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Chapter Text

He is the End Prince, and he sits atop his throne. His people meander beneath him. The Void screams in deafening silence. The cities call out his name. The Dragon awaits his call.

He is the End Prince, and a crown of crystals sits atop his head. His wings are patterned with delicate purple, symbolising the eyes of his people and of who he is.

He is the End Prince, and he’s going to run away.

He creeps, sticking close through massive halls. He wears a tattered cloak, hood pulled low over his face. His pack is slung across his shoulder, filled with chorus fruits and clothes.

Ranboo breathes as he steps, soundless and out of sight. The halls are mercifully empty. His heart races in his chest as success grows ever nearer.

Adrenaline begs him to run. He does, sprinting the final stretch. The back door - his escape - is a hair’s breadth away. He reaches out-

A hand clamps around his wrist.

‘Where do you think you’re going, your highness?’ The Enderman’s soft touch is cold to his skin. ‘Surely, you weren’t trying to run away again?’

Ranboo pulls his hands away, holding them close to his chest. “Me?” He sputters, and forces a laugh. “No! Of course not. Why would I leave when it’s so…” He struggles. “ Nice, here?”

The Enderman crosses their arms. ‘Well,’ they say, bemused, ‘you seem to have misplaced your crown.’

“My-” His hands go to his head, by instinct. “Oh! Haha, silly- I must’ve uh...left it…”

The Enderman stays silent, staring at him expectantly.

Ranboo bites the inside of his cheek. “I’ll...go get it then, I guess.”

‘Good idea,’ they agree.

He huffs as he turns away, storming back through his halls. His footsteps echo against the polished floor, through the emptiness and the loneliness. 

The End is cold. He is cold.

Large windows open to his side, and they open up to the Void. He winces, and slams his hands atop his ears - walks faster. 

The Void’s cries are wailing and constant, it begs to be filled and whines for release. 

He is the only one who can hear it. He is the End Prince, thus is his burden.

‘Prince,’ The Endermen murmur as he walks past. ‘Prince,’ calls the creatures of the End. ‘Prince,’ the Void wails.

It’s a deafening silence. A scorching chill. A common contradiction. His reality, his life.

You couldn’t really blame him, for wanting to leave.

Ranboo storms into his quarters, slamming the door behind him. For good measure, he knocks the crown off his desk - it falls with a delicate clatter, ringing in his ears. He screams into his walls, running his throat hoarse and raw with his frustration.

And when he is finished, he collapses on his bed. The covers are a silky caress. It murmurs for sleep, constantly; even when he’s not on them. Ranboo entertains the idea of sleep briefly, before he pushes it out of his mind.

He rifles through his drawers, pulling out a tattered book. The Endermen have tried replacing it, tried filling his shelves with empty notebooks for his taking. He...appreciates the gesture, but the damages are part of its charm. It’s proof that he used it, proof of his mark in his time.

If nothing else, then he'll be remembered by a battered notebook.

He runs his finger down the spine and it flakes and peels beneath his touch. He smiles. 

On the back page, he adds a note for himself. 

Backhalls are heavily patrolled. Find a different route.

He frowns, then. Practically every part of the castle is heavily patrolled. He’s running out of ‘different’ routes he could take. Save for jumping into the void, but not even he is that desperate. 

He groans and throws his book aside. His joints groan as he stretches his back, his wings spreading out behind him. Idly, he takes a wing to his lap, gently running his fingers down the inky feathers.

In the flickering light of his lanterns, his crown sparkles. He scowls at it.

“I hate you,” he tells the crown.

The crown doesn’t answer.

Unsurprisingly, Ranboo’s favourite place of the castle is outside of it.

‘Are you sure about this, Prince?’ The Endermen chitter nervously. ‘We wouldn’t want you to get-’

“I’ll be fine.” He scowls. “You don’t have to follow me around all the time, you know.”

They cry out, at that. ‘Leave you alone?’ Their outrage calls. ‘Never!’

Ranboo sighs. So much for that.

Still, he’s glad to be outside. The Void’s calls are shoved back, to the back of his mind. He strolls between tall trees with luminescent leaves. He treads the edge of the water, laughing at his entourage’s frightened calls. His steps don’t echo soullessly. He’s warm.

Eventually, he reaches the end of the island. The Void yawns beneath him, and Ranboo stills.

‘...Prince?’ A hand rests on his shoulder, drawing him back. ‘What does it say?’

Ranboo breathes a shaky breath. “Nothing,” he says as he turns away. “Nothing at all.”

The Void screams after him, wailing. He drowns it.

“How can we get to the other islands?” he asks. “Surely this can’t all be it.”

‘No no, Prince,’ they say. ‘Your kingdom stretches far and endless.’

“Then show me.” He stares at the distance. “I want to see.”

‘Please come down, Prince!’ The Endermen wail. ‘Prince!’ they fret. ‘You’ll hurt yourself!’

Honestly, they worry too much. He’s fine. 

He stands at the edge, a hefty drop looming beneath him. The rest of the End City sprawls underneath him, purpur bricks and end bricks. Shulkers hide in their shells at the sight of him. The Endermen vwoop and warble nervously.

Ranboo takes in a breath. He opens his wings, letting the feathers stretch behind him. He’s fine. He’s fine.

That’s a long drop.

Anxiety starts to crawl up his spine. He ought to do it soon, else he loses his resolve.

Ranboo breathes. He takes the crown off his head, setting it by his feet.

‘Prince!’ The Endermen shout. ‘Prince-!’

Ranboo steps into the air. He falls.

And he flies. His feathers create a current beneath him. He swoops and whoops with wonder, laughing. 

His kingdom stretches beneath him. He soars over the lakes and the trees. He swerves above rainbow crystals, brushing against vines. He dips low and lets his wings tease the water, wincing at the stinging drops - then laughing at his own carelessness.

Eventually, he sweeps back around. He can hear them cry out in relief at the sight of him. He waves cheekily as he makes to land.

Then swoops back, into the air. He climbs up, up, up.

And he’s free.

Ranboo laughs, breathing in the sweet empty air. For once, the Void is quiet as it surrounds him. For once, it only murmurs sweetness. It cradles his feathers and he, it.

When he falls, it is a breathtaking sensation. The Void waves farewell to him, and he laughs and waves back. He was wrong - oh, how was he wrong. 

The Void screams not for release, nor out of hunger. It screams for companionship. In that sense, they are the same. 

It is he, and he is it.

The slow falling sensation is dizzying. A shulker’s sting, before he could foolishly crash into the island. The collaborated work of the Endermen as they kept him anchored to the ground.

As the effect wears off, he sways on his feet. A giddy smile stretches on his lips. 

“I have an announcement to make,” he breathes.

There is a knock, on his door. Ranboo frowns.

“Come in,” he answers cautiously. 

An Enderman steps into his room, silently closing the door behind them. ‘Prince,’ they murmur, bowing their head low. ‘I’d speak to you, your highness. The people have...concerns.’

Ranboo slides off his bed. After an awkward pause, he picks up his crown and fits it atop his head. “What...concerns?”

The Enderman stoops, to make up for their vastly differing heights. ‘They worry about your speech of the Void, your highness.’ They fidget, clasping hands together tightly. ‘For hundreds of years, we’ve known it only as a danger. Taboo, if you will.’

Ranboo blinks and he does so slowly. “Taboo?” he echoes. 

The Enderman nods.

A soft sigh escapes him. “Throughout this kingdom’s history,” he begins, “how many monarchs are like me?”

The Enderman frowns. Somehow, they gather enough audacity and briefly crossed the line - glancing at his face.

He knows what they see. The mismatched eyes. The clash of dual tones. The faint tear scars that trail down his cheeks.

Ranboo bares his teeth. 

Properly abashed, the Enderman looks quickly away. ‘N-none,’ they stutter, ‘my prince.’

The Prince takes a bit, to calm his agitation. Then he leans back against his bedframe. “They have the right to be worried,” he says, softly. “But they...they weren’t there. I was.”

‘But my prince,’ The Enderman objects, ‘Are you sure you-’

“I am.” His own stubbornness surprises him. “It’s not like I’m asking them to jump in it,” he scoffs softly. “I’m just saying...you don’t have to be afraid of it.”

The Enderman falls silent.

Ranboo sighs. 

“What else?”

It feels as if the entire island is holding its breath.

‘Nothing more, Prince.’ They duck away. ‘Thank you.’

The door closes softly, behind them. Ranboo wraps his arms around himself, shivering.

The fire in his room is much too cold. It rages and blazes, but he shivers.

‘Prince!’ The Endermen call. ‘Come out, please! Where are you?’

Ranboo stifles his giggles with a hand on his mouth. He shifts on the branch, watching The Endermen roam the forest floor beneath him. Their calls are futile - they know it too, perhaps. But they search regardless.

After all, that’s how the game works. They look for him as he hides. Eventually, they’ll find him, and they’ll win. If not, he’ll come down, and he’ll win.

It’s a fun game. He invented it. He calls it 'Hidden Things'.

‘It sounds like a very fun game, Prince, ’ The Endermen had said. ‘What will you be hiding?’

Ranboo had looked at them, oddly. “Me.”

Their looks of horror were so incredibly funny. He should invent more games.

Ranboo hums to himself, laying down against the branch. The blue leaves around him sway, their lights gentle on his eyes. He breathes a soft breath of air, content and...vaguely sleepy.

He shifts his head, resting his chin on his hands. There’s chittering, somewhere. His kingdom is alive, brimming with it. It’s his.

He frowns, then. Caught in a train he’d rather get off. He straightens, shaking his head.

‘Prince!’ 

Ranboo blinks. He peers down. 

The Endermen gather beneath him. ‘Found you, Prince!’ They crow. ‘Come down!’

He huffs a smile. That’s a loss for him, but he finds himself unbothered.

“Catch!” He jumps down, and laughs at their frantic scramble.

Ranboo groans, weary. The words on the parchments blur in his eyes. Drones about this and that, on and on and on.

‘Tired, Prince?’

Ranboo leans back in his seat. His clothes are ruffled and his crown is askew. He tiredly rubs at his eyes. “Exhausted.”

There is a thunderous step. A draconian muzzle leans forward, across the table. Her eyes are a striking, mesmerising purple.

‘We can always take a rest, if you so wish,’ The Ender Dragon purrs. She lays on the ground, using the table as Her pillow. ‘I won’t tell anybody.’

It’s tempting, but- 

Ranboo scowls. Lightly, he smacks Her muzzle with the back of his hand. “You’re a menace,” he mutters. “I thought you were supposed to keep me in check.”

The Dragon harrumphs, drawing Her head back as She rubs at Her nose. ‘I know when a child needs his nap,’ She retorts with cheek. 

“I’m not a child,” Ranboo retorts. “I’m a prince. And I need to do finish these.”

‘Yes,’ She agrees. ‘You’ve already procrastinated quite a bit.’

“Thanks.”

‘But must it be tonight?’ She drops into a conspiratory tone. ‘Fly with me, Prince. When’s the last time you’ve stretched your wings?’

The wings in question twitch, as if aware of being mentioned. Ranboo glances away, gnawing at his lip. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “Don’t wanna get in trouble.”

The Dragon laughs, at that. ‘Hah! I thought you said you weren’t a child?’

Ranboo narrows his eyes at Her. But he considered it, and the silence stretches.

He pushes himself away from the desk. “If we get caught…”

‘Then I, the fearsome Ender Dragon, will have kidnapped you.’

They make their way out, onto the balcony. The cold is tantalizing, tempting. Ranboo shivers.

The Dragon grins at him as She leaps off. Her magnificent wings spread open, sparkling against the Void. With a mighty whump, She flies.

Ranboo laughs at the gust of wind, near toppling him over. In a few steps, he has stepped over the edge.

And the Void welcomes him.

Ranboo slips into his cloak. He pulls the hood low over his head. He leaves the crown on his side table. 

He picks up his pack, and stuffs it with chorus fruit and clothes. He leaves, through his balcony.

His wings soar against the backdrop of the Void. His feathers sing with the current. Ranboo flies through his kingdom; endless and magnificent.

The creatures of the End cry out, as he lands.

[Prince!] they chitter. [Prince!] they call.

Ranboo kneels, laughing softly. He pulls his hood down, breathing in the scents of the forest.

Home, he supposed.

“Hey, guys.” He digs into his pack. “I’ve got something for you.”

The creatures take the chorus fruit eagerly. [Thank you, Prince!]

“It’s no problem,” he promises. It’s the least that he could do, after all. 

A thank you, for helping him keep this place secret.

Ranboo sits and crosses his legs. He turns a chorus fruit in his hands, staring across the lake.

What a lake, it was too. A massive stretch of water, so far he could barely see the opposite shore. The fishes splash and splish, leaping into the air and sending ripples through the water’s surface. When it stills again, Ranboo can see his reflection. 

The water glows, a dim gentle light. Lilypads decorate its surface. The water is mythical, mystical, a wonder that's just out of touch for him.

He’s calm. The creatures’ chitter fade into a comfortable background noise. The cold is chased off here, and he is only warm.

For a moment, he lets himself forget. For a moment, he’s no Prince.

Here, he is simply Ranboo.

The Dragon’s pain courses through his veins.

Ranboo staggers, gasping for air. His feathers bristle. His hair stands on end.

‘The Dragon is being attacked!’ The Endermen cry out, for they feel it too. The explosion of pain that courses through Her, sends echoes through them.

‘Prince!’ The Endermen turn. ‘We need to get you safe-’

But Ranboo is gone. He takes a running leap through a window, and soars.

The Void echoes his panic. It screams in terror. It wails in his ears. Fly! It screeches. Fly, Prince!

Ranboo flies, faster than he’s ever had before. He loses a few feathers in the process, but the stinging pain is minuscule compared to the echoes of what he feels from Her. He shoots himself across islands, ignoring the panicked calls of his people.

He flies, and folds his wings as he passes through the End Gate.

Ranboo stumbles as soon as he’s through. His wings spasm and freeze and-

For a terrifying moment, he falls.

‘Prince!’ The Dragon swoops beneath him, shoving him into focus. ‘What’re you doing here?’

“I-” Ranboo stutters, frantically jerked into staying in flight. “You’re- You were getting hurt.”

‘And you nearly were.’ The Dragon turns. ‘What’re you thinking? It’s my job to deal with outsiders, not yours.’

She flies off, and Ranboo chases after Her. “I couldn’t just do nothing!” He calls. “Let me help!”

The Dragon sighs as She stops. They stay like that, staring the other down.

‘It’s done anyway,’ She says. ‘Just some fool headed children that got too lucky. I’ve already sent one back to its realm.’

Ranboo blinks, curling his arms around himself. “...children?” he echoes.

The Dragon swoops down, down back to the Island. Ranboo follows Her, landing as She does.

‘I was in the middle of digging it out when I sensed you.’ She jerks Her nose towards one of the obsidian pillars, more battered than the rest. ‘Pitiful thing. When its companion got sent back, it panicked and tried to escape me by digging a hole.’

Ranboo tilts his head. “What’ll you do with...it?”

‘Kill it, most likely.’ The Dragon harrumphs as She lays, tucking Her forelegs close to Her chest. ‘It’s the only way for it to go back home.’

Ranboo cringes, pulling away. He rubs his arm and finds himself staring at the obsidian pillar.

Eventually, he steps forward.

‘Prince,’ The Dragon growls, a warning.

Ranboo waves Her off. “I’ll be fine,” he promises. “Maybe I can draw it out for you.”

The Dragon is silent at that, and Ranboo takes it as permission. Not that he needs it, anyway. Not like The Dragon can be scary, when She’s enraged. Not like there’s a reason She’s put in charge of dealing with outsiders.

Anyway.

Ranboo steps cautiously to the pillar. He can see the hole She mentioned, probably once a meagre one-block small, now missing a good few chunks. But he can see the original tunnel, and it surprised him to see it stretch further beneath the pillar.

Ranboo glances back to The Dragon. She returns his gaze, just as curiously.

He stares at the tunnel. 

It’s tempting. It’s very tempting.

The Dragon catches onto his train. ‘Prince,’ She calls again. ‘I wouldn’t-’

Well, now he had to do it. With his breath caught in his throat, Ranboo drops into the tunnel.

The walls are cramped and small. He hisses softly, shifting his arms through the tight space and heaving himself through. His wings complain loudly, as do the rest of him. Miraculously, his crown stays in place.

Good. He’s not looking forward to the scolding he might get, if he’d lost it.

The tunnel stretches on for way longer than he thought it would. Ranboo huffs and heaves, wriggling as the space grew smaller and smaller. Then, he could go no further.

Panic seizes him briefly, before he grabs hold of the reigns once more. Ranboo digs his fingers and toes into the ground, hissing as he pushed-

With a soft pop, he stumbles out of the tunnel. Ranboo blinks, taking sight of the new den-like area he’s found himself in.

Then, staring at the creature huddling away from him.

Its knees are drawn close to its chest. It shivers, with torn clothes and red blisters on its hands. Scattered around it are broken arrows, useless now.

The creature stares at him, and Ranboo stares back. Frozen, in place.

“Stay back,” it warns. “I- I can fight- You don’t wanna pick a fight with me.”

The Prince sits back, his eyebrows furrowing curiously. He knows he’s never seen anything like this before, yet the familiarity is undeniable.

The creature feels it too. It relaxes, a minuscule amount. Ranboo can see its jaw drop. “You’re- you’re like me.”

And the creature- The... kid, pushes away brown strands of hair from their eyes. 

Their eyes meet.

Ranboo takes them in. The small nubs on the tops of their heads, teasing the beginning of curved horns. Their battered green shirt. The floppy ears on the sides of their heads.

Their eyes.

“...hello?” The Goat Kid whispers.

“...hello,” breathes the End Prince.

Chapter Text

“Where did you come from?” The Goat Kid whispers. They push themselves back and away. “I-I thought no one else knew we snuck out...I thought it was just me and Tommy.”

The Prince blinks. Like a fish, his jaw opens and closes soundlessly. 

“Hello,” says he again, stupidly. 

“...hello?” The Goat Kid eyes him.

Ranboo harshly shakes his head, dislodging the settling fog in his mind. “Er- hi,” he manages, at least. “My name’s-”

Prince.

“Ranboo,” he says instead. “...what’s yours?”

The Goat Kid holds their hands, close to their chest. They look at their fingers as they speak. “...Tubbo,” they say at last. 

Tubbo glances up at him, staring at his face. Both of them freeze, enraptured in the other.

Ranboo looks away first.

“How did you get here?” Tubbo straightens, some tension misting away from their shoulders. “Did you go through the portal too?”

Ranboo gnaws at his lips. “No…” says he, cautiously. “I’ve...always been in the End. I-”

Rule it? Own it? The Dragon you tried to kill, She answers to my call?

“-live here,” he finishes lamely. 

Ranboo sits back, mirroring the way the Goat- Tubbo pulled knees up close. “Why did you come here?” he can’t help but ask.

Fool of him, perhaps. What else do outsiders want to do, when they come?

A flicker of shame, and embarrassment, passes through Tubbo’s face. “We...just wanted to see if we can kill the Ender Dragon,” they murmur. “It was Tommy’s idea but...I thought it was cool.”

Unfortunately unsurprised, the Prince glances away. “...She can get scary when She’s angry,” he offers. “But...She’s usually really nice, every other time.”

They huff a single chuckle. “She sounds like Phil.”

A beat passes. 

Tubbo looks at him oddly. “...‘She’?”

In a moment of wondrous timing, The Dragon screams a wordless roar above them. A warning, double-edged with meaning, despite the animalistic nature.

“That’s Her,” Ranboo breathes, and he knows his time is up. But when he stares back at Tubbo, shivering and whimpering away, he makes a decision.

“Come on,” he offers a hand, and a smile. “Trust me.”

Tubbo stares at his hand, wide-eyed. “...you’re not thinking about going out there, aren’t you?”

Ranboo pulls a face and shrugs. “She’ll get angry if I don’t.” Tubbo’s terror is clear, and it softens The Prince’s tone. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Tubbo glances between the hand and his face, teeth gnawing uneasily on their lips. Hesitantly, they brush their fingers along his palm.

“Promise?” they whisper.

“Promise,” says Ranboo, ever unhesitant.

They clamber out of the tunnel. Ranboo breathes a sigh of relief, stretching his wings in the newfound space. Through the corner of his eye, he spots Tubbo eyeing them with wonder.

Ranboo catches their gaze with a smile. Tubbo smiles back.

Then the Dragon lands.

She’s the picture of fury, the embodiment of cold rage. Smoke curdles from Her jaw. Her wings snap outwards as She rears on Her hind legs.

‘Prince,’ She growls. ‘Step aside.’

Ranboo glances behind him, looking for Tubbo. For a moment, the Goat Kid eludes him. He shifts his wings and feels something cowering behind him.

Well, he did promise.

Ranboo snaps his own wings open, an intentional display to mirror the Dragon’s stance. As a bonus, it hid Tubbo from Her thinly narrowed eyes.

“Wait,” he speaks, and he does so as The Prince. “Leave this one be.”

So strong is Her surprise, Ranboo feels it in his own veins.

‘What?’ The Dragon lands back, on all four legs. ‘Prince, it’s an outsider.’

‘They,’ he retorts, ‘are…’

Just another child? Like me? Friendly?

‘...harmless.’

The Dragon scoffs, throwing Her head back in disbelief. ‘Outsiders are never harmless,’ She seethes. ‘They come here for one reason, and one reason alone.’

“They didn’t even know what they were doing!” Ranboo spreads his arms. “You said so yourself. Just some fool-headed children, right?”

She growls. ‘Never trust a fool with a blade,’ 

Ranboo does not falter. “What about a fool with a crown, then?”

The Dragon falls silent, taken aback.

He takes his chance. “They’re hurt and terrified. They’re not gonna be hurting anybody.”

Her tail lashes against the ground, dislodging whole blocks in its wake. ‘What will you do, then?’ She sneers. ‘Take it back to the castle?’

Ranboo blinks.

The Dragon stares at him, in sheer disbelief. ‘No.’ She shakes Her head. ‘Don’t even think about it, Prince.’

Ranboo can’t help but grin. “I’m definitely thinking about it.”

‘No!’

He tilts his head back, searching for the Goat Kid. He finds them pressed against his spine, hunched into themselves.

“...Tubbo?”

“H-huh?” Tubbo glances up at him, eyes widened to the whites. “Wha-”

“Do you wanna go back...home with me?” Ranboo eyes the torn clothes, the skinned knee he could now see, the blisters on their hands. “We- I can...help you. Fix you up a bit.”

Tubbo stares at him, wide-eyed and silent. After a while, Ranboo glances away, uncomfortable.

He feels Tubbo press in, clinging to the back of his clothes. “I’d be okay with that,” they murmur.

Satisfied, Ranboo turns back to face The Dragon.

She glares at him. ‘You know your council won’t allow it,’ She reminds him, spiteful in Her tone. ‘They’ll kill it, and send it back home anyway.’

“They’ll allow anything I tell them to,” Ranboo reminds Her. “Besides, they’re not an outsider, they’re my...guest.”

The Dragon paces the ground, agitation curling Her lips and smoking Her breaths. She snarls, wordless in Her irritation.

‘Prince,’ She growls at last. She lowers Her muzzle, until the two are nose to nose. ‘As your Dragon, you know your calls are mine to answer. But as your friend?’ She hisses, ‘I’m begging you to see reason.’

Ranboo forces himself to return Her gaze, evenly. 

He will not back down. He will not, damn it - he is the Prince. If he can’t even do things like this then-

Then what’s the point?

What’s the point.

“I’m bringing them back,” he says. With that, he makes it final.

The Dragon stares at him in silence. Silently, She bends Her forelegs, lowers Herself into a heavy bow.

‘As you wish,’ says She, with a tone empty and cold. ‘My prince.’

Ranboo reels back. He swallows, against the tightness in his throat. “I-” He struggles. “You-”

The Dragon turns Her head away. The conversation is over.

His breaths shake, Ranboo clears his throat, turning around.

Tubbo stares at him, their jaw-dropping and shutting. “I-” They eye The Dragon with fear. “What- Were you speaking with...Her?”

“...yeah?” Ranboo tilts his head. “You couldn’t hear it?”

Tubbo shakes their head. “I heard what you were saying,” they say. “But the- but Her?”

Ranboo frowns, glancing back to The Dragon - She, who only pointedly rises and turns Her back on them both.

The Prince rolls his eyes, vowing to clear the air after. But now, he turns to his guest with a gentle smile.

“She’s just a bit grumpy I pulled rank on Her,” he promises, assurance. “She’ll warm up to you, I’m sure.”

Tubbo furrows their eyebrows. “‘Pulled rank’-”

At the same time, their eyes land to the top of his head. Ranboo watches as their jaw drop for the final time. They make an odd sound at the back of their throat, and what little colour they had leaves their face.

And Ranboo winces, as he realises what he’s said.

“I-”

“You’re a king?” They sputter, clamping a hand to their lips.

Ranboo frowns. “I’m not. I’m just a prince.”

“Just a-” They shake again, though this time for an entirely different reason. “But you said you lived here!”

Uncomfortable awkwardness makes him scratch at the back of his neck, glancing away. “I do,” he defends himself. “The End is my...kingdom.”

Tubbo struggles for words, a whirlwind of expressions flickering on their face. They make the most curious expressions as they do, and Ranboo finds himself most fascinated.

Eventually, their jaw clicks shut. Suppose they managed to choose a topic to be confused about, specifically. 

“This is your kingdom?” They gesture around. To the single island, the battered obsidian towers, the lifelessness. “It’s...nice.”

And Ranboo surprises himself, by laughing. “This is only the first island,” he says. He begins to walk to the edge, gesturing for Tubbo to follow. “It’s where outsiders, like you,” he adds, “first reach when they come.”

“Outsiders?” Tubbo echoes. Light offence entwines their words, but then they pull a face. “That’s...fair, actually. I did try to kill your dragon.”

“You did,” Ranboo agrees. He waves off the beginnings of an awkward apology. “Please, it’s fine. You just vaguely annoyed Her.”

Never mind the terror in The Prince’s veins, the first time he felt Her pain.

They stand at the edge of the island. The Void whispers to him, murmuring curiosity of their newcomer. Ranboo pushes it aside, for now. He promises to tell it more later.

He’s made a lot of promises, lately.

“Do you see that bit of bedrock, way out there?” Ranboo points, and waits for Tubbo to affirm. “That’s an End Gateway. If you pass through it, it’ll take you to the rest of the kingdom.”

Tubbo tilts their head. “...how do you get there, though? It’s all out in the middle of nothing.”

“Well, we-” Ranboo cuts himself off. He frowns.

He’s...never thought of it before.

“I flew here,” he offers. “The Endermen can teleport there.”

They glance at each other, at the same time.

“I can’t do any of those things,” Tubbo murmurs. They glance away, staring at the void.

Ranboo frowns at the expression, solemn and unfitting to be on the Goat Kid’s face. But the Prince struggles for the words, struggles to find what to say, and he only falls into silence.

“Tommy fell in that.”

Ranboo reels back, his wings ruffling behind him. “...huh?”

“That,” Tubbo points, to the Void. “He got flung in there.”

They both peer in, as if they could still see him. Ranboo winces away quickly, but Tubbo stays.

The Goat Kid stays, staring into the nothing. They seem so small, then. No stronger than a fallen leaf, no less fragile or tattered.

Ranboo bites on his tongue. He reaches out with his hand first, then thought better of it and extends a wing instead.

That seems to work, and Tubbo takes a step closer to his side.

The Goat Kid breathes, arms crossed as they held themselves. “Is...Tommy dead?” they breathe, shaking like a leaf. “Is he dead?”

Ranboo presses lips to close, into a thin line. He breathes sharply in. “I...suppose. Not many survive the Void.”

Tubbo’s grip tightens around themselves. They breathe a heavy sigh of relief. “Good,” they say. “He’s respawned by now probably. Back home.”

Ranboo feels his jaw drop. He closes it with a gentle click, eyebrows furrowing - his turn, to be deeply and utterly confused.

“You’re… glad?” He asks. “That he’s dead?”

Tubbo glances up at him. They give a little chuckle. “You make it sound horrible,” they say. “We’re not old enough to really die, yet. We’re still respawners”

Tubbo pauses. “Though I don’t think that’ll stop Phil from trying.” They groan, pressing the heels of their palms into their eyes. “God, I’m in so much trouble when I get back.”

Ranboo thought he’d never been more confused, and yet never not cared about it this much either. It doesn’t matter what respawners are - how could they, when Tubbo gives him a weary, cheeky smile.

“We’re brothers,” Tubbo offers. “Me and Tommy.”

“...brothers?” Ranboo echoes.

Tubbo nods, and the smile grows on their face. A wondrous stretch of the lips, and the soft wrinkles in their eyes as they do.

And Ranboo smiles back.

“We get into all sorts of shit together.” Tubbo laughs, eyes unfocusing with the memories. “Can’t wait to tell the others I got to meet the End Prince though. Tommy’s going throw a fit he missed it.”

Ranboo huffs a laugh, surprising himself with the ease that came with it. “He wouldn’t have really missed anything.”

“I doubt that,” Tubbo’s quick to say.

They fall into silence together, staring at The Void.

“So how’s that getting to the Gateway thing coming along?”

Ranboo hums. “I guess I could carry you?” He flaps his wings, punctuating his point. “Or…”

They both glance back to the centre of the island.

