Chapter Text
It does not take exceedingly long for Ranboo to realize that most chances at connecting with the strangers he shares a contained area with, aside from those he has already attached himself to, are null.
Isolation is a devil set to outpace itself: its temptations settle within the bone marrow of anybody with visceral thoughts and idly waits, as if it were a parasite with an indefinite lifespan, until the host is far past the point of return and only realizes, then, the prick of their skin. Like the devil in theology, it twists and whispers words of promise, the everpresent longing to have contentment in solitude, and all those who yearn to ease their aching hearts chase after it. And then, once again, it takes until the end of their life to recognize that they are alone.
Here, the death of an individual looms forever close. Which then questions, when do these individuals realize their own isolation? The answer, for once, is that they are aware the second the infinitesimally brief period of naivety fades and they learn that their interactions have grown stunted. In a place where no warmth has ever been fostered, the act of isolation is as natural as change– inevitable, even though some struggle to swallow it while others embrace it. A man is forcibly imprisoned for violent acts, and yet, nobody has seen the man who helped imprison him since.
This is the truth of the matter, where interpersonal connection exists with a rapidly deteriorating half-life until it’s negligible, and it is soon a solitary march to the end. A shovel may be shared and a collective food source may be identified, but all will soon lock their hearts as the horizon sets for death, and the instinct to sit around a meal and exchange stories dies just days before them.
How do you live without other people? For Ranboo, it is not so terrible. He has luck to be companions with two individuals that express unfounded loyalty towards him, something that no other person in his world appears to possess. Perhaps, then, the three of them in their pact are weak, and the true test of survivability is Philza’s act of periodic distance to construct a building in the sky, or Tubbo’s small strides of independence whenever he awakens, or Ranboo’s aimless fumbling until he catches on the fray of something like solitude.
It is comical that the most solitary by nature of the three is the one who struggles without the guidance of another. Perhaps it is seen in the way that Ranboo is lacking even the comfort of a routine, which would meet him with the same compassion a person would, were he to have it.
For the rest, it is rather simple. Without other people, the first step to living is living. You awaken at the cold side of your bed placed strategically under layers of stone and dirt, and you face a world littered with the crafting tables of other survivors and oddly-shaped formations in the sky, and you persist in your daily acts. To be without people does not mean to have enemies, as the act of having someone to hate implies the act of having someone at all, and to be without people is to possibly have a few in your vicinity yet no relationship to them.
The concept of forming friendships is no more taunting than freedom is, yet is certainly more daunting than a desire so interwoven in the state of the world yet supposedly unattainable.
To leave this world is not explicitly an act of rebellion, which is perhaps why connection could be deemed as unnecessary. Yet, it is there that a question lies for those who escape the end of the world: upon your first step, does your hand twitch at its side in an act of longing for company?
-
Ranboo has come to understand several different traits that Philza possesses that were initially easy to overlook before the two of them forged a closer bond.
Primarily, the fact that the other does not appear to thrive off of group settings in the manner that Ranboo had so presumed upon their first meeting. Secondarily, yet of equal importance in some way, Philza has more in-depth thoughts about everyone he’s cohabiting with than Ranboo has been able to establish, which vary from outright disdain for Jack to a surprising affinity for Wilbur.
The latter of which being a subject of interest for Ranboo.
In a way, it’s inevitable. Both of them are busy with their sky constructions, and though Wilbur’s hot air balloon is positioned far from Philza’s fishing pond, the two of them do still spend their times in the sky and have, over the course of a few days– and a cumulative week, as the clock kindly indicates– constructed bridges to easily communicate with one another. It’s interesting to Ranboo, because Wilbur has, in every interaction Ranboo has had with them, proven to be somewhat adverse to speaking with people. And yet, they seem to be willingly seeking out Philza’s company, which Ranboo enjoys himself and can’t quite shame them on, but it’s still interesting.
This new connection comes at the price of Ranboo’s own connection with Philza, he’s noticed. Not that it’s particularly Wilbur’s fault or that Ranboo would even need to assign blame in the first place, but the time he has spent with Philza has grown scarcer over time. Of course, all their conversations are still friendly, which just inclines Ranboo to think that maybe this is Philza trying to encourage him to be more independent.
If that is the case, Ranboo is failing miserably.
Ranboo has found himself spending more time than expressly necessary with Tubbo.
Tubbo has such limited time of consciousness, as well as dwindling energy even when he is awake, that Ranboo always anticipates the other to be eager to split apart. And certainly, he sometimes decides in the middle of a conversation that he needs to be alone and work on something and, considering his circumstances, Ranboo accepts that readily. However, the other has an equal tendency to waste his time being with Ranboo, which he understands… significantly less.
