Tubbo's brows knit together in confusion, because what does that mean? But before he can ask, Ranboo reaches up with both hands and simultaneously takes off the beanie and glasses at the same time.

His secrets are apparent immediately, and really, without the disguise there's no way they can't be missed.

Almost all the hair on the right side of Ranboo's head is white as snow, so white that it nearly glows in the night. With it all released from the beanie, his hair falls to the right side of his face in one big swoop, but there's another kicker when he uses one hand to push it out of his eyes— which actually just happens to be the other "kicker" in question.

His left eye is as dark as the sky above them, but his right one.. is bright blue. Not only that, but the eyelashes on his right eye are the same shade of white as his hair, and it even streaks through his eyebrow. It's the first time Tubbo has seen his whole face since they've met (which admittedly, wasn't actually that long ago), and it's as if it's split in two, the features are so different in contrast with each other. It's probably some kind of birthmark if Tubbo were to guess, an extreme one at that. At least, one of the most extreme he's ever seen in person.

It's gotta be the strangest thing Tubbo's ever seen, and somehow.. it just makes sense.

Ranboo clears his throat, and Tubbo blinks. "So.." Ranboo drawls, "the food's getting cold." he says, going back to eating as if nothing happened at all. As if he hasn't been hiding something so big and didn't just reveal it to Tubbo all at once.

And maybe it's not a big deal— no, it probably isn't a big deal. But Tubbo will be damned if he doesn't admit that it's interesting at the very least.

"You— what—" Tubbo feels like he's going a bit crazy. "That's what you've been hiding?"

Ranboo pauses mid-chew, looking up at Tubbo with one brown eye through his lashes, his hair curtaining the other one. "Uh.. well—"

"You're— that's like, the coolest thing ever. Dude, if I even remotely looked like you, I wouldn't be hiding that shit! Are you kidding me?"

Ranboo dips his head, scratches nervously at the back of his neck again, probably a little overwhelmed with the sudden burst of attention. He seems unsure of himself, almost insecure, something Tubbo hasn't really seen on Ranboo yet. Tubbo's a bit too (more or less) astonished to take it into account, but he can't really help it, too caught up in all the splattered white and blue and brown.

"It's... cool?"

"Wh— yes, it's cool." Tubbo says, leaning down to peek at the other who is practically hiding behind his hair, looking like he kinda wants to crawl into a hole and—

Well, Tubbo knows what that's like.

It's kinda like their roles have been reversed, in some weird way.

"What is it?" Tubbo asks.

Ranboo forces out a short, breathy laugh. "Uh, well. People usually make fun of me for it, not.. whatever you're doing."

"You mean complimenting you?"

"Right— that."

So that's why he's always hiding away.

"Well," Tubbo sits back up, returning to eating his cold fries, "I think it's cool. Fuck what anyone else says."

Ranboo peeks out from behind his hair, the smallest smile pulling at his lips.

It's the first time in weeks Tubbo's gone a night without smoking, and he doesn't even realize it.

"Maybe I could talk to him." Ranboo suggests.

"To who, Tommy?" Ranboo nods, only sparing Tubbo a quick glance up from the sketchbook he's hunched over doodling in, using his phone's screen as a torch since apparently the actual flashlight on it is broken. He's a pretty good artist, Tubbo has found, and the sketchbook happens to be one of the few things Ranboo keeps in the bag he's always wearing.

"I genuinely can't think of a worse idea." Tubbo says, letting smoke fall from his lips and catch in the night's wind. The hard pavement against his talebone sends a shooting pain up his spine that branches out through his nerves, and it takes a good few minutes for him to get somewhat comfortable where he sits. Even then, it still faintly hurts.

Ranboo looks up again, his expression deadpanned. Tubbo isn't really used to talking with him and being able to see his whole face, but it's kinda nice being able to read his expressions a lot easier. Even if he looks as unimpressed with Tubbo as he does now.

"What? It's not complicated— well, it is, but it isn't. There just— there isn't anything to be solved. I smoke, he hates that I smoke, we argue, I say shit that I don't mean because I'm kindof a prick and I panic and run." Tubbo explains, waving his hands around as he speaks like a madman. "Besides, the last thing I need is him thinking I'm trying to like, replace him, or something like that."

"Why would he think that?" Ranboo asks. And he is so, so naive.

Because for as much of a confident personality Tommy puts on, he can be very insecure. Tubbo couldn't tell you why if you asked, considering how much everyone in Tommy's life loves him— can't get enough of him. He's entertaining and hilarious and has a bigger heart than he lets on. He's not a burden. He doesn't disobey his dad on purpose just to get a reaction out of him, or skip school or smoke cigarettes or sneak out at night to lean against walls of overpasses. He's not like Tubbo— people actually like him. You don't just give up someone like that, or swap them for someone else even if it's convenient. Besides, before now nobody else has really taken any interest in getting to know Tubbo, especially in the past year or so. He couldn't've tried to replace Tommy even if he wanted to.

"Don't you have other friends?" Ranboo asks, pulling Tubbo from his thoughts again. He seems to do that a lot.

Tubbo shrugs, but realizes that Ranboo is too busy doodling to see the gesture. "I don't know."

Ranboo looks up at him, narrowing his eyes. A curtain of white falls over them, and he uses one hand to shove the hair out of his face. "You don't know if you have other friends?"

"Well, not like Tommy." or you, "I'm not close with them like that. If I was, I probably wouldn't be here right now."

"'Makes sense I guess." Ranboo returns to his drawing. When Tubbo leans over to take a peek at it, he finds that it's a drawing of a person in a semi-realistic style. The person has dark hair that falls over their eyes and reaches down to their shoulders, kinda like Tubbo's hair. Except, the person is wearing some type of plaid, puffy jacket, not to mention the little horns jutting out from both sides of their head just above their long, pendulous ears.

Ranboo draws a smile on their face as Tubbo takes a drag from his cigarette, "Is that supposed to be me?"

Ranboo shrugs, making a noise that resembles an I don't know, even though it very clearly is him. "It is, isn't it? Why did you give me horns?"

"Because if you were an animal, I think you'd be a ram— or, maybe some type of goat." he says, beginning to color in parts of Tubbo's jacket.