“No,” Tubbo says, horrified. “She’ll actually just kill me.”

“No She won’t,” Ranboo dismisses. He stops and pauses, actually thinking about it. “...I won’t let Her.”

“That reassures me, greatly,” Tubbo deadpans.

Ranboo huffs a breath of laughter. “You’ll be fine.”

‘No.’

“Dragon-”

‘I am not,’ She snarls, pointing a wing to Tubbo’s vague area, ‘carrying it on my back.’

Ranboo crosses his arms, narrowing critical eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to carry them myself. It’s not like the added weight is going to be dangerous anyway. It’s not like I might drop into the Void.”

The Dragon falls silent.

“You’ll catch me if I fall, right?” Tubbo whispers to him. They eye the Dragon with an expected amount of wariness. “I doubt She will.”

Ranboo smiles, and makes a point to exaggeratedly fluff out his wings. “I won’t let you fall,” he promises, with a wink. “Swear on it.”

Tubbo huffs, yet they smile. “I’ll hold you to that, bossman.” 

Together, they step up to the Dragon. After some time, the Dragon kneels; lowering Her wings to the ground and allowing Tubbo a path up. 

Meanwhile, She eyes him with thinly veiled rage, one that promises a hearty chat soon. Ranboo returns the gaze with a grimacing smile, already filled with dread.

“Ready?” he asks the Goat Kid, watching as they shifted into a secure-ish position between Her spinal scales. “Hold tight,” he calls. 

To the Dragon, The Prince drops into a lower tone. “Promise me you’ll at least try not to drop them.”

‘I make no such promises,’ She grumbles. In a swift flap of the wings, She takes flight.

Ranboo sighs, then follows Her. As he rises, he breathes into the Void - taking the moment, to savour the air between his feathers, a soft caress and warm with his presence.

He smiles.

Then he soars. He catches up to The Dragon soon enough. The Prince not-so-subtly makes sure Tubbo’s not about for falling - he receives a thin, but grateful smile in return.

They fly across the Void. The Prince, the Goat Kid, and the Dragon.

Ranboo’s giddy grin is fueled by the flight, by the excitement of having a guest. “Tubbo!” he calls and flaps over next to him. “You’re going to love The End.”

Tubbo stares at him, through the shaggy strands of hair blowing in the wind. Their eyes are wide and their mouth parted, gaping at simply everything.

And Ranboo laughs, lighter than he’s ever been before. 

They pass through the Gateway.

Tubbo is going to lose his goddamn mind.

When Tommy had made the kindling suggestion, now so long ago, Tubbo wasn’t expecting this. If anything, he expected them to go through the portal, maybe look at the Ender Dragon, and decided it totally wasn’t worth it and go back.

A couple of things went wrong with that.

One, the portal was gone when they went through. Just vanished, disappeared. They had no way to go back, to go anywhere but onwards.

Second, The Dragon.

It- Her roars had shaken the entire island. It clamped claws of terror through their hearts, sent impulses of hopelessness in the face of their newfound foe.

‘Shoot it!’ Tommy had shouted, nocking an arrow. His shaky aim went far, off to hit some crystal on top of a lower tower. The explosion that came after had knocked the arrows out of Tubbo’s hands, scattering them uselessly.

‘Tommy,’ Tubbo had breathed. His knees shook. He felt weak. ‘I’m scared.’

And Tommy, the Golden Boy, had never looked so pained. ‘I’m sorry Tubbo, ’ he had whispered. His voice was no stronger than the lightest breeze, but his hands were steady. ‘I’ll get us out of here.’

Then he had died, flung into the Void. His screams echoed, loud yet soundless in nature. He screamed, not out of fear for himself, but for Tubbo.

And Tubbo had run, taken a pickaxe to the ground. Tunnelled and hid, cowering in the dark. So very afraid, crying out at every rumble of the earth as The Dragon dug him out.

But then She was gone.

And then he was there.

Ranboo. Ranboo, the End Prince. Ranboo, with stars in his eyes, and wings that shine. Ranboo, who smiles so softly at him, and promises safety like the sun promises warmth.

The End is cold, but Tubbo feels warm.

They fly through the gateway. Tubbo presses himself into the Dragon’s back, squeezing his eyes shut.

He waits, until he can hear the softer beatings of Ranboo’s wings. And then, only then, does Tubbo opens his eyes.

Ranboo was right. He did love the End.

“Woah,” Tubbo breathes. 

Everything glows, in some way or another. They soar over trees that are bigger than his house, each blue leaf shining its own hue. They cross over massive lakes that are brimming with life and motion. They swerve beneath islands and above them, each gentle wing flap matching the beat of Tubbo’s own heart.

“Well?” he hears. Tubbo turns, catching Ranboo’s eyes and the way they shone at the dumbfounded grin on his face.

“What do you think?” asks The Prince.

Tubbo bursts into laughter, disbelief and wonder. He gestures at everything, coming up with nothing strong enough to describe just what it is that he feels. “I-”

But Ranboo understands, and The Prince laughs with him.

Eventually, Tubbo spots a castle in the distance.

He’s only seen one castle, in his whole life before. When he followed Phil, Tommy and the others on a trip to the capital. He was so small then, clinging onto Tommy’s hand like a lifeline in the raging sea of people. He remembers seeing the castle, a looming shadow of stone bricks - cold and intimidating.

This castle isn’t like that. It’s majestic, with its towering spires. It spills naturally into the biomes around it, until Tubbo almost can’t tell when the outside starts and the castle begins. Elegant royal purples and gold - an appropriate theme, for the End Prince.

Tubbo snorts to himself. ‘Just a prince,’ Ranboo had said.

“What?” Ranboo tilts his head. The Prince had never strayed too far from his side, keeping in stride with The Dragon's wing flaps. “What’s so funny?”

Tubbo waves him off. “Nothing, just-”

The Dragon swoops, suddenly downwards. Tubbo’s words lose themselves to the wind, and he clings onto inky dark scales with a yelp. But The Dragon is elegant, and She is gentle as She lands.

The castle doors loom before them, the doorway carved with patterns he could spend hours looking at. Idly, he notices how they are just large enough for Her to walk through.

Speaking of.

Tubbo clambers down quickly. “Er,” he offers a smile, “thanks. For not dropping me.”

The Dragon swings Her head, looking down. She huffs, growling beneath Her breath, each chitter and click that comes from Her jaws falling meaninglessly to Tubbo’s ears.

He feels, more than hears, Ranboo land behind him. The Prince’s wings are shadows at the edge of his vision. 

The Dragon looks up from him, staring at The Prince again. Those clicks and chitters sound clipped, and She ends it with a barely disguised growl.

Ranboo makes a soft noise. “Don’t say that,” he sighs. “It’s not the end of the world.”

The Dragon harrumphs. She growls some more, then turns Her nose up at the both of them. With a mighty flap that near sends him staggering, The Dragon takes to the sky and disappears against The Void.

Tubbo swallows. “Well,” he says. “I think She likes me.”

Ranboo glances down at him. Like dew, the irritation vanishes from his face. The Prince’s chuckles are soft in his ears, and Tubbo laughs along.

Together, they make their way into the castle. 

“So,” Tubbo says, as soon as he remembers to stop gaping. “Am I going to meet the King and Queen anytime soon?”

“What?” Ranboo turns his head. Their footsteps echo in the empty hall. Confusion is etched on his face. “What do you mean?”

Tubbo’s eyebrows furrow. “Y’know...or is it King and King? Queen and Queen? Monarchs?”

Ranboo stops walking, keeping in his silent confusion. Tubbo makes a soft sound as he does too.

“Just one then?” he asks, voice dripping in desperation. “I- Do you not have parents?”

And bless him, The Prince actually stops to think about whether or not he has parents.

“I guess not?” Ranboo pulls a face. “I can’t...remember them.”

Tubbo gapes at him, for an entirely different reason than the last five times he did earlier. “You guess-” He stops himself, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“What about The Dragon?” he asks at last.

Ranboo bursts out laughing. “Please,” he snickers. “The Dragon’s not my parent. I’m older, actually.”

“You?” Tubbo hums, evidently disbelieving. “Sure.”

“I’m serious!” The Prince moves again, leading him through the castle halls. Massive windows open up to their side, their sills carved delicately. 

“I remember watching Her hatch, actually,” Ranboo tells him. “She was really small. Like, I could fit Her on my palm, then.”

Tubbo’s jaw drops. “You’re sure we’re talking about the same Dragon right now.”

“Hah!” Ranboo shakes his head, smiling brightly. “Dragons grow really quickly.” A sudden solemnity enters his eyes, sobering the air. “They have to, I guess,” Ranboo murmurs. “You can’t defend The End if you’re a baby.”

Tubbo ends up staring at the ground. He watches the way the torchlights reflect against the polished floor.

“Y’know,” he says. “I don’t...either. Have parents.”

Ranboo hums, softly. A gentle invitation to continue, a reassurance that promises; yes, he’s listening, he’s here.

Tubbo takes a breath. “I mean,” he says. “Me and Tommy are brothers, and Phil’s Tommy’s dad but…”

He shrugs. “Phil’s not...my dad, I don’t think. He doesn’t call me his son anyway.”

“Son?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo furrows his eyebrows at the Prince. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Ranboo says quickly. 

They stop walking. 

“...does that bother you?” asks The Prince. “Not having parents?”

And Tubbo thinks about it. “Nah,” he shakes his head. “I’m good. Tommy’s family. And his family is mine too.”

There’s no way Ranboo understands that, yet The Prince nods anyway. He looks relieved, then he gestures to the door they’d stopped by.

“You can stay in this room for a bit.” The Prince leans forward, pushing the door open. A massive bedroom opens up, and Tubbo barely registers the enormity of everything inside of it. 

“I’ll send someone to help you out.” Ranboo glances over him, to the other end of the hall. "Er- Don't look at them in the eye. They won't like that."

“You’re leaving?” Tubbo regrets it as soon as the words leave. “I mean- Not that you have to stay, I just-”

The flicker of surprise on Ranboo's face gives, quickly, to gentle understanding. “I’ll come back,” he promises. “They just...need to know.”

Tubbo doesn’t ask who they are. He’s run his mouth quite a bit already, so the Goat Kid clamps his jaws, shut. 

He glances into the bedroom. He glances up to The Prince. Their gazes meet.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly. His cheeks warm. “I...think I forgot to say that, earlier. Sorry, Ranboo.”

Ranboo huffs a soft laugh. “It’s alright,” he says. “And you’re welcome.”

The castle falls silent.

“Actually,” Tubbo frowns. “Can I call you Ranboo? Or is that...disrespectful?” His eyes widen. Tubbo gasps. “Oh- Did I start a war by calling you Ranboo?”

“Pfsh-” Ranboo snickers. “Goodness, no. You can call me whatever you like.” He tilts his head. “It’s not like I won’t answer.”

“Hmm,” Tubbo smiles. “Then I’ll just call you by who you are.”

Ranboo does not look away, even as he nods. “That works,” he murmurs.

Tubbo steps into the bedroom, slowly. The fire’s somehow already lit, and the room is warm - he is, too. He breathes, soft, and he glances back to The Prince.

“Thank you,” he says. “Ranboo.”

Ranboo blinks. His breath shudders lightly.

“You’re welcome,” says The Prince. He leans forward, grabbing the door handle.

It shuts, with a soft click. 

Tubbo stands alone.

With shaky legs, he makes it to the large bed. The sheets are soft and cool beneath him, silky smooth. 

Tubbo sits, on the edge. The mattress dips beneath his weight.

Then, and only then, does he lets himself freak the fuck out.

Chapter Text

Whispers spread through The End. The creatures of the kingdom murmur. They scurry with news, breeding rumours and tales.

[A guest!] They mutter. [The Prince had brought back a guest!]

[I hear the guest tried to kill The Dragon,] they whisper. [And that they got close, too.]

[I hear the guest has twisted, deformed horns,] others cry. [And eyes that paralyze you on sight!]

[An outsider!] They wail. [A monster!]

“I didn’t mean to piss them off-”

“Tubbo, I gave you one piece of advice.” Ranboo hides his face in his hands. “And it was to not look at them in the eyes!”

The bed beneath them shifts as Tubbo does. The roaring fireplace quiets to a gentle growl. Out beyond the balcony, the Void sings.

Tubbo crosses his arms. “Well, I-” he huffs. “Shut up, Ranboo. I tried my best.”

“Your best?” Ranboo peeks through his fingers. “Wow…”

Tubbo throws a pillow at him. “Hey!” He pouts. “In my defence, I thought it was you.”

Ranboo, drawn out of his brief surprise of having a pillow thrown at him, bursts into laughter. “I am nowhere near as tall as my council.” He throws the pillow back, with a grin. “You’ve got no defence.”

Tubbo throws his arms up. “Fine!” He flops onto his back. “Catch me and throw me into the dungeons. I’ll rot the rest of my days there and be horribly cranky all the time.”

Ranboo snickers. He idly takes a wing to his lap, running his fingers down the feathers. “I wouldn’t throw you in there.” He stops, and thinks. “I’m not even sure we have a dungeon.”

“No?” Tubbo glances up at him. “What’d you do with criminals then?”

“Dunno.” The Prince shrugs. “But I do have Dragon.”

Tubbo grimaces. “Not liking what you’re implying, big man.” He sits up, leaning on his elbows. His eyes widen and shine. “Oh! Are you preening?”

Ranboo blinks, reeling back. “What?”

“Preening.” Tubbo gestures at the wing. “Y’know, the thing where you make your feathers all clean and shit.”

The Prince glances down, to the wing. His fingers still, and he hums to himself. “I guess?” He glances, back up to the Goat Kid. “I didn’t know you called it that though.”

“Ooh, can I help?” Tubbo claps his bandaged hands. His voice pitches in excitement. “I used to help Phil with his all the time, back home. Please? I promise I won’t mess it up.”

Tubbo had him at 'help’, but Ranboo frowns as his attention gets caught elsewhere. “Phil’s?” he echoes. “He has...these, too?”

“What, wings?” Tubbo tilts his head. “Yeah. He’s always had them.” He frowns, then. “He used to be able to fly with them, but now he’s to hide them a lot more. Town’s people think it’s cursed, or some other bullshit.”

“What?” Ranboo’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s...stupid.” 

He turns on the bed, giving his wings to the Goat Kid - he, who takes it with gentle hands and a gleeful giggle. 

“I mean,” continues Ranboo. “What makes it bad? They can fly? They need to spend a bit of their time cleaning more than usual? What?”

“I know!” Tubbo agrees, his voice enthused from behind him.

His fingers run light and gentle on his feathers. Smoothing their textures, rearranging, shifting and cleaning.

“God,” Tubbo sighs. “I’ve asked so many people why they thought people with wings were bad people. All they did was shoo me off or tell me I wasn’t old enough.”

Tubbo moves his attention up, to the feathers closer near Ranboo’s shoulders - the ones he always had trouble reaching. “Especially the Sybil.”

Ranboo cranes his neck around. “Sybil?”

“Mmm.” Tubbo frowns at the feathers. “She’s...something, that’s for sure. She calls herself the Sybil, but no one knows where she really comes from.” His voice hardens. “But everyone listens to her. Even people who say they don’t believe her.”

“Huh.” Ranboo tucks his knees close, resting his chin. “Sounds like someone I’d avoid.”

“Or throw to the Dragon.” Tubbo’s hands pause. “How...is She, by the way? Still angry?”

“Outraged.” Ranboo sighs. “Something something…history or whatever. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Pfsh.” Tubbo snickers. “No wonder She’s ‘outraged’. Imagine getting ignored by the Prince himself.”

Ranboo swings a wing around - he hits his mark, judged by the light ‘thwack’ and Tubbo’s outcry. 

“Shush, you,” he laughs. “Or I’ll build a dungeon just to have you in it.”

Tubbo grumbles under his breath. “You’re more of a tyrant, than a prince,” he says, though the kind gentleness of his hands does more than take out the sting of his words. 

Tubbo scratches the bridge between wing and back, and Ranboo makes a soft noise at the back of his throat.

The Goat Kid stills. “Has no one...ever done this for you before?” Tubbo asks. A certain melancholy lives in his tone, breathes with his words. 

Ranboo finds himself gnawing molars together. “No,” he admits softly. “The Council...Er- No one else really...has these. Or at least, not anyone I know.”

“Huh…” Tubbo scratches a bit more, before he moves to the other feathers. “That...sounds really lonely.”

It is.

“...sometimes,” says The Prince, instead. He sighs, burying his face in between his knees. 

They fall into silence.

“How are you?” Ranboo asks.

“Me?” Tubbo sounds vaguely surprised. “I’m alright. Your council’s good at treating patients, when they’re not trying to kill them.”

Ranboo snickers. “That was funny.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was kinda funny.”

Tubbo lightly shoves him. “That’s it,” he grumbles, and pulls his hands away. “You’re preening yourself.”

“Oh no.” Ranboo turns his head around. “Tubbo, please.”

And The Prince knows he has him, when Tubbo’s eyes soften. No matter the Goat Kid’s exaggerated grumbling, nor Ranboo’s dramatic pleading. A little dance that they do, sat still on Tubbo’s bed.

Ranboo feels warm. Tubbo’s touch is gentle on his feathers, rhythmic and steady; The Prince feels, slightly, drowsy.

“...thanks,” he mumbles. “Tubbo.”

Tubbo presses a hand to his back. The touch is warm, gentle, and real. “You’re welcome, Ranboo.”

Ranboo’s out of the castle.

And for once, he finds that he can’t wait to go back. 

He stands, listening to some shulker representative welcome him to their End City, telling him how much of an honour it was to have you here, Prince, and-

Ranboo’s wings twitch. He itches to grab them and to run his hand down the smooth feathers. They feel lighter, somehow. 

He does, too.

“Tubbo!” Ranboo calls. He walks through his halls, cupping hands around his mouth. “Tubbo?”

His calls echo, unanswered. Ranboo wraps his arms around himself, and he frowns.

“...Tubbo?”

He screams, as something grabs his shoulders.

“Boo!” Tubbo cackles, throwing his head back. “Hah! I got you, didn’t I?”

Ranboo breathes out, sharply - quelling his rapid heartbeat. “I’ll get you back,” he croaks as he hunches over. “You’ll regret this.”

Tubbo grins. He holds his hands behind his back, twirling on his tiptoes. The clothes he borrowed spin nicely with him. “If you’ll even survive the shock,” he wags his finger at him, “your highness.”

Ranboo grabs, suddenly, at him. Tubbo reels away, quickly stepping back.

They stare at each other. 

Ranboo bends his knees.

“Wait wait no-!” Tubbo screams, laughing as Ranboo sprints after him.

They run, skidding and sliding down the polished floors. After a while, Ranboo realises he can use his wings to give him a boost - his wing flaps echoing through the halls, intermingled with their giddy laughter.

He catches him eventually, or maybe Tubbo lets him. But they crash into each other, rolling across the floor and sliding the rest of the way.

Ranboo grins, breathless. “Got you.”

Thrown on his back, lying beside him, Tubbo lightly punches his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Ranboo sits up. “Where were you even hiding from?” he laughs. “That was an empty hallway.”

Tubbo looks at him oddly. “No, it’s not. I came from the gardens.”

Ranboo furrows his eyebrows. “What gardens?”

They stare at each other.

“You did say I could roam the castle.”

“I did.” Ranboo giggles. “I didn’t think you’d find me a secret in my own castle, though.”

Tubbo elbows him lightly. “What can I say?” he grins. “The secrets just make themselves.”

“Secret keeper, are you?”

“Absolutely.”

Tubbo leads him back down the halls. A curious sense of deja vu flits between them. Their footsteps echo in tandem, a rhythm comprised of motion and sounds. 

Always a shadow in the corner of his eye, Ranboo spots The Council. He scowls at them, and they vanish.

“Ta daa!” Tubbo spins with a showman’s flair, gesturing to an empty space in the wall. “Secret door, secret door, secret door-”

Ranboo squints at the wall. “I don’t see any-”

Like a mirage, it shifts. He spots the outline, vaguely door shaped. He picks up the shift in the colours, a difference in shade. 

Secret door.

“Wow.” He glances between it and Tubbo. “How’d you even find this?”

Tubbo grins as he pushes the door open. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

Together, they walk in.

The door opens up to a small hallway, just about tall enough. The tips of Ranboo’s hair brush against the ceiling. He tucks his wings close as he walks, his arms wrapped around himself.

Tubbo walks in front of him, each step a bounce. He has to reach up to touch the ceiling, and he lets his fingers graze across them as he walks.

The Goat Kid glances back at him with a smile.

And Ranboo smiles back.

The garden is small, when they finally reach it. Hidden, for all intents and purposes. The Void opens up above them, circled by the walls around them. Torchlights are littered, providing an almost ridiculous amount of light - for the plants, he assumes.

Ranboo can’t recognise any of anything that grows here, but apparently Tubbo does.

“I’m impressed you’ve got so many flowers here.” The Goat Kid glances back. A cheeky smile grows on his face. “Without even realising it, apparently.”

Ranboo steps closer. He peers at one odd flower, eyeing the petal folds. “I’ve never seen any of these, I don’t think.”

“No?” Tubbo spreads his arms as he walks through the garden. “I see these flowers all the time, back home.” The Goat Kid gestures at him to come close. “Look, see-”

Grabbing onto his hand, Tubbo leads him down the well-trodden path. “There’s hydrangeas, there’s lavender, there’s some poppies over there, and some orchids-”

“What’s that one?” Ranboo points. A flower sprouts from the ground, blooming with vibrant yellow petals.

“That’s a rose. The yellow kind.” Tubbo grins. “They’re Tommy’s favourite.”

Eventually, they reach the centre of the secret garden. A single bench stands, overgrown with vines. Ranboo brushes them off and takes a seat.

“So,” he hums. “I have a secret garden filled with a bunch of Tubbo flowers.”

Tubbo flops down next to him, crushing the vines with his weight. “Nah,” he says. “You’ve got a bunch of cool flowers, but not one of them’s my favourite.”

Ranboo frowns at him. “Which one’s your favourite?”

“Not telling you.” Tubbo sticks his tongue out at him. He lights up. “Oh! Maybe when I get home, I can bring some over.”

And Ranboo stills. Falling silent, wary.

Tubbo, ever perceptive, catches on quickly. “...what is it?” 

The Prince ruffles his wings, drawing them close. “About...you going home.” He sighs. “We...I don’t know how to get you there...yet.”

Tubbo bites on his bottom lip. He’s silent.

“That is,” Ranboo clasps his hands together, “other than you just dying and getting sent back.”

A sharp huff, too dry to be a laugh, comes from the Goat Kid. “I think I’d avoid the me dying path.”

Ranboo smiles, thin and wry. “I’d like to avoid that too.”

They’re silent. The Void whispers.

“But I’ll get home eventually, right?” Tubbo turns his head. His eyes are wide and, though hardened with bravery, begged for reassurance. “Right?”

And Ranboo’s breath is caught in his lungs, as he finds that he doesn’t want Tubbo to leave. Not Tubbo, who laughs like nothing will ever be wrong. Not Tubbo, who looks at him with such warmth already. Not Tubbo, who sees him not as The Prince, but as Ranboo.

Not Tubbo.

But Ranboo smiles. And he promises.

“I’ll get you home, Tubbo,” says he. “One way or another.”

And Tubbo relaxes, because he trusts him. “Without the dying way?” He teases, lightly.

Ranboo laughs. “Without the dying way, preferably.”

The flowers around them are a testament, their witnesses.

“Y’know,” Tubbo says. He leans back, crossing his arms. “When I woke up this morn-” He stares up at the Void. “...earlier, I thought it was all a dream.”

Ranboo hums, listening - always, listening.

“Yeah.” Tubbo chuckles. The Goat kid grins at him, easy. “I mean- Sneaking out to fight the Ender Dragon, then getting found by the End Prince, then being brought back to the End Prince’s Castle -”

Tubbo gestures, vaguely, at everything and nothing. “It’s like a dream,” he laughs, a tad breathless this time. “But here you are.”

Ranboo hums again, smiling so very wide. “Here I am,” he agrees. “Here we are.”

Tubbo elbows him, gentle as ever. “Here we are, bossman.”

They sit, and stare at the flowers.

“So, wait- Are you an Enderman?”

“I mean…” Ranboo squints as he tilts his head. “Sorta? I can’t touch water, but I can’t teleport either.”

Sat on the shore of the Ranboo’s lake, legs straightened out, Tubbo makes a soft noise. “So you’re like, part Enderman?” He glances at The Prince, waiting for the lopsided shrug. “What’s your other half then? Does it come with the wings?”

“Oh, probably not.” Ranboo’s wings twitch, and he takes one to his lap. “This comes from being a Prince.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He frowns at the feathers. “I...think. Pretty sure.”

Tubbo makes a face at him. Ranboo makes a face back.

“Okay, your turn.” Ranboo rifles through his pack, hefting a chorus fruit in his hands. “Part goat, right?”

“That obvious?” Tubbo grins. He reaches up, to his own head - lightly tapping the growing horn nubs. “I’m surprised you even know what goat was. I haven’t seen any in the End.”

“Well, I-” Ranboo stops himself. He frowns. “...huh.”

“...you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Ranboo grinned. “There’s a lot of things I don’t know about me.”

Tubbo tilts his head. “Don’t you mean a lot of things I don’t know about you?”

“Wrong again.” Ranboo lifts his chorus fruit in a mock toast. “I am my own mystery.”

They laugh, together. As calm as the water’s surface they stared at. The lakeside was quieter than usual, but Ranboo pays it no mind.

After all, why would he - when Tubbo hums a tune of his own. A giddy one, the kind that enthuses, and breeds amateur dancers to the floor.

Ranboo glances at him, through the corner of his smiling eyes. “That’s nice,” he says. “Where’s it from?”

Tubbo stops, briefly - Ranboo almost wishes he hadn’t said anything. But the Goat Kid smiles at him, the mischievous kind.

“I’ll show you,” says he, and quickly tugs Ranboo to his feet.

Before he can even begin to say anything, they stand facing the other. The ground shifts lightly beneath their feet.

Tubbo rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll sing the tune, you dance. Ready?”

“Tubbo, I-” Ranboo gestures, helpless. “I don’t-”

“Aw, come on.” Tubbo laughs. He grabs both hands, and they twirl around the edge of the water. “Just step where I step. Come on, Ranboo.”

And Ranboo knows it’s a terrible idea, but he laughs anyway. “Okay, okay.” He grips onto the hands, tighter. “Lead the way.”

Tubbo grins at him, the kind that promises. The tune he sings is louder, broken by their bursts of laughter. They stumble and dance to the beats of their footsteps, their hearts, and the song. 

The Prince and the Goat Kid, spinning along the lakeside.

Ranboo and Tubbo, dancing to the sounds of their laughter.

They walk along the edge of the island.

“Remind me never,” Ranboo says, breathlessly, “to dance again.”

Tubbo bursts into laughter. “Hah! Come on,” he grins. “That was fun.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was kinda fun.”

Ranboo grabs at him, cheekily. Tubbo laughs and jumps back, treading the cliff.

The Prince leans back. “Careful,” he says. A solemnity enters his tone. “There’s nothing under that.”

Tubbo grins at him, a wild light in his eyes. “I’m honoured you care about me,” he giggles, but dutifully steps further inland. The Goat Kid bumps their shoulders together. “No, but- Be honest, that dance was fun.”

Ranboo gestures, lifting his arms up to the air. “Tubbo!” He exclaims. “I nearly fell into the lake!”

“That was one time.”

“It was twice.”

“Then it was two times.” Tubbo cackles, throwing his head back. “What can you say? I like living life on the edge.”

“Literally,” Ranboo comments, eyeing the Void that yawns a bit too close beneath him. “Honestly, Tubbo- You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’re going to need to stop being so melodramatic,” Tubbo teases. But he steps, one closer inland, one further away from the Void. “There, happy-”

A screech rings above them. The familiar thunderous wing beats send vibrations through his bones. Ranboo flinches, taking a step back-

“Tubb-” Ranboo whips his head around. 

An empty space stares beside him.

A scream rips through the air. 

“RANBOO-”

And Ranboo does not hesitate.

He jumps down after him.

Tubbo’s eyes are so, impossibly wide. He falls, almost frozen in time. Reaching up, reaching forward, for him.

Ranboo tucks his wings close. He reaches, reaches, reaching - 

Almost.

Almost.

Claws clamp around his midside. Ranboo stops falling, abruptly - he screams, screaming.

“TUBBO-”

And Tubbo falls, plummeting into the Void.

When the Dragon sets him down, it wasn’t gently. The Prince rolls, landing on his stomach, breathless.

‘Prince!’ The Dragon explodes. ‘What the hell was that? What the hell were you thinking? ’

“You killed him.”

The words sound foreign, dipped in his own voice. Ranboo pushes himself to his feet, staring at The Dragon - the same way he’d stare at a stranger.

The Dragon knows this. She reels, stepping back. ‘I saved you,’ She hisses. Her tail lashes. ‘I saved my Prince.’

“You killed my friend!” Ranboo snarls, a whimper masked. He grabs onto his own hair, yanking. “You killed him! You killed him, he’s gone- ”

‘Enough of this!’ roars The Dragon. Her wings snap open and She towers, filled with rage. ‘What would’ve happened, if I wasn’t there? Would you have fallen into The Void, spinning for all of eternity?’