He isn’t complaining, though. Tubbo makes good company and, as both Ranboo and Philza expected, he really likes Blubs. The axolotls as a whole are doing really well and, in the worst case scenarios, serve as a pretty good conversation topic when Ranboo generally suffers from being able to pinpoint one readily. Aside from them, though, Tubbo still manages to prompt Ranboo into the most tangential discussions– if he believes in the common folklore about the stars and their connection to the End, his favorite breed of cat, whether he has ever obtained netherite gear, how he makes his sweet berry tarts– and Ranboo, surprisingly, finds himself drawn into them. He still maintains his quietness as Tubbo finds himself rambling off of one of his responses, but he manages to keep up with the conversation as a whole in a way that he isn’t naturally able to do.
The fact that it’s only been approximately a week from when they first woke up shows a lot about how Tubbo and Ranboo’s dynamic has evolved. Ranboo and Philza’s as well, and Ranboo supposes the others, too. A significant amount can change in a week. Nothing about escape, evidently, and no clear definition of a routine, but altering relationships nonetheless.
In a way, the change has grown to be a constant. An irritating one, but one nevertheless.
Another irritating constant in Ranboo’s life that confronts him when he wakes up for the seventh day of existence is the pain radiating in his arms and legs.
He had, stupidly, tried to avoid the effects of it for a long time. He has not had the cognition to prep himself with more aids beyond the compression gloves he has always taken to wearing and some idle thoughts about sharpening a cane for himself; in general, due to the constant threat of death in both the short and the long term, Ranboo has elected to pretend that his chronic pain does not exist and would not possibly flare up. Which is absolutely nonsensical, because Ranboo knows for a fact that this isn’t how that works, but that does not stop the way he feels surprised when his morning is met with pain.
It always feels like his legs have been repeatedly hit with a pickaxe, breaking all the bones and leaving radiating pain especially concentrated within the calves. He can vaguely recall when he was younger and had worries that he was dying from the pain, but now, he has adjusted to it just enough to not be panicked anymore. The pain’s never gotten easier, but there’s always some kind of tool he can use to move around, so it’s not as bad as it could be.
The pain in his arms, though, is worse. Because while Ranboo could grab a long stick in theory and use that as a cane, that does nothing for the way that his arms ache similarly to his legs. Aside from just waiting it out, there isn’t much he can do when he has flare ups, but he most definitely has to do something because his arms are required for a lot of different acts of survival. He could scoot down the stairs of a mineshaft in theory and try not to move his legs much, but he can’t mine when his arms feel like seizing up and stopping entirely.
He knew from the first moment he woke up that he would inevitably have to confront his pain. He had been hoping he would make it a little longer than a week, but had simultaneously expected he would see the worst of it by the second day, so he has to accept this bitter medium for what it’s worth.
It does leave him in an unfortunate position, though, considering that it’s pretty important he has his mobility when his circumstances are so incredibly uncertain.
At the very least, Ranboo acknowledges as he tries to push himself up to lean against the wall, he’s alone. Nobody else hears the gasp he let out as he shifts, followed by a sharp inhale through gritted teeth. He knows he’s already come off far too weak, thanks to his freak-out back upon learning of Jack’s death, but he doesn’t want to be regarded as the weak link now. Philza, though he’s grown a trust with Ranboo, could very well see his weakness and determine their acquaintanceship should end. Likewise, Tubbo could no longer see Ranboo as someone who can protect him, but rather something that will drag Tubbo down in his already limited time.
And those are only the kindest possible outcomes. Ranboo doesn’t know what anybody here thinks of him, not exactly, but he doesn’t believe Tubbo and Philza will be swayed to harm him any time soon. He cannot say the same for anybody else; Jack, for all his lack of coordination displayed upon their first encounter, could outrun Ranboo like this. Who is he kidding, Ranboo can hardly move at all. He’s not in the competition.
Maybe some time before this, Ranboo could accept his pain. He always liked mining, always wanted to keep busy, but he could always afford time to rest if he truly had to. Now, he really can’t. He’s not even sure what his next task is, exactly, but he’s sure that the axolotls need checking up on, and that he should really start working on building the Nether portal and encourage Philza to check it out with him, and maybe do something on the surface as everyone is migrating there-
-but Ranboo thinks his legs might give out, if his arms don’t fail him first.
