Chapter Text
They didn’t get rid of his chair.
It still stands there, still pushed into the dining table. Almost as if, any moment now, Tubbo will walk into the kitchen - yawning and bumbling his way into his seat.
It’s something Ranboo’s noticed quite a bit, around the house.
Techno would still cook for six, instead of five - muttering about all the extra food they had. Phil would still pass around chores as if there were another set of hands - only to take up the extra work himself. Wilbur would tell stories, speaking loudly as if he wants to draw the attention of the whole house - even though they were all sitting around him.
And Tommy. Tommy called him Tubbo, once.
It was an accident. A slip of the tongue. They didn’t talk about it - never mentioned it. Both unwilling to tear that wound open. They said nothing.
It was better that way.
Autumn leaves slap against the kitchen window, sent into a whirl by the wind. It rings in his ears, and it’s hard to claw his way back into the present.
But the present is all he has, so Ranboo does.
“-echno? Isn’t he going to come for breakfast?”
Phil hums, occupied with cutting his pancakes into little bite-sized pieces. “He ate earlier,” the man says. “Autumn’s...a busy season. You know that.”
Tommy harrumphs, leaning back in his chair. “Well, yeah, but-” He gestures. “Techno’s never missed breakfast with us before.”
Gently, Wilbur elbows him. “Lots of things aren’t the same as...before,” says he. A reminder, understanding. “Come on- Sooner you finish your food, sooner we can go check up on him.”
And Tommy, ever Wilbur’s baby brother, relaxes at that. He still huffs and sulks and picks at his food, but it’s so painfully clear how much he trusts him - how much he believes him. His words, his smiles, his reassurances - it’s his lifeline.
If Wilbur says they’ll check up on Techno, and make sure that he’s okay - then that, is exactly what they’ll do.
Phil sighs, not unkindly. “Just don’t annoy him too badly,” he reminds the two. “He’s got his head all over, what with the harvest and Pissbaby getting sick-”
Ranboo’s fork drops to the plate with a too-loud clatter. “She’s sick?”
The others jump and stare, startled. The Prince had kept his silence, lips pressed tightly together, throughout the whole morning and the night before - his voice still soft and obviously unused, based simply on the hoarseness of his tone.
Ranboo clears his throat. “Wh-when? When did she get sick?”
Phil tilts his head, slightly. “Erm- Probably yesterday...or the day before? Techno’s handling her, but-”
And the man falls silent. He drops his gaze back to his plate, drawing circles with the syrup. “...mate, I don’t want to get your hopes up-”
Ranboo stands from his chair, abruptly. “Not hungry,” he simply states. He hurries out of the kitchen, out through the front door, ignoring Phil and Tommy’s calls-
Then, as soon as he’s outside, he runs. His footsteps fly across the path, barely connected to the ground. His wings flap, instinctively aiding in his bolt. He swerves around the potatoes, mindful of the crops even in his panicked daze.
“Techno-!” Ranboo barrels into the barn. “Techno?”
Techno isn’t in the barn. For a moment, Ranboo stands alone - surrounded by all the life, all the motion, yet completely and utterly alone.
He shakes himself. Breathes, despite choking. Moves, despite drowning.
There are thuds, familiar grunts. Quickly, he strides through the barn and slips out of the doors on the other side.
“Techno.”
Technoblade stops, axe raised halfway above his head. “Ranboo?” The pig grunts, dropping the axe. The ground around him is littered with firewood, sorted neatly between chopped and unchopped.
“What?” Techno wipes a wrist across his forehead, shaking out his damp fur. In his eyes, a glint of worry shines. “Something happened?”
The Prince falters. His words, stewing at the back of his throat - falter and fail, crumbling. He clears his throat, instinctively drawing wings closer when another gust of wind blows.
“Phil said,'' he manages. “About...about the moobloom.”
Something in Techno’s eyes shifts - the worry vanishes both and grows at once, they soften. He sighs, shifting his feet - struggling to find the right words.