Tubbo isn't sure how to feel about the information, especially considering the gory fact Ranboo told him about the animal just a few days ago. It gives him that same weird feeling in the pit of his stomach he can never put a name to, but he doesn't like all the same. There's definitely a metaphor in there somewhere, but Tubbo doesn't even want to begin to get into it that.

He chooses not to mention the fact, instead letting the past conversation hang looming in the air between them. When he speaks he aims for nonchalance, "If I was an animal I'd be way more badass than a dumb goat. I'd be like, a tiger, or a shark. Sharks are badass."

Ranboo looks at him, squinting his eyes as if he's trying to read something in Tubbo's expression. After a dramatically long moment he hums, "No." he apparently decides. "You'd be a ram— or a goat."

Tubbo frowns. "That just doesn't make any sense."

Ranboo hums, "Goats can be badass. They're super resilient, and have good defensive instincts." he pauses, and when he glances at Tubbo, he gives him a small smile as if to say just like you. But then again, Tubbo could just be making that up himself. He probably was. "But they're also more on the reserved and quiet side. I guess it depends on what you define as being 'badass'."

Tubbo pauses, leaning back and sitting with the information for a bit. He isn't sure how to feel about it. He isn't sure how to feel about a lot of things with Ranboo, he realizes.

Tubbo takes a long drag. You are a strange, strange person, he thinks, watching Ranboo sketch.

Tubbo sighs, finally, "I guess it is relative. Goats still sound shit though." he says, and Ranboo huffs a small laugh through his nose as if he expected Tubbo to say that. Tubbo doesn't dwell on it. "Whatever. What animal would you be?"

"I don't know," Ranboo groans as he sits up, his long legs definitely cramping from the pretzeled position he was sitting in, "probably some kind of lizard. Or a cat."

"Aw, you're a catboy, are you?" Tubbo laughs as Ranboo rolls his eyes. "Sorry, I had to."

"You didn't have to."

"I did. I was forced."

"By who?" Ranboo asks, clearly incredulous.

Tubbo taps the left side of his head with his index finger, the same hand he balances the cigarette between his fingers with, "Intrusive thoughts, humanity's biggest burden." another drag.

"Ah, of course."

They listen to the speeding cars for a bit, Tubbo watching as Ranboo sketches and doodles in silence, smoking his cigarette.

When he shifts and adjusts his sitting position a little too often, Ranboo seems to take notice as he speaks up. "What, is the pavement not comfortable enough for you?"

Tubbo picks up on the sarcasm (it's gotten easier to read in Ranboo's expressions) by the small quirk in his eyebrow. He knows Ranboo isn't actually trying to pick on him or anything, but he can't help the way his heart squeezes when he thinks about the real reason sitting here with him hurts.

Tubbo doesn't like looking at the damage. He knows it's there, under all the layers of shirts and his favorite corduroy jacket. It paints his lower back, his upper chest, probably— no, definitrly certain parts of his arms in watery yellows and greens and purples and blues. It's more than enough looking in the mirror and seeing his eye, feeling it in painful pin-pricks every time he blinks. There's more to be found on his hidden pale skin, but he doesn't want to see it— doesn't want to confront it.

So even though the concrete is shit to sit on and against, he does it anyway. It wouldn't be any different sitting many places else.

"I was joking." Ranboo says after probably too long of a beat. He drops his gaze as quick as he can when he realizes he'd looked straight into Ranboo's heterochromic eyes, wondering for a split second if they really do shoot lazers— the hypothetical kind, of course— that tear open his brown irises and suck all his secrets out of him again.

"I know." Tubbo says, probably a little too quickly.

Tubbo doesn't miss the way Ranboo's small smile falters, or the way his eyes scan over him as if he's looking for something. Tubbo doesn't like it. It makes him feel vulnerable, and a little violated which doesn't make any sense considering it's not like Ranboo can actually see anything.

He doesn't know anything. Tubbo repeats the sentence in his head over and over like a madman until he believes it enough to feel somewhat secure again. 

Ranboo sits up and pushes his sketchbook aside, moving to sit next to Tubbo against the wall. He's not exactly close to him, but he's closer than he usually sits, and one slight move could lead to their arms brushing against eachother and it takes everything inside of Tubbo not to scoot away from him.

"Do you.. maybe wanna come over to my place sometime?" Ranboo asks, a bit randomly.

And in that moment, Tubbo kinda feels like someone has hit him across the head with a baseball bat and then asked him to recite the alphabet, but the world around him is spinning because, well, that's probably what happens when you get hit across the head with a baseball bat. Nothing makes sense.

"W— what?" Tubbo turns his head, meeting Ranboo's eyes, sitting to his right like he always does.

"You know, that think friends sometimes do when they want to hang out somewhere that isn't a bridge over a noisy highway?" Ranboo says, lighthearted and as if the question was the easiest thing in the world to ask. As if it he didn't pay it any mind it at all.

"Uh.." Tubbo isn't really sure what to say to that. He puts out his cigarette without thinking.

Ranboo had invited him over. Does that mean he actually likes Tubbo— that he wants to get to know him more? That probably exactly what it means, but Tubbo can't be sure. He hasn't made a new friend in a long time, and all he's ever known is dinner and sleepovers with Tommy and his family.

He thinks the worst part is that he really, really wants to say yes. Like, so bad that the feeling is almost electric and it fizzles under his skin, itching for release with an excitement Tubbo hasn't felt in a long time. It takes everything inside himself to hold back from lifting his hands and trying to shake the feeling out of himself. He nearly does say yes, opens his mouth and everything, but nothing comes out like it's supposed to.

He blames it on the way his brain feels kind like it's currently short-circuiting, soaked in water with sparks spitting out and everything. He wants to say yes, because he is so, so fucking sick of this stupid, stupid fucking overpass. But he can't. He knows he can't.

"I can't." he says, feeling like a robot spitting out code from a system.

"Oh." Ranboo drops his gaze, and Tubbo's organs tie themselves in painful knots over the way disappointment drips from his tone. "Why not?"