With a frustrated sigh, Ranboo scoots himself over to the chests in a process that takes far too long and starts looking through them, arms heavy at his sides. After some searching, he manages to find a particularly long stick he collected outside, and though some stray wood is definitely going to lodge into the small parts of his fingers exposed by his gloves, he doesn’t have many better things to make a cane out of.
Using the makeshift cane and the chest as support, Ranboo slowly rises. He feels winded when he does, which doesn’t feel logical, but he supposes the way that his arms waver violently as they overexert themselves has led his body to exhaustion. He ends up standing for only a second or two before immediately sitting on top of the chest, still holding onto the cane but feeling farther from walking than he did initially.
The problem with chronic pain is that Ranboo can’t exactly wait this out. Were this some kind of emotional problem, Ranboo would have the ability to suppress it or sleep it off. Were Ranboo injured by some stab wound, he could stitch it up and sleep it off for a few days and then be fine. But chronic pain like this, inexplicable and widespread, isn’t something that he can fix with some prolonged nap. Even if Ranboo rests now, the pain will still be back the next day, maybe even worse. And he can’t sleep forever.
There has to be something he can do while he’s just sitting here, something that doesn’t necessitate getting very far, but he can’t think of anything that wouldn’t take a few minutes before leaving him aimless again. Ultimately, though, that’s the best out he has.
And so, his eyes drift across the room looking for something to do before they settle on Tubbo’s unconscious body, curled up on the floor over Ranboo’s jacket, where they have been the entire time.
… They probably have enough stuff for him to get a proper bed, huh.
Tubbo hasn’t complained about the bed, which is miraculous, considering it really is just Ranboo’s jacket and some dirt. The two of them have been subconsciously calling it a bed as well, maybe, because it’s only just now that Ranboo is realizing that they really should have fixed this problem a while ago. Or, rather, Ranboo fix the problem, seeing as Tubbo probably has bigger concerns.
In a way, he’s a bit glad that they’ve procrastinated this, because now he has some way to make himself useful.
However, he happens to be sitting on the chest with the materials needed. So, in an incredibly clumsy and idioic endeavor, Ranboo slides off the chest and immediately hits his knees on the floor, which really did not help the pain already in his legs whatsoever. At least he can take comfort knowing that the bruises he just got will fade.
Picking up spools of string that Philza’s been stashing away messily in the chests and heaving out some wood, Ranboo starts crafting a bed. It’s not all that difficult– it really just needs some shaved down wooden logs: one for Tubbo to lay on, one for the head of the bed and footing, and another laying at the other end. Ranboo could make it a little nicer with thinner legs to the bed, but that takes more skill than he can really muster with his diminishing strength. Once he has some structure settled out, he stabs some holes at the ends to thread the string around, enough in the chest to make a decent mattress. It does take up all the string reserves, but unless Philza has some desire to make tripwires, it’s used for the best possible cause.
It’s only enough for a single bed, but Tubbo is the only one who really needs it. Philza has always either pulled all-nighters or taken power-naps on the stone floor, and while Ranboo can see how a mattress may help his pain problems just a bit, it’s not enough of an improvement to warrant more material usage. Worst case scenario, he just sleeps while Tubbo is awake, though that would make Tubbo more vulnerable. So he might just stick to the floor, yeah.
If he can get a safer place on the surface, maybe he’ll consider sleeping in the grass. He feels like that would be a little unpredictable, though, unless it’s really well-lit. He doesn’t want to lose his life to a creeper or something like that. That’d be a pretty bad way to go.
Regardless, Ranboo gets the bed set up after an hour and a shameful few minutes. It should have taken him far less time, but every single movement caused his arms to scream, and he had to concede a few periods of rest when it really did feel like they were about to fall limp. It’s stupid, but again, Tubbo isn’t awake to see the way Ranboo fumbled and sighed his way through the process, so Ranboo swallows back his self-deprecation and sets the bed against the wall, content that it is finished in the first place.
… Now that it’s made, though, while Ranboo thinks it would be a waste… it’s not like he’s going anywhere anytime soon. And he should see if the bed is good for Tubbo, at least.
The effort to get onto the bed takes all the energy Ranboo feels he has left, and he collapses instantly once he’s on it. At the very least, he can confirm that it’s comfortable, though he’s not too keen on the way that the string feels under him. He’s mostly just surprised it holds, and he doesn’t think Tubbo’s too picky about the sensation of things anyway, so it should be fine.
And then Ranboo can’t find himself moving. Of course.