“...do you want to see her?” Techno asks.
Stiffly, swallowing against the tightness of his own throat, choking on his own words, Ranboo nods.
They make back into the barn. The animals call out to them, cheerful and content. Techno’s done good in taking care of them, and they are happy. The sight, to Ranboo, gives him a bit of calm.
There’s only one pen, where the idyllic fabric of content tears. The cow pen, where a shifting mass tries its best to squeeze into one side - mindful and wary of the sickness in their home.
Laying alone, Pissbaby looks like she’s barely breathing. Her flowers wilt, petals falling off and littering the ground. Something wails, and it’s her - low and miserable.
“...oh,” Ranboo breathes. Struggling, wings flapping to aid him, he swings over the fence and lands on the other side. “Is- Is she…?”
Techno grunts, footsteps thudding as he joins him. “She’s hanging on.”
The pig approaches her, slowly - taking each step with caution, a clear non-threat. Slowly, he kneels and presses the back of his hand to her head.
“I...I don’t know what’s wrong with her," he admits. "But it’s not any contagious fever. She just...got sick.”
Techno doesn’t say anything else. Ranboo doesn’t push - he feels he won’t like it, if he does.
His steps are slow, hesitant. He doesn’t want to touch her. He wants to hold her head in his lap. He doesn’t want to see her. He wants to stay in this barn forever. He doesn’t know.
Ranboo kneels, slowly. He runs his hand along her flank, careful not to bump into her flowers. Beneath his touch, Pissbaby shudders.
“...Ranboo,” Techno says. He is slow, hesitant. Prodding the ground, struggling to find which words are right. “I’m...going to be honest with you. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
And Ranboo shuts his eyes, briefly, as if that’ll block out the words he hears.
“She’s dying,” he murmurs. “Isn’t she?”
It isn’t a question.
Techno sticks true to his words - he does not build hope off lies, does not lay beautiful deceits. He simply nods. “I’m sorry.”
Pissbaby shifts, her breathing hitches. It’s as if she can tell - as if she understands, the horrible topic at hand. Ranboo wonders if she’s scared; if she can feel her life slipping from her, if she can feel her story ending.
He wonders what that’s like.
Pissbaby lifts her head, just barely. It’s shaky, weak - strained and in pain. Mooing lowly, she rests her chin at the very edges of Ranboo’s knees. Her dull eyes blink at him. Her breath huffs, too hot.
Ranboo and Techno glance at each other. Ranboo asks a question - a simple, silent request. Technoblade doesn’t hesitate to give him this - he’d give more, everything and then some, if he could.
Soon enough, Ranboo finds himself cross-legged. Pissbaby lets her head rest on his lap - such a simple gesture, such a simple thing to have, makes her look already at peace. And it’s with a choking lump in his throat, does the Prince drape his tattered wings over her.
A blanket. A gesture of comfort - of affection. It hurts, but it’s the good kind. It hurts, but he’s willing.
“I’ll talk to Phil,” Techno says, as the pig stands. He stretches, ears flicking on instinct. “He’ll understand.”
He will. Phil is...nice, that way. He understands.
“Thank you.” Ranboo lightly runs his fingers along the moobloom’s forehead. “Thank you.”
In more ways than he’s said, Ranboo means it.
And Technoblade understands, caught onto what he doesn’t say.
Tommy comes over, eventually. He claims to have wanted to see Henry - though that may be a partial truth, the Golden Boy does look very relieved to wrap his arms around his ‘best friend’ again.
It’s something, to hold life - whole - in your arms. To the sweet illusion of being completed, just by the presence of warmth beating next to your own heart.
“Pissbaby’s strong,” Tommy says. He sits and leans against a laying Henry, idly playing with the tufts of fur. “She’ll surprise you, I bet. She’s surprised us before.”
The optimism is different, had it come from Phil or Techno. Simply because Tommy believes in every single word he says - simply because Tommy isn’t a liar. The hope, shining in his voice, isn’t false.
It’s real.