Tubbo's brain immediately begins listing off reasons, written in big red ink and in capital letters; Ranboo's parents would probably hate him upon a single glance (he isn't exactly well groomed, what with having the hair of a wet lion's mane if lions could even have curly hair. He definitely smells like cigarette smoke more often than he doesn't. He's always been on the scruffier side, his clothes aren't nice or put together very well like Ranboo's are— they haven't been in a long time. His shoes are falling apart at the seams. Actually, thinking about it now, Tubbo wonders if Ranboo thinks he's homeless, which isn't necessarily the case but honestly, it might as well be) and Tubbo wouldn't even be able to blame them one bit for it. Meeting new people is stressful, especially when those people are meaningful adults. Despite having talked to Ranboo as much as he has, at the end of the day they don't know eachother that well. Tubbo's dad wouldn't approve of it— not that he approves of anything Tubbo ever does— and then Tubbo wouldn't listen to him again and he'd get in even more trouble than he's usually in, which Tubbo does not need right now. It's a commitment, one that Tubbo isn't sure he wants to make right now.

The list goes on forever.

Tubbo just.. he's not sure how long he wants to stick around here. He'd feel bad forcing himself into Ranboo's life any more than he does because he doesn't want to hurt Ranboo if anything were to— if Tubbo were to leave, go somewhere else that isn't here. Not that he's necessarily planning anything like that— not at this moment, at least— but still.

He probably has a nice house, Tubbo muses, letting himself indulge in the idea, he seems well off enough. Probably has a backyard, and a pool and parents who actually love h—

"I— just, y'know." Tubbo stammers like the absolute dumbass he is, "I— I mean it's not you or anything. I just—"

Think, think you idiot. "I have a thing. About going to other people's houses."

Nice. Now you sound like the freak.

The only thing keeping Tubbo from slamming the back of his head against the concrete behind him is the fact that he wants to come off at least somewhat mentally stable. At this point he feels like he's pulling for straws in that reguard, but all he can do is hope Ranboo doesn't notice.

"Oh." Ranboo blinks.

"Yeah."

"That's alright." Ranboo says, and there's no other emotion behind it than it being taken at face value. Maybe Ranboo does— take Tubbo's words at face value.

"It is?" Tubbo asks anyway.

Ranboo shrugs, and for a split second his elbow touches Tubbo's own. Neither of them seem to notice. "Yeah, I just figured it might be more fun to have a change of scenery. I don't think I've ever seen you anywhere other than here."

It makes sense. In fact, it's a completely normal and reasonable explanation to his request, to be fair.

"Why do you like it here so much anyway?" Ranboo asks, pushing white hair out of his eyes.

"You already asked me that before." Is Tubbo's reply.

"Did I?"

Tubbo can't tell if he's being serious or not. "Mhm, I said I liked listening to the cars."

Ranboo pauses, as if he's thinking for a moment. "Ah, right. I remember."

Tubbo narrows his eyes at the other. "It wasn't that long ago man, do you like, have shit memory or something?" he asks, trying not to sound too much like a prick. It probably comes off that way anyway. He supposes things probably do come off that way a lot, when you're kindof a prick.

"We're not talking about me." Ranboo says, shifting the topic back, "So you like the cars, but what else is there that's so interesting about it? I don't see the appeal." he says.

"It's my smoke spot." Tubbo says, a gust of wind blowing his hair into his mouth for a second. It's annoying, and he wishes he had something to tie it back with.

He has to force down a wince as he stands up, spinning on his heel and leaning on the wall to look over it, down onto all the people in their cars driving and going places Tubbo probably won't ever get to. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to." he says, hoping Ranboo heard him over the noise down where he sits by Tubbo's feet, looking up at him.

It's an out, one Tubbo feels good about. He wouldn't mind it if Ranboo stayed, but he also feels like it wouldn't be fair to keep him around if he didn't want to be. Tubbo isn't sure if Ranboo does want to anymore. Maybe he doesn't. That would be fine— okay, even, if he didn't. At least, that's what Tubbo tells himself.

The shorter boy sighs, closing his eyes, letting the whirring of engines and tire against pavement rattle his head, unwind his tangled mind. When he opens his eyes, Ranboo is standing beside him and looking down at the cars with him. Even hunched over the wall Ranboo is a fucking giant compared to Tubbo, and he can't help but wonder what the world looks like from his perspective. He wonders what it's like to see everything from up high, behind white hair and through multi-colored eyes.

"You're not as bad to be around as you think, you know." Tubbo catches from beside him, a deep voice cutting through roaring engines and heavy wind.

"Well, you're not so bad yourself." Tubbo spares him a fleeting glance. "I guess."

"Wh— you 'guess'? That's it, that's all I get?" Ranboo laughs, elbowing Tubbo on the side of his arm.

He hopes the laugh he gives is enough to distract Ranboo from the flinch he fails to hold back.

Tubbo doesn't cry.

If there's anything relatively positive Tubbo has ever been able to admit about himself, it's that he's damn good at holding himself together. Or at least, he fights like hell to.

When his mom died a little less than a year ago, he kept going to school as if nothing had happened. He focused all his attention on his work even though he did bad on assignments and failed most of his tests. Even when he felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out, like he was scum on the bottom of whatever gods' that exist's shoes, he didn't let it break him. When other kids would treat him like shit and shove him into lockers because he sucked at reading aloud, he internalized it, and rationalized it, because people like that don't hurt others just because it's fun. People like that hate themselves, and in Tubbo's opinion, that's more pathetic than he ever would be.

At least, he used to think that.

His dad wasn't always a piece of shit. Before all this his dad wasn't amazing, but he was Tubbo's dad— he was there when he needed him, put food on his plate and a roof over his head. He scared away the monsters under Tubbo's bed when he was young and taught him to throw a baseball when he was eight. But if there was anything his dad did he was sure of, it was that he loved his mom with everything inside of him. Maybe even more than he loved Tubbo. No, definitely more than he loved Tubbo.

But that was okay, he could handle it. At least he had a dad. Tommy, at the time, was a different story.

Tommy hadn't been adopted by the Craft's yet, and in a way the roles were reversed. Tommy spent a lot of time at his house because he hated a lot of his fosters, until he was placed with Phil, and Wilbur and Techno. He didn't have much of a family at all until then, and then before Tubbo knew it, Tommy was adopted.

He was over the moon for his best friend, as anyone would be. It seemed everything was going well for once; it was a short period of a few weeks where everything felt somewhat right in the world.

And then Tubbo's mom died, and it all went to shit. Well, for him, at least.