“Yes!” Snaps The Prince. “Because then I could’ve saved him!”

‘You would’ve doomed the both of you!’ The Dragon shoves Her muzzle close. Her gaze is ablaze, a scorching fire. 'You are our Prince! We need you!’

Ranboo pants, heavy. He clenches his fingers into fists. His feathers ruffle and bristle.

“Of course,” he seethes. “Cause that’s all I am to you. Your Prince.”

The Dragon steps, growling. ‘My responsibility,’ She shoves Her muzzle into his chest, shoving him back, ‘is to keep you alive. Yours?’

The Dragon shoves him again, until Ranboo falls on his back.

‘Yours is to stay alive,’ snarls The Dragon. ‘I’d not have my hard work, nor my mother’s, nor Her mother’s, all go to waste over a single boy!’

And Ranboo stares, up at The Dragon. In silence, deafening.

“Your responsibility,” he echoes. Bitterness rages, bristles in his tone. “Then why aren’t you at your post?”

The Dragon falters. She steps back. Her wings rustle. ‘Prince-’

“You heard me.” Ranboo stands up. His wings flare. His gaze is cold, his glare hard. “Get out.”

The Dragon stares at him. Bewildered, betrayed.

And Ranboo stares back.

She finally pulls Her gaze away. Without another word, The Dragon takes off. She leaves.

And Ranboo is left. 

The Prince, alone.

Chapter Text

BANG.

Tommy hears the crash, before he hears the yells.

He snaps his head up, staring at the ceiling. The broom falls out of his hands with a clatter. 

He almost stops breathing, then.

Wilbur frowns at him. “Was that-”

“TUBBO!” Tommy, the Golden Boy, sprints out of the kitchen. He skids onto the steps, stumbling up and running - his footsteps thundering against the wooden floor.

Tommy slams into their room. Morning light filters through their window. Lazy flecks of dust fly.

And Tubbo’s here.

Tubbo stares at him, with wide eyes. He sits, sprawled, on the floor - clutching at his chest. The covers of his bed are strewn everywhere. Unfamiliar clothes hang loosely on him. 

Tubbo shudders.

“Tommy-” He gasps. “I-”

Tommy launches forward. He grabs Tubbo into a desperate hug, holding him close - holding him, holding onto, he’s here.

“You asshole,” Tommy seethes, and he doesn’t mean it at all. “You took so long.”

Tubbo grips the back of his shirt, just as tightly. The Goat Kid buries his face into the crook of his shoulder, shuddering out the shock of death.

Because he died. He must’ve. That’s why he respawned back in his bed.

So Tommy holds him, for as long as it takes. He whispers comforting nonsense, apologises over and over for having such a stupid idea, and he lets the Goat Kid cry.

And Tubbo does.

They stay like that, until Tommy’s knees ache and grow numb. Until long after Tubbo’s sobs quiet down to silent sniffling. Until long past Wilbur’s fifth check-up. 

Tubbo’s grip slackens.

Tommy begins to pull away. He’s ready - always ready - to hold his brother again. 

But Tubbo breathes, in and out.

Their gazes meet. 

“Are you...alright now?” Tommy asks. He keeps his hands, hovering over Tubbo’s shoulders. Here, but ignorable if needed. 

Tommy waits.

Tubbo swallows, hard. His exhale shudders, as does he. The emotion in their gazes clash; frenzy and worry.

“Tommy-” Tubbo grabs his shoulders, suddenly. His grip is tight, knuckle-white. “We need to go back.”

And Tommy gapes.

“What the fuck?”

Dying sucked.

Tubbo shuddered, wracked with shivers. He grips onto the blanket, wrapped around his shoulders. 

He’s grateful. He’s terrified. 

He died.

The door to his room swings open. 

Tubbo snaps his head up. “Tommy-”

Tommy does not, in fact, stand in his doorway. 

Phil does.

Phil steps, further into his room. He smiles, a gentle kind and warm. In his hands, he carries a tray; a bowl and a mug, both with steam gently wafting upwards.

Phil’s dark wings are shadows on his back, their feathers an inky shine. They shift, and the feathers rustle.

(Tubbo holds the feathers, speckled with royal purple. He shifts them, rearranging, cleaning. His hands are clumsier than he’d like, but The Prince sits through it all, calm.)

(Warm.)

“Hey, mate.” Phil sets the tray on his bed, next to his feet. “How’re you feeling?”

Tubbo’s arms tighten around himself. “Like shit.” He barks out a not-laugh, strained. “I’m not sure if it was just dying, or if it was from the Void.”

Phil frowns at him, worried - soft. He extends a wing, gently brushing the feathers towards him. 

And Tubbo leans into it, shuddering a sigh.

“I don’t know what to do with you two,” Phil sighs. He presses the back of his hand on Tubbo’s forehead. “Whatever made you think trying to beat the Ender Dragon was a good idea-”

“Phil.” Tubbo takes the opportunity, the leap. He grabs onto the fabric of Phil’s robe. “Phil, please. We- I need to go-”

“Back?” Phil raises an eyebrow. “Tommy told me. Made it a point that I knew how you wouldn’t shut up about it either.”

Tubbo winces. He’s annoyed Tommy, but- “Because it’s important, Phil-”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” Tubbo pulls at his own ears, frustration - frustrated, so much so. He breathes, shuddering. “Phil -”

“Hey, hey-” Phil rests his hands, gently, on Tubbo’s wrists. Bit by bit, he helps pry Tubbo’s hands away, release. 

Phil holds Tubbo’s hands, gently, in his own. The warmth surrounds him, brings back the feeling in his fingers. 

“Okay,” Phil says, softly. “I get it. And I have a compromise.”

Tubbo sniffs. “...compromise?”

“Yes.” Slowly, Phil lets go of his wrists. He waits, to see if Tubbo will move again.

He doesn’t. Tubbo puts his hands in his lap.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Phil grabs the bowl, “only if you’ll eat while I do. Deal?”

And he sees the soup - tantalizing, warm and tempting. It’s a good deal, if any.

Tubbo grabs the bowl. The soup is warm on his tongue, liquid strength flowing through his veins. He breathes shakily, for an entirely different reason than before.

Phil watches him, for a bit. He sighs.

“Okay.” Phil crosses his arms. His wings rustle behind him. “Whatever’s happening, you are not getting off this bed until tomorrow.”

Tubbo sputters, spitting out his soup. “But-!”

“Absolutely not.” Phil lifts a single finger, a silencer. “You went out and died. You’ve got Death’s Fever. You’re staying in bed until you get better.”

“Phil -”

“No.” Phil glowers, dangerously. “This isn’t for debate.”

Tubbo falls silent. He sits and stares at his soup, gloomily pushing the potatoes around.

He hears Phil sigh, again. “What’s this about an End Prince?”

Tubbo whips his head up, his eyes alight. “He’s real! He saved me from The Dragon and then he took me to his castle and then he bandaged my hands and-”

Tubbo shifts the bowl off his lap, onto his side desk. The liquid sloshes messily. He pays it no mind.

“-and look!” Tubbo gestures to his clothes, gripping the fabric in his own hands. “He let me borrow this! He’s real Phil, he is! I met him! He’s got wings like you and-”

“Easy, easy,” Phil reminds him, not unkindly. If anything, his eyes sparkle with amusement. “I see Death’s Fever doesn’t stop your enthusiasm.”

Tubbo leans back. He pants, a tad breathless from his outburst. “He’s real, Phil.” Tubbo grabs the bowl, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Tubbo swallows, huffing a sharp breath. “And we need to get him.”

“Get him?” Phil echoes. “I’d think he’s pretty happy, where he is.”

“No, but he isn’t!” Tubbo insists. “He’s not.”

And it hurts. It hurts, remembering. The way Ranboo stared at him, like he’d disappear. The way he tried to hide being a Prince, at first. Remembering the way Ranboo, curled with knees close to his chest, had lied.

‘Sometimes,’ The Prince had said. Lonely sometimes, he claimed.

Liar, Tubbo knew.

“Phil,” Tubbo breathes. He reaches forward, grabbing the fabric of his robe again - gripping, tightly. Pleading, please -

“Please,” Tubbo swallows, painfully. “He promised not to let me fall. He’s going to feel like dogshit now, it’s not his fault I- I need to see him again. Phil.”

And Phil stares at him. His eyes wide, he stares as if he almost can’t believe it. His feathers ruffle, bristling ever so slightly.

Phil sits on his bed, by his side. He opens his arms, silent - a request, and a gesture.

Tubbo shifts. He leans into Phil’s side, an awkward half-hug. He’s shivering, he realises. 

He’s crying.

Phil takes the bowl off his lap, setting it on the bedside table - with a lot more gentleness, this time. He wraps his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders, holding him close. Gentle, always. 

Here. Warm. Real.

Phil’s wings swaddle him, surrounding him just as his arms do. Tubbo feels...safe. Held, like the child he is.

“Okay,” says Phil. “I believe you.”

Tubbo flinches. He stares up, mouth agape. “You...do?”

“Mmm.” Phil smiles. “You wouldn’t be this upset if it wasn’t real.”

“So we-”

“You,” Phil reminds him, “are staying in bed until the next morning.”

Tubbo slumps, disappointed. He wipes his tears away.

“But,” Phil continues, “I’ll see what I can do, to get your End Prince back.” The arms around him tighten, a reassuring squeeze. “We won’t leave him, Tubbo. I promise.”

And Tubbo relaxes, because he trusts him. 

“Now,” Phil clears his throat. His arms slacken, but he doesn’t push Tubbo away. “You should finish your soup. Get some rest.”

Tubbo leans back. He feels tired, differently. Emotional, as well as physical. The soup does little to quell the aching in his heart, but at least he stops shivering.

Phil stays with him, the whole time. He breaks the silence with news - Tommy’s new punishment chores, Techno’s trip to the capital, Wilbur being...Wilbur. 

Tubbo laps it all up, as hungry for it as he was for the soup. 

Phil falls into silence. “Tubbo,” he hesitates. “...you said...the End Prince- He had wings?”

Tubbo glances up. 

He swallows down the last spoonful of his soup. “Yeah.” He stares at his empty bowl, smiling with the simple memory. “I helped preen them. He looked like he needed help, so…”

Phil nods, slowly. A flicker of hesitant excitement, of borderline apprehension, of hope, shines in his eyes.

Tubbo wonders how long it’s been, since he last saw that.

“His name is Ranboo, Phil.”

Phil freezes. “...what?”

“The End Prince.” Tubbo stares at him. Their eyes meet; Tubbo wishes his gaze is desperate enough, pleading enough. “His name is Ranboo.”

The bedroom is frozen, in time. The now afternoon light is bright, bright on his eyes. It aches, when he stares at it. The End is dark, and the Overworld is so bright.

Phil breathes a sharp breath. “Ah…” 

They lull into an awkward silence. Part of Tubbo wishes he hadn’t said anything, but the rest of him holds no regrets.

Anything. Anything. He needs to go back.

Phil stands. “I’ll...leave you,” he drawls out, reluctant. “You need to rest.”

“Phil-” 

Tubbo’s silenced, simply, by a gentle hand ruffling his already shaggy hair. 

“Rest,” Phil says again. He takes the bowl as he leaves.

The room is silent. 

Tubbo takes a sip out of his mug - the lukewarm sweetness of once-hot chocolate calming his nerves. He loves hot chocolate. He reckons Phil knows.

He wonders if Ranboo likes hot chocolate. Does he even know what chocolate is? He might - Ranboo’s funny, in that way.

Tubbo misses him.

The door creaks open. Tubbo glances up. 

“Hey, Wilbur.”

Wilbur steps into his room, with a cheeky wave. “Hey, Tubbo.” The Elder strides into the room, as easily as if he’s owned it.

He has, Tubbo thinks. He’s pretty sure this was Wilbur’s room, way before he and Tommy came around.

Wilbur flops onto Tommy’s bed, placed beside Tubbo’s own. He carries papers scattered and scribbled with ink, and slides his guitar off his back.

“I came to check up on you,” Wilbur says. Their gazes meet - Wilbur’s perpetually mischievous glint in his eyes shining. “Or at least, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you. According to Dad, I’m here to make sure you don’t sneak out again.”

“What, me?” Tubbo blinks, innocently. “Come on. I’d never.”

Wilbur bursts into laughter. “You’ve convinced me,” says he, the liar. He sobers, solemnity pairing with the lightheartedness. “But really...you worried us, man.”

Tubbo glances away, staring at his not-hot chocolate. “I know.”

“Now, Tommy,” Wilbur continues, heedless. “You know he’d never show it outright, but the guy barely slept while you were gone. And Dad?” He pauses. “Well, he’s always worried- But you got the point.”

Tubbo takes a rather shaky sip. “...I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For...worrying, you guys.”

Wilbur stares at him, for a bit. He takes a sheet of paper, rifling through Tommy’s bedside drawer. “But not for sneaking out.”

It wasn’t a question. Tubbo answers anyway.

“No.” His grip tightens around the mug. “I need to go back there.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Wilbur uncorks a bottle of ink, setting it on the bedside. He takes the back of his guitar - a makeshift surface to write on. “Tommy said. Dad said. You’re really set on this, aren’t you?”

“I can’t just leave him there.” Tubbo turns to meet Wilbur’s gaze, desperate for understanding. “You weren’t there- You didn’t see him, Wil.”

Wilbur doesn’t answer - not at first. His quill scratches against his paper. The Elder glances up to him, eyebrow raised.

“And you did?” asks him.

And Tubbo wants to say yes because obviously he did. But Wilbur never worked like that, never asked questions of the obvious.

So Tubbo pauses. And he thinks.

He grips his mug.

“Yes,” he says, still. His voice is quieter than he’d like, but sturdier than he expected. “I did.”

And Wilbur stares at him, in that Wilbur’s way of his. Staring, straight through and somehow into, all at once.

And Tubbo stares right back.

“Cool.” Wilbur shrugs, and the moment is broken. He sighs, leaning back against Tommy’s pillows. The papers are either kicked or squashed, but Wilbur paid them no heed. “Dad’ll figure something out.”

Tubbo stares, into his cold chocolate. He sloshes the liquid around. “I hope so.”

Wilbur doesn’t fill the silence. Neither does Tubbo, for a minute.

“...Wilbur,” Tubbo asks, hesitant. “Can you...play me something? Until I sleep?”

Wilbur glances at him, through the corner of his eyes. Tubbo watches as they soften.

“...sure.” Wilbur shifts his guitar into a more suitable position. “Got anything in mind?”

Tubbo slides his mug onto his bedside. He shifts under his covers, tucking his head away from the bright afternoon light.

“...do you remember the Summer Solstice song?”

“The one they play at the festivals?” Wilbur sounds surprised. “That’s a jig song, Tubbo. Not really much for sleep.”

“I know.” Tubbo runs the hem of his blanket between his fingers. “I’m just...thinking about them.”

He can feel the weight of Wilbur’s ever-observant gaze. This time, Tubbo chooses not to return it.

Wilbur sighs, one final time. Then the first notes play, wafting into the air. It fills the room, lively as he remembers. 

Wilbur was right - it doesn’t do much for sleep.

But sleep isn’t what Tubbo’s after.

(“Come on, Ranboo! Step where I step.”)

The chords strum. Wilbur’s masterful fingerpicking. Tubbo’s reminded of bright lanterns and crowded chatter. He’s reminded of a peaceful lake, and the feathers of a prince.

Tubbo doesn’t sleep, for a while. But he’s at peace, and that’s good enough.

(Tubbo stands, in the secret garden. The flowers grow nicely, shadowed by the flickering torchlights. The Void yawns up above him.)

(He sees Ranboo. Sat on the bench, the Prince draws wings close to himself. He’s unmoving, a living corpse. Alive, only physically.)

(‘Ranboo!’ Tubbo calls. He tramples through the flowers in his haste. ‘Ranboo-’)

(The Prince does not respond. Set beside him on the bench, his crown glitters delicately - as fragile as the Prince himself.)

(In his hands, Ranboo holds a bouquet of pink tulips.)

(Tubbo stares at them. He tilts his head, and he chuckles a laugh. ‘You guessed them right,’ says he. Tubbo kneels next to them. ‘How’d you know they’re my favourite?’)

(Tubbo glances up. He stares, at Ranboo’s face. He stares, frozen.)

(Ranboo’s tears sizzle against his own skin. Like oil on a hot pan, they burn. Bit by bit, drops of them fall onto the delicate tulip petals.)

(Tubbo reaches up, slowly. He makes to wipe the tears off his Prince’s face.)

(‘Ran-’)

“-boo!” He cries out. Tubbo snaps awake, panting. He grabs at his own chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt there. He breathes, and wheezes.

“...uhbo-?”

Tubbo turns his head.

Tommy shifts awake, on his bed. The Golden Boy rubs at his eyes, blinking blearily.

“Wazzuh,” Tommy mumbles. “Mnn...nightmare?”

Tubbo draws his knees in close. He shudders, swallowing hard. “...yeah.”

Tommy shifts again. The covers whisper. Moonlight glows against the drawn curtains, a dim light.

How long was he asleep?

“C’mere.” Tommy pats an empty space on his bed. “C’mon, ‘fore I change m’ mind.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Tubbo crosses the distance between their beds, socked feet sliding soundlessly. He slides under Tommy’s covers, curling up. 

And he breathes, relishing in the simple gesture of affection.

Tommy pushes himself back. He doesn’t touch him - not yet. But he places his hand in between them, ready and waiting, simply.

Tubbo waits until his hands stop shaking. He waits, until the image of The Prince’s burning tears stop burning into his mind. He waits, and he holds his face in his hands.

Then when he is ready, he leans forward. Tubbo bumps his head, gently, into Tommy’s shoulder. He stays there, as Tommy flings a lazy arm over his shoulders.

They stay like that.

“You’re shuddering,” Tommy mutters. “That’s like cats purring, but sadder.”

“Sorry,” Tubbo mumbles. He shifts, closer. “Can’t stop thinking ‘bout Ranboo.”

“The fuck is Ranboo?” Tommy stops. “Oh. End Prince?”

“Mmm.” Tubbo holds his hands, close to his chest. He stares at his fingers. “...you remember seeing a broken clock before?”

“Sure.” Tommy shifts, pulling the blankets up closer. “Why?”

“Ranboo reminds me of 'em.” Tubbo’s fingers tighten, into fists. “Like, you can’t see anything wrong with them at first. But then you start paying just a little bit more attention and-”

“It’s obvious?”

Tubbo shivers, again. “Yeah.”

Tommy takes the silence. He rubs slow, comforting circles on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Was he really nice?”

(‘TUBBO-!’)

“Yeah.” Tubbo pushes his face into the mattress. His eyes sting. “He really was.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, lightly.

“Then we’ll get him.” Tommy’s gotten that determined hardness, in his tone. The one most will call foolishness, Tubbo calls it loyalty. “We’ll get your Broken Clock Prince, Tubbo.”

Tubbo sniffs. He wipes at his eyes, a shaky exhale.

Tommy huffs a gentle breath. “‘Sides,” he says. “Dad seemed really set to it anyway.”

“...really?”

“Mhm.” A smirk enters his voice. “Didn’t have to sweep the study, said he didn’t wanna be disturbed.”

“Lucky you,” Tubbo chuckles. 

“Lucky you,” Tommy shoots back. “Can’t wait for you to get rid of that Death’s Fever, just so you can help me with my punishment chores.”

“What makes you think I will?”

“Cause I’ll cry if you don’t.”

“Pshf-” Tubbo laughs, and he feels better.

He feels better.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Mmm. Go to sleep, sheep boy.”

“Here’s the gist of it.” In Phil’s dusty study, the man paces. “Once you get in, there’s no way out unless you kill The Dragon, or die.”

Sat on the armchairs scattered in the room, both Tubbo and Tommy flinch at once. 

“Yeah.” Phil gives them a knowing look. “I’d avoid that too.” His gaze shifts, falling solely on Tubbo. “Did Ranboo say there was another way out?”

The Goat Kid frowns, as he thinks. “No,” says he, with caution. “He said he was going to find a way.”

Phil sighs. “Least he’s optimistic, misguided as it be.”

“Misguided-”

“You two need to train, on top of your regular and punishment chores,” Phil continues, heedless to their groaning. “Tommy says he hit a crystal. Probably pure luck.”

“Well, I think that was pure skill -”

“This isn’t a game, you two.” The hardness in Phil's tone, uncharacteristic, silences them. “The Dragon is a real threat. She’s not going down lightly.”

Tubbo clasps his hands, fingers entwining. The knuckles turn white.

“So we’ll train,” he promises. “Whatever it takes.”

Tommy glances at him. 

Tubbo meets his gaze.

The Golden Boy nods. 

Foolishness, or loyalty?

“I’ve gathered what’s probably enough information ‘bout the main island.” Phil strides back to his desk. He pushes away rolls of parchments, books and ink. “I’ll tell you, but you two need to promise me something, alright?”

Tommy and Tubbo share another glance, between them. 

Tommy stands up first. “What promise?”

Phil’s gaze bores into them. 

“That you do not,” he says, “go without me.”

“Y’know Phil’s gonna kill us, right?”

Tubbo shifts the quiver on his back. He counts the arrows, makes sure there’s enough. 

“Totally,” he says.

They step up to the End Portal. The frame glimmers in the lava light. The fabric of space, condensed, shivers beneath them.

It’s just as mystical as it was, a few months ago. The day this all started. The day, spark ignited, they’d walked through unprepared.

It was vastly different now. It was exactly the same. It’s a bit of both.

“Great,” Tommy says. He grins, hefting Phil’s diamond sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Both shine, decked with enchantments. “For death and glory, then.”

“Preferably no death.” Tubbo grins back. He takes an arrow, nocking it into his bow. The bow’s enchantments spark, and the arrow lights ablaze.

They share a glance, silent, between them. 

Together.

The portal warps as they fall through.

Chapter Text

Ranboo sits in his room, at his desk. Ink slowly drips off the tip of his quill, forming the smallest of puddles. 

The words stare at him. Being words, they do not blink. 

Ranboo does. 

The words are still there.

(Gone.)

The Prince grips his quill. It scratches, against the papers of his notebook.

(Tubbo’s Gone.)

He hisses through his teeth. The Prince pushes his chair back, throwing an arm across his eyes.

He breathes, and he shudders.

And he does not cry.

A knock comes on his door. Ranboo flinches. He shoots an arm forward to close his book, but his fingers knock against the tin of ink.

It spills, a wave of dark liquid. His book -

Ranboo knocks the book off his desk, frantic. It falls to the ground with a thud, its pages flying open.

The door creaks. 

‘Prince?’

He swallows. “...yeah?”

The Enderman’s footsteps thud softly. ‘We’re waiting for you,’ they say. ‘The people have gathered.’

Right. Of course. Of course.

Ranboo shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight. “Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll be there. Give me a minute.”

The Enderman hesitates. ‘Prince-’

“Get out.”

The Enderman leaves.

And Ranboo is left alone.

He bends down, slowly, to pick up his book. The cover is stained with ink, and the words are smudged. He runs his finger across them, smudging them even more.

And he does not cry.

Ranboo moves to his bed. He slides open his side drawer, gently placing the ink-stained book inside. It stares at him. He stares back.

His drawer closes with a soft click. 

Ranboo’s wings rustle - idly, he runs a hand down their feathers.

Messier than he’d like, but no matter. He can’t be bothered to preen, right now.

He moves past his desk, dripping with ink. He thinks he had something important in there. He finds he doesn’t care. 

Ranboo makes to his dresser, and he picks up his crown.

The crystals glitter in the light. It blinds him, briefly. He places it, arranging it on his head and it is heavy.

Then Ranboo stares at himself, in the mirror.

And an unfamiliar Prince stares back.

Who are you, he asks.

Not you, The Prince replies.

But Ranboo already knew that.

His footsteps echo in the empty halls he walks through. He hears the steady chatter of his people, gathered by the castle’s front doors. They’re here because he called them here.

They’re here because of him.

Ranboo stops, as he passes an empty space in the wall. As he passes the empty space in the wall. He stops, and he stares at the secret door, and he thinks about the secret garden.

And he thinks about Tubbo.

And he does not cry.

He reaches the front doors. They’re heavy, as he pushes them open. He’s heavy, as he stands before his people.

The kingdom cheer at the sight of him, and Ranboo has never been more alone.

[Did you hear what the Prince said?]

[About the Void? Who hasn’t heard it. It’s all anybody can talk about.]

[Doesn’t it worry you? Just a while ago, he came to tell us not to be afraid of it. Now, he’s telling us that he’s wrong.]

[What’re you saying?]

[Do you think something happened?]

[What could’ve possibly have happened to the Prince?]

[...that’s what worries me.]

‘Prince?’

Ranboo shifts. He pulls his knees up, curling into himself on the bench. “...hmm?”

He feels, more than hears, the Enderman come up behind him. ‘We’ve been looking for you,’ they say. ‘We thought you’d be playing Hidden Things again without telling us.’

Ranboo does not grace them with an answer. He sits, and he stares at flowers in silence.

The Enderman falters. ‘...you found the garden, we can see.’

“...I didn’t,” Ranboo mumbles. He rests his head on his knees. “Tubbo did.”

‘Pardon, Prince?’

“Tubbo.” His wings rustle. “My guest.”

‘Ah…’ The vines rustle softly. ‘It was...unfortunate, what happened to it.’

“He.”

‘Of course.’

Ranboo’s gaze bores into the flowers. “Who takes care of these?”

‘The garden?’ The Enderman huff. ‘We do, of course. The Council ensures that these flowers receive everything they need. Light, water, the likes.’

“Mmm.”

‘Overworld flowers are incredibly picky,’ they sigh. ‘But we do what we must, and what we’ve been ordered to do.’

“...ordered to?”

‘Why, yes?’ The Enderman rests a hand on his shoulder. The touch is freezing cold. ‘Don’t you remember, Prince?’

Ranboo wakes up in his bed.

He shifts, and the covers whisper along with him. His wings ache, squashed into an uncomfortable position. The fire burns low and dim.

The Prince pushes himself up. He sits, leaning against his headboard, hissing with the ache.

He doesn’t remember what he did yesterday.

He doesn’t remember what he did the day before that.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Ranboo curls his knees, close to his chest. He squeezes his eyes - squeezes them shut - as if that could physically block out the storm of thoughts and voices in his head.

Remember. Remember.

His name is Ranboo. He is Prince. Prince of the End.

He can count; one, two, three. He counts his fingers; one, two, three.

There’s more, but he stops counting.

Ranboo rolls off his bed, stumbling to his feet. He drags himself to the open windows, to the balcony overlooking the Void.

The Void wails at him. It begs. It pleads.

Prince!

Ranboo closes the doors, muffling its cries. He sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. His joints creak and pop as he stretches, and his wing feathers fan.

He stumbles his way back, crawling on his bed. His fingers ache, stained with a smudge he can’t pinpoint. Ranboo pulls his side drawer open, and reaches in for his book.

The book has seen better days. A large spot of ink stains its covers, and a couple of its pages are tearing off the spine. The words he’s written in are smudged and near unreadable.

But it’s his handwriting. His.

Ranboo.

He reads his own words, slowly. They’re basic, simple and bland. A day to day recollection. Waking up. Working. Flying. Visiting the cities. Flying. Waking up. Working. On and on and on for pages after pages.

Then, he reaches a page he does not remember writing.

(His name is Tubbo.)

Ranboo frowns, softly. He runs his thumb across the words, across the name. The name, so very familiar.

Yet completely unfamiliar, all at once.

(Remember the lake.)

Ranboo remembers the lake. He loves the lake. It’s calm, it’s quiet, it’s private and it’s peaceful. It’s his lake. He loves the lake.

(Remember the garden.)  

He...remembers the garden. He remembers...flowers he doesn’t recognise. He remembers...a bench, overgrown and unused.

(Remember him.)  

And Ranboo does.

“Tubbo,” he breathes. The Prince curls in, holding himself as he shudders and shivers and shakes. “Tubbo.”

He remembers the dance. He remembers nearly falling into the lake, twice. He remembers being caught both times - caught by his saviour, his dance partner.

He remembers laughing in the secret garden. He remembers watching the way Tubbo’s eyes shine, excited to finally share a piece of his world. He remembers the trust in those green eyes, when Ranboo promises to bring him home.

He remembers sitting on a bed, not too differently than how he does now. He remembers the gentle roar of the fireplace. He remembers being preened, he remembers feeling warm.

And Ranboo cries.

He cries. The book stumbles out of his hands, sliding off the side of his bed and thudding against the floor. Ranboo cries, and the tears burn against his own skin - they prickle and ache. He curls up, curls into himself and grabs at his own hair. His shoulders shake and shiver, wracked with the strength of his sobs

The Prince does not cry, but Ranboo wails.

The Council does not speak to him. They treat him like shattered glass; fragile, and broken.

Ranboo hates that. And he hates more that he doesn’t have the strength to tell them no.

Their hands are gentle as they treat him. The burns on his fingers, they spread cool healing cream. They piece his book back together, binding the tearing pages to the spine. 

They open his windows, and the Void’s cries grow louder.

An Enderman runs their cream dipped fingers along the tear lines on his face. Ranboo hisses softly, tempted to wrench himself away. He is Prince, but right now he feels like a beast, and right now he’s tempted to bite the hand that treats him.

But the last time he did that, the lines turned into scars, and the worried looks turned into sympathy.

