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ranboo laughs, and it’s a soft, breathy, wheezing sound, and his hand is so, so close to tubbo’s where it’s flat on the stone slab, and he’s leaning back, shoulder pressed against tubbo’s, head tilted up, lanky legs hanging over the edge of the tower where they’re sitting. when they first met, president and unwilling traitor (such old, crumpled descriptors. so much has changed.), tubbo had thought he was pretty. a sneaking, stupid thought in the back of his mind had whispered that maybe, if it came down to it, he wouldn’t mind dying to a boy like him.
that was long ago, now. (not really long at all.) there’s no president here, no traitor. ranboo is saying something fucking stupid, voice deep and rumbly like burrs on a wool sweater, the way it gets when they’re both far too tired, and he’s so impossibly gentle as he bumps into his shoulder, careful to avoid where scar tissue lies, careful to not jar him hard enough to bring back bad memories. somehow it still feels solid. (oh, he’s absolutely affronted, he can’t believe ranboo would say such a thing, he’s gonna shove him off this edge and laugh.) tubbo is running on autopilot here, high off no sleep and cold, clear night air and the dregs of the energy drink and pain meds he downed while working on a project earlier. that’s his excuse at least, as he shifts his position until he’s laying with one foot off the edge, his head in ranboo’s lap. ranboo cuts his monologue short, looking down at his sudden lapful of ex-president.
“oh. um, hello,” he says. his smile is incredibly toothy, and his arm has instinctively curled around tubbo’s waist, pulling him away from the building’s edge. tubbo hums tunelessly at him and reaches up to run his fingers along his husband’s cheek (ridiculous that he can do that, ridiculous that anyone would come near the boy with the reverse midas’ touch, trust him enough to stay. even more ridiculous that he trusts ranboo enough to not be afraid that he’ll leave.). the scratchy wool of his fingerless gloves catch on teartrail scars, and he frowns and pulls them off, then returns to his task. when he pauses, the pad of his thumb is brushing against ranboo’s cheekbone (tremors are running through his hands, as they are wont to do, but ranboo leans into the touch, warm and trusting and firm enough to steady him, and the realization that he’s allowed to do this still leaves him breathless, most days.) ranboo is looking down at him, half bemused, half soft and fuzzy around the edges. he opens his mouth to speak (probably something like ‘hey, what’s this about?’), and tubbo cuts him off abruptly.
“did you know,” he asks, “that, um, when i met you, i thought i was gonna die? and then, to be fair, well, i thought you’d probably die too. y’know. after everything.”
ranboo blinks. “no, i didn’t, actually,” he says. his voice is gentle, soft in the way that’s for him alone, and it makes him go stupid and warm and gooey inside. he interlaces the fingers of his other hand with ranboo’s.
“well, ‘s’true.” ranboo’s hands are calloused, stronger than they should be for piano fingers, dripping with gold rings that tubbo plays with as he rambles. “i’m pretty sure you’re actually the reason the reason i’m not, mostly. in case you didn’t know that. ‘cause, like, there was all of that stuff, ‘n then there was you. ‘n i couldn’t make a bad impression on the cute new guy, coming in, fuckin… bleedin’ out or something. and then there wasn’t anything, really, after doomsday. but you were still there. and you’re still here.”
he finishes there. it’s not like he couldn’t continue, explain every detail of when “oh, i want to watch the sunrise with him, that’s an okay reason,” turned into “oh. i want to watch the sunrise for myself,” but he’s tired, and words are melting into mush in his brain (it’s ranboo’s fault, what a sick fuck to keep him up all night and then trace nonsense shapes on his hands as they have fake-deep moonlight conversations when he knows that fifty percent of tubbo’s computing power will go to deciphering what the shapes are, and the other fifty percent will simply flatline at the contact.), and if there’s one thing that he hates, it’s not being perfectly in control of himself and his words. it’s a ridiculous flaw for someone who gets high as a coping mechanism, he knows.
ranboo hums gently. “you were the only person i trusted, back then,” he says, quiet. “and, i mean, aside from tommy, you still are.” he brings their interlocked hands up, and tubbo feels the gentlest ghost of a kiss press against against scar tissue. he shivers. “like, with everyone else, they didn’t get it. you know? i think they thought that i could choose to not remember my own name, or whatever, which is hilarious, honestly. but, i dunno. you were never like that. which was nice. and, well, here we are now.”
“...god, this is a fucking grim conversation to be having at three in the morning,” tubbo laughs, and ranboo snorts at him. “it really is,” he says, “like, ohh, it’s three am, time to dump all of my deep-seated trauma on my husband! that’s how it goes!” ranboo puts on a stupid, high pitched voice as he speaks, and tubbo giggles helplessly at it. (the joke’s not even funny, honestly, he’s just a massive simp for an absolute idiot. he’d rather die than say that out loud.). he shifts a little closer, so his cheek is pressed against ranboo’s side. he knows he’s smiling like a fool.
ranboo looks down at where tubbo’s smushed into his jacket, frees a hand to brush the hair out of his face. “oh my god,” he says. “did i really seduce you with a joke that bad?”
tubbo splutters at the comment, and even goes so far as to contemplate getting up. it’s really not worth it, though, he decides; instead he rolls over so that his entire face is buried in ranboo’s fleece. “no,” he whines, “god, i can’t believe you sometimes, you could never seduce me like that. ‘s wrong on so many levels.”
the pressure against his burn scars isn’t very comfortable, but he figures, well. tradeoffs. ranboo is wheezing with laughter. stupid. “so, um, what’s your preferred method, then?” he asks, “to, uh, be seduced. like, y’know, if someone had to.” he says it like he knows the answer already. he does. this is a well-worn bit.
tubbo grins into his leg. “money,” he says smugly. “vast amounts of money.”
he reaches out with an arm, flails around until he lands on ranboo’s back in a messy sort of hug. “good thing ‘m married to some tall, dark, rich guy, huh?”
he feels ranboo chuckle at him. “yeah, and i’m the dumb sappy one?” he asks.
tubbo doesn’t deign to respond. ranboo is slowly brushing fingers through his hair even as he laughs, combing the tangles out, clawtips gently scratching at his scalp, and he can quite literally feel the last dregs of five-hour energy seeping out of his system.
he shifts a little, leaning into the contact. “m gonna go to sleep now,” he murmurs.
“here? on the roof? wouldn’t, y’know, uh, being in a building be good for that?”
ranboo is ridiculous. “mmn, nahh. ‘s’what i’ve got you for, right?”
he is right, actually. and his eyes keep shutting on him (dumb, they keep doing it without asking him. it’s not like he’s been up for...what, thirty hours now?), and he thinks his husband might be saying something, faintly, but he can’t make out what it is. he doesn’t need to, really.
he’s warm and comfortable and ranboo is humming, gently, crackly enderman sounds that have no right to sound so peaceful. he allows himself to sleep.