Tubbo doesn't remember the first time his dad drank a bottle of beer, for all he knew the man has been doing it long before the accident. All he knew was that it brought something in his father out that Tubbo didn't even think could exist inside him.

His father was depressed, the illness manifesting in anger and yelling and slamming doors and everything bad besides violence. He was never, ever violent. Not up until a few months ago.

Every single time Tubbo messes up, it doesn't go ignored. Every little thing he does wrong is confronted and criticized, thrown in his face and made known to him that all he does is fuck up, and whatever it is is just another thing to add to the list. Another reminder. Another berating. Another screaming match between them.

But Tubbo doesn't cry over it. Crying is a thing of the past, a thing of scraped knees and worrying about fictional monsters under beds. Crying is of sensitivity and being called a pussy and only leads to more punishment because apparently if you teach a crying kid that it only leads to more pain, they'll stop crying, right?

So Tubbo doesn't cry. Not in front of people, and sure as hell not alone.

He'd been doing so well too. A good nearly half a year well. No crying, until right now.

It's one of those times where he's come to the overpass that isn't at night— it's mid day, in fact, the only likeness of how his days usually are of it being that he's skipping school again.

His father— on top of dozens of other things to be pissed at Tubbo about— found out about him sneaking out. He waited till the next morning to unleash hell on him, and really it wasn't anything different at all compared to what Tubbo's been dealing with for the past couple months. A slap across the face, a kick to his stomach, a screaming match that always ends with Tubbo silent. His father always wins, always stumbles away without a scratch. Tubbo is no match for him, he never was, and he knows he never will be.

The bruises all hurt the same, in fact, he thinks he's grown used to the pain. Whether he's vomiting from his head pounding or poking at new bruises, it's all the same. He breathes deliberately so his chest doesn't hurt as much even though it's exhausting and he patches up any open wounds by himself. He gets by. He manages. He doesn't cry, no matter how much pain he takes and no matter how mean the words spat at him are. He doesn't cry.

He wouldn't have cried, he knows. And then Tommy called him, and fucked it all up.

It doesn't really matter what they argued about this time, it all leads back to Tubbo's bad habits. He smokes, he keeps secrets, he deflects, he says things he doesn't mean. It's been like this for weeks, but Tommy always comes back. He always texts him and forces conversation, even when it leads back to fights. He puts up with Tubbo's shit as if he's worth it, but Tubbo thinks deep down that it was all bound to come to this at some point.

Tommy doesn't want to be his friend anymore.

Tommy doesn't want anything to do with him, at least, that's what he said. Tubbo can't blame him, he's a fucking mess. Nobody should be forced to try and clean a broken glass that can't be guaranteed to be put back together— it's just not fair. Tubbo understands, in fact, that wasn't even what made him cry.

He's out of cigarettes.

He's out of cigarettes, and now he has nothing left.

So he finds himself sitting on the wall of the overpass, his feet dangling over the edge. He's— no, okay, he's not going to do anything stupid, like jump. He's fucked up but he's not that fucked up, that he can't have some form of sense to realize that if he did something like that it could greatly traumatize and would probably change the trajectory of the person of whichever car would hit him's life. Tubbo is a lot of bad, fucked up things, but he's not selfish. At least, he hopes he's not.

Thinking about it now, he isn't so sure anymore.

The cars seem to be driving faster than usual, today.

It's overcast and a little chilly for once, but Tubbo didn't bother to bring his jacket or wear long sleeves because that kind of thing just didn't seem to matter when he ran away from his dad, away from his house, scared for his life. It's ironic, he thinks, that he was scared his dad might actually kill him this time but he's crying like a baby sitting on a ledge, contemplating the point of all this. It's a little bit humiliating, if he's being honest. Nobody's around but the people below him, but he still feels like he has the entire world's worth of people's eyes on him, crying, like a pussy.

It was slow at first, but when he let the first tear slip he knew that was it for him. It stings the cut on his cheek but he can't stop, it built and built and built up until he's sitting here, gasping for air and ugly crying so hard that spit flies from his mouth, snot drips from his nose and his hands feel tingly from the lack of oxygen going to his head. He's breaking, falling apart at the seems and for once he feels like he has something in common with the world, when it begins to rain.

His hair falls into his face and it pisses him off, so he ducks his head, reaches up and pulls at it till his scalp hurts as he cries, ugly and loud and careless. His shirt feels scratchy against his skin so he yanks at the fabric and claws at his chest. Everything feels wrong, his skin feels like it's constricting his bones so he claws at his arms even though there are bruises there. He doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore, he just wants it to stop.

He's so tired, so exhausted and so— so fucking done with himself.

When he begins to laugh to himself through hiccups it's edging on manic, but he doesn't care about that either. He's lost everything. Where the hell do you go from there, when you hate yourself so deeply, when you've lost everything you've loved, and nothing else seems to matter?

He's done. He doesn't want to do this anymore, he doesn't want to be here, at this stupid overpass in this stupid town in this stupid world, where all he knows his pain and bruises and— and hating himself.

It isn't in a single, certain moment he makes the decision. He thinks maybe this has been coming for a while now, like an ever-festering storm building up with blinding lightning just waiting to strike. Like this was exactly what he was meant to come down to. He feels trapped, and like there's so much built up hurt inside of him that it's too much, too big for this body, it's bigger than him and if he doesn't do something about it—

Tommy is right. His dad is right. Everyone in school that has ever spit on him and dug into him was right. He is unconditionally, every single bad thing they've ever confronted him as being or thrown in his face. And he has to do something about it.

He has to do something about it before he changes his mind. Maybe not here, but— but he has to. He has to—

"T— Tubbo?"

Oh dear gods.

He'd completely forgotten.

Tubbo whips around so fast the world spins, the lack of oxygen in his system from hyperventilating not being much help. When the world steadies after a few long seconds, he finds Ranboo looking right at him, mid taking off his sunglasses.

The naked concern of Ranboo's features makes him realize, fuck, this probably looks bad. But he isn't sure if he cares. He hasn't cared about a lot of things in a while, now.

"Are you okay? What— what the hell happened?"

Ranboo's gaze drops and Tubbo follows it, his heart dropping when he realizes that he isn't wearing a jacket, which means that Ranboo, horrified, is very much looking at his very much bruised arms.