So Ranboo stays, still.

The Enderman sighs. ‘What troubles you, Prince?’ They murmur. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve seen you in this state.’

Ranboo does not remember the last time they’ve seen him in a state like this.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He’s relieved as the Enderman finally pulls away, giving him some much-needed breathing space. “Nothing that can ever be helped.”

The other Endermen give each other looks. Looks that Ranboo cannot be bothered to try and decipher.

Ranboo frowns. “Council…” he hesitates. “What are respawners?”

The Enderman closest to him tilt their head. ‘Respawners?’ they echo. ‘That’s an overworld term, isn’t it?’

Ranboo shrugs. “Tubbo used it.”

Another Enderman speaks up. ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ they say, ‘respawners are another term for overworld children.’

That barely explains anything to him, yet the Council nods as if all has been solved.

“No-” Ranboo sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I know Tubbo’s an overworld kid. It was pretty obvious. I’m talking about-”

‘But there have been cases where overworld adults are referred to as respawners, no?’ A different Enderman says. ‘I was a scout once, my Prince. Adult respawners are rare but, yes, they exist.’

“No, but-”

‘Perhaps it refers to their undying nature?’ One suggests. ‘Respawners are known for coming back to the beds after death, be it adult or child.’

“That’s not what I-”

‘What kind of deaths do they respawn from?’ Another asks. ‘Would an adult respawner, technically, be rendered immortal?’

The Council lights up at that. All at once, they begin speaking; each with their own pitch, ideas and reasonings. Their chatter picks up, crowding into his head and his thoughts.

Ranboo hisses, and waves the discussion off. “Stop- stop,” he says. “I don’t- Just forget I asked.”

‘Prince-’

“I’m tired.” He leans back. His hands grip the fabric of his pants, tight. “Thank you, but you can all leave now.”

The Council files out obediently. A couple of them glance back at him, but most are enraptured in their new topic of debate.

They close the door, after they leave. Leaving the Prince to his solitude.

Ranboo bites on his tongue. He sighs, rubbing his fingers along the lines of cream and skin. He’s briefly captured by the difference in texture.

Then he gets bored and moves on.

Ranboo takes a wing to his lap. He...preens himself, rearranging his feathers to the best of his ability. But he strains to reach the ones near his shoulders, and simply finds himself giving up.

Simply, giving up.

He falls on his back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He stares at the ceiling, his mind perfectly blank and yet so very exhausted.

He hears a tune, unfamiliar to his ears. 

Or rather, the tune is familiar. It’s the voice that sings it, he finds odd.

He finds that it’s his own voice.

The tune really is a cheery one. Ranboo almost feels like getting up, but he settles for this instead. He settles for laying in his bed, humming an off-key song to himself.

The Dragon’s calling him.

Ranboo pauses, his hands wrist-deep into the soil. Carefully, so as to not disturb the flowers, Ranboo pulls himself away and stands up.

The Prince rubs his dirty hands together, striding around the secret garden. He stares up at The Void, frowning.

Then, he feels it again. A tug in his own veins. Urgent, important, hesitant and confused.

Come quickly, Dragon says. You’ll want to see this.

To be completely honest, Ranboo doesn’t think he’ll want to see anything The Dragon has to show him. If anything, he finds himself with half a mind to send a reply only to ignore Her immediately after.

But She’s not speaking to Ranboo. She’s speaking to Prince; a guardian to Her ruler. 

And as Prince, he’s obligated to answer.

Politely.

Be there, Ranboo promises. Soon.

Ranboo takes off into the air. His feathers sing with the air current. He breathes into The Void as it surrounds him.

He chokes.

Ranboo dips low - lower than he’d fly, usually. He skims the treetops, brushing against branches and luminescent leaves. The Kingdom calls for him, their cries of [ Prince! ] echoing in his mind. They cheer to see him fly again, to see his wings spread across the backdrop of the Void.

And Ranboo feels so, incredibly, selfish.

The Main Island is quieter than he’s ever seen it. Though that didn’t say much, given he’s only been here when someone’s attacking it.

He sees The Dragon, curled around Her bedrock porch. Her spines bristle and the tip of Her tail flicks to an agitated rhythm. Smoke curdles from Her jaw, though it remains mercifully shut.

Ranboo lands next to Her, stepping against the endstones. “Dragon,” he says. “What is it?”

The Dragon meets his gaze. ‘Look,’ says She, simply - jerking Her head towards some odd direction.

And Ranboo sees him.

Or... them.

Two outsiders, armed to the teeth. One carrying a shimmering diamond sword in one hand, and a battered shield in the other. The outsider’s golden hair looked out of place, vibrantly warm.

The other outsider stood with a flaming arrow, nocked into their bow. They spot him, through the distance, and Ranboo watches as they flinch.

The outsiders begin running. Not away, but to. They sprint across the distance, honing into the Prince as their target.

Ranboo’s wings ruffle. “Wh-”

“Ranboo!”

The Outsider skids to a stop, his companying falling to a step behind him. 

This close, Ranboo can see him now.

“...Tubbo?”

Tubbo looks different. Not by much, but his horns have grown in. His armour clinks as he moves, and he carries a quiver filled with arrows. He looks ready to fight, and carries steel beneath those warm green eyes.

And Tubbo looks different, because now he wears hesitation like a veil on his smile.

“Hi Ranboo,” says he. Tubbo glances back at his companion, and they share a brief worried glance. “Do you…” 

He clears his throat. “Do...you remember me?”

Ranboo blinks. Tubbo’s still there when he does.

“You look different,” he manages to say.

Tubbo’s smile twists. “And you look just the same.”

Ranboo’s breath shudders. He swallows, his throat impossibly tight.

“...Tubbo?” he breathes.

Tubbo puts his arrow back into its quiver. The Goat Kid slings his bow over his shoulder, freeing both his hands.

“Hello,” says the Goat Kid.

Ranboo has him wrapped into a hug within seconds. He hugs him, and he holds him close. He lives for this proximity, for the affection expressed in the simplest of contacts. He hugs him, and Ranboo can stay like this forever.

And Tubbo hugs him back.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tubbo whispers. His grip is tight on the back of Ranboo’s clothes. “It wasn’t your fault it wasn’t your fault-”

Ranboo buries his face into the crook of Tubbo’s shoulder. Every breath is a shudder, but he has never felt more relieved to shake.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

“Don’t be.” Tubbo says, firmly for the last time, “It’s not your fault.”

And Ranboo melts, into the embrace. He’s so so tired, and so warm here. He never wants to move, or think, or speak ever again. 

All he ever wants is to be here, existing in such a simple state of being.

But he pulls away, eventually. The Dragon’s gaze burns holes in the back of his skull. He sees Tubbo’s companion do the same, just in front of him.

Ranboo meets the Companion’s gaze. “...Hello,” he says.

The Companion hefts their sword. They share another glance with Tubbo - he, who gives them a barely perceptible nod.

The Companion pulls a face, and sighs. “Hello, broken clock.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Their shield vanishes, and they extend the free hand in Ranboo’s direction. “Name’s Tommy. Don’t forget.”

And Ranboo lights up. “Tommy!” He grins. “I know you. Tubbo likes talking about you.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Does he?” He shoots a conspiratory grin in the Goat Kid’s direction. “Really?”

Tubbo groans, pulling an exaggerated face. “You’ve ruined me,” he says to Ranboo. 

And Ranboo finds himself with a laugh, for the first time in a while. “You’re welcome.”

He wants to stay here. He wants to freeze this moment in time, to cherish it and remember it. He wants to write it in his book, but he’s left it in the castle and all he can do is breathe here while he can.

And then he can’t, anymore - when The Dragon growls at him, Her breath hot on the feathers of his wings.

The Prince feels his face fall, and he feels his heart stumble to the bottom of his feet. “...why are you here?”

Tubbo and Tommy’s grins freeze on their faces. Tubbo’s fingers twitch, and Tommy’s grip on his sword tightens.

Tubbo grabs The Prince’s arm. “Ranboo,” he says. “Come with us.”

And Ranboo’s jaw drops. He gapes, struggling for the words. “...I- What?”

“Please, Boo.” Tubbo grabs his shoulders. “Come with me. With us,” he begs. “I- I can show you my favourite flowers, and we can go to the Summer Solstice festival- That’s where the song comes from! Our song!”

“Tubbo-”

“I know,” Tubbo continues. He’s frantic and desperate, the words. “It’s- I- It’s selfish of me to ask- You’re a Prince and you have your people but I-”

“Tubbo-”

“Please.” Tubbo leans forward, resting his forehead on the Prince’s chest. “Ranboo, please.”

Tubbo breathes, a shuddery exhale. His grip is tight around Ranboo’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to let him go.

And Ranboo finds that he doesn’t, either.

“Tubbo,” Ranboo says, again. His hands are gentle as he grabs the sides of Tubbo’s face, angling it upwards. Their eyes meet. Green, green and red.

And Ranboo, as Ranboo, makes his decision.

“I’ll cross worlds with you, Tubbo,” he breathes. “Wherever that may be.”

Tubbo’s eyes are so impossibly wide. He can see the world in them, Ranboo thinks.

“Really?” The Goat Kid gapes. “I- No shit?”

Ranboo laughs. “Really,” he says - a promise. “Where ever you’ll go, if you’ll have me.”

“I-” Tubbo glances back at Tommy, and the two share eager wide-eyed glances. “Of course I will. I wouldn’t have asked, if it wasn’t.”

Tommy gives Ranboo a grin. “Good choice,” he says, and slaps the back of Ranboo’s shoulder. “Overworld’s lot prettier than here, too.”

“Well-” Ranboo finds himself pulling a face. “We’ll see.”

A flash of offence crosses Tommy’s face, and the sight is so comical that Ranboo bursts into laughter. Tubbo joins him soon after, and before long all three of them are doubled over in wheezes.

Ranboo breathes a huff, a sigh of contentment. “I-”

And The Prince is yanked backwards.

Tommy and Tubbo flinch, at once. In a blink of the eye, they’re sent rolling away by the flash of a massive tail.

Ranboo grunts as he’s flung to the ground, the breath rattling out of his lungs. 

The Dragon looms over him. Her claws keep him pinned to the ground, pressing against his throat.

“Dragon-” He rasps. “Let me g-”

‘LEAVE?’ roars The Dragon. She bares Her teeth in his face, and She is a terrifying figure. ‘You would abandon your people?! Us?! ME?!’

“Dragon-” Ranboo gasps for air. “Please- ”

The Dragon roars in his face. Her teeth snap towards his neck, and Ranboo cries out-

He’s lifted, up into the air by the back of his clothes. The Prince yelps as he struggles to wrap his arms around Her muzzle. His wings flap, desperate for escape.

A sharp whizz, then the Dragon roars again. This time, in pain.

Ranboo finds himself falling, tumbling to the ground. His wings slow his descent only slightly, but The Prince rolls away as he lands - stumbling and scrambling to put some distance between them.

He glances behind him, and watches as The Dragon is volleyed with an onslaught of arrows. They are small flames on The Dragon’s scales, and Her roars grow more strained with every one.

He sees Tubbo, with fire and fury in his eyes. Each arrow appears only half a second, nocked into the bow, before it’s sent shooting forward.

Something grabs Ranboo’s arm, forces him into a run. 

“Move, broken clock!” Tommy snarls at him, the wilderness of battle in his gaze. The Golden Boy shoves something into Ranboo’s hands, before he runs in the Dragon’s direction.

Ranboo gapes, his grip tightening.

“I-”

Tommy and Tubbo scream at each other. The Dragon’s roars are deafening. Beneath it all, the Void wails at the conflict.

Ranboo can only stand, with an iron axe in his hands.

Explosions shake the ground. The Dragon swoops into the air, Her screams ringing through the island. Ranboo spots Tommy, clambering up one of the obsidian towers. He spots Tubbo, firing another arrow at another exploding crystal.

Then, he sees The Dragon fly around - sweeping back towards the island, Her teeth bared and claws extended.

Ranboo is running before he realises it. He leaps into flight, swinging the axe above his head-

And just as The Dragon reaches for Tubbo, Ranboo buries his axe into the back of Her neck.

The Dragon stumbles, crashing into the ground. Whole blocks are dislodged as She slides across the battlefield

Tubbo stares with his eyes wide. “Woah…” The Goat Kid glances at him. “I-”

And as Ranboo lands beside him, he’s struck with a realisation. A sinking feeling of finality.

He’s made his decision. And now, he’s made it as Prince.

The Dragon stumbles upright. She shakes Her head, dislodging the axe easily. It falls with a thud, too loud in Ranboo’s ears.

Through the distance, She stares at him. Her gaze is unreadable.

Ranboo stares back. 

The Dragon stalks towards them. Her purple eyes - usually so bright and vibrant - are a cloudy dull. But like a predator to prey, She circles them.

‘Prince,’ murmurs the Dragon. ‘Step away from the outsider.’

Ranboo’s wings flare open. He has no weapon, but he curls his fingers into fists. Protectiveness, hot and fierce, sets fire to his blood.

Through the corner of his eye, he sees Tubbo nock his last arrow.

“I’m going with them,” says Ranboo. He plants his feet to the ground. “I’m going, Dragon.”

The Dragon stops circling. Her nostrils flare, and purple sparks fly from Her jaws. ‘You cannot leave,’ She hisses. Venom spits from Her words and fire sparks from Her tongue. ‘Not unless you kill me.’

Ranboo flinches. Uncertainty shackling him. “I-”

‘You want to leave so badly?’

“Dragon-”

The Ender Dragon, Guardian of the End Realm, rises to Her hind legs. ‘THEN STRIKE ME DOWN, ’ roars She. ‘I will die the way my mother did, Prince. By the hands of Her own.’

A flash of red, white and blond leaps down from a nearby tower. Tommy screams as he slams his sword into Her back.

And Tubbo stumbles away from Ranboo’s side. The Goat Kid whips around, and lets his arrow fly.

The final crystal explodes, with a deafening shatter. 

A scream rips through the air. Tubbo rushes forward at the same time Tommy falls from the Dragon’s back.

Together, they lift up the diamond sword. And together, they pierce it into The Dragon’s chest.

The Dragon’s dying roars shake the island, and they shake him to his core. Ranboo hears another scream echoing Her’s, and he realises it’s his own voice.

And Ranboo feels like he’s dying. He feels like he’s being torn apart at the very seams. He feels the sword in his chest. He tastes smoke.

He feels betrayed. And it’s an ache just as fierce as his life slipping from his grasp. 

Then it’s gone. 

Ranboo shivers, curling up into himself. He’s on his hands and knees, and every nerve in his body is lit aflame. Someone’s shaking him, hands gripping his shoulders, and his own name echoes in his ears.

Then Tubbo’s here, holding the sides of his face. The Goat Kid pushes shaggy hair out of his desperate eyes. His mouth moves, calling out for him.

“-boo please, ” Tubbo’s saying. “Ranboo- Ranboo listen to me. Ranboo!”

Ranboo grips shaky hands around the Goat Kid’s shoulders. Tubbo is real beneath his touch. Tubbo is here.

And he is, too. He is alive.

“Ubbo,” he mumbles. His tongue feels like lead. Ranboo leans his forehead against Tubbo’s shoulder. “Tuh-bo.”

“Ranboo.” Tubbo’s arms wrap around him, grounding and real. “I’ve got you. We got you. You’re okay, you’re okay.”

And Ranboo relaxes.

Because he believes him.

“Guys,” Tommy’s voice swims through a haze. “We gotta go.”

Another pair of hands grab his other arm, hefting him to his feet. Ranboo stumbles, hissing through the numbness in his limbs.

“Wha-”

Then he hears them. The Endermen.

‘What happened?’

‘The Dragon’s dead! She’s gone!’

‘Is that the Prince? Where’s his crown?’

‘Prince!’

“Come on, Ranboo,” Tubbo says through gritted teeth. The three of them move, as one, towards The Dragon’s bedrock perch.

Except this time, Ranboo can see space - condensed, within it.

“We’ll tread worlds together, okay Boo?” Tubbo breathes. “Together.”

And together, they fall through the portal.

Chapter Text

Tubbo wakes up in his bed.

Morning light streams through the window. He catches a glimpse of russet autumn leaves swaying in the wind. The covers are warm, gentle and familiar.

Slowly, he sits up. His armour clinks as he does. His fingers ache. Tubbo unbuckles the empty quiver, sliding it off his back and setting it gently on the ground beside him.

He meets Tommy’s gaze - he, who wakes up in his own bed. The Golden Boy shakes his head, ruffling his hair. In his hands, he holds Phil’s sword - tinged with a barely perceptible hue of purple.

Their gazes meet across their beds.

“...did we do it?” Tubbo whispers.

Tommy shifts, sitting down with his legs hanging off the edge of his bed. For once, the Golden Boy has nothing to say.

“I think so.” Tommy breathes in, sharply. He puts the sword on his bedside, as if it were suddenly made of glass. “I...I think we won.”

Tubbo breathes in, sharp. His cheeks ache, and he realises he’s wearing the largest grin he’s ever worn. And as he stares at Tommy, he finds that their grins mirror.

“Ranboo!” Tubbo clambers down his bed. “Ranboo, we-”

But the bedroom is silent. 

Ranboo gives no answer. Ranboo isn’t here.

He feels cold, suddenly. Reminded of that time Tommy dumped a bucket of ice water over his shoulders. A chill that freezes him, briefly - renders him motionless.

He glances back at Tommy, wide-eyed. 

Tommy stares back.

The Goat Kid breathes a sharp breath.

“Ranboo!” Tubbo slams his way out of his room. He’s barely breathing, breathless in panic and dread. “ RANBOO?”

Something crashes, with a heavy thump.

“-ell?!” A door further down the hall opens. In a wrinkled sweater, Wilbur stumbles out. He rubs at worn and tired eyes. “Tubbo,” mumbles he. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Wilby-” Tommy comes up beside the Goat Kid, eyes wide and mouth parted. “I- You see a broken clock around here?”

“A what?”

“A prince!” Tubbo storms forward. He grabs the Elder’s shoulders, shaking him awake. “Did you see Ranboo? Do you know where he is?”

“Ranboo?” Wilbur gapes. His eyes focus and unfocus, still hazy with sleep. “Isn’t he the End Prince you were gonna try save?”

“Yes!”

“Well, why the hell would he be here?” Wilbur scoffs, lightly pushing Tubbo away. “If he was here, we wouldn’t be making the effort of tryna save him, would we?”

And damn him. Damn fucking everything.

“Goddamnit! ” Tubbo hisses. He whips around, pacing the hall, pulling on his ears. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“ Wh-”

“-at’s going on up there?”

The three of them freeze. Tommy, in particular, gapes at the steps leading downwards - his jaw parting and closing wordlessly.

Tommy takes a breath. “Is that-?”

Wilbur huffs, again. “Well, since you’ve so kindly woke me up,” he sneers, already filled with satire on a bright morning. “I’ll just go down and see what Tech-”

The last of Wilbur’s words fall to empty ears, echoed by thunderous footsteps running downstairs.

“Techno?” Tommy stumbles down the steps first. He leads the way, barrelling through their house to stand in the kitchen doorway. The Golden Boy gapes.

“You’re back!” Tommy grins. He disappears into the kitchen.

“-eah,” Techno’s voice grunts. “Last I checked.”

Tubbo steps into the kitchen -  and it’s already brimming with life, sounds and smells. The dining table is filled with breakfast food, and Techno stands before what smells like another batch of pancakes.

Their pig of an elder brother slowly pries Tommy’s arms away, wriggling out of the hug. “Good morning to you too,” Techno huffs. He briefly ruffles the top hair of Tommy’s head, before nudging the Golden Boy off. 

“I got here late last night,” he waves a spatula in the air, vaguely in their direction. “While you two were already in bed.”

Then the pig stops. He takes a critical eye to their attire, narrowing. “...and in battle, apparently.”

The pair winces.

“Mornin’ Tech,” says Wilbur, their saviour. He joins them in the kitchen, stifling a yawn. “I would say good morning, if I didn’t wake up to Tubbo screaming bloody murder.”

Tubbo winces. “...sorry.”

“I heard.” Techno turns back to cooking. Good smells fill the air. “Pretty sure the neighbours did too.”

“Sorry,” Tubbo says again, though this time through gritted teeth. “Was important.”

Wilbur gives him a Look, simply. “Where’s Dad?” He slumps into one dining chair, lazily kicking his legs up on the table. “Dunno how he didn’t wake up to that screaming.”

“Phil left early.” With a flick of the wrist, Techno turns the fire off. Things clang against each other, as the pig rummages through the cabinets. “Something about his sword.”

Then Techno stops. He slowly turns, a dawning realization creeping on his face. “Actually,” he says. “Think he was rambling ‘bout you guys. Did you sneak out again?”

The pair flinch.

“Fuck,” Tommy says.

Ranboo wakes up in a forest.

He does not remember how he got here.

Slowly, he pulls himself into a sit. Leaves stick to his hair, his back. His eyebrows furrow, understandably lost and confused. 

He doesn’t know where he is. Or why the forest is so bright.

And, more importantly, he doesn’t know why he’s alone.

“...Tubbo?” Ranboo struggles to his feet. Nausea crawls up his throat, and he feels vaguely hungry. “Tommy?”

He finds himself standing in the centre of a path. Man-made, turned to mud by the strength of a thousand footsteps. There’s a small stone sculpture, surrounded by trinkets left behind by a thousand lives. There’s a sign etched with words he can’t read.

He runs his fingers across the words, frowning. 

He wonders what world he’s in.

Something rustles, and Ranboo whips his head up. For a moment, the forest is silent - unnaturally so. His feathers ruffle, bristling with his unease.

“...hello?” he calls out. 

Rustling again - this time, he can see the bush shift as it does. Something small and russet pokes a thin muzzle in his direction, sniffing.

Ranboo peers at it. “...hello,” he calls again. He takes a step forward. “I’m-”

There’s the softest yelp. The bush rustles again, and Ranboo barely picks up the sound of tiny paws scampering away.

“Hey!” He rushes towards it, pushing through the bush. “No- Please come back! I don’t mean any harm.”

Ranboo shoves his way through the undergrowth. There’s no path here, so he makes his own. He steps over roots and thickets, around thin trees and thick ones. More than once, his footsteps squelch as he steps into some mud - more than once, he finds himself sliding to his butt.

Ranboo hisses, as he falls for what felt like the eighteenth time. He starts to wish he never strayed off the path. It feels like the forest is laughing at him. Something rustles, tauntingly. Something else caws.

Ranboo pulls himself back up. He wraps his arms around himself. There’s a chill, unlike the kind he’s used to. The feel of something brushing against his skin.

“Where are you?” he calls into the forest. “Come back, please.”

The forest is alive with sounds, but nothing replies.

Ranboo turns around, in a full circle. The trees are unfamiliar. The entire world is unfamiliar. He’s aching and nauseated, and he doesn’t know where to go.

“Please?” Ranboo swallows. “Don’t...leave me alone, here.”

Nothing answers, and nothing responds.

Ranboo keeps walking. He doesn’t know where he’s going, honestly. He doesn’t know how far he’ll keep going. 

All he knows is that he can’t stay. Can’t be still, in one place. If he walks off the edge of this world, then so very be it - at least he would’ve brought himself there.

By the time he finally stops, the forest has gotten brighter. Really bright - it aches, stinging his eyes every time he looks at the spots of light. 

Mud cakes the bottom of his clothes. Twigs and small branches have made their homes in his hair and feathers. He’s breathless, weary with exertion.

His breaths wheeze and rattle in his lungs, as he leans gratefully against the trunk of a tree. He takes the moment - to recollect his thoughts, his breaths, and to knock out the sticks in his hair and pick out the leaves from his wings.

Something else rustles. Something that isn’t him. 

This time, he doesn’t call out. His breath catches in his lungs, holding. Ranboo leans forward, eyes wide as he peers into the growth around him.

Another rustle. Silence, stretches long after.

Something breathes, right over his shoulder. “...What’re we looking for?”

Ranboo screams. He throws his elbow back, and it connects to...something. He hears a sharp hiss, and a cry of pain.

“Shit!”

Ranboo stumbles away. His wings flare, frantic. He holds his hands close to his face, stance widened - grasping to whatever poor fighting ability he probably has.

Someone else is here, with him. They hunch into themselves, holding a hand to their face - groaning, in pain. Their golden hair reminds him vaguely of Tommy’s and-

And their wings remind him of his own.

Ranboo reels back. “I-” He gapes, struggling for words. “You’re-”

They straighten, abruptly. They push their hair out of their face, exposing a fresh forming bruise. Their eyes wrinkle, strained in pain, and they lean an arm heavily against Ranboo’s tree.

Despite himself, Ranboo winces. “...sorry.”

Their eyes flash as they glance at him. They grunt, and wave their hand at him dismissively. “It’s fine, mate.” They sigh, “Got worse before. And I kinda deserved that for scaring you.”

Well- Ranboo tried to disagree, truly. He thinks he would’ve done a better job, had he not still been gaping at the wings - shifting like shadows behind their back.

“...you’re like me,” Ranboo whispers.

They glance at him again. Almost like they’ve forgotten, they glance between their own wings and Ranboo’s.

“Oh yeah,” they say. “I am.”

They step away from the tree, towards him. Ranboo thought he’d find them intimidating - and he does, somewhat. But they move slowly, cautiously approaching. Their smile is warm, and so too are their eyes.

It reminds him of Tubbo.

“Ranboo, aren’t you?” Their smile grows. “Name’s Phil. Tubbo talks quite a bit about you.”

Phil.

“I know you!” Ranboo blurts out. He brightens, the tension lifting from his shoulders. “Tubbo talks about you too! You’re Tommy’s dad!”

Phil reels back, ever so slightly. “Does he now?” Vaguely, he sounds pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, I’m...Tommy’s dad. You seen him lately?”

Ranboo nods, rapidly. “He came with Tubbo. They helped me...”

Escape? Run away? Leave?

Kill Dragon.

Ranboo falls silent.

Phil tilts his head. There’s a certain look in his eyes, a knowing glint to his gaze. Though Ranboo can’t possibly imagine how he’d know anything; especially not when he barely gets it himself.

“...hey,” Phil says. He puts his hands behind his back, comically straightening - ridiculously expressive. “If what I’m guessing is true, then those sh- my kids should be at home right now.”

Phil falls into a brief silence, and Ranboo raises an eyebrow at him.

“I could take you?” Phil suggests. “You seemed pretty lost, anyway.”

“Wh-” Ranboo barks out a laugh. “I was not lost.”

“Really?” Phil crosses his arms. “You would’ve found your friends on your own?”

“Eventually.”

“Well eventually’s looking like it’d take a while.” Phil jerks a thumb in the direction Ranboo came from. “‘Cause, my house’s that way.”

Ranboo’s jaw parts, silently as he struggles to find the words. He pulls his wings closer. “...okay,” he whispers, “maybe I was a bit lost.”

“Just a bit?” Phil grins. “You fly with those?”

Ranboo takes a bit, to adjust to the sudden change of subject. “My wings?” He glances back at them. “Of course.”

Phil nods, a flash of relief flickering through his warm gaze. “Good,” he says, as he lifts his own wings up. The feathers shine with the light, preened and well cared for. “Easier to fly there than walk.”

Eagerly, Ranboo lifts his own wings up. They mirror each other - as much as they can, given their minor differences and the state of Ranboo’s own. He can’t remember the last time he preened, and an embarrassed warmth prickles beneath his skin.

But Phil stares at them, as if he’s never seen anything more. He smiles, soft and fond.

Then he takes off. His wings send a gust of air, and he disappears through the gaps in the trees.

And with wonder in his eyes, Ranboo takes off after him.

It’s somehow much brighter out of the forest than it was in. Instantly after the adrenaline of take-off subsides, Ranboo hisses and presses the heels of his palms into the eyes.

“You alright?” he hears Phil, and he hears his wingbeats come up beside him. “Sun’s bright, huh?”

“Euh- What?”

“The Sun.” Phil chuckles softly. “It’s what’s making everything so bright. Probably don’t have that in The End.”

“No,” Ranboo groans. “I’d like the Sun to stop it now, though.”

Phil snorts. “Take your time,” he says - his voice comforts, assures and reminds him so much of Tubbo that it nearly hurts. “No rush.”

They stay like that, in the air. Their wings beat to the rhythm of their flight, singing along the air currents they create - except this time, there’s a new addition to a symphony Ranboo thought he knew.

“What’s that?” Ranboo asks, as he blinks against the ache in his eyes. 

“What’s what?”

“There’s something-” He waves his hand, struggling to find the right words. “It’s like...when you take off, and you feel the air move with you. But this time it’s...extra.”

Phil pauses. “The wind?” 

The wind’s timing is impeccable, and it brushes against Ranboo right then. He shivers, slightly. “Why’s it like that?”

Phil shrugs. “Wind’s always been as the wind does,” he says - rather cryptically. “Useful for flying sometimes, I guess.”

Ranboo harrumphs, softly. He wraps his arms around himself, as his eyes finally adjust. “Well, I never-”

His words shrivel, dying on his tongue. For a moment, he simply stops breathing.

And the world is beautiful.

The forest is its own gentle fire, a masterpiece of reds, oranges and yellows. He spots a quaint cluster of buildings off to the side, with smoke wafting up from them. The Void above them is so incredibly blue, with spots of white wisps floating on high above. Off on the horizon, he sees towering figures.