Ranboo hums. His legs are numb, stiff from motionless. He’s been here for hours now - Pissbaby has not moved, and neither would he. He hums, and he tries to match the light in Tommy’s voice.
He fails.
The hope - the belief that Tommy has, that the sun will rise as it’s always done - is real. But it’s not his; it’s not Ranboo’s.
There was never a Sun in the End.
“You’ll see,” Tommy says, again. Softer now, as if he catches on - observant as he is, lapping onto every single cue. “You will, Ranboo.”
And Ranboo doesn’t believe him.
But he hums, for at the very least, he’s listening. At the very least, he’s here.
Tommy doesn’t stay silent for too long - he never does. Though the words have softened, quietened, sometimes even wrought with pain; they’re still there. If the Golden Boy isn’t talking, he’s humming and singing. If he’s not talking to Ranboo, he’s talking to Henry.
The words are numbing, a steady drone. Ranboo doesn’t stop listening, doesn’t know where he’ll go if he lets himself roam. Tommy’s voice keeps him tethered, as grounding as the dying moobloom in his lap.
He’s grateful.
“How’s she?” Wilbur asks, gently. Oil sizzles in his pan - he takes the duty of preparing meals, now Techno’s overwhelmed with the harvest and the crumbling autumn leaves; the steady march of time, and winter’s debut.
Ranboo pauses. The peel of the apple in his hands falls, discontinued. He breathes softly, and lets the simple act of living calm him.
“...bad,” he answers honestly. He swallows - tight and it hurts. “Not even Tommy much believes in her, anymore,” says he, with a bitter tinged laugh.
Just another death. It’s how time goes, he supposes. Pissbaby will die. Henry will die. The animals - all of them, will die.
Just another death, Ranboo tells himself. He grips the handle of the knife. You’re above even that, Prince.
He doesn’t believe himself. It hurts even more.
Wilbur’s shoulder, brushing lightly against his, brings him back. The brother stands over the gaping void of Ranboo’s mind, and he’s thrown down a rope in the shape of a gentle smile.
“...what’d you prefer?” Wil asks. “I can take over, and you can sit for a bit. Or do you want a distraction?”
Ranboo blinks, slowly. He turns the options over in his head, weighing them and judging.
“I think I’d rather be distracted,” he sighs, shoulders slumping. So he does, turns back to peeling his apples. “How’s...how’s Sally? Have you met her again?”
Wilbur blinks. Something in his eyes shifts. Something gleams in them, something Ranboo realises he hasn’t seen in a while.
Happiness. True, genuine happiness. Sally...makes him happy - whatever it is about her, whatever it is that she does, it works wonders on Wilbur.
And it’s something, to see that happiness. Like watching the contentment of the animals brings him calm, Ranboo finds himself huffing a not-quite laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says - a voice raw and still slightly hoarse, oddly paired with an undertone of amusement.
Wilbur blinks. He snorts, lightly elbowing the Prince in protest. “Don’t start,” he warns with words too light, too gentle to carry weight. “I’ve got enough of that bullshit with Tommy.”
That not-quite of a laugh comes back. “Maybe he’s not wrong.”
“Oh, fuck off-” Wilbur pulls a show, brief - rolling his eyes, slumping exaggeratedly. “You’ve betrayed me. I’m hurt.”
“Whoops.” Ranboo not-laughs again, except this time it is a laugh. He laughs softly, awkwardly, but it’s a laugh. “I’d say sorry, but I’m...really not.”
It doesn’t stop hurting. Perhaps it never will. Perhaps he will lose Pissbaby tonight, the same way he lost Tubbo. Perhaps this is what he’s meant for.
But he has a basket of apples to be peeled, and a meal he’s meant to help cook. For now, that’s what he’ll do.
Ranboo sleeps in the barn tonight. It’s of his own choice - he’s actually had himself quite the time, trying to convince Phil to let him. Were it not for Techno, quietly interjecting, he probably wouldn’t have managed.
Again, and again, he’s grateful.