When Tubbo blinks he isn't sure if the water in his eyes are his own tears or the rain, slowly getting heavier. Ranboo's hair is wet like Tubbo's shirt, and it sends a shiver down his spine, makes his already injured muscles and body ache even worse from the cold. Ranboo's face seems to have lost all it's color, but his blue eye and white hair are bright as ever.

"I—" Tubbo's bottom lip trembles when he opens his mouth, and it feels like his words are getting stuck in his throat. "I— c— can't—" he shakes his head, choking on a sob.

"Okay, wait, it's— it's okay—" Ranboo steps forward, reaching out and Tubbo can't stop himself from panicking.

"No! Don't— p— please," he leans away as much as he can without falling off the ledge, "d— don't touch me. Don't, please. Please don't." he sobs.

It's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic but he can't help himself. He's up really high, and he isn't sure what Ranboo's intention is even though he knows Ranboo probably isn't like that. He isn't mean, he's done nothing but be a friend to him, but Tubbo thought Tommy was his friend and he thought his father was his dad and nothing seems to be the way Tubbo thought it was anymore, even if it feels like it's been the same for so long. Nothing make sense— he isn't even sure if he's making sense. Nothing makes sense and he's so, so scared, and he isn't sure what he'll do if Ranboo gets any closer to him right now.

"Okay, I won't. I promise." Ranboo says, freezing, his hands pulled back but still held out, like he isn't sure what to do with them. He looks scared, as scared as Tubbo feels inside, and he just isn't sure what to do with all this emotion and crying and undeniable hurt. There's so, so much hurt, everywhere all the time and Tubbo isn't sure he can carry it all anymore.

And then, Ranboo asks the dreaded question. "Can you— can you come down? From the ledge, can you come down?"

Tubbo didn't plan to jump— he doesn't plan to jump, because that's stupid.

It's stupid, but for some reason, he doesn't want to get down.

"I can't."

"What— Tubbo, what do you mean? Of course you can. I— I can help you, if you—"

"No. You don't get it Ranboo, just—" he hiccups, tears slipping down his cheeks. Or maybe it's rain, his hair is dripping wet, he isn't sure. "just leave, okay? I'm— I'm not stupid. I'm not going to— to k—"

He can't bring himself to say it. He feels like a coward, considering it's what he thinks he wants, if he's completely, openly honest with himself. "I'm not, okay? So just go." he says, and every word hurts to say. He knows it would be best if Ranboo left and forgot about him and the past few weeks. All Tubbo's done is use him and take up his time, and it's not fair to Ranboo. Ranboo— strange, kind, funny, worried Ranboo.

The tall boy shakes his head, frowning, "I don't believe you."

Tubbo wants to scream. He wants to scream and tear his hair out because he doesn't know how to express enough that Ranboo is wasting his time. He could be doing anything in the whole world, but instead he's here, somehow, someway he's here when Tubbo is fine, he doesn't need to waste Ranboo's time any more than he has and he doesn't know how he'd ever be able to get him to understand it, and it's so fucking frustrating.

"Just— talk to me. What happened? You can tell me, I—"

"No, I can't. You don't fucking get it, Ranboo!" Tubbo cries, trying to raise his voice the best he can because the cars and the now pouring rain together are so loud he can't even hear himself breathe, and it scares him. Everything is scaring him and he's overwhelmed and he isn't sure what he wants anymore. "Fuck off." he hears himself say, somewhere in the distance.

"No!"

Tubbo flinches, and it makes Ranboo freeze again, clench his fists by his sides. When Tubbo meets his eyes, the look he gives Tubbo tells him he knows that Ranboo knows. He knows the "fights" weren't really fights at all. He's the only other soul in the world that now knows Tubbo's biggest secret, and it feels like the entire earth is falling out from under his feet.

Tubbo turns to look back down at the cars, but Ranboo speaks almost immediately and steers his attention away. He nearly has to scream over the pouring, pounding rain. "Self-harm isn't exclusive to humans!"

Tubbo feels dizzy again. "What are you even—"

"Hugo, and argali— th— the rams!"

Tubbo just looks at him, brows knit together and confused out of his mind. The world goes kindof blurry and he thinks his head is filling with cotton again, so he drops his gaze the slightest bit, but Ranboo is quick to bring him back. "Caged animals hurt themselves just like caged humans. When they're trapped, they hurt themselves, just like people do." he says loudly, his chin quivering when he purses his lips.

Tubbo scoffs, wipes hastily at his face, "I don't—"

"You do." Ranboo exclaims, pausing. He looks down the road and then back at Tubbo, takes the smallest step forward.

"The qualities used to define the human — such as speech, rational thought or suicide — can only be rendered meaningful through reference to animals." Ranboo talks as if he's quoting some source Tubbo has clearly never heard of, "To explain the animal, is to explain the human. Some people say it's the other way around, but I disagree. Our feelings and pain— are not exclusive to us!"

It feels like he's in some fucked up scene in a movie. Ranboo looks like he's gone mad, his eyes blown wide shouting some philosophical shit in the rain that Tubbo doesn't understand for the life of him, whilst also somehow looking like a dog that's fallen into a pool with the way his usually fluffy hair drips wet, completely drenched. All of this— it's a little bit surreal, and not in the good way.

And then Tubbo thinks back to the first time Ranboo sat down next to him that night. His fucked up story about the orca in captivity, and then the goats with their spiraled horns. It never made sense, Tubbo didn't think it ever would, that it was just some bullshit way to start conversation that weird, tall, 24/7 sunglasses-wearing people use when they don't know how to talk to people they've never met before. And hell, sitting up on this ledge where nothing is certain, maybe it still doesn't. Maybe Tubbo's just making shit up, or maybe Ranboo's mind boggling-ly random sob stories were actually just some fucked up way of saying you're not alone.

Or maybe that's not the point at all. Maybe Tubbo's completely wrong, like he has been with so many countless other things in his life.

Tubbo doesn't understand. He looks down at the cars again, the one certain thing he's had in his life for months, and then back at Ranboo, standing only a few feet away from him.

He doesn't understand, until he does.

Ranboo knew all along.

From the very beginning, from that first night he sat down beside Tubbo, he knew that Tubbo was struggling. One look into the taller's eyes only confirms it.