Phil hums. A hint of bemusement lives in his tone. “Surprisingly nice weather today too.”

The man flinches, his wing flaps stuttering, when Ranboo suddenly grabs his arm.

“Can-” Ranboo swallows. He’s breathless, slightly. “Can we go higher?”

Phil raises his eyebrows, glancing between Ranboo and the Void above them. Realization softens his gaze. 

“You wanna touch the clouds?” He pauses, at Ranboo’s visible confusion, “Those soft-looking shits.”

A sudden childlike bashfulness stills him. Ranboo pulls away, rubbing at his own arm. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t- Got...excited.”

Phil stares at him, in silence. “Well, ‘course you did,” he says, and the words echo with a laugh. “Come on. I haven’t flown above cloud level in a while. It’ll help keep us hidden too.”

Ranboo blinks, taken aback. For a moment he’s cautious, wary and disbelieving.

Then Phil smiles him that Tubbo-smile, and takes off higher into the air. 

Ranboo stares after him.

He beams.

He has always loved this part, of flying. The lift into the air, further and further away from the ground - from everything. Right now, right here, it’s simply him.

No responsibilities, no Council, nothing.

The Blue Void is quiet. It does not wail, it does not scream, nor does it whine for attention. It merely sends a single message, by the wind that sweeps around him.

Welcome, says the Overworld.

Though, the clouds are disappointing.

Phil bursts into laughter at the look on his face. “Yeah,” he snorts. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“They looked so fluffy,” Ranboo laments. He swipes at the mischievous cloud, scowling as his hand simply passes through. His fingers sting lightly, and he pulls away. “Not feeling very welcome right now.”

A hand rests, briefly on his shoulder. “You’ll get over it,” Phil promises. His eyes shine at the sight of him, and Ranboo’s surprised at their intensity.

Then the man blinks, and it’s gone. And Ranboo's left wondering if it was ever really there.

“Come on,” Phil jerks his head, “they’ll wonder where we are.”

It took a while for him to remember to keep his jaw shut. But at the rate of him, gasping at near everything he saw, he doubted it really made a difference.

“What’s those over there?”

“They’re called mountains. Big rocks.”

“Why’s that empty?”

“It’s not really empty. They’re just plains. Good for settling down on, and a bunch of animals like to graze there too.”

“What’s that smoke coming from?”

“Probably the town. Bunch of people live there, but we don’t. Things are...tense, for us.”

“How far does this island go? Where’s The Void?”

“There’s no Void,” Phil chuckles. “And we live on the mainland, so pretty big island.”

Ranboo frowns at him. He tilts his wings, soaring up closer. “No Void?”

Phil glances at him. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “No Void.”

“Then what’s that above us?”

“That’s just the sky.”

“Sky…” Ranboo’s eyebrows furrow, and he frowns softly.

“...you alright?”

Ranboo finds himself only shrugging, wrapping his arms around himself - holding himself. “Just…lots to remember,” he mutters.

He realises he left his memory book back at the castle. 

He realises he left everything at the castle.

And Ranboo finally realises he...left.

Something brushes lightly against Ranboo’s feathers. He blinks, eyes wide as Phil delicately shifts in flight - making the effort, to let their feathers briefly collide.

Their eyes meet.

“You’ll get it,” Phil promises, with the kindest smile.

And oddly, Ranboo finds that he believes him.

They fly the rest of the way in silence, Ranboo having exhausted his endless supply of questions. Or rather, exhausted himself for asking.

Eventually, Phil’s wings tilt. He swoops down towards the ground, leaving Ranboo to glide down after him.

At the edge of a forest, there stands a cottage. Smoke wafts from the chimney. A path leads away from the front door, disappearing into the distance - vaguely, in the direction of the town Ranboo saw earlier. Flowers line the path, a mix and match of variety.

A couple other buildings are scattered around, but Ranboo finds himself honed into the cottage. Even from above, he can sense life and movement. Hear chatter and voices.

A home.

Phil looks relieved to land, his feet skidding against gravel and dirt. “Well,” he says, and gestures to the cottage. “Here we are.”

Ranboo lands next to him. His wings ruffle, aching slightly - aching, in the best way.

“I-” Ranboo clasps his hands together, entwining fingers. He struggles for words, then he laughs, and he finds that he doesn’t want to look away. 

Nor, does he think he’d ever want to leave.

“It’s amazing,” he breathes. “I really, really like it.”

And Phil looks surprised. Pleased, but surprised. The man extends a wing, letting their feathers brush again. 

“I’m glad,” says he. “Now, I’m sure you’ll want to see-”

“RANBOO?”

With eyes wide, Ranboo sees Tubbo - slamming open the front door of the cottage. 

And the Overworld pales in comparison.

“Tubbo,” Ranboo breathes. He races down the path, giddy with relief. “TUBBO!”

They meet in the middle, crashing into the other. Ranboo wraps his arms around him, and he lives for this. He buries his face into Tubbo’s shoulder, while his own still shake with breathless laughter.

“Holy shit,” he hears Tubbo whisper. The Goat Kid’s grip tightens around him. “It worked.”

Ranboo’s eyes sting, and he tightens his grip. “It did,” he breathes. 

Giddy energy fuels him, courses through his veins, and he giggles - he lifts Tubbo’s feet off the ground. They spin in place, a little dance, their laughter mixing and merging perfectly. 

“Thank you,” Ranboo whispers. They stop spinning, and he gently sets Tubbo back on his feet. “Thank you.”

Tubbo steps back, and his eyes are alive. He laughs, holding him as if the Goat Kid can’t believe he’s there.

But he is. And they are.

Tubbo takes his hand, tugging him towards the cottage.

“Come on!” Tubbo glances back at him. “Come home, Boo.”

Ranboo discovered a lot of things. Things he can’t even count on all his fingers, things he doesn’t quite understand yet, and things he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.

But Ranboo understands pancakes. And pancakes understand him.

His utensils clink softly against the plate. He knows he should calm down, slow down, and that he's being slightly improper.

But the- but the pancakes.

He hears a soft grunt, and it halts him. Ranboo glances up, meeting the gaze of a pig.

“I don’t know whether to be disturbed,” the pig says, “or complimented.”

“Er-” Ranboo pauses, wracking his brain. “It’s...good?”

The pig tilts their head. “Yes,” they agree, as if it was never up for debate. “But it’s cold.”

The only other person here leans across the table, nudging the pig on their shoulder. “Take it as a compliment,” they say, grinning. “I think your pancakes are good too.”

“Wilbur, you literally cannot taste.”

“So my compliment should mean extra!”

Ranboo leans back, pressing his lips tightly. He wishes Tubbo were here - or Tommy, maybe even Phil. But all three of them have gone off to the other room, all three of them wearing strained smiles.

He wonders if he can go join them. He wonders if he actually wants to. It’s not that he doesn’t think the current company is bad.

It’s just that he doesn’t know them.

‘Wilbur’ must’ve caught on. “Don’t worry,” they say, with a tone that says he should worry. “Dad’ll go easy on them, now you’re here.”

Ranboo’s eyebrows furrow. “‘Dad-’” He stops, with the sudden realisation. “Oh! You’re the other brother. Their older one.”

“Yep.” Wilbur grins at him. “Am I in Tubbo’s stories too?”

Ranboo tilts his head. “Yeah,” he huffs a single laugh. “You’re always…”

Confusing? Cryptic? Everywhere?

“...interesting.”

Wilbur bursts into laughter. “Tubbo said I was ' interesting', did he?” 

“Basically.” Ranboo pushes his pancakes around with the fork. He frowns, and glances up towards the pig. “If he’s Wilbur, then you’re…”

The pig tilts their head forward. “Techno.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I hope Tubbo told you about how insanely skilled and talented I am-”

“He told me you had an obsession with potatoes.”

“Potatoes are good, man.”

“I dunno,” Ranboo shrugs. “Never had em.”

Techno gapes at him, shocked. Abruptly, he stands from his chair, moving towards the kitchen. There’s a click, a scratch, and the ignition of a flame. Techno rummages through the drawers, and works in stony silence.

Ranboo winces. “Did I-”

“Nah,” Wilbur cuts him off. He smiles at him, surprisingly easy for a stranger. “He’s probably making something potato-based for you.”

“Oh-” Ranboo’s eyes widened. “Oh no, you don’t have to-”

“I absolutely have to,” Techno grunts. “‘Never had a potato’. Don’t bring that insult into my home.”

“It’s Dad’s house.”

“Into Phil’s home.”

Wilbur chuckles, and the atmosphere lightens. The air stops being so heavy and awkward, and Ranboo feels like he can breathe again.

“But hey,” Wilbur says suddenly. He gestures one sweater-clad arm in Ranboo’s direction. “Enough about us. I wanna know about you, man.”

Ranboo swallows. “...me?”

“Yeah?” Wilbur raises his eyebrows at him. “Come on. Tubbo taking days to respawn? And then just not being able to shut up about you? Dad having to take his sword out again? Wings?” He leans forward, bright eyes peering straight into him. “Look- Ranboo? Ranboo, right? Prince Ranboo?”

Ranboo recoils, physically. “I’m not-” He grits his teeth. “I’m not.”

“Not what? Ranboo?”

“No.” Ranboo curls his arms around himself. “I’m not...prince.”

Wilbur frowns, softly. “Well, what’re you then?”

And Ranboo pauses. He thinks about it, staring at his syrup riddled plate. It takes him a bit.

“I’m…” He glances up, meeting Wilbur’s gaze. “I’m just Ranboo.”

Chapter Text

“Tubbo.”

“Mnn-”

“Tubbo. Wake up.”

And he does. 

Slowly. The Goat Kid hisses, blearily rubbing at tired eyes. The numbing haze of sleep lingers at the edges of his mind, and Tubbo struggles to be rid of it.

“Rah-boo?” he mumbles. His eyes adjust to the dark, and he meets those wide mismatched. “What?”

Ranboo’s jaw parts and closes, as he struggles to find the right words. “Okay,” he manages. With dread, Tubbo notes how much too awake he sounds, for how late it is. “So I just woke up, right?”

“...yeah?” Tubbo groans as he sits, on his bed. “You went out like a light after finishing all the pancakes. Which,” he adds, “I’m going to be very upset about.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ranboo waves it off. “Look- I think something’s happened.”

Tubbo stills. “What?” He pulls his knees, close to his chest - eyebrows furrowed, and breath caught at the back of his throat. “What do you mean?”

“I-” Ranboo steps back. He wrings his hands, anxiously - before jerking his head to the window. “The- The Sun’s gone.”

Tubbo blinks. Again, slower.

He groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh no,” says he. “Not again.”

“What?” Ranboo shifts. “I- Again?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo sighs, weary. “Every so often the Sun decides to fuck off. Dunno why it keeps running away like that. Help me wrangle it back, why don’t you?”

“I can’t wrangle the Sun!”

“No, of course not.” His tone shifts, as he drops the bit. He stares, unimpressed. “It’s just nighttime, Boo. The sun probably set while you were asleep.”

Ranboo stares at him. Slowly, he steps back, sitting down on his mattress - shoved on the floor, for until Phil found a proper bed.

“So…” Ranboo furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t have to wrangle the sun?”

Tubbo rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No. ”

“...are you sure?”

“Yes! I’m really fucking-”

“Oi.” Tommy shifts awake. He takes a pillow from underneath his head, chucking it at Tubbo’s own - hitting his mark, with a heavy thwump. “Take your arguing elsewhere.”

Tubbo grumbles. He picks the pillow up, tempted to throw it back to the Golden Boy.

But Tommy's already turning away, drifting back to sleep in the span of half a second - muttering under his breath.

Tubbo harrumphs, and throws the pillow at Ranboo instead. “Well, now I’m awake,” says he, grumpily. “Happy?”

And Ranboo, the bastard, gives him a puppy grin. “Yep.” He holds the pillow close to his chest, hugging. “Why does the sun even disappear? What’s the point of it coming out in the first place?”

Tubbo shrugs. “If the Sun wants to come out, then let them come out. Be supportive.”

“Don’t twist my words.” Ranboo sticks his tongue out. His wings ruffle behind him. “You know what I mean.”

Then he pauses. “...is the Sun actually coming out?”

“Oh my god-” Tubbo groans. He flops back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. “The Sun’s not going to come out. It’s not like, a person. Phil says it’s a star.”

He can feel Ranboo frown at him. “What’s a star?”

Tubbo glances up. And he pauses, thinking.

“...do you want me to show you?”

“Careful-”

“I literally have wings, Tubbo.”

“Okay, then fall.”

“Don’t push me!”

They clamber out, onto the roof - following a path out through their bedroom window. With practised ease, Tubbo leads the way to a worn spot on the top - where the colours shift in shades, and where there’s always a constant feeling of warmth no matter.

Tubbo sits, straightening his legs. “Here.” He pats an empty space next to him, inviting.

Ranboo settles in quickly, Wilbur’s old clothes fitting surprisingly nicely on him. He tucks his knees close to his chest, head tilted. Staring, at him always - with a disbelieving light, as if he still can’t believe that they’re actually here.

And Tubbo, always, seeks to remind him. He brushes their shoulders together, and gestures to the sky.

“Look,” he says, simply.

And Ranboo does. 

Tubbo feels him freeze, the tenseness shifting to relief. Ranboo breathes a shuddery exhale, gasping and gaping - soft sounds of pure, raw wonder.

“Oh…” he says. “Wow.”

Tubbo follows his gaze, gazing up. He finds a smile, and the bright stars smile back down on him. The night sky is filled with them, filling up the entire dark backdrop in a complicated masterpiece he itches to understand - all the while, twinkling cheerily.

Then he glances down, to look at the stars shining in Ranboo’s eyes. And Tubbo finds, in his opinion, that these are much better.

“Look,” Tubbo says again. He points to one, bright star. “That’s Andromeda. Big and bright. Phil says it’s a huge galaxy next to ours, that’s why we can see it.”

He shifts, drawing a shape in the sky with his finger. “And…” he says, “Andromeda’s biggest star also helps make up another constellation-”

“Constellation?”

“The shape stars make- You’re not looking, Boo!”

“Oops. Sor-eee.”

Tubbo shoves him playfully. “Look,” he says, stubbornly. “Andromeda’s biggest star, Alpheratz- Can you see it?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, see it helps mark,” Tubbo grunts, leaning over him to point, “one of the corners for Pegasus’ main square.”

Ranboo rests a light hand, on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Pegasus?”

“You ever heard of flying horses?”

“Horses?”

Tubbo pauses. “I...I’ll show you tomorrow.”

And Ranboo stares at him. “Tomorrow,” he echoes softly. This time, it’s less of a question.

But Tubbo smiles, and he answers anyway. 

“Tomorrow.”

They stay like that, for a bit. Both perfectly content, here - together. Tubbo shifts into a more comfortable position - laying on the roof, but keeping his head on Ranboo’s lap.

And Ranboo merely drapes a wing over him, like a kind of feathery blanket. He leans back against the gently slanted slope; not once looking away from the stars, quite literally starstruck. Every so often, he’d make a soft happy noise - every so often, Tubbo would smile.

There’s the cold autumn chill, a breeze that sweeps around them. Yet despite it, he comfortable, and warm.

Idly, he takes the wing in his hands. Without a word, he preens the feathers, smoothing them back over - rearranging, shifting, cleaning. As he did before, he does so now.

And he hears Ranboo sigh - a simple sound of relief, and gratitude.

“...I’m sorry I took so long,” Tubbo murmurs. He stares at the feathers, at the clear signs of neglect. It twists at him. “Phil wouldn’t- It was supposed to be longer, but I couldn’t wait anymore. That’s why we snuck out.”

“...and that’s why Phil’s angry at you, huh?”

“Mmm.” Despite it, Tubbo smiles. “Worth it, though.”

In his hands, the wing shifts - wrapping tighter around him, almost like a hug. 

“Tubbo,” Ranboo murmurs. “You didn’t-”

“I did.” Tubbo glances up, meeting his gaze - daring him, almost, to disagree. “I did.”

Ranboo falls silent. He sighs, and Tubbo knows he’s won.

But something else crawls at the corners of his mind. Tubbo frowns at the feathers, his fingers stilling.

He gnaws at his lip. “...and I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For...Dragon.”

Ranboo tenses. He pulls his wings away and, hesitantly, Tubbo lets him. He pulls away, and Tubbo lets him.

Regret flashes briefly through his veins - should he not have brought it up, not have reminded him? Would it have been better, to let it lay and be forgotten? Would it even be forgotten?

Tubbo sighs, and makes to sit up - but Ranboo rests a hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay. And so Tubbo does, keeping his head on the lap. 

Staying, here. Wherever he’s needed, wherever he’s wanted.

Ranboo breathes in, sharply. He’s turned his head away, keeping his expressions in the shadows of his draping hair. Tubbo wishes he wouldn’t, wishes to be let in, but knows he shouldn’t pry.

He can wait. And he does, for as long as it takes.

“She didn’t…” Ranboo pauses. “I was never really...Ranboo, to Her.”

Tubbo presses his lips close together. “...hmm?” he hums, a reassurance - he’s here, he’s here, he’s listening.

Ranboo shakes his head. He sighs, at last wearily tilting his head back. “...I was Prince first, always,” he murmurs. “Prince first, Ranboo last. To...everybody.”

And the Not-Prince falls silent, staring up at the stars.

The Goat Kid clasps his hands together, resting them on his chest. He gnaws on his words, grinding his teeth together. “...and what now?” he asks.

And now, Ranboo glances down at him. And now, he smiles, the softest smile. “Now I’m just…” he shrugs, “Ranboo.”

Tubbo stares at him, with eyes slightly widened. “...just Ranboo?”

“Mmm.”

Tubbo sighs. “First name ‘Just’, last name ‘Ran’-”

Ranboo shoves him off, but he’s laughing and, so too, is Tubbo. Their giggles echo with each other, hushed against the night quiet. They try their best not to wake up the entire house, but Tubbo thinks he wouldn’t have been bothered anyway.

They settle back down; Ranboo drapes his wing back over him, a simple gesture of comfort. And the Goat Kid yawns, comfortably warm and so obviously cared for. Every blink slowly grows longer, every sigh slowly grows softer.

The stars wave at them.

“Y’know,” Ranboo says, after a moment of silence. “I think I like your Void better than mine. It’s a lot calmer.”

There’s only silence, after his words. He waits for Tubbo to answer - to at least hum, to show that he’s listening - yet the Goat Kid never does. Ranboo frowns softly, straightening up to stare down.

“Tubbo?”

Tubbo’s still here. He hasn’t left - he hasn’t. His breaths are soft and slow, and the picture definition of calm fits on his face.

He’s asleep.

Ranboo smiles, chuckling softly. His back aches, and he thinks about the mattress, but he wouldn’t risk jostling the Goat Kid awake - especially given he was the reason Tubbo woke up in the first place.

So he resolves himself to this. And he finds it surprisingly easy, to sacrifice his own comfort for this moment. 

His gaze flicks up, back to the stars. Easily, he finds Alpheratz; therefore, he finds Pegasus. His eyes try to piece together the millions of lights in the sky, into the shapes Tubbo spoke of so passionately.

He finds he’s having difficulty. He finds he doesn’t care.

This is enough.

He catches movement, down on the path. Ranboo frowns as he straightens, trying to catch a glimpse of who it is, all without waking Tubbo. 

He sees a silhouette, slowly making its way down. It moves slowly, a heavy cloak of shadows following behind them. The silhouette passes a lantern, and their face is illuminated for a vital half-second.

And Ranboo relaxes. He wonders if he should call out, maybe give a little wave.

But Tubbo shifts in his sleep, and Ranboo stills on instinct - falling quiet, motionless, holding his breath.

And by the time he glances back down, Phil is gone.

“-then I walk out, right?” Wilbur was saying, shoving another forkful in his mouth. “And who do I see, just fucking sitting on the roof?”

Tommy, always subtly clinging to each one of Wilbur’s words, raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Fucking-” Wilbur gestures enthusiastically in his direction, “-Ranboo! Just chilling up on the roof, staring at the fucking sunrise or whatever.”

Ranboo snorts a soft laugh into his waffles. “Did I scare you?”

“No!” Wilbur’s quick to say - slightly too quick.

“It sounded like it-”

“Oh, how would you know, Tubbo?” Wilbur harrumphs. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You weren’t there.”

“Oh, I was!” Tubbo quips. A cheeky, devil’s grin tugs at the corners of his smile. “I was sleeping and - pass me the syrup, thanks - I woke up to this really high-pitched screech-”

Wilbur throws a napkin in his face, across the table - successfully, cutting off his words. “Shut up.”

“Settle down, boys,” says Phil, striding into the kitchen. He takes a seat at the head of the table, already with a weary sigh. “It’s too early for your fights.”

“Blame Tubbo.”

“What? Me? What did I do?”

“Well then blame Ranboo or something.”

Ranboo snorts, nearly spewing orange juice everywhere. “It’s not our fault you scream like th-”

“Oh, Phil,” Techno walks into the kitchen. “Here, a letter came for you.”

“Oh?” Phil takes a small, white envelope from Techno’s hooves. “Thanks, Tech.”

“No problem.”

“What’re you two doing today?” Tommy points his fork in Ranboo and Tubbo’s. “I was thinking we could fuck off into the woods and-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, Dad -”

“No.” Phil reaches forward, grabbing some waffles from the serving plate. “You and Tubbo still have chores to do. And don’t forget your new punishment chores to get on with.”

Tubbo and Tommy groan, at once - simultaneously melting into their seats, like salty liquids. 

“Can’t we get a break?” Tubbo whines. “I wanted to at least show Ranboo around.”

“You can bring him with you.”

“Dad.”

“What, Wil?”

“Stop yelling at the kids and pay attention to me.”

“Oh, stop whining Wil-bah.”

“Shut up, you’re getting into trouble just so he’d yell at you-”

“Yeah cause you keep hogging him, dickhead-”

Ranboo grins at his plate. “I wouldn’t mind coming with you,” he says to Tubbo, over the bickering. “Maybe I can help a bit. It was all because of...me, anyway.”

Tubbo frowns at him, but brightens quickly. “Oh! That makes me think- Tommy,” he waves a hand at the Golden Boy, interrupting the fight. “You get to show him Henry!” 

Ranboo blinks. “Henry?” 

Tommy stares at Tubbo, with eyes comically widened. His grin grows slowly, and it’s a harbinger on the Golden Boy’s face. “Tubbo,” Tommy points a fork, “you’re a fucking genius.”

“I-” Ranboo glances around the table. “Should- should I be worried?”

“Yes,” Wilbur says, with no hesitation. 

Techno nods, at the opposite head of the table. “Good luck.”

“What? ”

“Stop scaring him, Techno,” Phil chides, half distracted by the letter.

“Bru-uh, Wil started it-”

“Well then stop scaring him, Wil.”

“Ranboo started it!”

“Oh, so he did scare you then?”

“You absolute fucker -”

“Who’s Henry?”

The trio picks their way, through the fields around the cottage. Ranboo knows Tommy itches for the woods not too far away, but the Golden Boy leads them to one of the other buildings instead.

“Henry’s my best friend,” Tommy says. Tubbo punches him on the shoulder, leaving him to quickly backtrack, “he’s one of my best friends.”

“Good,” Tubbo says, with a grin. The Goat Kid glances back, and he’s framed by the shining sun. “Henry lives in the barn. That’s the building we’re going to right now.”

Ranboo glances up, staring at the gestured structure. It looks...like how he’d imagine a barn to be, honestly. Though he’s sure they’ve walked past it before. He frowns, as he realises Tommy picks and follows a certain unseen path - twisted and convoluted.

“If we’re going to that building,” Ranboo says, stepping off the path. He takes a single step, pushing through the growth. “Then why don’t we just-”

Tommy and Tubbo freak out, at once. “No!” they cry, simultaneously.

Tubbo grabs Ranboo’s arm, quickly yanking him out of the growth and back onto the path. “Do not,” he hisses - in a tone hushed and horrified, “go through the potatoes.”

Ranboo blinks rapidly, furrowing his eyebrows. “Potatoes?” He glances down, at the growth. But this time he peers at it, and he spots the gouges of farmland. “I- All of these are potatoes?”

“There’s some other crops scattered around.” Tommy huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Shit...Technoblade will actually kill you if he finds you trampled his crops.”

“...no way.” Ranboo glances between their expressions - as the seconds stretched, and their solemn looks remain unchanged, Ranboo gets more and more worried. “...actually?”

Tubbo grimaces. Lightly, he pats the Not-Prince’s shoulder. “He probably won’t kill you immediately,” the Goat Kid says, in a reassuring tone.

Ranboo, for one, is not reassured.

“Yeah,” Tommy scoffs. “Instead he’ll kill us for not telling you. Just-” he waves a hand at him, “stick to the path, boob boy.”

“Oh.” Ranboo grimaces. “Don’t call me that.”

Tommy stares at him, and a growing light of mischief gleams in his eyes. “What?” he asks, innocently. “Sorry, boober, can’t seem to hear you.”

“That’s significantly worse.”

“C’mon boob-sie.” Tommy saunters off, to the barn. “Henry only waits for one man, and that man is me.”

Ranboo pulls a face, behind the Golden Boy’s back. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“What?” Tubbo chuckles, softly as they follow. “‘Course he does. That’s just how Tommy works.”

“But-” 

And Ranboo thinks, about the side glances. He thinks about the wariness, in the Golden Boy’s gaze. He thinks about the stiff and awkward air. And he thinks about how, every time any of that happened, Tubbo is conveniently not around.

And he decides not to say anything.

“If you say so,” he says, simply instead.

“I know so,” Tubbo grins. “Come on- Let’s catch up.”

And they do, just before Tommy reaches the barn doors. The inside looks cool and dark, it smells vaguely musty, and the various animal sounds grow to a cacophony as they enter.

“Henry!” Tommy makes a beeline to one of the pens. With a grin, he clambers up and over the fence, running to one of the cows. “My man! Good morning!”

Ranboo stops, blinking. “He’s a...cow?”

“Mhm.” Tubbo side-eyes him. “How’d you not know horses, but know what a cow is?”

Ranboo shrugs. “Cows are important.”

“I- How are they more important?”

Ranboo shrugs again. “Oh!” He brightens, properly distracted, and hurries to the pen. “That one has flowers- Is that a Moobloom?”

Tommy glances over, Henry’s head in his lap. “Yep,” he grins at it. “That one’s called Pissbaby.”

“...oh. It’s...suitable.”

Tubbo bursts into laughter. “Pissbaby’s one of her kind,” he says, with a grin. “Phil hasn’t found another one yet, so we take extra care of her.”

Ranboo leans over the fence, reaching forward with a hand. “She’s pretty,” he breathes. “I like her flowers.”

“Yeah, now.” Tommy scoffs and rolls his eyes. He strokes the top of Henry’s head. “Wait till spring. Then see how much you like it when she starts dropping flowers like there’s no tomorrow.”

Tubbo winces. “We still have a chest full of last spring’s.”

“It’s a pain to clean up.”

“Speaking of.” Tubbo frowns, at the Golden Boy in the cow pen. “Are you just using Henry as an excuse not to start with your chores?”

Tommy blinks, innocently. “No.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not-”

Ranboo strays away, as the two of them bicker. The growing afternoon sunlight shines against the gaps in the walls. Something rustles in the rafters, and he meets the gaze of a sleek black-feathered crow.

Its head tilts, curiously. The crow rustles its wings at him. Ranboo rustles his back.

“Hello,” he says to it.

The crow caws. It takes off, flapping out through the barn’s open windows - soaring into the autumn sky.

Ranboo finds himself by a different pen - one filled with fluffy wooled sheep. They shift around, brushing their coats together; each one a different coloured shade, to each give different coloured wool.

Then something pink, not wool, catches his eye. Ranboo watches in abstract horror as it straightens, slowly emerging tall through the endless sea of shifting coloured sheep-

“Oh,” he says. “Hi, Techno.”

“Hallo,” Techno says. He moves through the sheep, as naturally as if he’s one of their own. His hooves run light and gentle across their wool, and the pig carries a pair of shears in one hand. “Don’t mind me. Phil and Tommy are gonna need this wool when winter comes.”

Ranboo tilts his head. “Why?”

“Phil? He’s probably going to use it to knit something.” Techno strokes the top of a sheep’s head. “Tommy’s probably going to act like he’s knitting something.”

“Oi! I heard that!”

“Then stop hearing.”

Ranboo snickers, softly. “Is there anything I can help with?”

And Techno pauses. He glances at him, letting their gazes meet.

“Weren’t you a prince?” Techno snorts, a single chuckle. “I didn’t think you’d be doing things like this.”

He’s cold, suddenly. Ranboo’s grip tightens around the fence. “I’m not Pr- not a prince, though.”

“Yeah?” Techno raises an eyebrow, at him. Suddenly, the similarities between him and Wilbur are uncanny - Ranboo feels, vaguely, like he’s being scrutinised.

Techno holds the stare, for the longest time. Ranboo glances away, gouging his nails into the wood of the fence.

He hears a soft sigh. “There’s some hay bales in the back,” the pig says, with hesitance. “Can you...get me that?”

Wordlessly, his tongue as dry and brittle as sand, Ranboo nods.

Tubbo wakes up. Slowly.

And for a moment, he doesn’t quite know why.