It’s cold, but that only makes firm his decision to sleep there. He has a blanket, and he curls up in the hay next to Pissbaby - she, who has not moved at all, since the morning.
Their breaths mirror. His is much louder, hers is much weaker - but they follow a rhythm, instinctual. Something they simply know, because they are simply alive. One forever, one for this night.
The lanterns in the barn have long been put out. There is no moonlight, and for a moment he struggles with the dark - with this temporary blindness, looming fear of unknown. He reaches forward, and the tips of his fingers brush with Pissbaby’s soft pelt; knuckles grazing along one wilted petal.
And in the darkness of the unknown, waiting for his eyes to adjust, she is his tether.
It takes him a long time to be able to see, and even that is a pitiful amount. Still, it’s enough for him to be able to rest his palm on the moobloom’s forehead - without poking her eyeballs out, preferably.
Pissbaby makes a soft sound. Her breaths turn more to pants, in pain. She’s dying.
“...I’m sorry,” Ranboo breathes - uselessly. There is nothing he can do, and apologising for something he didn’t cause does nothing still. Nothing, except fill the silence. Except chase away the emptiness.
Ranboo rolls onto his back, his wings cramping beneath him. But there, up in the rafters, he catches a glimpse of a crow.
It stares at him, beady eyes gleaming. Its wings ruffle.
Ranboo blinks, slowly. He makes a soft sound at the back of his throat.
The crow caws. It takes off, but instead of dipping down to fly through the open windows - it goes up. For a moment, it looks like it’s going to come crashing into the roof - unstoppable force and immovable object.
Except the immovable object is quite movable. There is a small gap in the roof above his head, barely noticeable. The crow clamps its talons around it, hanging on the upside - like a bat, almost. With its beak, it pecks the hole steadily wider.
“Hey-” Ranboo says to it. “Stop it. Stop.”
The crow glances back at him. It caws again, and pointedly ignores him.
Ranboo scoffs. Rude.
Still, he can’t bring himself to do much about it - some dim part of him is curious, wondering what exactly it’s trying to do. There are easier resources for more comfortable nest materials, than parts of the roof.
Unless it’s just stupid. Then he’d have a harder time explaining to Technoblade that.
Pissbaby huffs an exhale. She wails that low, pained groan again. Helpless, Ranboo can only pat her head - hope that his presence, somehow, manages to bring comfort. Hopes that she knows she’s not alone, and that he’s here.
Beat.
Tubbo loved this moobloom.
He loved it so much. All throughout spring, he’d whine and huff about how many flowers he’d have to pick up. And yet, and yet, they were always gone by nightfall.
Some bitter, spiteful part of him - of Ranboo - thinks it’s ironic. That, like Tubbo, he won’t be able to save her either.
He kicks himself for that. It hurts less than the ache in his chest.
Rustling brings him back. The crow has managed to pick itself a wide enough hole - it sticks its head through, wriggling and pushing and flapping its wings. Struggling to stubbornly squeeze through such a small space.
It doesn’t look like it’ll make it.
It does.
The crow, free on the other side, calls a triumphant caw. It takes off, leaving nothing else than a slightly-larger-hole in the roof, and an odd memory.
"Oh."
He can see the stars from here.
They peek down at him through the gap in the roof. Staring, and Ranboo stares back.
“Hey-” He pats Pissbaby’s head, gently. “Look-”
Ranboo points. “That’s Alpheratz.”
He’s found it.
The Prince stands leaning against the fence. Morning sunlight is gentle on his eyes. He aches, slightly, from a few nights worth of sleeping on the floor. The barn awakens as the sun does, and so too he finds himself.
With a smile, for once.
“Guess miracles really do exist, huh?”
Techno glances at him. The pig huffs a wry smile, yet genuine in its affection. “Guess they do,” he agrees, knelt as he is in the pen. “Guess they do.”
Before him, Pissbaby lays - she looks...awake. She lifts her head up, and her eyes are calm and alert. She huffs, flicking an ear.