"I'm out of cigarettes." Tubbo says, after a beat of letting Ranboo's words hang in the chilled, wet air.

Ranboo doesn't say anything, and for a moment Tubbo thinks he might not've heard him. But then he just gives Tubbo this sad, sad look that he wishes he could get rid of— wishes was never there to begin with. "I'm out of cigarettes, and Tommy doesn't want to talk to me ever again and— and I don't get into fights, Ranboo!" Tubbo sniffles, feeling like he's cried all the tears in his body. "I don't get into fights."

Ranboo's gaze falls. He nods, a sad, small, minuscule thing you'd have to squint to catch.

He looks back up, steps closer, and reaches out. "Come down." he pleads. "I'm not leaving you. We can figure this out."

Tubbo looks at his outstretched hand like it's going to bite him, but that's utterly ridiculous.

"Don't—" Ranboo scoffs with a small smile, and it's a little bit relieving. "Don't be the next Hugo."

It's dumbfounding, really.

"My gods." Tubbo can't help the way he rolls his eyes, bringing his hands up to dig the heels of his palms into his definitely puffy eyes for a moment. "You are actually the most unbelievable person I've ever met in my entire life. You're— you're ridiculous." he says, and then they're both laughing. It's the most stupid thing in the whole wide world, Ranboo practically— no, definitely just talked Tubbo down from a breakdown, and they're laughing.

Tubbo sniffles, looking down at his hands, his bruised forearms, then to Ranboo's hand. As soon as he reaches out and takes it Ranboo is scrambling to his side and helping him down.

Tubbo doesn't hold back the pained noise he makes or the way he winces when he gets both his feet on the ground. His secret is out, and he completely forgot about his probably (definitely) sprained— hell, maybe even fractured— ankle. His dad was really, really pissed earlier.

For once, Tubbo lets himself be hurt, and vulnerable. "You okay?" Ranboo asks, clearly concerned.

Tubbo insists he'll be fine despite the way his ribs ache, his bones wine with every move and he limps, but Ranboo insists on helping him walk by having him lean some of his weight into him. It's kindof nice, having someone to lean on. Tubbo feels the exhaustion seeping into his bones with the rain, and if he's honest, if he didn't have Ranboo here he thinks he would've collapsed to the wet pavement and passed out right there on the bridge.

"What happens now?" Tubbo asks, pretending not to notice as he draws Ranboo's attention away from his arms. They're both cold, and drenched and it's stopped pouring but it's still drizzling, standing close together on their bridge over their highway.

"I.. I don't know." Ranboo says, open and honest and probably relieved to have Tubbo by his side once again. "But we'll figure it out. I promise."

Ranboo agreed not to force Tubbo to come back to his place because one, Tubbo doesn't know Ranboo's parents and on account of two, that he has a place to stay that isn't going back to his house tonight, for obvious reasons. He reluctantly agrees to let Ranboo call and try to talk to Tommy before anything else. Ranboo reassures Tubbo that he wouldn't be "bothering" the blonde despite their fight, since Tubbo doesn't have anywhere else to stay and he's closer with Tommy's family than literally any other, even his own.

Tubbo still feels bad. Nobody was supposed to know about the things that he dealt with in his house or the bruises under his clothes, but he supposes that's out of his control now. He wasn't a good friend to Tommy, he knows, and by calling him and asking for anything he feels like he isn't giving Tommy much of a choice to say no, to turn him away like he rightfully should, and for that he feels guilty.

Ranboo explains that it's the safest option for him right now unless he wants to talk to his parents and have them try to handle things, and that Tubbo needs help— he's needed help for a while. He knows Ranboo's right, but a part of him can't help but wish he wasn't. He can't help but wish that Ranboo had never showed up earlier at all.

But he can't do anything about that now. A lot of things are out of his control and it makes Tubbo anxious, but Ranboo is all soft smiles and reassuring words and it eases his fears the slightest bit, makes everything feel a bit more manageable, even though he has no clue what's going to happen now.

And so, Tubbo (with extreme reluctance and gut-wrenching guilt) gives Ranboo the number, and lets him call Tommy.

This leads to where they find themselves now: at some park in Ranboo's neighborhood, the taller on the phone, and Tubbo turned away with his hands covering his ears.

He's scared of what Ranboo will tell him when he hangs up the phone. He'll have told Tommy about Tubbo's situation by then, and will give Tubbo the verdict. In Tubbo's mind there's only one, and it goes something like this: Ranboo tells Tommy everything, and Tommy doesn't give a shit. He tells Ranboo to fuck off and to tell Tubbo that he doesn't want anything to do with him anymore again because he's a prick. Even though things between them have only been rocky the past few months (because gods know things weren't always like this between them), Tommy is sick of it, sick of Tubbo, and for all Tommy cares he can take a long walk off a short—

So he closes his eyes like a child, and uses his hands to cover his ears as if it will spare him from the inevitable truth, the one Tubbo can't be upset about because he was the one that got himself into this mess in the first place, right? If he was a better son, a better friend, a better person, maybe he wouldn't be where he is now.

A hand on his shoulder nearly makes him jump out of his skin, unprepared for the contact and anxious enough as it is. Tubbo turns around to an apologizing Ranboo, and he finally drops his hands from his ears.

"I told him where we were, he said he'll be here as soon as he can." Ranboo says with a small smile. But Tubbo doesn't understand, he doesn't think he heard any of that right.

"What?"

"He said they can come get you. He— well, I explained everything and he sounded really worried, and then he was screaming for some guy called Phil?" Ranboo says, looking confused for a split second. "Jeez, that guy is loud. Anyway, I gave him the address and he said he'll be here soon."

Tubbo would probably laugh at Ranboo's explination of talking to Tommy, if he wasn't so confused and little bit dizzy. It doesn't make sense. Tommy should hate him, probably shouldn't have even picked up the phone once he realized the call would be about him. But he's— he's coming to get him, or something, and he sounded worried, apparently and— fuck, how much did Ranboo even tell him?

This is all a bit much, and Tubbo feels tears pin-pricking his eyes but he forces the them down and away. When he takes in a breath of air the oxygen is cold inside his lungs, and their clothes are still damp from the rain that has finally seemed to stop falling, for now at least.

