Tubbo was not having it today. The torrential rain battered the windows of the mansion, and it would be quieter if he had bothered to furnish more than their room. There were a few chairs and tables in the grander halls, sure, but they were layered with large plastic sheets. It was protection to the material as the paint dried.
Itâs been months since the paint job finished.
Sometimes Tubbo liked rolling in the massive four-poster bed they owned, tugging at the covers to cocoon himself in comfort. The pillows usually fell on the floor. Itâd take an hour until he felt like snatching them back up, but theyâd only fall a few minutes later. Sometimes they knocked over the empty glasses on the bedside table. Tubbo learned to use plastic ones after accidentally dragging wine glass shards into bed.
The rain was loud.
Louder when he slid down the banisters of the staircase because he didnât make a sound against the smooth wood. He landed gracefully to impress nobody. Sometimes heâd trip over his bootlaces and tumble backwards. On the floor, Tubbo would  stare at the ceiling too tall to reach.
To reach out and touchâ thatâs what Tubbo wanted.
Only limits were reached. Time limits, signified by the chime of a clock he dragged from a woodland mansion. Time limits, heard by no one but him when his stomach growled when he felt his body become rocks in a river. Time limits, like the one on the people he loves. The person he loved.
Sometimes he forgets.
The wispy traces of the ghost usually catch Tubboâs eye. But he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with a shell of someone he loves. Loved. Itâs better to be in bed than to let a cold hand rest on his shoulder to comfort him.
They nudge him to go to bed when heâs in the bunker, tinkering at making bigger, better, more efficient bombs. The type that Wilbur would marvel at and love him for. Not in the way he does for Tommy, no, that love destroys. Tubboâs inventions are made from his own adoration and selfishness, and there is nothing wrong with that. The hands remind him that someone cares and he canât have that. Doesnât deserve it.
Thatâs why Tubbo pushes away, but always grabs the edge of their coat. His hate is a lie. He still loves. Always loved.
The hands pick up things he might need. A fallen bolt, a spool of thread, molten blaze rods. Tubbo contemplates brewing splash potions of water. He doesnât want the hands there because they somehow remember him. He feels bad when his tears burn the hand, but why would he feel bad if itâs only a shell?
No one is there.
Somedays, Tubbo wakes up screaming as the colors sparkle in a grand symphony. Fire dances on his skin. Tubbo shivers and trembles. The fire is still murmuring sweet warmth from across the room. Heâs alone. The hands always leave once the night comes, to roam a land without the memory of Tubbo. The heat always gave him headaches and with headaches comes forgetfulness.
Tubbo wonders when his husband is coming home. He knows there are secrets between them. The skeletons of  his costume closet are shoved behind his role of president and best friend. He needed time before he could talk about it. It was always so quick back then, faster than a bow meets the quiver and an arrow to the head. Slick pools of sweat along his brow from hiding under rocks as roars from beasts unknown cried in agony. He just wanted a second to enjoy what they had. A true ending, without conflict boiling underneath his home.
The hands are back in the morning as they drop flowers on top of his head. Tubbo wonders if he knows what the hands are doing. He cries again, a wet but quiet sob. It reminds him too much of the night they got married. The flowers woven into his hair as he fell asleep still sit in his enderchest.
Itâs still raining. Tubbo glances at the grandfather clock and itâs been an hour since the storm started. He spent an hour floating from memory to memory. Itâs probably bad for him to be so spacey, but he canât help it. Another flash of thunder.
Tubbo hopes the hands are okay in the rain. Heâll finish the nuke and then he wonât have to worry about the hands going somewhere else and leaving him again. The places the hands remember will be gone. His husband will be at peace.
Itâs the least he can do.