It’s irritating, but he resigns himself to it eventually, laying on the bed and staring at the stone ceiling. The shallow breathing of Tubbo’s sleep has grown to be a comfort over time, but in the absence of everything else, it is slightly disconcerting. At the very least, there’s the slick sound of the axolotls jumping in the small water and moving around, to which Ranboo might want to relocate them back into their pond if they’ve managed to escape onto the stone, but since they probably won’t climb up the stairs, he leaves them be.
He lays there in bed for what feels like forever. Part of him wants to believe that if he rests, the pain will stop, but he knows that’s illogical and his body has never been kind enough for that. The other part of him is split into two: the desire to have Philza come back or Tubbo wake up and help him, and the wish for nobody to ever see him like this. It’s only a matter of time before he either forces himself out of bed or someone gets up.
Unless Philza never comes back. Unless Tubbo never wakes up.
Unless Ranboo never moves again.
It feels like it, sometimes. Even when it shouldn’t.
After a long time, his anxiety is proven wrong, and the sounds of Philza’s boots against the stone stairs snaps him out of his daze. With a hoarse voice unused to speech, another familiarity of this existence, Ranboo rasps out, “Hi, Philza.”
Philza flinches, clearly not expecting Ranboo to be laying limply on a bed that didn’t exist yesterday. “Jesus, mate, you scared me,” Philza hisses out, and Ranboo gets a bit of deja vu that quickly dies when Philza’s eyes widen. “What the fuck are you doing? When did this bed even get here?”
“I made it for Tubbo,” Ranboo explains. He opens his mouth to elaborate on why he’s the one on the bed, because he knows that Philza is going to ask, but can’t bring himself to voice the words.
… Philza could kill him, right now. Easily. And if he kills Ranboo, he can kill Tubbo, which is almost more unsettling. And then it would be Philza, Jack, and Tommy, all with blood on their hands, in the odd companionship of Sneeg and Wilbur. It’s easy to conceptualize Ranboo and Tubbo being dead in that context, but the sound of the axolotls and the colliding weights of their breathing that confronts Philza humanizes it more.
“Okay,” Philza accepts, “that explains the bed. Why are you lying like a- like a limp noodle?” There’s a laugh caught in his throat.
Ranboo’s the one who exhales it. “Interesting comparison.”
“Interesting evasion of my fuckin’ question.”
“I’m in pain,” Ranboo explains vaguely, then clarifies. “A lot. Very frequently, actually. I’m in pain just about all the time. It just happens to be worse today, so I haven’t… done much.”
For a long moment, Philza is silent. Ranboo can’t see his stature or disposition– if he’s readying a sword to take to Ranboo’s throat, if he’s formulating some alternative solution, if he’s planning to exit the base and go back outside– is caught in a web of having to make assumptions for the moments Philza wastes considering.
Then, eternities later, Philza simply asks, “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Ranboo quickly replies. “I’ve never been able to make it easier beyond what I’ve already done.”
“Potions?” Philza suggests.
“We need to go to the Nether for that, which may or may not even have blazes. Or fortresses, for that matter. All we can ensure is the Netherrack.” Which would make a fine heating pad, honestly, if Ranboo had some leather– or, hell, any sort of fabric, really. Maybe he’ll do that later, if he’s given that much time.
Philza clicks his tongue. “Does anybody else know?”
“No.” The two of them have similar priorities, then, proven by that question. Ranboo isn’t quite sure how Philza couldn’t ascertain as much, though. “Aside from building the bed, I have done nothing.”
“Okay. Hm.” Philza goes silent, then the sound of footsteps echoes through the room. In seconds, he’s beside Ranboo, and Ranboo can see the other for the first time in what feels like a while. Of course, he looks very similar in general, but his clothes are clearly stained in water– explainable by the fishing pond– and he looks a little more tan– from frequent sunlight exposure, surely. Ranboo doesn’t even want to imagine how he looks in comparison, disheveled and restless and pale. A similar appearance to Tubbo, really, though Ranboo can’t exactly say the two are in comparable situations.
“Do you need me to stay with you?” Philza asks, and sighs as Ranboo immediately shakes his head. “... Okay, mate. Hm. How’s this: rest for the day, try again tomorrow?”
“I don’t know if it will get better tomorrow, Philza,” Ranboo admits, with more honesty than he typically has. There’s a hue of desperation to it, maybe. “I can’t do nothing forever.”
“It won’t come to that,” Philza reassures, the implications of his words ambiguous. “Look, just give yourself a day. You’ve hardly been resting since all of this has started- don’t give me that look, I know you’ve hardly been sleeping.” Ranboo averts his eyes from the stray hair on Philza’s cheek to the chests behind him. Philza sighs again. “Just- just hang out with Tubbo for the day. I’ll block off the entrance, so nobody can come down and get you. Mine it up tomorrow.”