And then it hits him. If Tommy is coming to see him (which probably means Phil or Wilbur or Techno might be as well), that means he'll see how much of an utter broken mess Tubbo definitely looks. His hair is wet, his eyes feel swollen from crying and his skin is probably all blotchy, his clothes are drenched and he's not even wearing a jacket. It's not freezing out, he can manage that but that's not the problem. The problem is that Tubbo is used to being covered up, but he'd made the stupid decision to leave his house without a jacket and his secrets splash in colors on his skin— on his arms, on his face— for the world to see. And there is much, much more where that came from under the clothes he does have on.

This was a bad idea. He never should've let Ranboo call Tommy.

Tubbo can't help but express it. "This was a mistake. I— I can't do this." he says, standing up from the bench they were previously sat on even though putting weight on his foot hurts like hell. "He'll— he doesn't actually want to see me or— or help me. He hates me. He should hate me. I can't—"

"What— wait, okay, just— calm down. We can—"

"No— no. It's— he doesn't—" Tubbo can't breathe. This is too much and the weight of the situation is washing over him and he feels like he's drowning. What will happen to him? What will happen to his dad? Oh gods. I didn't even think about that.

"bo— Tubbo." he opens his eyes and is met with chocolate brown and clear ocean blue ones and white, so much white. Ranboo has his hands on his shoulders and between quick, rocky breaths he thinks, when did that happen?

"Breathe." he says.

And when Ranboo says it it sounds like the easiest thing in the world, but it's not. Tubbo feels like his esophagus is closing up, and he wants to claw at his throat until it stops. He wants to bang his hands against his head until the world stops spinning, and scream at the universe for making his life the way it is.

But he doesn't. He forces himself to take deep breaths, in through his mouth and out through his nose like Ranboo is telling him to. The only thing keeping him grounded is Ranboo holding him steady, his hands on both sides of his arms, careful. Tubbo wishes he didn't hate it. He wishes it didn't feel like it was burning his skin alive and making bright red alarms go off in his head and through every nerve inside him telling him to run away.

Tubbo's gaze drops down to his left shoulder where Ranboo's right hand rests. Ranboo lets go and pulls away. "Sorry." he apologizes.

It's okay.

Tubbo sniffles, and says nothing. He just stands there, trying to shift his weight off his ankle. Everything hurts.

"Look, I know you're scared, but— but I am too." Ranboo says, his voice a little shaky but definitely passionate. He hasn't even known Tubbo for a month, but somehow, someway he really, really cares. "You need help." he says, putting so much emphasis into the words that Tubbo couldn't describe it if he tried. He cares. He really, really does.

"And— I don't know a lot about Tommy, but he seems like he cares about you. A lot." Ranboo says after a beat. "He cares, and you should let him."

"You guys will figure it out." he says, nodding. "You— you have a phone, right?" Ranboo asks rather suddenly.

Tubbo nods, confused, even though Ranboo asking him about it probably should've been the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls it out of his jacket and opens it, a little bit numb, and silently hands it to Ranboo.

He takes it and puts his number into the contacts, and hands it back. Tubbo isn't sure why they haven't exchanged numbers before now, because that's usually what people— what friends do, especially sooner than later, right?

He doesn't have the energy to dwell on it. "There. If you need me, you can call me. Or text me, I guess. Whichever you prefer. I don't really mind either way—"

Before Tubbo can stop himself he's thrown himself forward, cutting Ranboo off and wrapping his arms around the taller's thin torso. Ranboo's shirt is damp against his cheek, and yet the contact burns just as Tubbo thought it would; it goes against everything Tubbo has known for the past few months but he doesn't care. This is on his terms for once, and it's supposed to be good, so he tries like hell to let it be, even though most of his body is sore and every move is a reminder of any kind of physical contact being bad.

Tubbo isn't sure what he expects from it, but Ranboo wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging back was not it, for some reason, even though he supposes that's usually what happens when you hug somebody.

Gods, I'm fucked up, Tubbo can't help but think to himself.

It surprises Tubbo, so he pulls away after a couple seconds and Ranboo lets go as soon as he does. Tubbo clears his throat, sniffles, keeps his gaze downcast. "Okay."

Thank you, is what he means to say.

"Okay." Ranboo parrots. Tubbo doesn't look at him but he can hear the small smile in his voice, and he hopes it means something like no problem.

A car pulls up on the side of the road a few yards away behind Ranboo, and when Tubbo looks up he recognizes it instantly. It's Phil's car, the one he's had for years, even before Tubbo knew them. He feels like all the air in his lungs is knocked out of him when the passenger door swings open and Tommy gets out, makes eye contact with Tubbo and then he's running towards him. Phil isn't far behind.

"Tubbo? Oh my gods." Tommy runs up and reaches out, but pauses about a foot in front of him with his hands in the air like he isn't sure what to do with them. Like Tubbo is made of glass, and if he touches him he'll break. Tubbo isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. "Your— your face, your—" he looks down at Tubbo's arms, and he hates it. He wraps them around himself as if it would do anything, but it doesn't, it doesn't cover him up and hide his vulnerability like he wants it to and he hates it so, so much.

The way Tommy looks at him makes him want to throw up.

"I am so, so sorry," Tommy says, what specifically about, Tubbo isn’t sure, but it makes his eyes well up all over again all the same. "for everything." he clarifies.

"It's—" Tubbo's voice cracks, "it's my fault, you— you don't have to—"

"No." Tubbo's mouth snaps shut. "Don't say that— don't you dare say that."

When Tubbo blinks, more stupid tears slip down his cheeks. He isn't sure what to do with himself. Everything is building up again, and all he can do is hug himself tighter, dig his nails into his arms— into the bruises and will himself to hold all his pieces together even though his is completely, undeniably breaking in front of his best friend.

Or at least, he hopes that's what Tommy still is.

A sob escapes his throat at the thought of them not being best friends, because he can't help it anymore. Phil is standing behind Tommy and he hasn't said anything yet, but he looks horrified, his face blanched like he's just seen a ghost.

It takes Tubbo a long, long moment to realize that it's because he's looking at him. Tubbo is the ghost.

"Schlatt— Schlatt did this?" Phil asks, so quiet Tubbo almost doesn't hear him. "Tubbo, did he do this to you?"