Tommy’s asleep, in his bed. The Golden Boy’s snores are a familiar night sound. He glances to their window - the curtains are drawn, and moonlight shines against them.

Tubbo shivers, softly. He wraps his covers tighter around himself, fighting for the warmth he had.

And perhaps it is then, that he hears it.

“...Ranboo?” Tubbo sits up. He stares at the mattress, and at the curled up ball of silhouettes on top. “Are you awake?”

Ranboo gives no answer. It’s an empty silence, and an unnerving one at that. Like the pause before a storm, the holding of a breath.

Tubbo slides off his bed. Slowly, he slinks over to the curled up ball - covered in feathers and, shivering, just slightly.

The Goat Kid kneels, swallowing tightly - for a moment, lost and simply staring.

Then he resolves himself. He softly knocks, on one wing. 

“Hello,” says he, with a note of forced cheer. “I’d like to come in, please.”

Ranboo remains motionless. Then, like a curtain call before a play, the Not-Prince shifts his feathers just enough to peek through them.

“...Tubbo,” Ranboo says, hoarsely. “Why’re you awake?”

Tubbo smiles, softly. “Heard you were having a party. Shame you didn’t invite me.”

A soft, sad laugh. “It’s a pretty bad party,” Ranboo murmurs.

Pressing his lips together, Tubbo sighs. “Can I...come in anyway?”

Silence, stretching. Tubbo almost thinks he wasn’t going to be let in. He finds himself deciding to wait here all night, if he has to.

Luckily, Ranboo shifts again. He slowly pulls his wings away, creating an opening just large enough for Tubbo to squeeze through.

And so he does. The Goat Kid lays next to him, motionless as Ranboo closes them both in a cocoon of feathers - speckled with gentle purple.

And here, in the darkness, Tubbo sees him. The hitch of his breath, a shudder in his voice. The wheeze softly rattling in his lungs, weary and worn.

Ranboo sniffs. He rubs at the bottom of one eye, huffing another little laugh. “I woke you, didn’t I?” He murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“...it’s okay,” Tubbo says. He reaches out, slowly - bumping his knuckles against Ranboo’s shoulder. “You really weren't that loud.”

They fall silent.

“...what’re you thinking about?”

Ranboo sighs the softest sigh, yet it somehow carried the most anger Tubbo’s ever heard from him. 

“I’m not-” Ranboo stops. “I can’t-”

And Tubbo waits, simply.

Another, hitched hiccupy breath. “I...hated it there,” Just-Ranboo whispers, softly. “So why do I-”

He huffs, a sharp and wretched sound. His knees curled up to his chest, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Softly, there’s a choked-back cry.

Tubbo reaches out. His fingers graze against the Not-Prince’s wrist, a perfectly ignorable touch. “You miss it, don’t you.”

Something like a whine, is his answer. Something choked, something conflicted, something messy.

Ranboo shifts. He leans close, resting his forehead against the Goat Kid’s shoulder. On instinct, Tubbo wraps his arm around.

And beneath the touch, Ranboo shakes.

“It’s okay,” Tubbo whispers. He runs slow, comforting circles with his thumb. “It’s okay, Boo. You can grieve. It’s okay.”

It’s only a few words. Just a few, simple words. A soft, warm reassurance - 

Ranboo breaks, falling into full-blown sobs.

And when he cries into the night, Tubbo is there.

Chapter Text

Ranboo shuffles out of the bedroom. He closes the door behind him, slowly, with a click - catching final glimpses of Tommy, in his bed and Tubbo, still curled up on the mattress.

Then he’s alone, standing in the hallway. But it’s not quiet, nor is it empty.

Sunlight, the dim morning kind, streams through the windows. Ranboo yawns softly, ruffling his wings.

He lifts a hand to his face. The skin is raw. He doesn’t need to see it. He doesn’t want to.

His footsteps are feather-light, and soft. He moves through the hall, and finds himself standing before a certain bedroom door. One hand raised a hair-breadth away from its surface - he hesitates.

He breathes in.

Knock, knock.

There’s silence, at first. Then the thuds of footsteps. The bedroom door swings open.

“...Ranboo?” Phil mumbles. He rubs at weary, sleepy eyes. His wings ruffle, their dark feathers fanning and stretching. “What’s-”

Then Phil sees him, truly. And he falls silent.

Ranboo gnaws molars together. His arms wrap around himself, a steely gesture of self-comfort. “...do you have,” he clears his throat. “Something…”

“...for those?” Phil raises an eyebrow. His eyes are as gentle as the morning light, and he doesn’t ask. “Sure, mate. Probably don’t want them to scar, yeah?”

Ranboo ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “...yeah.”

Phil turns away, to walk back inside his room. “You wanna come in?” He glances back. “I can help you put the cream on, if you need it.”

The offer is tempting, but-

Ranboo shakes his head. “I’m...good,” he says. “I can manage.”

And Phil does not push it. He merely shrugs, and nods. “Suit yourself.” The man rustles through shelves, standing up on his tiptoes to reach the very top. “Hold on- Almost got it.”

With a grunt, satisfied, Phil steps away from the shelf. He holds a small tin in his hands, with carefully written inscriptions on the side. In a smooth motion, he offers it forward.

“Here,” says Phil - ever kind, ever warm, and ever so slightly sleepy.

The metal is cool against his fingers. Ranboo takes it gingerly, not wanting to agitate the burns on his hands. 

His breath feels caught, in his lungs. His wings ruffle. “Thank you...Phil.” He swallows, his eyes flickering between the man and the floor. “For...everything.”

And Phil’s eyes soften, impossibly more than they already have. He reaches forward, gently ruffling the top of Ranboo’s hair.

“It’s no problem, mate,” Phil says - he promises, and Ranboo believes him. “We’re here.”

Ranboo shuffles halfway down the steps. He stops at the middle landing, where it’s cool and shadowed and hidden.

Then, he slowly uncaps the tin. It pops softly. Still mostly filled with cream, still only barely used.

Idly, he wonders how quickly he can use it up.

He shakes himself. 

Ranboo leans against the walls, sliding down to curl his knees up to his chest. He’s only done this himself a handful of times - those lucky moments where he gathers himself faster than the Council can find out he’s cried.

And he feels...bad. And selfish. The Council only ever cared. It wasn’t their fault.

He...thinks.

The cream is cool and gentle on his agitated skin. He sighs, a small breath of relief as the irritation subsides.

Thank you, Phil.

He sniffs, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. He quickly recaps the tin, stuffing it into one of the pockets of his borrowed clothes. Mindlessly, he wipes the excess cream on the hem of his shirt.

The kitchen is, already, awake. The sound of running water greets him, and the thud of a knife against a chopping board echoes his footsteps.

Ranboo stands at the kitchen doorway. He blinks.

“Hello.”

Technoblade freezes, knife in hand. The pig slowly turns his head, and he looks surprised to see him.

“Morning,” he says. “You’re up early.”

Ranboo shrugs, rubbing at one arm. “Still not used to the whole...night time, day time thing.”

“Ah.” Technoblade jerks his hand, a silent invitation to come closer. “Don’t have your average day-night cycles in the End?”

“Nope.” Ranboo steps up to the counter. He peers, at the array of materials already scattered around the surface. “What’s your excuse?”

“Oh, I never sleep well.” Technoblade picks up a fruit - red and ripe. In a smooth motion, he slices it in half; exposing sweet-smelling pale insides. “But it’s fine. I get to start early.”

Ranboo frowns, softly at him. “...it’d be too much if I asked why you didn’t sleep well, wouldn’t it?”

“Yep.” The pig gestures to one drawer, off in the corner. “Mind getting me a bowl from there?”

“Mmm.” Ranboo moves, pulling the drawer open. “Well, what’re you cooking then? Maybe I can help an early start finish...earlier.”

There’s the softest chuckle, from the pig. “Why not,” he says - bemused, as he takes the bowl. “How good are you with a knife?”

“Never held one simply ever.”

“You’ll learn.”

“What’s with the bandages on your hands, big man?”

“Huh?” Ranboo stops, to glance at the white strips wrapped around his fingers. “Oh. Learnt how to use a knife today.”

Tubbo blinks. “With Technoblade?”

“Yep.”

“Ah,” the Goat Kid chuckles. “Makes sense.”

They fall back into silence, occupied by their tasks. The brush of Ranboo’s broom against the floor adds to a gentle constant of the running water. Every so often, the plates would squeak - ever so often, bubbles would waft into the air.

Outside, Wilbur and Tommy’s shouts are muffled by the cottage walls. Inside, it’s cool and vaguely warm.

“Hey, Ranboo?”

“Mmm?”

The water stops. Tubbo sighs, leaning against the sink. “...are you okay?”

Ranboo thinks, at first, he refers to the bandages on his fingers. It’s easy to say ‘I’m okay’ to those - they barely even hurt.

But then he stares. He stares, meeting the Goat Kid’s gaze - meeting those worried eyes, so concerned and so caring.

And Ranboo realises he’s...an idiot.

And he smiles, truly. “I am.”

“Tommy! Stop fucking about and put your coat on.”

“Tubbo’s stolen my hat!”

“Well give me my boots back, dickface!”

“Seriously, you two! Don’t fuck this up for me.”

“Oh, what? Are you going to see Sally, Wilb-”

THUD.

Silence.

“DAD-”

Phil sighs. “They’re fine,” he mutters - more to himself, than to the Not-Prince. “They’re fine.”

And Ranboo...doubts it. But he smiles, and says, “Definitely.”

He’s got other things on his mind, anyway. He turns the cloak around in his hands, frowning. Its dark fabric is heavy, and his arms feel sore for holding it out too long. “Phil-”

Phil stops rummaging through his pack. “Need some help?”

Ranboo nods, letting the man take the cloak out of his hands. “Don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why do we even have to wear this?”

Phil moves behind him. The man gently pushes Ranboo’s wings down, angling them appropriately. “People can get...superstitious, sometimes,” he murmurs. “Better safe than sorry.”

Ranboo bites on his tongue. It’s not his place, it’s not his town - but it’s a raging sense of unfairness, coursing through his veins. 

Phil’s gentleness helps cool down that rage, slightly. The man clasps the cloak around Ranboo’s shoulders, then pulls his hands away to smoothen the back of the fabric.

“There,” he says, cheerfully. It’s a sound that twists in him. “As if they weren’t even there.”

Ranboo’s wings twitch. He stifles a frown, tries to act impressed by the way his feathers are completely hidden. He tries to see the reasoning, to understand why, to relate and maybe even to agree.

He doesn’t.

Phil moves away. He blows out the final lantern, and the rest of the house falls into shadow. In the dark, the man gives him a gentle smile.

And in the dark, Ranboo catches a glimpse of steel beneath those eyes.

“Come on,” Phil says. He jerks his head, and opens up the front door. The others’ shouting grows louder, and Ranboo thinks he can hear Techno in the mix. “You’ll love the town.”

And Ranboo...doubts it. But he smiles anyway.

The evening sunlight shines gently. The town bristles with life - swarms with motion, and screams in sound.

Ranboo winces, as he stares at it.

“Okay,” Phil says - corralling their attentions. “I’m gonna take Ranboo to buy some basic necessities. Someone help Techno with the groceries-”

“I can.”

“Thanks, Tubbo. You two-” Phil stops, to give Wilbur and Tommy a steely glare, “Stay out of trouble.”

Their mischievous, mirroring grins promised only the opposite.

They split up, promising to gather back by sundown. Phil glances at him.

“Ready?”

Ranboo swallows. “No.”

Phil simply laughs.

Ranboo sticks close, as Phil moves through the river of people. He brushes shoulders with strangers carrying arms full of produce. He sidesteps parents shepherding cheering children, and dances around groups and groups of chattering townspeople.

Eventually, Phil leads them to an area with a bunch of stalls gathered - a marketplace; some with canvas separating their stalls and some without. Salespeople yell prices and discounted prices and even more discounted prices into the air. Ranboo spots fruits and grains and even a chicken, carried under the arm of one particular townsman.

“Ah, Philza!” greets one Seller, as they approach. They lean on their stall’s front desk, an easy grin on their face. “Back so soon- And with quite a bruise, too? Got to be more careful, old man.”

Ranboo winces - that was his fault, whoops.

“I need clothes,” Phil says. He gestures, in Ranboo’s direction. “Roughly his size.”

The Seller peers at him, behind their square glasses. 

Ranboo swallows, pinned against their sharp gaze.

“Got another one, didn’t you?” They hum. “I swear, it’s as if you’re a magnet for lost things.”

Phil doesn’t respond. He merely rustles through his pack, and pulls out a small pouch. The contents clink against each other. 

“The clothes,” Phil says. He drops the pouch on the desk.

The Seller raises an eyebrow. They lean back, crossing their arms - scrutinising the man, and the Not-Prince. 

The town is not quiet, but their stall is silent.

The Seller scoffs, softly. “I swear,” they sneer, pushing the glasses up the bridge of their nose. “It’s about time you found one that shares your fashion sense.”

It takes him a bit. But when the Seller meets his gaze, Ranboo realises - with a sinking sense of dread - that they’re referring to the cloaks.

The Seller grins, at him. They lean forward, as if sharing a conspiratory secret. “We all stare, when Philza comes into town with that cloak of his.” They speak to him, yet they stare at Phil, “When the wind catches it, it’s almost as if he’s got wings.”

Something stops breathing, and Ranboo realises it’s him. The people in the stalls around them stare, and whisper.

“Don’t say that,” Phil says, through gritted teeth. “You don’t know anything.”

The Seller only shrugs. “I’m just speaking what we’re all thinking.” They lean even further out, until it’s almost impressive how they haven’t toppled forward. “He tries to act all inconspicuous, but really, it’s just sus-”

They fall silent.

Abruptly, The Seller straightens. Their eyes widen, and their mouth gapes - the words as if taken from their very mouth.

“Sy-” They swallow. “Sybil.”

And Ranboo feels so, incredibly, cold.

Phil steps closer, a steadfast shield - a wall, between Ranboo and the Sybil. Ranboo can’t see her over Phil’s shoulders - but he can hear her, and that’s somehow so much worse.

“Hello,” The Sybil says. Her voice is smooth, as silky as a spider’s web. “Oh, hello, Phil.”

Now the marketplace really was staring at them. Ranboo can feel the weight of all their gazes, the strength of all their baited breaths.

He breathes out, shakily - ducking his head, and pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Breathe, breathe.

“Hello...Sybil,” Phil says, softly. “Surprised to see you here, this early.”

The Sybil hums. “Well,” she says. “I had errands to do, before tonight.”

“Another lesson?” Phil bites out.

“Why?” The Sybil’s grin lives in her voice. “Worried you’ll miss it?”

Phil doesn’t answer. The man shifts, and pulls away slightly.

But it’s enough, for the Sybil to see him. And for Ranboo to see her.

Her dark hair cascades to just beneath her shoulders. She wears a simple robe, though it carries subtle intricacies in its design. The dark sunhat on her head is pulled low, slightly shielding her eyes.

Those eyes widen. And she gasps, slightly, at the sight of him.

“Oh…” The Sybil breathes. Her gaze flicks, between him and Phil. “Who’s...this?”

Phil doesn’t answer. He tenses, and pointedly turns his back. “If you’re not giving me what I asked for,” he says to the Seller. “Then we’re leaving.”

The Seller blinks, drawn out of their dumbfounded haze. Their eyebrows furrow, and their glare returns to their gaze. “I’m sorry,” they spit - not at all apologetic, “but I’ve got a more important customer.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” The Sybil says. She puts her hands behind her back, flashing a charming little smile. “They were here first, after all. I can wait my turn.”

“But-”

Phil harshly clears his throat.

The Seller scoffs. They move so incredibly slowly, and every breath is a spat of spite. But eventually, Phil trades the pouch for a pile of decent clothes.

Phil glances at him. “Come on,” he murmurs, jerking his head. “We’re done here, for today.”

And Ranboo does not object. Silently, he trails behind the man as they move away from the stall - back to the ever-shifting marketplace, weaving through the currents of moving townspeople.

Then The Sybil catches his arm. Ranboo freezes, his eyes wide as he’s forced to meet her gaze.

“It was a pleasure to see you,” says she. Her grin stretches wide beneath her sunhat. “Little Prince.”

Ranboo gapes, grasping for words, for a breath of air -

She lets him go, and he snatches his arm - stumbles backwards on the cobblestone path. A group of townspeople pass between them, chattering loudly.

And the Sybil is gone.

Tubbo shifts his arms, full of bagged groceries. He frowns, as he stares up at the dark sky.

“They’re late.”

Tommy comes up beside him. Easily, he takes a bag out of his arms - silently lightening his load. “They’ll be fine,” he mutters. “Y’know how Dad can get.”

They knew how Phil can get. This wasn’t like Phil at all. This wasn’t normal.

Techno and Wilbur stand off to the side, their voices low in their conversation. Wilbur gestures harshly, and Techno scoffs and shakes his head. Their words are muffled, and inaudible.

Tubbo sighs. “Used to like coming into town,” he mutters.

Tommy snorts, and lightly shoves their shoulders together. “As if,” he says. “You always hated it.”

“Not always.”

“The festivals don’t count.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Cause the town’s different then.” Tommy shifts, moving the bag to one arm to gesture with the other. “Everyone’s...happier. And no one gives a shit about what you wear, or whatever twisted words this week’s asshole says.”

“And?” Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “Why can’t the happiest moments be what makes us?”

And Tommy stares at him. He rolls his eyes, sighing a rather harsh breath. “Whatever,” he says. “Forget it.”

Footsteps against the cobblestone path distract them. All four of them glance up, as one.

Tubbo brightens. “Ranboo!”

Ranboo waves, as he and Phil finally arrive. The Not-Prince slides away from the man’s side, slinking towards them with his arms full.

Tubbo frowns, as he finally catches a glimpse of the look in Ranboo’s eyes. “What happened?”

Ranboo opens his mouth, but nothing comes up. He huffs, a tired breath, and only shakes his head. 

“Just,” he swallows, “wanna go home.”

“Dad?” Wilbur comes up to them. “What took so long?”

Phil sighs, tired - exhausted, even. “Not important,” Phil says - in the tone that means it was important, but over. “Did you get everything?”

Techno nods slowly. His eyes glint in the dark, lantern-light; gleaming with a steel, unsatisfied. “Phil-”

“Don’t.” Phil shoulders his pack, readjusting his cloak. “Let’s go home.”

And they do. They leave the town behind them; with its lights, its lives and its people. Their little mismatched family, heading for sanctuary.

Tubbo stays by Ranboo’s side the whole time. For a moment, they walk through the dark forest in silence - only Phil, with his torch held up high, as their light source.

“...what happened?” he whispers.

Ranboo glances at him, through the corner of his eyes. The Not-Prince’s shoulders tense and shiver.

“...remember that time you told me about the Sybil?”

Tubbo’s heart drops, down to the soles of his boots. “You saw the Sybil?”

Ranboo grimaces. “Met her, actually. She talked to us.”

“You what?”

“Dad, the Sybil?” Wilbur’s voice is disbelief, outrage incarnate. “No wonder you took so fucking long- Did she hurt you?”

“No,” Phil says. His words are clipped, and brief. “She never has, Wil. And I doubt she’d start.”

“The fuck you mean?” Tommy scoffs, fueled by their collective anger - by their fear, for their own. “She’s the reason going to town is such a pain in the arse, isn’t it?”

“The townspeople are. Not The Sybil.”

“Isn’t The Sybil the one spreading lies about you?” Techno murmurs - the cold, quiet rage burning in his voice.

“Exactly! ” In stark contrast, Wilbur has never sounded angrier, more ready to fight. “That’s pretty hurtful, I reckon.”

“The only thing she actually says in her Lessons are to watch out for people like me-”

“‘The only’-” Tubbo gapes, and stops walking. “You went?”

Phil stops - they all do. He sighs, and Tubbo watches as his shoulders droop. 

“I can’t believe you,” Tubbo finds himself saying. “I- Why? ”

Phil half turns his head around, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know,” he admits, softly. “Was curious, I guess.”

Tubbo grits his teeth. “Well?” he demands. “Did you find out why she fucking hates our family?”

“She doesn’t, Tubbo.”

“Oh, sorry! I guess turning the entire fucking town against us wasn’t-”

“Enough.” Phil snaps. The man quickly reels back, a brief flash of horror crossing through his eyes.

And Tubbo flinches. He steps back, biting on his tongue - hard.

Everyone else is silent. The air is thick, heavy and dangerous. Charged with tension, threatened to ignite at the slightest spark. Even Tommy stares at the ground, eyebrows furrowed as he glares at the worn dirt of the path.

Phil makes a soft sound. “Tubbo-”

“Let’s go.” Tubbo shifts the bag, in his hands. He looks away. “Let’s- Let’s just go.”

Ranboo’s staring at him. The weight pressed against him. 

He doesn’t return it.

“...hey Bo.”

Tubbo sits, on the roof, with his knees curled up to his chest. The Goat Kid startles at the sound of his voice - quickly, he turns his face away and rubs at his eyes.

“Ranboo,” he mutters. He breathes a sharp, angry breath. “Go back to fucking sleep.”

“...nah.” Ranboo clambers up to the spot, taking a seat not too far away. His wings ruffle, and he relishes in them being out in the open once more. 

Then, gently, he spreads them in Tubbo’s direction. Not in contact, but in sight. 

Perfectly ignorable. He waits, for as long as it takes.

And The Goat Kid leans into it. Consciously, or subconsciously, accepting the gesture of comfort. He breathes a soft sigh, a simple sound of gratitude, when Ranboo’s wings act as a feather blanket - a source of warmth, against the autumn chill.

And the shivers of today.

“...you okay?” Ranboo asks, softly.

Tubbo sighs, again. He rests his chin on his knees, staring out into the horizon - into the direction of the town, with its ever-constant wafts of smoke. 

“...no,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

Ranboo glances away, humming quietly. “...do you want a distraction?” he asks. “Or do you just want quiet?”

Tubbo gnaws, at the bottom of his lips. He takes what feels like an eternity, and Ranboo waits patiently throughout it all.

And he knows he would do this, again and again - for eternities, so be it. 

“Let’s do distraction,” he decides, at last. He glances at him through the corner of misty eyes, smiling softly. “What’d you have in mind?”

Ranboo stretches his legs. He tips his head backwards, staring up at the night sky.

“Can you tell me about the stars?”

Tubbo rests his head, onto his shoulder. The Goat Kid hums.

“Sure, Boo.”

Chapter Text

The days begin to blend. 

Times of harvesting potatoes, kneeling in the dirt by Techno’s side. Times of chilling in the barn, with Pissbaby’s head in his lap - laughing, at whatever wild theory Tubbo has about the universe. Times of curling up in the armchairs near the fireplace, in the living room - living, truly, for and in the moment.

And Ranboo is content. If the mornings and nights were paint, and the world was a canvas, then this time here would be a masterpiece.

They were in the living room.

Ranboo lays on his stomach, comfortably cushioned with a soft carpet beneath him. The fire roared a gentle warmth, crackling with tales and promises. 

And he has Tubbo, leaning against him. He hums a gentle tune, running fingers along Ranboo’s feathers - preening, carefully, caringly, lovingly.

Phil and Wilbur chattered, their voices a steady drone of constant. Gently debating, on whatever mind-bend Wil’s come up with this morning. Echoing that, Technoblade snored softly, succumbing to the low energy of the lower temperatures. 

Then, enters Tommy. A blur of blonde, red and white.

“Motherfucks!” He wears a wide and eager grin - stumbling and leaping in his mad dash to the windows. “It’s snowing!” 

Tubbo jolts upright, sparked by Tommy’s contagious energy. “Snow!” He grabs onto Ranboo’s arm, yanking him upright - dancing, slightly, with giddy excitement. “Come on come on- Let’s see!”

“Wha-” Ranboo yelps, as he’s dragged to his feet. They stumble, bumping into each other - but Tubbo is bursting with laughter, and so too, Ranboo finds himself.

They hurry to the window. Where there was a beam of sunlight, shining through heavy clouds - now, it’s speckled with small moving shadows, wafting from the clouds above.

Tommy’s already there, standing with his nose pressed against the glass. The Golden Boy grins at the snow, like fallen stars, and exhales a breath - fogging the glass.

And so Ranboo sees the snow, and has never seen anything more.

“Woah…” He presses his hands against the window, and it’s cold. Flakes of white sky stumble down, speckling the afternoon sunlight. Outside is a place he’s familiar with, and has never seen before, all at once.

“Snow…?”

Tubbo presses against his side. “Snow!” he says, beaming up. The Goat Kid laughs, pleased with such a simple sight.

And Ranboo realises that he has seen something, so much better than snow. Something so much more.

The three of them stand before the window, watching the snow fall.

The window is cold, but Ranboo is warm.

“You sure you don’t wanna go with them?”

Ranboo glances up, blinking, meeting Phil’s gaze - curiously concerned, intrigued and wary.

The man gestures out the window - from it, through the frosted glass, they see three figures playing in the snow.

The silhouettes of Tubbo and Tommy race after each other, kicking up the freshly fallen snow. The Goat Kid leaps forward in a tackle, and they topple to the ground - the snow erupts, gentle puffs of solid cloud. Wilbur stands over them, doubled over in wheezy laughter.

Ranboo smiles, at that.

“Nah.” He shakes his mug, gently swirling the hot chocolate inside. The Not-Prince, Just-Ranboo, shifts on his spot; curled up on the windowsill, his wings fluff beneath him. “Too cold. I’m happy here.”

He is, in more than he’s said.

And Phil’s eyes soften, and Ranboo thinks he understands. Truly understands, caught onto what he doesn’t say. He spreads a wing, letting the feathers gently graze against Ranboo’s shoulder.

Ranboo returns the gesture, letting his feathers stretch.

Phil smiles, at that. At being able to share a simple, instinctual show of affection.

“I’m glad,” Phil murmurs, before he draws away. The man heads back to the couch - it’s a still day, for everybody, and it’s well spent in the company of being loved. Phil lets himself curl up next to Techno’s sleeping form, and in return he curls a wing around the pig.

Outside is cold, and the inside is warm, but Ranboo is here and so are they. It’s a simple thing to have, and it’s the simple thing that he loves.

Tubbo lays on the couch, his head in Ranboo’s lap. He fell asleep a while ago - exhausted after his run in the snow, and with a coat practically dripping in melt. Almost no words were shared, but no words were needed.

The living room is empty, save for them. Techno and Phil had moved away, roaming around the warmth of their sanctuary. It’s quiet, and still.

Ranboo watches the fire. The flames dance and whirl, glowing with light and warmth. It laughs, cheekily - leaping from one dried twig to another.

The Not-Prince’s feathers twitch. He yawns, leaning his head back - staring up, drowsily, at the ceiling.

Footsteps thud against the floor. A huff of breath; a signature habit, one Ranboo recognises by heart.

“Tommy.” His head lolls to the side, and their gazes meet. Ranboo smiles. “Hey.”

The Golden Boy freezes - he’s surprised, to be greeted. To be called out so casually by someone who’s meek at best, distanced at worse.

But Ranboo’s tired, of this tiptoed dance. He sees the way Tommy and Tubbo act with each other. He knows Tommy’s only ever cared. In that sense, they are similar.

Tommy’s never at lost for long. His strides are full of purpose, always. In a smooth motion, he lifts Tubbo’s legs off the cushions and sits there, letting the Goat Kid’s socks rest on his own lap.

Throughout it all, Tubbo barely shifts. 

Ranboo smiles, softly, and brushes his palm against the top strands of his shaggy hair.

“You got something against the snow, broken clock?” Tommy says, suddenly breaking the silence.

“Nah,” Ranboo hums. “Just too cold.”

Tommy opens his mouth, then apparently manages to rethink the words on his tongue. He sighs, shrugging in simple acceptance. “Fair enough.”

The fire’s roars are the only sounds ever, save for Tubbo’s gentle snoring. From the kitchen, Wil and Techno’s chatter set an undertone.

“Why do you call me that?” Ranboo glances, through the corner of his eye. “Broken Clock?”

Tommy blinks. He gazes at the carpet, his gaze unfocusing with the thought - with the memory, playing in his head. Tommy gnaws at the bottom of his lip, letting strands of his hair fall across his eyes.

“Tubbo really likes you.”

Ranboo blinks, taken aback. “I- what?”

“Tubbo,” Tommy repeats. He drags his gaze back, unimpressed eyes gleaming in the firelight. “He wouldn’t shut up, about getting you outta there.”

The Not-Prince lets his eyes fall, to the sleeping Goat Kid in his lap. He runs his hand across the strands of Tubbo’s hair, again - gently pushes it out of his face. 

“...I-”

“Was it bad?”

Ranboo stops breathing, for half a second.

Tommy hasn’t glanced away. He stares, waiting for an answer. “In the End,” the Golden Boy echoes himself. “Was it bad?”

Ranboo bites, down on his tongue. He struggles to find the right words, to find a proper answer in him. To find one that he agrees with, himself.

“...I wasn’t happy,” he murmurs at last. “It was...lonely. It felt like everyone kept...expecting me to do something, but I-”

He falls silent, for a bit. Ranboo sighs, limply gesturing at nothing, and everything, all at once.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I- I didn’t know what I was meant for.”

Tommy stares at him. He stares, for so very long - without blinking, without shifting, or anything.

They really were brothers, Ranboo realises then. Tommy, Wilbur and Techno. The resemblances are uncanny.