Ranboo shakes his head. “Tubbo’s going to want to leave.”
“Tubbo can mine, can’t he?”
“Then what’s the point of setting up the blockade?” Ranboo counters. “We already have a basic one, for protection. Do you think anybody is going to want to break past that?”
Philza is silent for a moment.
“Philza?” Ranboo asks, voice faltering a little.
He’s been disconnected from the surface for too long. Even if it was for five minutes, it would be too long; he has no idea what people are conspiring about, or the state of Jack, or what Philza has been doing on the surface. Do people truly want Ranboo dead? He’s never been able to tell just off of what they say to him alone, has always had to infer, but his inferences are frequently more paranoid or irritable than they are level-headed. If Ranboo were wrong in his assumptions, would Philza even tell him?
“... I just think it would be safer,” Philza finally says, and it sounds decisive. “You can’t defend yourself. Tubbo can’t defend himself. And I- I am not any more help down here than I am up there. I’d do more, but you said there’s nothing I can do. So, let me lock you two off, and that be that. Okay?”
Ranboo is in no place to disagree.
Even if the assertion that Ranboo is helpless grinds against his teeth in a near palpable way. It’s not like he doesn’t have concerns, and it’s not like he’s going to argue about it, but he dislikes the idea that this constant existence within him has been affirmed by another person to make him useless. But maybe that’s just his irrational anger.
“Okay,” he concedes. “If that’s what’s best.”
“I mean, what is our alternative?” Philza presses, even though Ranboo has given in. “Do you want me to carry you up to the surface? You could sit on the fishing pool with me, we could do that, but I don’t- I don’t see how that’s any better than you resting here?”
“I agree,” Ranboo reiterates, “I’m fine to stay down here.”
“Can you not move at all?” Philza asks again.
Ranboo inhales slowly. He does not want to get irritated, doesn’t want to make this worse for himself. It’s a bit too late for that, though. “No. I can’t. And I’ve already agreed that it’s best if I stay down here.”
Philza nods, stepping away from Ranboo before confirming, “Okay. See you later, mate. Hope you feel better.”
“Mhm,” Ranboo hums.
The block that Philza settles on to barricade with is obsidian. Ranboo observes him place it down, debating on asking why he would use such a hard to break through material, one that Philza couldn’t even correct, seeing as Ranboo still has his diamond pickaxe– the only diamond pickaxe the three of them have– in close proximity. However, he’s too exhausted to drag himself into a cyclical conversation, so he watches as Philza’s face disappears behind the sheer violet rock, and Ranboo turns his head to look the other way, over at Tubbo.
A morning wasted to this.
But at the very least, Ranboo is alive.
Certainly, that is something to be grateful for.
When Tubbo wakes up, Ranboo is still carefully considering the alternatives to the situation that unfolded, all unrealistic. His eyes blink open slowly, and Ranboo finds all his thoughts halting, prepared to explain the circumstance.
But instead of meeting Ranboo with the same question that he asked Philza, Tubbo’s eyes fixate on the bed, widening before sitting on the edge of the wool beside Ranboo.
Ranboo holds back a sharp hiss of air, the shift in the string jostling his arms that were best left unbothered. Sharp pains strike up his muscles, but after a few seconds, they return to their dull ache, and Ranboo lets them radiate to watch the equally dispersing excitement in Tubbo’s eyes at the new addition to their base.
“When did this bed get made?” Tubbo asks.
“This morning,” Ranboo answers. “I made it for you.”
“Huh.” Tubbo looks over the bed once again, getting up to look at it from a different view– and Ranboo really wishes Tubbo would stop moving– before returning back to the bed, sitting in the same spot as before, and cheerfully saying, “Should be big enough for the both of us!”
Ranboo blinks. “What?” It most certainly isn’t. It’s a small bed, which was made because Tubbo is a small person, and Ranboo has had to further cramp up his muscles just to fit.
In his continual optimism, Tubbo just bobs his head again in another nod. “Well, I mean, think about it. Phil’s barely been around in forever, so he probably has a bed elsewhere. You need somewhere to sleep, and I think if we just, like, flopped out limbs over each other just a bit, we could make it work.”
Ranboo wants to contest that sleeping on the floor is a much better solution, giving Tubbo the entirety of the bed, but he has to admit that even before saying that, he can tell that argument isn’t going to hold up with the other. Ranboo doesn’t understand why Tubbo would be so willing to offer to share a bed with him, though, especially when this is potentially the only luxury Tubbo has and Ranboo is someone he barely knows.