And if he hadn't yet already, Tubbo breaks.

His head falls into his hands and he completely, wholly breaks, crying, letting his chest heave with every sob. "I'm sorry." is all he can think to say anymore. "I'm sorry— I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

Tommy reaches out, and Tubbo falls into his chest like it's where he was always been meant to be. He isn't sure what he wants, when he feels Tommy wrap his arms around him. It hurts, and every touch feels like fire but it's somehow also grounding, and deliberate and kinda clumsy but undeniably Tommy.

Tubbo doesn't realize how much he's missed this. How much he's missed Tommy. It's weird, because it's not like Tubbo hasn't seen Tommy recently, because he has. But he's missed this so, so much.

"It's okay. I'm here, I'm here now." Tommy says, his voice watery. But that can't be right, because Tommy never cries. He's always been like Tubbo in that way— they never cry. "I'm here, I've got you."

Tubbo isn't sure how long they stay like that— how long he stays like that; crying into Tommy's chest and definitely getting his shirt wet, if not from the tears then definitely from his still very much damp hair and clothes. He feels a little bit bad about it, but then again, he feels a little bit bad about a lot of things right now.

Tubbo pulls away, but Tommy doesn't let him go, keeps his hands resting on his shoulders, and sure enough, he's crying too. Tubbo doesn't remember the last time he saw Tommy cry.

"My gods, man." Tommy sniffles, reaching up slowly to wipe a tear from Tubbo's cheek, and he lets him. It makes him wink when Tommy's thumb grazes the still healing bruise around his eye.

"You look like shit." he says.

And then they both simultaneously burst out laughing through the tears, watery and vulnerable and everything of a fractured friendship. Tubbo just can't help himself, because the timing is so fucking bad and inappropriate and it's so Tommy of him to say, and he's not mad. Tommy doesn't hate him or want nothing to do with him, he's here, just like he said, and Tubbo can't help but laugh about it.

"Tommy—" Phil immediately goes to scold, putting a hand on his youngest son's shoulder.

"No it's— it's okay." Tubbo laughs, pulling away and wiping at his face. He is such a fucking mess. "He's probably right."

Tubbo feels kinda dazed, his head full of cotton again because none of this feels real. He doesn't know why he's laughing. Well, he does, but none of this is funny, not really. At least, it shouldn't be. He feels like he's going a little bit insane.

They've both stopped laughing now. When he looks at Tommy, his smile has disappeared and he looks so, so sad. His gaze meets Phil's next, and it feels like someone else is speaking for Tubbo when he looks at the man and says, "I don't get into fights."

Phil looks confused, rightfully so. "Okay.." he drawls. There's a beat as he looks over Tubbo, scanning him with his blue eyes, the exact same kind Tommy has. Somewhere along the way, the expression manages to bleed into one of understanding. "Okay." he nods, sounding more sure this time.

"You're fuckin' drenched man. C'mon," Tommy says with a sniffle, a little hesitant, his teary eyes filled to the brim with undeniable worry, "you're coming with us."

"I—" Tubbo's eyes flick between Tommy's and Phil's, "Are you sure? You— you want me to.."

"Yes, man. Please." Tommy breathes, "I'm not mad, okay? You have nothing to worry about."

Tubbo swallows thick saliva, turns to Phil.

"We'll take care of you." Phil says, and his voice brings him back to earth, even just the slightest bit. "We'll figure everything out."

Tubbo's nodding before he realizes it because he trusts Phil, and when he puts a hand up to his chest he finds that his breathing has slowed, his chest rising, and falling, and rising, and falling, slow and steady like it's meant to.

Something moves in his peripheral vision, and Tubbo's head snaps in the direction of the figure there. It's Ranboo— he's been so quiet the whole time Tubbo had nearly completely forgotten he was even there.

Ranboo. Strange, tall, unpredictable, bizarre, hilarious, caring Ranboo. The guy who probably, no— definitely saved Tubbo's life, with his depressing animal stories and extremely weird ways of becoming his friend, and long conversations and sitting beside him listening to speeding cars.

Nothing could've prepared Tubbo to meet Ranboo, especially not the way he did. He isn't sure how may people can say that about another person. But overall, Tubbo's glad he did meet him because he doesnt know where the hell he'd be without him.

Tommy and Phil follow his gaze to look at the tall boy standing a few feet away, who nods with the smallest smile, pushing white hair out of his face. Phil smiles at him, and Tommy turns back to Tubbo, only after he does a double take Tubbo doesn't miss. That's going to be one hell of an explanation Tubbo can definitely wait for.

"Come on." Tommy says, drawing his attention away from Ranboo. Tubbo is too exhausted to refute him, so he gives one small wave to Ranboo with the best, most reassuring smile he can manage (which he imagines probably looks more like a grimace from the pain) and leans into Tommy's shoulder as they begin walking to the car.

He thinks Phil says something to Ranboo after that, but he isn't sure. Tommy is speaking too, but Tubbo is so, so tired and his head hurts and he can't bring himself to listen, too caught up in the reality of the situation; he's leaving, he's going home— not his house, but that's okay. That's good. He's going home with Tommy, who loves him, somehow, despite everything he is and despite all their stupid arguments. He's going home to a family that he loves, that he hopes loves him just as much, where he won't be hurt for messing up or being a failure. Tommy's family knows him, and Tubbo feels stupid for not seeing that they clearly care for him more than his own family ever would.

Tommy sits in the back with him, just like he always did whenever Phil drove them anywhere together. Tubbo allows himself to make himself small, just for now, so he can hold himself better and lean into Tommy and let him hold him together. Tubbo closes his eyes, and doesn't even realize when the feeling of the contact stopped feeling like fire, and instead began feeling like comfort, and love, and a fractured friendship beginning to repair itself.

For the first time in what feels like a long, long time, nothing feels the same anymore.

Tubbo isn't sure if that's a good thing or not, but it's difficult to dwell on much of anything when your best friend is holding you close and you don't feel on the edge for the first time in a while. It's nice, and Tubbo is exhausted and soggy and scared, but he lets himself have this. He lets Tommy hold his pieces together and promise him that everything will be okay just like Ranboo did.

And somewhere in between being awake, leaning into Tommy in the back of Phil's car, and falling asleep, he lets himself believe it.