Tommy finally drops his gaze. He sighs, rather loudly, and stretches his arms up in the air. “Fair enough,” Tommy says. The Golden Boy yawns, and crosses his arms. Blinking drowsily at the fire - he hums, “Fair enough, Ranboo.”

Ranboo blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Uhm-”

“Shh.” Tommy lifts a finger, for silence. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sleeping.”

“...you’re obviously not-”

“Well I am now.”

Ranboo scoffs, not unkind. If anything, it’s quite a fond little noise.

Tubbo shifts, curling up in his sleep. The Goat Kid shivers, then. Instinctively, Ranboo drapes his wings across Tubbo’s shoulder; ever ready, content to be able to keep his friend warm.

Then he pauses. Ranboo tilts his head, blinking in a sudden thought.

“Are you cold?”

Tommy takes a bit, before he realises he’s being addressed. “Whuh?” He opens an eye, an eyebrow at the Not-Prince. “Am I what?”

“Cold,” Ranboo echoes himself. In lieu of explaining, he simply spreads his wings open.

Tommy, apparently, understands the gesture. It’s there, in the way his eyes widen - the way they soften, at the offer to share comfort, at the invitation to be included into this moment.

Obviously, he takes a while to finally accept it. After all, what’s Tommy without a couple of exaggerated grumblings, and a few ‘I’m so very cool. Like a fire, but opposite. I keep myself warm, ex-fucking-scuse me.’

Mr Keep-Himself-Warm takes the makeshift feather blanket gently, quite gratefully. Tommy leans into Ranboo’s other side, huffing a simple sound of content - of warmth, for when the Golden Boy finally thaws.

For what’s Tommy, except a boy who simply loves recklessly. Who blends the line between foolishness and loyalty, and who does it with a laugh that regrets nothing and promises everything.

In that sense, they are similar.

And Ranboo’s never been more grateful to be cold.

He wakes up, when the sun has long set. The snow has stopped falling, and the outside is a still painting - the picture of mystery, of myth.

Tubbo’s still on his lap - but he’s awake, now. He holds a book in his hands, lazily flicking through the pages. Breathing deeply, calm and at rest.

Something clicks, steadily. Ranboo glances at the other armchairs - watches, for a bit, as Phil and Tommy share a mass of wool between them. They both hold knitting needles, and they both share in the simple joy of creating something so gentle, for someone so loved.

Tubbo shifts, and so too does Ranboo.

The Goat Kid glances up, at him. He smiles, and it’s warmer than any beam of sunlight. “Good morning, Boo.”

Ranboo blinks, blearily. Sleep is a haze around his senses, and his thoughts - he struggles to be rid of it, but he struggles more than usual.

“It’s…” he mumbles. “Morning?”

Tubbo laughs. “No- It’s just a thing you say, when someone wakes up. Sometimes people mean it sarcastically.”

“Oh…” Ranboo scowls. He knocks his knuckles, gently, against Tubbo’s skull. “Don’t be...sarcastic with me. Bad energy.”

“Pfsh.” Tubbo simply laughs, again. With such a simple sound, everything is alright. “I think you woke up a bit too early, huh?”

Ranboo hums, in possible agreement.

“You can sleep, Ranboo,” Phil says. His knitting needles are undeterred, and they echo the warmth in his voice. “We’re here, and you’re safe.”

And Ranboo relaxes, simply believing.

He loves the sound of running water, he realises. Ironic perhaps, given the obvious hazards.

But he’s always loved the lake, back in the End. He loves the snow, as it falls. He loves the patter of rain against the roof. So really, it’s no surprise. The danger is inviting, and the risk brings reward.

Ranboo, the Not-End-Prince, loves the water. It’s rather ironic, and it makes him laugh a bit when it comes to mind.

He and Techno are talking, some menial discussion about something that didn’t matter. Their words were there simply to fill the silence, to scaffold memories between them. Ranboo does so with care, and he knows Techno does the same.

Then, enters Wilbur. Striding into the kitchen, harbinger of events - good, or bad, but always interesting.

“Ranboo!” He cries out, with a devil’s grin permanently cemented in his voice, it sounds like. Wilbur slings an easy arm around his shoulder. “My man! How’ve you been?”

Ranboo blinks, distracted from the batter in his bowl. “I mean...no different than when you asked this mor-”

“Good, good.” Wilbur pats his shoulder. “Listen, Tommy’s birthday is on the fourth of July, and Tubbo’s birthday is on the seventh. Important dates, cause it’s the last day they’ll respawn. Whoo, coming of age or whatever. Got that?”

“Oka-”

“Good! Now that I saved your life, you owe me a favour.”

Ranboo bursts into laughter. Wilbur’s up to something - that much is obvious. And it would be lying, for Ranboo to say that he wasn’t slightly curious.

Wilbur’s cunning, that. Whether it be skill, or talent, he’s good at what he does - spinning tales and convincing minds. He would’ve been a good diplomat, in another life.

Maybe even a president.

“Okay,” Ranboo hums, as he leaves the bowl of batter on the counter. “Say I owe you a favour. What’re you using it for?”

Wilbur grabs both of his shoulders, shifting him around. Now, facing each other, Ranboo sees the eager light in his eyes.

“I need your help,” says he, the trouble maker. “See, I need you to be my wingman, if you catch my drift.”

Ranboo’s eyebrows furrow, and his wings twitch. “You need me to...what?”

“Wingman me.”

“...what?”

“...do you not know what ‘wingman ’ is?”

Slowly, Ranboo lifts his wings up.

“I- No that’s- You know what, you’ll learn on the way.”

Ranboo shifts the cloak tighter around his shoulders. His boots crunched against the stampeded snow, following the path trodden by many. The sunlight is cold, and so too is the air around them.

“What I’m not understanding here, Wilbur,” Technoblade huffs, “is why I have to be your wingman too. Ranboo’s got two wings.”

Wilbur elbows him. “You know that’s not what it means,” he hisses. The usually calm faced Brother wears eyes tinged with nervousness; he wrings his hands, stretching the fingers, working off the extra energy. “Come on- You guys are meant to be my backup! My emotional support.”

“Why are we emotionally supporting you, again?”

“Well, Ranboo. It’s because I’m emotionally constipated. Next question?”

“That’s something that makes sense.”

“Shh, shh!” Wilbur stops them both, spreading his arms. The town bristles to life before them, undeterred by the cold and the snow. "We’re here.”

For a moment, they stare. Watching as the townspeople hurry from building to building, chasing warmth and smoke. Their bundles of bunched up coats and gloves, cloaks and scarves swirling in the wind.

Ranboo spots a sunhat, slinking between buildings. He shivers, and glances away.

Wilbur grabs the Not-Prince by the shoulder, suddenly. “Ranboo,” he asks, “are you old enough to drink?”

Ranboo frowns. “What...like water? I can drink water.”

Wilbur blinks at him, slowly. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I...never mind, you’re not drinking any.”

“...drinking what-”

Ranboo sits at a round, wooden table. In his hands, he holds a coppery drink he’s apparently not allowed to drink - but had to have, anyway.

Techno sits across from him. He swirls his own, similar drink in one hand - like his, not a single sip was taken. 

Around them, the tavern bursts in life and motion. A musician plays, in one corner - cheered on by patrons, who laugh and raise their cups to the melody. There is chatter, constantly, and they overlap each other into a mountain of voices.

Wilbur leans against the bar. His previous anxiety melted like dew on a morning, and he chats amiably with the bartender on the other side. Ranboo spots a head of salmon-red hair, and fiery eyes.

“...is that Sally?” He asks, suddenly curious.

Techno lifts his eyebrows. The pig turns around, eyeing the bartender and the brother - both erupting into laughter, at a joke Wilbur’s said. “Yep. He’s been pining after her ever since last year.”

Ranboo leans forward. “Oh, wow. So he’s done this before?”

“Nope. First time I ever seen him talk to her.”

“...really?”

“Well. He is Wilbur.”

Ranboo snorts. “Probably shouldn’t say that to his face.”

Techno huffs a laugh, and lifts the mystery drink in a mock toast. “Please, I’m his brother. He knows I say worse stuff behind his back. He probably does the same.”

“Ah.” Ranboo only shrugs, but he wears an easy smile. “If you say so.”

They fall into a brief silence. Wilbur glances back at them, his eyes shining - Ranboo gives what, he hopes, is an encouraging little wave.

“Is that Philza’s boy?”

Ranboo and Techno both still, falling silent - caught onto the storm, brewing on the horizon. Ranboo stares into his drink, desperately pleading the clouds of tension would pass. Techno only steels his eyes, gripping the cup tightly in his hooves.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it? The one talking to Sally over there.”

The voices harrumph.

“She’d ought know better than to associate with him,” they say. “Only get herself into trouble.”

“Look at him. He’s got that shine in his eyes. He fancies her.”

“Oh god, please. He’s embarrassing everybody here.”

Quietly, Techno snarls. He shifts, acting like he’s about to stand-

Ranboo quickly reaches forward, grabbing onto his wrist - stalling him, until his mind can catch up with his actions, before the pig does something he’ll regret.

(Nevermind the fury, raging in his own veins.)

Their eyes meet. Techno glowers at him, anger with no outlet. Ranboo only narrows his eyes, taking the heat - gladly, if it meant the pig would walk out of here with his bones intact.

The voices quieten. A chair scrapes against the tavern floor.

“Hey.” The voices gain a face, as they stand by their table. Three of them, all with curled lips and hidden sneers.

And Ranboo expects them to be...different. To carry an air of dread, of menace, of wrongness with them. But they are perfectly ordinary, real genuine people. A toxic waste site, with no warning signs. Monsters aren’t real, but this?

This was.

“We know you,” the more outspoken one drawls out. They point a finger, to Ranboo’s direction. “You’re the one who’s like him. Philza.”

Ranboo blinks. He shoots Techno a quick warning glance, before he slowly leans back in his chair. “What do you mean?” He asks, innocently.

They slam their hands on the table, suddenly, with a loud bang. 

The tavern goes quiet.

Wilbur frowns at them, moving away from the bar.

“You know what I mean,” they hiss. Their eyes are knives, stabbing. “What’s under your cloak.”

Ranboo stills the frantic beating of his heart. It wasn’t a question, but he answers anyway. “It’s cold.”

“We’re inside,” they retort. 

“Still cold.”

“Take it off.”

“...no?”

They reach, towards him. Ranboo flinches away-

Techno grabs their wrist. "Don't," he warns. His voice drops low, to a dangerous growl. "Back off-"

They throw their arm back, and punches him.

Back home, Phil stares at them.

“I cannot,” Phil sighs, “fucking believe you two.”

“Two?” Wilbur gapes. “What do you mean two?”

“I mean I know damn well Ranboo probably had nothing to do with it.”

“He’s the one they were targeting!”

Phil stares, at him - shocked and near betrayed. 

It’s a comical sight, and Ranboo struggles to stifle his laughter. “In my defence,” he says, as he cleans the blood out of Techno’s fur. “I didn’t throw the first punch.”

From his spot, dramatically laid on the couch, Wilbur perks up. “No,” he says, “but you did throw the first chair -”

“They were sneaking behind you! I panicked!”

“So you threw a chair -”

“Ow.” Techno winces, underneath his touch. The light of the fireplace flickers long shadows across his bruised and battered face. “That’s sore.”

Ranboo stills, exponentially softening his touch. “Sorry,” he murmurs. 

He wishes someone else could do this, simply because it’d be a lot easier if the cloth he held was damp - but Techno was adamant. And after tonight, and his valiant attempts at defending him-

Well, Ranboo’s grateful, and he’ll show it one way or another.

“Ranboo’s over here talking about how they tried to surprise you,” Techno hums. “But really, I think you surprised them. Where did you even come from?”

Wilbur grins. “I’m everywhere. And the date with Sally went really well, actually!”

“No kidding.”

“I’m serious!” Wilbur gestures, a giddy grin on his face. “She thought I looked cool, fighting for honour or whatever. Told me I could come back. Wasn’t even upset about the window!”

“Huh,” Ranboo chuckles. “Thought she’d at least be upset about the window.”

“Oh, I told her it was from their lot. I’m no snitch, especially not to my favourite chair-thrower.”

And Ranboo bursts, into laughter - his shoulders shaking, wheezing, such that he has to lean back so that he doesn’t accidentally shove into Techno. 

All the while, Phil stares at him. The man sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “...did you at least win?”

Techno simply grunts. “We defended your honour, Philza. Isn’t that good enough?”

Phil huffs a wry laugh. “So you lost.”

“Not really ‘lose’ as much as ‘got chased out of town’.”

The front door swings open. Tubbo and Tommy slip their coats off, laughing at some joke, the setting sun behind them. Their chatter falters, falling into silence, as the two finally realise the room.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo’s eyes are so incredibly wide, “Ranboo, who’d you murder?”

“I- Why did you assume I murdered-”

“They got into a bar fight,” Phil explains.

“No fucking way.” Tommy gapes. He slinks to the couch, knocking Wilbur’s legs off the edge and flopping down in the forced empty space. “...did you win?”

“No.”

“Do it again.”

“Tommy! ”

The laughter, ringing through the living room, takes out the sting of Phil’s outrage.

Wilbur launches into a dramatic retelling of the fight, making sure to include the chair-window incident at least four times before it actually came up in the story. By the time they caught up, the sun had set, and moonlight shone through the flecks of falling snow.

Wilbur sighs, throwing a knuckle-bruised hand over his forehead. “And that,” he says, “is why you don’t shit talk our family.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Tommy grins. Having pushed to the floor, he leans against the sofa legs. “Only good things about Dad, bravest man I ever met.”

Tubbo, cross-legged on the carpet, hums softly. “I can’t believe Ranboo drank alcohol.”

Next to him, Ranboo pauses. “Drank what?”

“What I can’t believe,” says Tommy, “is that I missed something as fucked as that. Like, come on! I could’ve added that to my ‘times-I-nearly-died’ list!”

Phil stares at him. “Times-you-nearly- what’ list-”

“Have you ever died, Ranboo?” Tubbo asks, suddenly.

Ranboo pulls a face. “Have I ever died?” he echoes. He can’t help himself, and fashions a cheeky smirk. “Oh yes. I’m long gone. Simply perished ages ago.”

Tubbo shoves him, scowling exaggeratedly. “You know what I meant.”

The Not-Prince snickers, softly. “No. But I came close,” he says. A soft frown fits his face, as he scrounges through his poor memory. “I mean, I was- I was a...prince. It kinda came with the package, I guess. Enemies of the kingdom and whatnot.”

They all stare at him, for a bit. Soft eyed gazes, tinged with a spot of sorrow.

Tubbo leans into him, letting their shoulders brush. “But you’re alive,” he murmurs. “You’re here.”

Ranboo smiles, leaning into the touch. “I am,” he says. He keeps his voice light, keeps laughter in his tone. “I’m much too stubborn to die.”

The room dissolves into gentle chuckles. Relieved, grateful, for the knowledge that one of their own is okay - happy.

“Oh, Dad! It’s your turn now.” Wilbur half sits up, with a cheeky grin. “Tell us a story. It’s a good time for it.”

Fueled, Tommy and Tubbo burst into chants, cheering for the tale. Even Techno looks interested, pulling himself out of post-fight sleepiness, just to stare expectantly at the man.

Phil sighs, leaning back in his armchair. His feathers ruffle, but his eyes are fond - love, despite the grumblings.

“Alright- Alright, you little shits!” he concedes, at last - falling into their eager cheers, like a sweet cheeked trap. Phil tries to act annoyed, but the glimmer in his eyes is a traitor to that. “A story.”

And Ranboo leans forward, intrigued. His breath catches in his throat, swept into the anticipation of a good tale; woven, on a cold winter night, sitting by a warm campfire, surrounded by being loved.

And so, Phil begins. 

“Once upon a time, there was once, as never before. Because if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t have been told…”

“Ranboo.”

Ranboo stumbles, into consciousness. He hums, opening a sleepy eye, letting his vision adjust to the dim moonlight.

Tommy stands beside his bed, with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. The Golden Boy shivers, awoken by the freezing cold - huffing a breath, through wheezy lungs.

“Tubbo’s gone,” Tommy mumbles. “I don’t- Dunno where he went.”

Ranboo squints. His mind churns, bumbling to form a thought. “...you’re cold,” he manages.

“Well, yes,” Tommy scoffs, impatiently. He waves it off. “That’s not the fucking point though. It’s freezing out there. If Tubbo snuck out or something-”

Ranboo hums again, this time half tinged with a bleary groan. He shifts, lifting his wings up, in lieu of saying much.

Tommy blinks, at the Goat Kid curled up. “...oh.”

Ranboo yawns. His wings ruffle. “Crept in a while ago. Think he was cold.”

“Yeah- yeah no-” Tommy shifts his feet. “Okay then. No, I was just- worried cause like...y’know it’s fucking freezing and-”

“Oh my fucking-” With an agitated harrumph, Tubbo rolls over. He grabs Tommy’s wrist, tugging the Golden Boy into the same bed. “Come on, I know you’re freezing just as much as the rest of us.”

“Oh what the fuck- I’m not sharing a bed with you two, you’ll just push me over-”

“It’s warm, shut the fuck up-”

Ranboo lets them fight it out, and they didn’t struggle for too long. It really was a cold night, and the space under Ranboo’s wings was so tantalizingly warm. 

And the Not-Prince is content, to drape his wings over them. To act as a blanket, and to help them sleep just a little bit easier.

As their presence, their gentle warmth, does the same for him.

Chapter Text

The blue sky stretches wide before him. The Not-Prince soars above the clouds, laughing - it laughs with him. A gust of wind blows through his feathers, cheeky and playful.

Ranboo spreads his arms, sighing a simple breath of pure contentment. The sun is warm on his face, his feathers, and him. 

Here, this high up - he’s alive.

Then, abruptly, he stops. 

Ranboo turns around. His eyebrows furrow, and his heartbeat stutters. A chill rakes down his spine.

Something...else flies with him. Wingbeats echoing his own. It hides in the clouds, teasing him with glimpses - a predator prowling behind prey, baring teeth in the dark.

Ranboo swallows. He curls his fingers to tight fists, whirling around in the air; tries, desperately, to catch sight of them as they flew-

Something clamps around his shoulders. 

Ranboo screams, shoving away.

A manic breath of laughter.

“Got you!” Phil throws his head back, wheezing. “Hah! You should’ve seen your face, mate. My god, it was priceless-”

“I can’t with you.” Ranboo pushes his face into his hands, quelling his heart’s panicked beating. He groans, “I can’t- I’m going to elbow you again. Don’t do that.”

Phil chuckles. His eyes are alight with laughter, and the adrenaline of flight. “Sor-ee,” he snickers, shoulders still shaking even as he tries to stifle his laughs.

And through his irritation, Ranboo can’t help but smile, anyway.

They steal a few more moments in the air. To be free, to tease the idea of taking off and flying to the very edges of the world, and to dance amidst the clouds.

But eventually, they soar back down. The forest comes back into view - green treetops and melting snow. The growing smell of spring. 

Ranboo bursts into laughter, swinging his arm in a massive wave.

Standing in a clearing, like small ants, he sees Tubbo eagerly wave back.

“About time!” The Goat Kid pouts, as they land. He shifts the picnic basket to one hand, just to pose dramatically with the other. “Thought you’d never get down.”

But his eyes shine, and he dissolves into a beam of a bright smile; rivalling that of anything Just-Ranboo has seen.

Ranboo chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he shrugs, “got carried away.”

“Yeah and I think Phil got carried away too,” says Techno. The pig crosses his arms, eyeing the man with bemusement. “We could hear Ranboo’s scream all the way down here.”

Mortified, Ranboo ducks his head. Phil only bursts into a bout of screeching laughter.

“He was right there!” Phil cackles. “What did you expect me to do!”

Ranboo huffs. “Not scare me?”

“Oh pshf-” Phil waves him off, his eyes wrinkling with the strength of his smile. “You’ll be fine. It’s only a few years off your long lifespan.”

“A few what -”

Shouting rang, further in the woods. The four glance towards it, eyebrows raised - then, to each other; speaking silently, all with a few simple bemused glances.

“No, you’re not putting it correctly- Tommy it’s going to sink! ”

“I know what I’m doing! I’m Tommy, I’m the smartest man you’ll ever meet and you’ll watch as my boat survives the goddamn apocalypse-”

“Hi, guys.” Ranboo pushes through the foliage. The Not-Prince takes a few steps on the riverbank, keeping well away from water. “What’re you doing?”

Tommy glances away from a mess of wood and nails. “Ranboob!” He grins. “Come help me make this boat. We’ll call it the S.S.TommyandRanboo!”

“Why-” Wilbur throws his arms up. He huffs a betrayed, mock-hurt breath. “I helped you carry all of this! My back aches now!”

“Well damn, fine I guess we’ll call it the S.S. SUCK IT- ”

“Why are you-” Phil blinks, bewildered, at the ‘boat’. “Why are you making a boat - we’re going on a picnic!”

“Because I want to, Dad.” Tommy huffs, pushing strands of golden hair away from his eyes. “Besides, it’ll be funny.”

“How is a boat funny-”

“You know what?” Wilbur stands, abruptly. He harrumphs, stalking away from the riverbank. “Have fun with your boat building, Ranboo. Tubbo, I’m taking a sandwich.”

“You can’t take a sandwich, we’re not there yet- No! Phil said I was in charge of the picnic basket! You can’t-!”

Tubbo screeches as he races downriver, his feet kicking up gravel. Wilbur runs, hot on his heels, hollering for the sandwiches.

Phil and Techno share a glance, snorting and chuckling.

“Don’t take too long,” says Phil, pointing. “Ranboo, stay out of the water-”

“I know.”

“Tommy, if you’re not careful you’ll get splinters-”

“Oh my fucking god Dad just go! ”

Phil and Techno leaves, chuckling at something or other. Phil’s wings stretch towards the pig, and Techno brushes their shoulders.

“So,” Ranboo kneels. “What’s the S.S.Suckit?”

With a showman’s flair and an eager grin, Tommy gestures to the...boat. “Tadaa!” says he. “I read a book on how people stranded in forests could like, build rafts from jackshit.”

Ranboo frowns, sceptic. “How do you get stranded in a forest?”

“Not everyone has wings, boobsie.” Tommy shoves him lightly. “Pass me those nails.”

The forest breathes to life around them, awakened by the spring season. Creatures finally crawl out of their warm dens, greeted by the blooming buds of growth.

They spend a bit, kneeling by the riverside. Painstakingly hammering nails into wood, building up their little boat. Their knees grow sore. The river gurgles curiously.

Finally, Tommy leans back. He huffs a pant, but grins a satisfied smile. “Looking good!”

“Er-” Ranboo tilts his head. “It’s...well, it’s a boat.”

And it truly...was. 

Tommy pushes the boat into the river, wading through the water - the S.S.Suckit, miraculously, stays afloat. It truly is a sight, to see the Golden Boy knee-deep in the river, hollering joyfully at a haphazardly pieced together raft.

Ranboo laughs gently as he stands, brushing the gravel off his knees. “You’re gonna ride it downstream?”

“Obviously,” Tommy grins. “And you’re coming with me.”

The Not-Prince gapes. “Me?” he squawks, wings ruffling, “on that?”

Tommy huffs, eyebrow raised. “What’s wrong? Don’t trust your own handiwork?”

“Yes, actually. I’m not getting on that raft.”

“It’s a boat. And it’ll be funny!” Tommy pulls a pleading face, pouting. “Please? It’ll be a gentle stream down. You won’t sink.”

“Hah. No,” Ranboo crosses his arms, huffing. “You’re not getting me on that boat.”

Tubbo eyes the raging river, carefully. “Wasn’t this a cute little brook earlier?”

“Oh yeah,” says Phil. The man hums. “It grows. But it makes for one hell of a waterfall view at the site.”

Tubbo grins. “Awesome.”

“Can we hurry up?” Techno grunts, flicking an ear. He rubs at the bridge of his snout, shifting his load. “Wilbur’s heavy.”

Slung across Techno’s shoulder, Wil pats the pig’s back. “You’ve gotten sloppy, Techno,” he teases. “Disappointing your potato gods.”

“Don’t bring the potato gods into this, Wilbur. They will smite you.”

“Tommy and Ranboo still haven’t caught up yet.” Tubbo stares back upstream, frowning. “I wonder where-”

A screeching, screaming blur of colours zips down the river. A whirling, spinning mix of red, white, blond and black; they were there for one second, and gone the next.

The rest of them stare, blinking slowly. Registering the sight, then...

“That wasn’t...Tommy, right?” Phil asks, slowly. 

“No way,” Tubbo harshly shakes his head, “no way-”

“I thought I saw Ranboo-” Techno rubs his eyes, squinting. “But that won’t make...sense.”

Wilbur hums. He perches his head on his elbows, grinning lazily. “Nah, that’s them. They’re gonna die.”

“SO I MIGHT HAVE MISCALCULATED-”

“YOU THINK -”

For the life of him, quite literally, Ranboo grips onto the sides of the boat - screaming his voice raw as they speed down the river.

“No no okay okay-” Tommy scrambles. His knuckles turn white as he grips the oars, desperately trying to regain control. “I got this- I got this-!”

He did not, actually. The S.S.Suckit careened through the rushing water, sending out waves of white foam. Splashing water everywhere as it bops and churns and tips.

Ranboo desperately shields himself with his wings, hissing softly at whatever stray drops. Every jolt nearly sends them toppling, and every shiver makes him want to screech.

“Tommy,” he gasps. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Gotta be alive for that to happen, boober!” Tommy shoots back. The Golden Boy grunts, throwing his entire weight against the oars-

The S.S.Suckit sends them one final splash, before levelling and...floating upright. Their little boat bobbles amiably down the river, as the water calms and the currents slow. The water gurgles cheerily, as if it weren’t a raging howl just a few moments ago.

Tommy and Ranboo gape at each other - hesitant to believe in their luck. 

“Holy shit-” Tommy laughs breathlessly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I- We fucking lived!”

And Ranboo wants to laugh, to revel in the giddy relief of a miracle. But he sits in the back of the boat and, as Tommy turns to face him, he catches sight of the view further downriver.

And he pales.

“Tommy-” Ranboo grabs his shoulder, quickly twisting the Golden Boy back around. “Tommy-”

“What? What-” Tommy visibly stiffens. He gasps, quietly. “Oh...that’s a fucking waterfall.”

And it was. The river practically disappears, falling to fill a lake so large they saw its banks. The trees clear out, opening up to wide fields covered in flowers.

But more importantly, the current picks up its pace, and the water laughs at them.

“Okay-” Tommy grips the oars. Frantically, he pushes his weight against them, trying his best to steer the S.S.Suckit to the riverbank - to safety, and salvation. But the river is steadfast, and the bank is too far.

They won’t make it.

“I-” Tommy glances back, to him. His eyes are wide and panicked - terrified. “Ranboo-”

Terrified, not for himself; terrified for Ranboo. The hydrophobic passenger, the Not-Prince that burns in water.

Ranboo breathes a shuddery breath. He swallows against the tightness in his throat, gasping for air. The waterfall grows closer, and the fear in Tommy’s eyes mirror that in his chest.

The fear in Tommy’s eyes. Terrified, terrified Tommy.

The Not-Prince furrows his eyebrows. Something in him turns to steel, and he grits his teeth. The current picks up, rocking their boat, and Ranboo slips his arms around Tommy’s waist.

“What’re you-” Tommy stops, abruptly. “Oh no- no no Ran- you’re crazy! ”

Ranboo only grins, wryly. “Maybe,” he agrees, and spreads his wings.

And as they speed towards the cliff, careening towards a sheer drop; as the S.S.Suckit succumbs to gravity’s pull, Ranboo leaps off the boat.

They fly.

And then they fall.

Ranboo grunts, heaving with the extra weight. Every wingbeat is a thunderous attempt at staying in flight. Tommy grips desperately onto his arms, hollering curses and pleas. They stumble in the air, messy and confused and so very desperate.

Then Ranboo’s wings tilt. They glide, much too fast, shooting like a wayward arrow to the ground.

But it’s ground. Dry, solid, grassy ground. Ranboo wraps his wings around Tommy as they crash into the undergrowth. Stumbling head over heels, a mess of flailing limbs and wings - they slide, before finally coming still.

They lay there. Staring up at the sky, so blue it almost didn’t look real. Panting softly, their minds churning with shock and adrenaline.

Ranboo swallows against the dryness of his tongue. “I can’t believe,” he breathes, “you called me crazy.”

Tommy is silent, for a bit. Shaking slightly, shuddering.

Then he bursts into a laugh. “I FUCKING FLEW-” He shoots his arms up, gesturing enthusiastically. “IT WAS- HOLY SHIT- WE WERE IN THE AIR-”

“My wings hurt.”

“-AND WE WENT ALL GLIDING TOWARDS THE FUCKING GROUND.” Tommy sits up abruptly. The Golden Boy giggles, giddy. “Fucking awesome.”

Ranboo pushes himself up, though much slower. “Ah-” He winces, ruffling one sore wing. The feathers stretch, strained. “Not doing that again.”

“What?” Tommy grins. His eyes are alight and alive, brimming with raging adrenaline. But his hands are light and ever gentle, as he brushes one wing. “You didn’t like, hurt yourself?”

Ranboo winces, but his shrug is lopsided. “No, it’s...more like a muscle ache. Like you exercised suddenly, and your body’s not used to it.”