Is that even true, though? How can Ranboo classify their relationship at this stage? What level of acquaintanceship would justify the sharing of a bed for resources’ sake? If one party subconsciously opts to be protective over the other, and the other party frequently seeks out the aforementioned party’s company over other more logical pastimes, is that still acquaintanceship? How significant is the timeline in the establishment of boundaries when there is very limited time to do anything at all?
All questions Ranboo should have thought about in the many hours he spent lying there, rather than trying to frantically piece together answers in the fourteen seconds of silence between him and the ever-patient Tubbo.
Now, those thoughts will be saved for later, as Ranboo finds himself no real way to oppose Tubbo’s proposition. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Tubbo affirms. “Though, if I may ask?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you laying here in the first place?” Tubbo’s eyebrows furrow, and stupidly enough, Ranboo almost forgot this conversation topic was imminent. “Are you sick? Did something happen?”
“I’m not sick and nothing happened,” Ranboo assures. “I’m in pain. It happens frequently, but it’s worse some days.”
“Okay,” Tubbo accepts, far easier than Philza took it. “Hold on.”
Tubbo leaves the bed again, kneeling down on the floor. After a few seconds, he stands up and re-enters Ranboo’s line of sight, and Ranboo sees him shaking out what used to be Ranboo’s jacket but quickly became Tubbo’s pillow. After most of the dirt has been removed, Tubbo throws it over Ranboo’s body.
“Does that help any?”
Of course it doesn’t. A jacket laying over Ranboo’s torso isn’t, in any way, going to counteract the pain that he feels in his arms and legs. However, Ranboo can acknowledge there to be some sentiment to Tubbo’s actions, how Tubbo gave him back the object that Ranboo initially gave him in order to be comfortable at the start of all of this.
Stupidly, Ranboo feels like he should say something about that. Thank him, maybe, but there’s nothing to objectively thank him for. Maybe for the sentiment again, but he doesn’t know how that will be received, or how to even start that conversation. There’s the factor, too, that Ranboo just read into this again, that Tubbo was just grabbing the next best thing, and that would be unfortunate to realize.
So, Ranboo just says, simply and nonspecifically, “In a way. Thank you.”
“Yup.” Tubbo adjusts the jacket by a few centimeters, which really doesn’t change the circumstance much, before his eyes light up again. “Hold on. I’ve got a plan. Give me a second.”
“Okay-” Ranboo starts to say, but Tubbo interrupts him immediately after.
“Who the fuck covered up the stairs with obsidian?”
Ranboo had already forgotten about that. “Philza. He wanted to protect us, I think. There’s a diamond pickaxe by me. Please be careful with it.”
“Got it.” Tubbo removes it from Ranboo’s side carefully, giving him a thumbs up before starting to break the obsidian, his entire body shifting in the movement. “This will make you feel better, promise. Just give me an hour or two.”
“An hour or two?” Ranboo echoes, suddenly wishing he could push himself out of bed and grab the other’s arm. “You don’t have that much time, Tubbo, what could possibly take that long?”
“It’s worth it.” Tubbo justifies weakly. He looks over his shoulder back at Ranboo as he continues to mine, and there’s some guarded earnesty in his face. “Just, trust me, okay? It’s going to help us, not just you.”
“Why can’t Philza do it?” Ranboo asks.
Tubbo shrugs, looking back at the stone. The last piece is about ready to crack. “Us,” he repeats. “You and me.”
Before Ranboo can question Tubbo’s sudden exclusion of Philza in their group pact, Tubbo is racing up the steps, diamond pickaxe stowed away at his side.
Ranboo is once again left alone, questions buzzing in his head and tracing through his bloodstream to his aching limbs.
There’s nothing he can do but wait now, he realizes. It’s not a satisfying realization, and it brings Ranboo no joy to just lay there uselessly while Philza processes his unusual paranoia alone and Tubbo pursues an unspecified task in the daylight, but he knows that he would weigh them down if he tries to help in this way.
With that, Ranboo shuts his eyes, listening to the sound of the axolotls, and hopes that both of his companions get back to him soon in one piece.
-
It takes over two hours before Ranboo hears Tubbo return.
His chest sinks with relief, his mind finally relenting in its endless torment of anxiety. They were getting really close to the three hour mark, and if Tubbo hadn’t returned by then, Ranboo would have no idea what became of him.
The next thing Ranboo processes though as Tubbo returns, oddly, is the strong scent of meat.
