#dsmp fic

It's been a week since Tubbo got the news that his husband wasn't coming home.

Tommy hadn't heard from either of them in days.That wasn't normal.

Ranboo always forgot to reply for a few hours, sometimes even a day, but eventually there'd be a message. A random fact. A question. A photo of Michael doing something ridiculous. Something.

Tubbo was even worse at disappearing. If he was busy, he'd at least send a quick, "Can't talk right now."

A week of silence?

No. That wasn't like them.

Tommy stared at the last message in their chat. It wasn't anything important- just Ranboo complaining about not getting a good enchant and Tubbo sending a picture of Michael covered in paint.

Tommy had meant to reply.

He never had.

His stomach twisted.

Maybe they were just busy.

Maybe Michael had gotten sick.

Maybe they'd gone on a trip and forgotten to tell him.

Tommy shoved his hand-held into his pocket and headed for Snowchester.

He'd just check in.

Make sure they were okay.

Then he could laugh at himself for worrying so much.

The trip to Snowchester only took a couple of hours.

When Tommy reached the familiar house, he knocked once before letting himself in. He didn't bother waiting for an answer. They'd long since stopped caring about things like that.

“Hey big man Tom is here” he said walking in but immediately noticed.

A mug sat abandoned on the coffee table, a thin ring of dried tea clinging to the bottom. Michael's toys were scattered across the floor, untouched, as if no one had bothered to pick them up in days. A blanket had slipped halfway off the couch, and one of Ranboo's books lay open where it had fallen.

Normally, Ranboo would've tidied while Tubbo complained about having to help.

Now it looked like neither of them had touched the room in a week.

"Tubs? Boo?" Tommy called again, quieter this time.

Tommy walked further into the house trying to find his two friends, He found his way to their bedroom and the door was closed. Tommy knocked on the door

“Hey it's Tommy open up” he spoke waiting for a answer He waited and Nothing"...Tubbo?"

Still nothing.

Tommy frowned and rested a hand on the doorknob.

"Tubs, seriously. You're starting to freak me out."

The handle turned without resistance.

The room beyond was dark, the curtains still drawn even though the sun sat high outside. The air felt stale.

Tubbo was sitting on the edge of the bed.

He hadn't looked up.

His elbows rested on his knees, his hands hanging limply between them. He wore the same hoodie Tommy remembered seeing in the photo from a week ago. His hair was a mess, and dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes.

For a moment, Tommy wondered if Tubbo had slept at all.

"Tubs?" Tommy asked softly.

Tubbo didn't answer so Tommy stepped into the room."...Mate?"

Tubbo finally looked up.

His eyes were red. Like he'd been crying until there were no tears left.

Tommy's stomach dropped

."...Where's boo?”

Tubbo's gaze dropped to the floor, His shoulders trembled and Tommy waited

."...Tubbo?"

"Tubs, stop messing with me." Tommy forced out a weak laugh. "Seriously. Where is he?"

Tubbo's lips parted and no words came out.

He swallowed hard before trying again

."...He's..."

The single word cracked in the middle.

Tommy felt his heartbeat pound in his ears

"...What do you mean, 'he's'?"Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut.

"He... he's not coming home."

For a moment, Tommy just stared. "...What?"

"He isn't coming home." Tubbo finally managed to say "No."

Tommy shook his head immediately. "No, you mean he's stuck somewhere. He's trapped. Sam's got him in the prison or something, right? We'll go get him."

Tubbo didn't answer.

Tommy looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The red eyes.

The untouched room.

The week of silence.

The words finally settled.

Ranboo was dead The words echoed in Tommy's head.

Not coming home.

Not trapped.

Not missing.

Not late.

The realization hit him like a punch to the chest.

Ranboo was dead.

Tommy stood there frozen.

His legs felt like jello somehow it got harder to breathe?

Tubbo couldn't even look at him, staring at his hands once more.

They stood there for a while, in silence, it was so heavy.

Tommy noticed a book on a night stand that belonged to Ranboo, he carried that thing everywhere. Now he doesn't have it.