Idly, Ranboo waves. The smile on his face feels good, and he lets it grow.
She survived, Ranboo calls - bursting into the cottage after that first night. She’s alive!
She’s getting better, Techno says, slightly dumbstruck. Never has he sounded happier to be wrong. She’ll be okay.
“Sybil better move over,” Techno stands, stepping out of the pen, “got a new miracle worker in town.”
Ranboo snorts, waving him off. “All I did was sleep on the floor a few nights.”
The pig merely elbows him. A simple gesture carrying, with it, a thousand messages. Though all of them are unimportant, in the face of Techno ruffling the top of Ranboo’s hair.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m faithful.”
And the smile feels good, so Ranboo lets it grow.
“This fucking sucks.”
Ranboo snorts, softly. “Then go back inside?” He gestures towards the edge of the roof, where their window would be. “I didn’t ask you to come outside with me.”
Tommy punches his shoulder, lightly. “No.” He sticks his tongue out. “I’m staying out and making it your problem. Bitch.”
Lightly, Ranboo extends a wing to whack him over. “Mean.”
“Me?” Tommy grins, leaning back. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”
They fall silent. Ranboo’s neck aches with how long he’s craned it upwards - he stares at the stars, mapping constellations with his eyes. Alpheratz, Andromeda, Pegasus.
He’s going to miss it, the stars. One in a long list of things he’ll miss.
The autumn wind blows gently, teasing winter’s chill. It’ll be too cold, but it’s not right now - so, right now, they’ll enjoy it.
“You were right,” Ranboo hums. “About the moobloom.”
“Pissbaby? Say her name, coward.” Tommy grins, lightly nudging him with the back of his knuckles. “Of course I was. You forget I know everything.”
The Prince snorts, chuckling. “Right,” he grins, “I forget.”
Tommy breathes a sigh. He practically lays down on the roof, cushioning the back of his head with his arms. The Golden Boy stares up, up at the stars. “It’s so crazy,” he mumbles. “You’ve been here for like- a year now, maybe?”
“Pretty much.” Ranboo ruffles his wings. He takes one to his lap, careful with the feathers. “Things...things really changed.”
And so too did they.
Ranboo glances back, at the Golden Boy. Bemused, as he watches each and every blink grow steadily longer. Watches as Tommy fights a battle to stay awake, and loses.
It didn’t take long at all. Despite it, Ranboo stays out longer. He sits, and he enjoys the calm and the chill - he waves at the stars, and they wave back.
Then, when he is ready, he lightly nudges Tommy’s shoulder.
Tommy doesn’t wake up - his breaths are slow, heavy and at peace.
He is the opposite of Ranboo’s whirling, raging thoughts. Through the hurricane in his chest, the Prince struggles to pull out a smile.
“Goodbye Tommy,” he murmurs. Gently, he pushes golden strands of hair out of his eyes. “Sleep well.”
Tommy doesn’t wake up. He merely grunts in his sleep, shifting lightly.
Ranboo clambers back down. He is silent, practically a silhouette. Back in his room, he rifles through their dressers and rummages under his bed.
The house is soundless. It’s asleep. It does not wake, as the Prince slinks through the hallway - past the shut bedroom doors of Wilbur, Techno, Phil. His cloak is tight over his shoulders, a hood he’s never used pulled low over his head. He takes a stop by the kitchen to fill his pack, before slinging it over his shoulder.
Then he’s out.
The barn is asleep as he walks through. Through the corner of his eye, he spots something vaguely yellow.
Ranboo pauses, then. A smidgen of doubt wrestles its way through his mind, through his veins.
Are you sure, Prince?
He shakes himself, and carries on.
He takes the axe. He hopes Techno has enough firewood, or enough to get a new one. Softly, he whispers his apologies to the wind.
He hopes they hear him. He hopes they don’t.
The strike of a match against a tinderbox almost startles him. Ranboo holds up the small fire, squinting - the light is miserably dim, but it’s just barely enough for him to see the map.