Ranboo’s eyes open just in time for Tubbo to enter his line of sight, setting down the diamond pickaxe in the floor and doing a joking bow as he presents Ranboo a piece of steak.
“How?” is the first thing Ranboo can get out, absolutely incredulous. It’s just like the first day, with Tubbo unexpectedly having meat on him, never explaining why.
Tubbo grins, pulling out a piece of leather and setting the meat on top of a chest, wiping his hands off on his pants and walking over. “I need you to sit up, big guy,” he says, standing over Ranboo. “Do you need help? I can just, like, yank you up, but I dunno if that would be a good idea.”
“Probably not,” Ranboo admits, though the thought is somewhat nice. In an agonizing and long process, Ranboo pushes himself up so that his back is against the wood and stone that makes up the headrest, his legs having fallen asleep despite their continued pain. His arms lay limp once again, but at the very least, they’ve somewhat done their job. And his hands don’t hurt, necessarily, so maybe he can still try to eat. If that’s what Tubbo is intending, anyway.
It seems so, because Tubbo goes to grab the meat again and gently places it in Ranboo’s hand. Ranboo takes it, lifting it up to his mouth, and damn, it tastes better than Ranboo had expected. Having gone so long without anything but bread and apples has taken its toll, evidently, especially seeing as Ranboo isn’t even inherently that much of a fan of meat. It’s different, though, and even if it doesn’t fix the pain, it sure helps Ranboo feel a little less weak as the warmth slides down his throat.
“To answer your question,” Tubbo starts as Ranboo chews the meat, “I have no clue. Not a single clue, really. I feel like animals just kinda flock to me, I dunno. I didn’t see literally anyone outside, so it must have been something I did. Maybe I’m just cool.”
“You are,” Ranboo replies without a second thought.
Tubbo grins. “Thanks.”
“You said no one was outside?” Ranboo asks to confirm, slightly ashamed of his earnest slip up, but Tubbo seems to have taken it well. This particular phrase in Tubbo’s recount, though, bothered him, because surely Philza was outside at the least, if not Philza and Wilbur.
“Not that I saw, no.” Tubbo pauses, then adds. “I walked across the whole perimeter of the place looking for a cow. Nobody.”
“Odd,” is all Ranboo says. His throat is slightly parched now from the meat, and that reminds him, he should really make a canteen or bucket of some kind to keep water in. He can do that later. For now… “Thank you, Tubbo, seriously.”
Tubbo beams. “No problem. I hope you stop being a bitch.”
Ranboo blinks.
“Your body,” Tubbo corrects. “I hope your body stops being a bitch.”
That was possibly the worst slip up Ranboo has ever heard from someone. He feels better about his own speaking capabilities now.
“Ah.”
“Sorry.” Tubbo apologizes sheepishly.
Ranboo waves it off. “You’re fine.”
“And you’re smiling.”
Sometimes, talking to Tubbo feels like playing a game of chess, where Tubbo catches Ranboo in checkmate immediately after Ranboo moves his first pawn. Which is to say, Ranboo has no idea why the observation was pointed out, and also had not realized he was smiling until Tubbo pointed it out.
His face relaxes, his smile going away, and Tubbo frowns. “Stop it. Smile again. You have a nice smile.”
“I don’t smile very often,” Ranboo states.
Tubbo huffs. “Yeah, well, you should. Do you need me to try out some jokes on you?”
Ranboo feels as if this might be a mistake. “Sure.”
“Hm. Hm. … Hm. Okay, okay. Let me think.”
“Did you not have a joke on hand?”
“Shut up. Okay. So. Why does the Ender Dragon suck at, uh, reading?”
This feels like a very basic joke, but Ranboo can’t wrap his brain around where Tubbo conjured it from. “Because it’s an Ender Dragon?”
“Because it starts at the End,” Tubbo answers.
Ranboo pauses. It takes him a few seconds, then he lets out a sigh. “That was awful.”
“That’s the best joke I’ve ever told, actually.”
“That’s really unfortunate.”
“I’m lying,” Tubbo says with a grin, “I’m a god at humor. I’m just testing the waters. One day I will hit you with something so mind blowing you’ll die.”
Ranboo’s lip quirks up, oddly enough. “Okay, Tubbo.”
“Ha!” Ranboo startles at the loud sound, coming from a now-excited Tubbo. “You’re smiling. I win.”
“I guess so?” It wasn’t really the joke that got Ranboo to smile, because it was a really bad joke, but rather the way that Tubbo seems so proud of himself for it. It’s… kind of endearing, in a way.