Tommy finally spoke up, wrapping his arms around himself “how…”

Tubbo didn't respond immediately, rubbing the tears out his eyes. “Sam”

It was just one word, but Tommy knew what it meant.

“Techno got him out trying to get Dream out” Tubbo choked out a sob

“Sam used Ranboo as a hostage”

Tommy blinked."...Hostage?"

Tubbo nodded once. "He told Techno to stop." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Ranboo... Ranboo told him to stop." Tommy swallowed hard.

"And Sam..." Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut. "He killed him."

The room fell silent again.

Tommy stared at the floor. "No."

The word slipped out before he even realized he'd spoken.

"No."His head shook on its own.

"Ranboo wouldn't..." His voice cracked. "He wouldn't leave Michael."

Tubbo's face crumpled. "I know."

Another sob escaped him "I know.”

Tommy went and sat beside Tubbo on the bed.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Tubbo leaned sideways until his head rested against Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy didn't pull away.

He didn't know what to say.

There wasn't anything to say.

So he simply sat there.

The room was unbearably quiet.

The only sound was Tubbo's uneven breathing as he tried-and failed-to stop crying.

Tommy stared ahead and his eyes drifted back to the book on the nightstand. Ranboo had never gone anywhere without it.

He remembered teasing him about carrying it around everywhere.

Ranboo had laughed.

The memory hurt.

Tommy closed his eyes.

Ranboo always complained that his laugh sounded weird.

Tommy had never agreed.

He would've given anything to hear it one more time.

"...I'm sorry," he whispered.

He wasn't even sure who he was apologizing to.

Tubbo

Ranboo

Michael

Maybe all of them.

Tubbo didn't answer.

He just reached over and gripped Tommy's sleeve with trembling fingers, as though letting go would make everything real.

Tommy swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't know what else to say.

He couldn't bring Ranboo back.

He couldn't make

Tubbo stop hurting.

But he could stay.

And for now...

The stars stretched endlessly above them, scattered across the sky like someone spilled diamonds into the night.

The music was quiet, or maybe there was no music at allTubbo couldn't tell.

All he knew was that Ranboo’s hand was cool in his, and the two of them swayed slowly beneath the endless sky, no audience, no nations, no wars, just the two of them.

Tubbo rested his forehead against Ranboo's shoulder and smiled.

“I never want this to end” he whispered

For a long moment Ranboo didn't answer. Then Tubbo felt them pull away.

“Tubbo…” Ranboo spoke, something in ranboos voice made Tubbo look up

Ranboos smile faded “I am dead”

Tubbo blinked confused “What?”

"I am gone” Ranboo said softly “I died, Remember?”

“No..." Tubbo laughed nervously, shaking his head. "No, that's—that's not funny.”

Ranboo's outline flickered."Tubbo..."

"No." Tubbo reached for their hands. "You're right here."

"I'm not." The edges of Ranboo's body began to crumble into pale particles, drifting away like ash caught in the wind.

"No, no, no—" Tubbo studdered Tubbo lunged forward, grabbing for Ranboo's wrist.

His hand closed around nothing.

The last of Ranboo dissolved between his fingers.

Silence.

Tubbo jolted upright.

His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as his eyes darted around the dark room.

No stars

No music

Just the quiet

His gaze slowly drifted to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

The blankets hadn't been disturbed in a long time.

Tubbo stared at the space until his breathing finally slowed.

Right

It had only been a dream.

[ Colours run, left to right, abstraction. ]

Your name is Wilbur Soot, and you are a train platform. In a manner of speaking. Your colours bleed as time stretches on, brown melting into brick red. You feel like paint smeared abstract across a canvas. You run your fingers over the grooves of grout and at least it's real/ in a manner of speaking -

[ And sunlight rims the petals of an oxeye daisy, bright -] Was this a real memory? You hum. The train station hums, and your tracks rattle, and a man runs his fingers over your bricks -More the imagined version of it -

An imagined version of a man --

Picks up where Reflections #1 left off.

The brainworms are telling me to go back to writing fishinnit…………

"In which Wilbur makes Quackity his problem, much to Quackity's chagrin."