He doesn’t look back. He fears, if he does, he’ll falter and scamper back. That if he sees the cottage, the home he’s lived in, he’ll want to revel in the ignorance he remembers.
He can’t do that. So he doesn’t look back. With his wings hidden beneath his cloak, he only makes forward.
The sun is rising by the time he reaches it. A hole dug into the ground, small and claustrophobic. He wouldn’t have noticed it - almost walked past it, too - were it not for the twisted oak Tommy mentioned.
He stares at that oak, for a bit. Sways lightly.
Ranboo swallows the tendrils of his hesitation down. “Thanks, Tommy,” he mutters.
He wonders if the Golden Boy is awake, now. Will he know where he’s gone? Will he be confused, waking up on the roof alone? Will he be angry?
He ties his pack around his shoulders - tight, so it won’t fall. It takes him a bit to figure out what to do with the axe, but he manages to slide in somewhere it won’t accidentally hurt him.
And the Prince climbs down. Grunting, shuffling down the practically minuscule space. His fingers scrape against the wall, aching with the strength of controlling his fall.
The stronghold is crumbling, when he enters. Broken bricks and moss overgrown. Ranboo lands at the very top of a spiralling staircase - a long drop looming in the middle, with not so much a railing to prevent a painful tumble.
Brushing the dirt and cobwebs off himself, The Prince walks down.
The second time he lights the match, it doesn’t surprise him. He grunts, struggling for a brief moment - inexperience his downfall, and sheer determination his lifeline.
The stronghold doesn’t look any prettier when he gets the torch lit. The fire casts flickering lights, the shadows dancing along the wall. Something reeks of mildew, dust and disuse thrives.
He roams. Stepping through crumbling hallways. Turning around and around, through places he can’t seem to get out of - a labyrinth, practically. He goes up and down cobblestone steps, peers through iron bars, jumps over holes in the ground.
The map is useless here, but still his fingers clutch tightly.
And eventually, he sees light. From torches he hasn’t lit, in a room he’s never been. His breath catches in his throat, and every step brings him closer - every step almost doesn’t feel real.
The portal room is just as crumbling as the others, yet there is a certain flair to it. Remember what I used to be, it begs. Remember my glory.
Ranboo doesn’t. He’s too occupied with the torches, still flickering. With the makeshift bed shoved into a corner, and smatterings of bread and food scattered around.
Someone’s here.
The Prince shivers. Each step is too loud, now. Each breath too heavy.
“...hello?”
His call goes unanswered. For once, it’s relieving. He can go through without any fuss, without any confrontation. Quickly, he hurries up the short steps - peering into the portal frame.
And there, as it’s always been, space condensed.
“...Ranboo?”
The Prince stops. He stops - breathing, blinking, moving. Frozen in a shock still frame.
“...Phil?” He turns. His mind churns, wailing in confusion. “...I-”
The man stands at the bottom of the steps - stands, staring up at him. “Mate-” Phil’s voice is cautious, and wary. Slowly, he extends a hand. “Get down from there.”
For once, Ranboo shys away from it. For once, he doesn’t reach back. “What’re...what’re you doing here?”
Phil barks a not-laugh, humourless. “What am I doing here?” He gestures. “What’re you doing? Why’re you not- Why aren’t you at home?”
Ranboo feels like a child, caught with red hands in a cookie jar. “I-” He falters, struggling. “You- How did you...”
Phil stares at him. “Know?” The man crosses his arms. “There was a page missing from one of my books. Put two and two together.”
Ranboo winces. He sighs, the map in his hand suddenly prickly and uncomfortable - he drops it, lets it fall to the ground.
Silence stretches. Phil waits for an answer. Ranboo doesn’t think he’ll like it.
“I can’t, Phil,” he says, no softer than a whisper. “It’s- I can’t...”
Phil blinks. His breath hitches just barely. “You can’t...what?”
His eyes sting. Ranboo blinks, rapidly. “I can’t die,” he breathes. “And I can’t...live as long as that’s true.”