Which is a dangerous thing to think when Ranboo has to keep an eye out for himself, but then again, Tubbo isn’t really helping Ranboo’s self-preservation at the moment. Because despite Ranboo being at his most vulnerable thus far, Tubbo’s just sitting there and telling him bad jokes and getting him food, sort of like how Tubbo helped get him back into focus when he had his meltdown a few days before. Tubbo seems to just be there, supportively despite Ranboo’s many weaknesses, and it’s… strange, to do something like that, but Ranboo can’t complain about it. Even when he should embrace solitude and keep himself alive, he still finds himself chasing after company like he’s drowning without it, but by the time he has it he’s parched and needs more, or maybe the metaphors should flip.
He just needs to stay afloat, basically. And Tubbo makes it hard, but Tubbo makes it easy, too.
For now, he can’t do anything but accept that.
It’s a little bit later when Tubbo suddenly cuts off a random story of his with a frown, and Ranboo’s instantly filled with dread. He sits up a little more, which is a mistake, because he almost forgot that he was in agonizing pain until he did that, but immediately shoves the thought of it aside as Tubbo mutters, “I got the feeling again. Like, the one I get before I, y’know.”
“Oh,” is all Ranboo can say, at first. It’s selfish of him, to not be able to think past what this means in the moment, to want to forget that this is a recurring thing for Tubbo and not just a momentary inconvenience to Ranboo, but still, Ranboo has enjoyed the company and he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do when Tubbo’s out again. There’s so much left of the day, so much time he should have with Tubbo, but now Ranboo’s going back to being on the floor, aching and tired and unable to do anything about it.
After a few seconds, he forces himself to come to his senses; this is about Tubbo, not him. So, he says, in as rational a tone of voice as possible, “Is there anything I should do?”
“Like you said with your whole thing earlier,” Tubbo starts, and Ranboo struggles to think all the way back to then, “there’s not much we can do. Just need to rest it out.”
Ranboo should have expected that. It’s stupid of him to have hoped for anything else. “Okay. That’s… fair, yeah.”
“Can you scoot a little bit?” Tubbo asks, and it takes Ranboo off guard once again. Maybe he’s just easily confused. He still doesn’t know how to predict Tubbo, but Ranboo’s never been good at that. “I know that it’s probably, uh, not great for you to move at the minute, so don’t worry about it if you can’t. But y’know, if neither of us are getting up any time soon, may as well test the durability of this thing.” Tubbo pats the side of the bed.
Ranboo moves in one semi-fluid motion to the side, which would be a good sign if it didn’t make him feel like he was dying. This is starting to be less distressing and more obnoxious. He knows, deep inside him, that he should work on his self-image when his pain gets intolerably bad, and he guesses the first step to that process is directing his anger at it rather than himself. Unfortunately, his chronic pain doesn’t exactly react to his rage, which makes it a bit less cathartic than the reliable path of self-destruction.
Tubbo slides in beside him, the two close in a way that maybe someone else would find uncomfortable, but Ranboo does his best to acknowledge the practicality of it. Granted that Tubbo doesn’t somehow try to stab him in the back at midnight, which technically wouldn’t even be possible, making this… a decent call on Tubbo’s part, actually. The spider string is still not the most comfortable material to lay on, but it has yet to make Ranboo want to claw his skin off, so he can deal with it for the time being.
“Tell Philza when he gets back to take the obsidian down,” Tubbo mumbles. “Fuckin’ pain in the ass to mine.”
“Okay,” Ranboo whispers back, not sure why the two are bothering to be quiet. Tubbo doesn’t always seem tired when he goes unconscious, Ranboo’s found; sometimes he’ll be energetic, and then he’ll just stop. “See you tomorrow, Tubbo.”
“Feel better by then.”
Ranboo’s never considered that before. “Trying.”
“I know.” His voice is even softer. “Less about you trying. More just, I’ll fight God or something if you don’t. I dunno.”
“Well, God seems to take the form of a six foot eighteen year old that’s unusually stingy about murder for an immortal,” Ranboo comments. After a few seconds, he adds, “And also a bit of a jerk.”
Tubbo laughs. “Yeah, well, I could take him.”
“Goodnight, Tubbo.” The sun’s still up.
“Goodnight, Ranboo.” Not coming down any time soon.
Yet, Tubbo’s out within a few more minutes, and Ranboo’s left laying there; misery loves company, and in that moment, Ranboo’s company is a dirtied jacket, a badly-constructed bed, and the frame of his closest companion that he could never know with the whole of his existence. A week closer to the end of the world, and the cave is quiet with the sunken bodies of two.
The act of giving up falls secondary to the act of giving in.