Phil flinches. In the torchlight, his eyes shine - wet. “Yes you can,” the man tries. Desperate, pleading - on his knees in all senses, except physically. “You can, Ranboo. I promise-”
Ranboo turns his head away. “Don’t do that.” He shudders, swallowing tightly. “Don’t- don’t do that.”
It’s too quiet. It’s too loud. It’s too heavy, too empty.
“I thought you were happy,” says Phil, quietly. His breath is hoarse, as he struggles to take one in. “I thought- I thought this time, I did it right-”
“No-” Ranboo moves, down the steps. He wraps the man in a hug. He holds him close. He apologises, he apologises, with a simple gesture. “Don’t. This isn’t you. It’s not your fault.”
For the briefest of heartbeats, Phil hesitates. Then, he hugs back. He grips, tightly.
He doesn’t want to let go, Ranboo thinks.
But he has to.
“I can’t stay here,” Ranboo breathes, hoarse. “I see him- his ghost, everywhere. I turn around and I keep thinking he’d be there. I still hear his voice in the walls, Phil.”
“Then let’s move,” Phil begs. “All of us. We’ll make new memories-”
“It’s not just that.” Ranboo buries his face, into the crook of Phil’s shoulder. Breathes a shudder, cries a shiver. “I’m a coward, Phil. I can’t- Not again, not with Tommy or Wilbur or Techno-”
Phil chokes a sob. The older man wraps his wings around him, swaddling him like a child.
And Ranboo lets him, breathing into the embrace.
He lets this happen. He lets himself feel. It hurts, it hurts, but it’s real.
“I only want you to be happy, Ranboo,” Phil whispers to him.
Ranboo’s jaws ache, with the strength of his unshed tears. “I know.”
They stay that way forever - forever, and a few minutes. Eternity, in the shortest time.
Ranboo pulls away. Silently, he unties his pack and lets it fall to the ground. In a movement - smooth, were it not for the shaking of his fingers - he slips off his cloak and folds it.
The tulips stare at him. They ask, they wonder, they know he’s not ready.
Ranboo doesn’t stare back. He is silent, wordless, apologetic as he offers it forward.
Phil swallows. His hands shake, too, when he takes the cloak - gently, as if it’s the most fragile, most precious thing he’s ever held.
Ranboo glances up. He lets their gazes meet. He lets himself cry, shuddering a breath - a mix of sorrow and pain, emotional and physical. He’s crying, when he meets Phil’s eyes.
And through them - despite, or because - he smiles.
“I’m just going to bed, Phil.” Ranboo swallows, gasping softly for air - gasping, as he struggles to stay afloat. “I’ll...I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Phil has never looked more in pain. Something like a whine is choked - something like a cry is wrestled away. The man holds his cloak tightly, protectively, knuckles turning white.
“...goodnight.” Phil turns his head, ducking. Phil is strong, braver than any man Ranboo’s ever met. Yet, now, he’s never been weaker - never been more afraid.
The tears splatter on the fabric of the cloak, damp. “Good-good night, Ranboo.”
Ranboo. Not Prince, not Broken Clock - Ranboo.
Ranboo looks away. Picks up his axe, lets it lean over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t look behind him. He doesn’t see the way Phil crumbles, because he knows.
He knows that he will crumble too. And he can’t afford that - not now, not yet.
So he doesn’t look back, when he falls through the portal.
Phil falls to his knees. Whatever strength kept him upright has left him - vanished into the folds of space. Kneeling down on the crumbling stone of the stronghold, Death’s Angel wails out his grief.
It echoes through the halls. No one answers it.
He’s failed. He’s failed, again. Failed to be the father he tries so hard to be. Failed to give them the lives they deserve - the world, and more.
He’s tried, he’s tired, he only ever tries.
Soon, Kristin will come. Soon, she’ll hold him and comfort him and be there for him - the only constant in his life; Death.
But now, Phil is alone.
Ranboo wakes up, sitting on his throne.