Tommy pulls a face. “So you need to exercise more.”

“No.” Ranboo punches his shoulder, scowling. “I’m going to lay down and never move, ever.”

They fall silent, for a bit. Watching the waterfall as it tumbled down smoothened rocks, into the lake. Through the reeds and the rippling water, Ranboo spots a glimpse of something wooden.

He frowns. “...sorry about the boat, though.”

“Eh.” Tommy shrugs. “Better the boat than us. It was shitty anyway.”

“Probably. But it was cool we built it.”

“Oh yeah.” The Golden Boy gives him a golden smile. “Totally much cooler than fucking flying.”

Ranboo snorts. He waves him off. “Better cherish that memory then. I don’t know if I can carry you like that ever again.”

“Oh, I’ll cherish it alright.” Tommy laughs again, still breathless with the wonder. “Add it to my ‘times-I-nearly-died-but-was-fucking-awesome’ list.”

“That's a different list?”

“Kinda. Gotta keep 'em organised.”

Grinning, Ranboo huffs a lone chuckle. “Gotta keep your near-death experiences colour coded?” 

“Mhm.”

They straighten, as familiar figures appear by the top of the waterfall. Those figures visibly freeze at the sight of them, then they hurry down the edge of the cliff - following a much more sensible path than the one they had taken.

Although, that really didn’t say much.

Ranboo waves idly, as Phil and Tubbo race towards them. “They’re gonna kill us.”

Tommy sighs, leaning back on his hands. “Oh yeah,” he nods. “We’re dead.”

The Golden Boy pulls a face, dramatically saluting to the sky, and Ranboo bursts into laughter.

Phil huffs, finally exhausted his long rant. “You fucking got all that?” He takes an angry bite out of his sandwich, narrowing his eyes. “No more sailing off of goddamn waterfalls.”

They sit on a picnic blanket, surrounded by tall-growing grass and blooming flowers. The wind blows gently. The waterfall roars.

“Man,” Ranboo mutters, “was totally going to sail off a cliff tomorrow.”

Sat beside him, Tommy stifles a loud snort.

“Oh my god-” Phil rubs at the bridge of his nose. He groans loudly, before gesturing wildly in their direction. “Can you fucking believe these two?”

Wilbur and Techno look up, forced into the conversation. Their wide and panicked eyes betrayed just how deep goes their dread.

Techno swallows, pointedly glancing away. “Oh yeah,” he nods, “can’t believe they rode a boat off a waterfall. Like - hah - that ever happened-”

Wilbur elbows him, a hiss through the gritted teeth of his forced grin.

“No…” Phil breathes, horrified, with wide eyes. “No...fucking way.”

Wilbur wrung his hands, flashing an apologetic grin. “If it makes you feel better,” he offers, “we didn’t die.”

“Yea that makes me feel loads better, thanks!” Phil throws his arms up. The man rubs fingers into his temples, pressing lips tightly together. “...when was this?”

Wilbur elbows Technoblade again, and the pig straightens abruptly. “Uhm,” Techno blinks, “well- it was a...very long time ago, see, and-”

“Just spill it.”

“You gotta promise not to be mad.”

“I’ll promise you I will be mad.”

“That’s not ideal-”

Ranboo blinks, startling as something taps his shoulder. “Huh?” 

Tubbo stands over him, one hand behind his back. The Goat Kid jerks his head to the side, gesturing to come with.

And Ranboo barely hesitates.

They move away from the others, pushing through grass and flowers. Ranboo lets his fingers trail along the delicate petals, each touch and texture a wonder to him. The colours remind him of a pastry, Techno had baked once.

He liked that.

Tubbo stops walking. The Goat Kid breathes a harsh exhale, shoulders slumping.

Ranboo frowns. “Tubbo?”

Tubbo does not answer, at first. He kneels, plucking a few pink flowers off the ground - holding them close to his chest, as if drawing comfort from the plants.

Ranboo steps closer, crouching down. He brushes his fingers, his touch so very light, across the top of Tubbo’s shoulders. “...hey?”

Tubbo whirls around. His eyes are narrowed, and his lips are curled back. Ears pinned, and his fury practically shakes the earth.

“A fucking,” he hisses, “ WATERFALL?”

The Not-Prince winces.

Ah.

“Tub-”

“You went on a boat -”

“Tu-”

“Down a god- fucking river-”

“Tubbo-”

“Down a motherfucking, ” Tubbo snarls, “ WATERFALL?”

Ranboo raises placating hands. Gently, he eases the poor flowers out of the Goat Kid’s deathly grasp.

“Okay,” Ranboo says. He lets the flowers drop, freeing his hands. “Okay, Bo. I’m here. Let it out.”

And so, Tubbo does. He grabs Ranboo’s shoulders, slamming his forehead against his chest, and the Goat Kid screams.

Ranboo simply wraps his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders. He rests his head on the top of Tubbo’s head, breathing in and breathing out - a slow and steady rhythm.

And eventually, eventually, Tubbo breathes with him. His grip slackens, slowly, but he doesn’t let him go. 

And in return, Ranboo’s grip tightens.

“...sorry Bo,” he murmurs. He presses his face into Tubbo’s shaggy hair, breathing out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Tubbo punches his shoulder, but the blow is limp and weak - tired. “You better fucking be,” Tubbo mumbles, muffled. “Goddamnit, Boo.”

“I know.” Ranboo breathes, a long exhale.

And Tubbo breathes with him. 

The Goat Kid groans, shaking his head. “I’m going to chain you to a goddamn chair.”

“Please don’t.” Ranboo winces. “I’m okay, Bo. Really. You know me,” he laughs, softly, “I’m too stubborn to die.”

“Ugh-” Tubbo punches him again, the blow even lighter than before. He pushes away, rubbing at his eyes. “We’re changing that.”

“Please, no.”

“Yes.” He harrumphs, falling back to sit cross-legged. The flowers and grass sway around them, their field disturbed.

But then, Tubbo smiles at him, and Ranboo can stay like this forever. 

The Goat Kid picks up the flowers again - without another word, he offers them to him.

The Not-Prince takes them gently, eyebrows furrowing. “What’re these?”

Tubbo crosses his arms. A flash of hesitance flits through his eyes, but that’s quickly chased away by the warmth. “They’re flowers, Boo,” he teases. “These are pink tulips.”

Ranboo turns them over. The stalks are crushed, but the petals remain intact. He brushes a hand along one. “They’re pretty.”

“Yeah?” Tubbo smiles softly. “They’re my favourite.”

Ranboo stares at him, for a bit. His eyes widen. “Oh! Oh!” He smiles, a beam so very wide. “These are your favourite! Oh, Bo! They’re so pretty-”

Tubbo bursts into laughter. He grabs onto Ranboo’s arm, affectionately headbutting his shoulder. “Oh my god, Boo,” he giggles. “They’re just flowers.”

Ranboo wraps a wing around him. “Yeah but-” He struggles for the words, briefly - thinking around the ache in his cheeks, from the strength of his smile. “But they’re your favourite.”

“And that makes a difference?”

“It makes a world of difference.” Gently, Ranboo takes one of the tulips. He slips it, smoothly, behind one of Tubbo’s ears. “They’re yours.”

And Tubbo looks...surprised. Taken aback by something he’s said, or something he’s done, or perhaps just...him.

Ranboo hums, tilting his head. He turns the flowers in his hands. “Y’know, we have a poem back...back at the End.”

“...hmm?” Tubbo hums - he’s listening, he’s listening, he’s here.

“Yeah.” Ranboo furrows thoughtful eyebrows. “It’s long. But it’s...nice.”

“What’s it say?”

And Ranboo stares at him. He stares, meeting the Goat Kid’s gaze, revelling in the warmth there - for him, for the world, for everything.

“‘And the universe said I love you’,” Ranboo murmurs. “‘You are the day, you are the night. The darkness you fight is within you, as too is the light you seek’.”

Tubbo’s eyes are so, incredibly wide. He sees the universe in them, Ranboo thinks. 

He doesn’t look away.

“‘To cure it of sorrow is to destroy it’,” murmurs he. " And the universe said I love you, because you are love itself’.”

Ranboo swallows. He glances away, breathing in. Breathing out.

“I’m not…” he falters. “I’m not as strong...or as wise as the universe. I’m not as...big, or powerful.”

Tubbo’s hand on his arm is gentle, warm, real, here. He’s here, he’s alive, and he squeezes gently.

And it gives Ranboo strength, such a simple gesture. “I’m not the universe,” says he, soft as the kindest gestures, warm as the biggest embrace. “But I love you. I do, Bo. Really.”

And Ranboo sees water, pooling at the bottom of Tubbo’s eyes. The Goat Kid breathes out sharply, sniffing - rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“The poem said that?” mumbles he, with a hoarse voice.

“Well,” Ranboo sighs. “I...paraphrased. I did say it was long.”

“Pfsh-” Tubbo laughs. His shoulders shake, and he rubs the tears off his cheeks. “Goddamnit Boo,” he says, and he says it with love. “Goddamnit…”

Tubbo’s hand moves. He picks a tulip, and slips it behind one of Ranboo’s ears in return.

Ranboo sits, still, throughout it all. His breath catches in his lungs, and he has never been more grateful to be breathless.

And the Not-Prince says, ‘I love you.’

And the Goat Kid says, ‘I love you too.’

They sit with the flowers, for as long as they can. Until Phil yells at them to grab some sandwiches, until they go home - and they are warm, so incredibly warm.

“Y’know, now that I’ve yelled at you, this means you can help me yell at Tommy.”

“Oh, joy. What am I helping with?”

“Lots. I’m going to fucking ruin him.”

“Oh...Wuh oh.”

“You’ll enjoy it, bossman.”

“Sure, Tubbo.”

And the universe says, I love you.

Chapter Text

Tubbo blinks awake, and he finds Tommy sleeping next to him.

The Golden Boy snores gently, buried in the covers. The serenity of sleep is an odd contrast to his usual aggressive energy, but it’s a nice fit on his face.

A bout of fondness grows in his chest. Tubbo smiles, softly - pulls the covers higher up Tommy’s shoulders.

His eyes adjust to the night. He realises he’s missing somebody.

The Goat Kid sits up, staring around the bedroom. The other two beds are empty, but the window is open. The wind blows against the curtains.

Tubbo clambers out the window. He grips, and climbs, and finds himself shuffling on his hands and knees to the top.

And there he is.

“Ranboo.” Tubbo smiles. He sits, and brushes their shoulders together - humming softly at the back of his throat.

Ranboo doesn’t respond immediately. He stares up at the stars, a deep frown pulling at his face.

“Hey, Bo?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Alpheratz?”

Tubbo glances up, though he knows the answer. “Oh, Boo,” he chuckles. “Alpheratz isn’t there. We’re not in the right season.”

Ranboo shifts beside him. Tubbo feels a wing curl around his shoulders, a silent gesture of affection.

“What do you mean?”

“Alpheratz is an autumn star. We’re like,” Tubbo pulls a face and gestures, “spring, almost summer now. We’re gonna see different constellations.”

Ranboo draws his knees close. “Oh,” he huffs. “So I was looking for something that wasn’t there?”

“Basically.” Tubbo elbows him gently, caught on to the tinges of annoyance. “Tell you what, I’ll show you Alpheratz again next autumn, ‘mkay Boo?”

And Ranboo stares at him, with eyes so soft. Shining, better than any star. If the stars are what makes this happen, then Tubbo would chart out the entire goddamn night sky to keep seeing this.

Over, and over, if need be.

“Promise?” Ranboo grins.

Tubbo laughs, nudging their shoulders. “I promise.”

They sit like that. Revelling in the simple comfort of being together, here. The stars stretch above them - the ‘Void’.

“...I’m glad you’re here, Boo,” Tubbo mumbles. Sleepiness gnaws at him, prowling the edges of his mind. He yawns. “Mmm- I’d get you out of that End forever and ever, if I needed to.”

Ranboo’s breath hitches, audibly. The wing curled around them tightens, squeezing ever so gently. Tubbo thinks the Not-Prince is shaking, but then he breathes a little laugh.

“Thank you, Bo.”

Ranboo pulls his cloak over his shoulders - a snug fit, now something he’s used to. He takes a moment to pause, to stare at himself in the mirror.

And he sees himself, staring back.

He gently takes the hem of his cloak in his hands, running his finger down the embroidery at the side. Just the feel of them is enough to make him smile, to chuckle fondly.

Little tulips, from Bo. They’re messy, and clearly made by a shaky hand. Different colour threads used haphazardly. A point where the motif changes drastically, from that time Tommy had tried to sabotage the operation.

And Ranboo loves it. He couldn’t stop looking at it, smiling so much his heart felt like bursting. Spending near hours in front of a mirror, with the cloak over his shoulders. Tubbo had called him egotistical.

Tubbo had smiled, and being egotistical was worth it.

“Ranboo!”

Just-Ranboo hurries out of the bedroom. “Coming!” He calls, leaping down the steps. His wings twitch only slightly, hidden beneath his cloak.

Phil stands at the bottom of the steps to meet him. He wears a cloak of his own, and a fond little smile. “Fancy cloak?” The man raises an eyebrow, and nods. “Nice choice.”

“Well,” Ranboo spreads his arms, grinning. “Tubbo wouldn’t stop talking ‘bout how important today was. Might as well dress the part.”

Phil bursts into a wheezy laugh.

The others are there, gathered by the front door. Everyone wears slightly nicer-than-usual clothes, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

The summer sun shines down on their heads, high above the sky - not too different from the spring sun, if Ranboo was going to be completely honest. He knew he wouldn’t have even noticed it, had the others not all been counting down the days - giddily preparing for the first day of summer.

Ranboo laughs. “So is anyone going to tell me what’s going on? Why are we so excited?”

Confusion flashes across his Bo’s eyes, for a second. “It’s the Summer Solstice, Boo.” Tubbo snorts. “It was there on the calendar.”

Ranboo’s eyes widened. “Oh! That’s what it said.”

“You didn’t read it?”

“Couldn’t.” Ranboo shrugged. “Different language than what I learnt.”

“Oh my god-” Phil rubs the bridge of his nose. “Nobody taught him how to read?”

“Hah. ‘He name is Ranboo, and he can’t fucking rea’-”

“Ranboo, we spent hours over that mythology book! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Cause I- Well you kept talking and I was fine with listening, Techno- Honest! No, don’t be sad! No-! ”

If Ranboo had thought the town was alive before, then it was practically moving now. Writhing with motion, sounds and laughs. Writhing with life, people and music.

The market had grown, and there were stalls almost everywhere. Bright, colourful streamers hung from the buildings and the lanterns - themed appropriately after the sun. Townspeople wore bright fancy clothes, carried joyful smiles saved for this moment; this time of the year.

“Hey, Ranboo.” Wilbur elbows him, jerking his head in one direction. “Look who it is.”

Ranboo follows his gaze, eyebrows raised. Gathered in one corner, three familiar townspeople stare back. 

They meet his eyes. 

Ranboo bares his teeth.

They grimace at the sight of him, of them, and slink away - disappearing into the crowd.

Wilbur bursts into laughter. “Oh my god-” He wheezes, “were they scared of you?”

Ranboo...doubted it. If anything, they’d be scared of Techno - the literal boar. But he huffs a wry smile, and says, “Wonder why. Not like there’s any chairs around.”

Wilbur cackles.

“Try not to get into any more fights, won’t you?” Phil shakes his head, his eyes shining just enough to contradict his words. “It’s a festival. Only punch back if someone else punches first.”

"Aw, yes!”

“But it doesn’t count if you’re egging them on, Tommy.”

“Shit- fuck you, old man.”

“I’m your old man.” Phil ruffles a head of golden hair, grinning. “Now go off, you little shits. Don’t bankrupt us.”

And off they went. Tommy and Tubbo lead the way, shouting and pointing and bursting into laughter - the kind that would be ear ringing usually, only to be drowned out by the much louder sounds around.

“What’s the summer solstice?” Ranboo asks, to no one in particular. Throws the question out into the open, and doesn’t expect - doesn't really need - an answer.

It doesn’t matter, when there is always someone there to answer him.

“It’s the first day of summer!” Wilbur gestures to the decorations. He smiles, bright and eager. “It’s important for...some reason Techno can probably answer better. But it’s great when the town makes all these colours and parties. You ever had a peach cobbler before?”

“I don’t...think so?”

“Oh fuck-” Wilbur grabs his arm. “You guys go on! I’m stealing Ranboo for a bit.”

“You’re what -”

Wilbur leads him away, breaking off from the group. He’s laughing, and so is Ranboo - amused by the sudden change. The brother weaves through the tide of people as if they were nothing, and Ranboo is left to trail helplessly.

It’s a success, for them both to be alive when they approach one of the stalls. The taste of sweetness, incarnated into a scent, bowls the Not-Prince over - his mouth waters, and Ranboo swallows.

Wilbur snorts. “Do you get burnt if you drool over yourself?”

And that was...a good question.

“Let’s not try,” Ranboo mumbles. Leaning over the front table, peering at the array of treats and delicacies, Just-Ranboo’s eyes widen. “Oh my god-”

Wilbur pats his back. “Indeed, my fine boober friend.” He grins. “Now, would you like to pick your delicious poison, or should I make an excellent choice for you?”

Ranboo laughs. “A connoisseur, are you?”

“The finest.” Wilbur waves the Baker over, smiling that snake-charmer’s smile. “Hello there. Can we have some of your peach cobbler? My friend here’s practically salivating just from the scent of it.”

And the Baker smiles, a shy little smile. “Of course,” they say and laugh. “Please, tell your invisible friend I appreciate their sentiment.”

Wilbur blinks. “Invis-”

The brother turns, alone. Strikingly alone, no one standing by his side.

“Ranboo?” Wil calls. “Ranboo!”

But Ranboo does not answer.

Ranboo isn’t there.

The Sybil sits in her tent, her legs crossed beneath a small table. She takes a slow sip out of her teacup; a cute thing, decorated with little golden spirals, visibly fragile.

“I must say,” she smiles, “it’s an honour to have you sit here with me, Little Prince.”

Across from her, Ranboo stares, incredulous. “You dragged me in here against my-”

“Yes, about that- Are you not drinking?” She gestures to his untouched teacup. “It’s just tea.”

Ranboo narrows his eyes.

The silence stretches, for a bit - before The Sybil concedes with a sigh. All and every trace of lightheartedness, of hopeful awkwardness, vanishes from her eyes. 

“Fair enough,” she murmurs. She pushes her teacup back onto the table. “Little Prince-”

“Why do you call me that?” Ranboo blurts out. Beneath the table, he grips the edges of his seat. “I don’t- I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Prince,” Ranboo grits out, through gnashed teeth. “That’s not who I am.”

The Sybil only stares at him. An array of expressions flits through her face, unreadable. “Alright then,” says she - placatingly. “Not a prince. Ranboo, wasn’t it?”

He hesitates, debates telling her. But slowly, stiffly, Ranboo nods.

“Alright,” The Sybil says again. She smiles, gently. “Rather unfair that I know your name, but you don’t know mine.”

“You’re the Sybil.”

“Yes, but that’s a title. And rather unflattering, at that.” She waves it off. “I came through this town one day, looking for someone, and they decided I was a prophetess. Fastest demotion I’ve ever gone through.”

“I really don’t care.”

“No, of course not.” The Sybil tilts her head. “But, my name. Did you know some believe names hold power? It’s fascinating-”

“Again,” Ranboo bites out - barely snarling. “I do not care.”

The Sybil stares at him. She sighs. “No, of course not,” says she, again - softer, now. “I’m keeping you from the festival. How selfish of me.”

Ranboo scoffs as he stands, pushing his chair back. “Glad we can finally agree on something,” says he. He resists the urge to push the table over, to smash that damn teacup of hers, and simply steps away.

“Wait-” The Sybil stands. Her eyes widen - pleading, desperately. “Wait, please. I need your help.”

And, so offended Ranboo finds himself, he actually stops. 

“You...you want me,” he drawls out, slowly. “To help you? I- Why would I? The only thing you’ve ever done is hurt-”

My family. Phil. Wilbur. Techno. Tubbo. Tommy.

The people I care about. The people I love.

“-me,” he says, instead. His eyes narrow. “I owe you nothing.”

The Sybil glances away. She stares at the ground, eyebrows knitted closely together. She struggles for the words, saying one thing - only to snatch it back immediately.

“I didn’t mean for this, for that-” She gestures, “to be the cause of...the reason why they treat you like that.”

Ranboo raises an eyebrow. “But you are,” he eyes the tent - a special place provided, just for her, “and you’ve done nothing to stop it, looks like.”

“I was desperate,” she pleads. She takes a step towards him, then remembers herself. “I saw you and I- I tried to fix it, I promise-”

“You’ve done a pretty bad job at that.”

“But I-” The Sybil stops, rather abruptly. For a moment, she sways and shivers and stays silently still.

The Sybil sighs, shoulders slumping - defeated, and a face of hopelessness fits. “No, no. You’re right.”

Ranboo blinks. “...what?”

“You’re...right.” The Sybil stares at the ground, downcast. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry. I should’ve- should’ve done something sooner. A lot sooner.”

The Not-Prince leans forward, a tad. He blinks again, wordless, soundless. Taken aback and...honestly really confused.

He finds himself nodding, slowly. He clears his throat. “...okay. Good, I guess.”

The Sybil glances up, at his face. Their gazes meet.

Ranboo’s lip curls.

She glances away quickly. “You’re not obligated to forgive me,” she says, to her teapot. “None of you are. I’m...sorry. I am. I...”

Ranboo briefly shuts his eyes. “You’ve said,” says he, simply. He sighs. “I’m...not the only one you need to apologise to.”

The Sybil nods, slowly. She knows, he thinks.

“I know,” she says. “But that’s...where you come in, I’m afraid.”

Ranboo crosses his arms. He quells the irritation, rising in his chest. “Why?”

Again, The Sybil gestures helplessly. “He won’t answer me,” she says, and her voice is hoarse. “I’ve- I’ve tried for so long. Phil- He doesn’t know it’s me, or else I’m sure he would’ve-”

She cuts herself off. Laughs, bitter and wry. “Then again, he was always good at avoiding me.”

“...Phil?” Ranboo glances away, staring at nothing in particular. He’s silent, for what feels like the longest time. The gears in his head churn, and he battles with his own thoughts.

The Sybil catches on. “I don’t need you to apologise on my behalf,” she says, quickly. “I just- if you can ask him to meet me, please. It’s been so, so long...”

And she is desperate, that much is obvious. Practically on her knees, in all senses except physical. Whether that desperation is good, he’s yet to decide. 

Whether or not he wants to help her is a different subject entirely.

Ranboo makes a sound, at the back of his throat. Carefully, purely non-committal.

I hear you, he says. Doesn’t mean I’ll do anything about it.

But the Sybil looks beyond relieved. She presses her hands to her mouth, yet not even that is enough to cover her wide smile.

She does not stop him, when Ranboo moves to walk away. She says nothing, still, when Ranboo hesitates.

“...your name.”

The Sybil blinks. “...what?”

“Your name.” Ranboo glances back. He gnaws at the bottom of his lip, sighing. “You were...gonna tell me your name.”

The Sybil gasps, a soft and silent ‘oh’. Her smile shifts, directed it more to him - softer, and more hesitant.

Ranboo doesn’t return it. But he, slowly, unclenches his fingers.

“It’s...Kristin.”

Ranboo nods, slowly. “...Kristin.”

And Kristin only nods. She makes to say something, her words choked and tumbled.

“I’m sorry,” whispers she. “I am. I’ll fix things, I promise.”

Ranboo only shrugs, and pushes his way out.

Phil stops walking when something tugs at his cloak.

“Ranboo!” The man smiles. He takes a step to the side, clearing out space in the crowd for the Not-Prince to stand beside him. “Where’ve you been, mate? Wil’s going crazy. Thinks he lost you.”

But Ranboo only shrugs. His eyes are hazy and...distant, and so too is his smile. “Hey, Phil?” Ranboo hums. “Can I ask you something?”

Phil blinks. He swallows, quelling the frantic beating of his heart - panicked, and fearful. “...yeah?”

Ranboo glances at the ground, gnawing at his bottom lip. He scratches the back of his neck, as he hesitates for the words.

“Who’s Kristin?”

Phil’s world both shatters, and mends at once.

“...someone I kne- I...know,” Phil finds himself saying. He blinks. “I- Where’d you-”

Ranboo meets his gaze. 

And Phil knows. He knows. He’s known when he saw her, that first Lesson. He’s known when they met in the market. He knows but he kept pushing it away because it’s impossible, because how could it be her-

How could it, when it’s been so long?

“Where-”

“There’s a tent.”

The man is gone in an instant. His heart hammers in his chest. Though his wings are hidden beneath his cloak, Phil feels like he’s flying.

“Ranboo!” Tubbo calls. He waves his arm in a large arc, a beacon. Beckoning him close, a lighthouse.

And it’s Bo. His Bo. And the sight alone chases away the shadows, the worries, the writhing mess of confusion. 

Ranboo smiles.

He moves across the town, beneath a setting sun sky. He weaves through the townspeople - through the people, with lives of their own. It’s daunting to realise, and then it’s a simple reminder.

He is here. So are they. Existing, together.

Besides, it’s not so bad. He’s got his favourite people.

“How long does the festival last?”

“Officially?” Techno hums. “Probably ended a few hours ago. Unofficially, though-”

The pig simply gestures to Wil and Tommy. The brothers that dance and stumble to a musician’s tune, laughing and cackling; wheezing with a good time.

“Try telling them to go home early,” Techno says. The smile is obvious in his voice, the love practically dripping off of it. “I’d rather keep my fingers.”

Ranboo bursts into a snorting laugh. “Fair enough,” says he, chuckling. He falls silent just long enough to breathe a contented sigh. “Looks like they’re having fun.”

“They are,” Techno says simply. 

He knows. 

Techno falls silent, staring into his glass. He shakes it, gently swirling the water inside. “I might...go join them.”

Ranboo glances at him, through the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

And it’s a sight, to see the hesitation in Techno’s eyes - to see that hesitation, firmly pushed out, replaced with a determination have fun. To make memories with his family, his friends, the ones he oh-so-very loves.

“Yeah,” Techno says. In a single swig, he finishes his glass. “If you kindly don’t mind.”

And Ranboo only laughs, waving him off. “Go show ‘em how it’s done.” 

There is the striking of a chord - familiar.

Tubbo freezes, a bite of peach cobbler halfway to his mouth. His eyes widen, and he gasps softly. “Boo-”

He whirls around, just to see Ranboo in a similar position. The Not-Prince’s eyes are wide, as their gazes meet.

Ranboo breathes a laugh. “Is that-”

Tubbo beams. “It’s our song!” He grabs Ranboo’s arm, and they run through the festival - pushing through people, their footsteps echoing the beatings of their hearts.

And when they reach it - when they finally reach the musician’s stage, their joy leaping out of their chests and shining in their faces - Tubbo turns the Not-Prince around, spinning.

And they dance. 

Laughing, stumbling, smiling-

Oh, how they smiled. How they revelled in the moment, of being together. This was their dance, their song, their world. Their universe, their love - crossing realms for this, this moment.

“You remembered,” Tubbo breathes, at some point.

“Of course,” Ranboo only laughs. He tugs him into a step, their hands entwined - not parting, not once, throughout the whole song. “How could I forget?”

And how could he, really?

Ranboo hesitates, in front of Phil’s bedroom door. 

He can hear the man shuffling inside of it. Getting ready for bed. The entire house is - he should be, too.

But-

Ranboo knocks, gently. 

The shuffling stops. Then it returns, and it opens the door.

“Oh-” Phil blinks. “Hi mate. Need something?”

“Yeah, no-” Ranboo rubs the back of his neck. His wings ruffle, the feathers bristling ever so slightly. “I just...I wanted to ask.”

And Phil knows - it’s there, in the way his eyes harden. Not in a cold, stand-offish way; in the way that means he’s bracing himself, ready to take the load.

“Sure,” Phil smiles, and it’s only slightly strained. “You kinda...deserve some explanations, huh.”

But Ranboo shakes his head. “Don’t want to know,” he mumbles. “I was- Just got this thing rattling in my head. Bothers me a bit- But you don’t-”

Phil stops him, simply, by raising a single hand. “It’s alright,” he promises - assures. “It’s alright.”

And Ranboo relaxes, because he trusts him.

“Did...you forgive her?” Ranboo shuffles his feet. “The Sy- Er...Kristin?”

Phil stares at him, blinking. With a hum, thoughtful, he glances away. “...a bit,” says he. “Me and Kristin go back...very, very long. I...believe her when she says she didn’t mean it. And it was...sorta my fault, I- I went off the radar. Worried her, probably. Definitely.”

Ranboo nods, humming - that non-committal sound, again. Treading the middle road, the neutral side.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t breach the question that bubbles in him, that stews in his curiosity.  If it were him - if he were in Phil’s shoes - Ranboo wouldn’t...want anyone to ask. 

So he owes it, to keep his silence. For Phil, if anything.

For Phil, for everything.

“...you don’t have to, though,” Phil says. He leans forward slightly, and his eyes are wide with his desperation - the importance, that Ranboo knows. “You don’t have to forgive anyone you don’t want to.”

This time, it’s Ranboo who meets his gaze - wide-eyed, and soft. He smiles, gently. “I know.”

Phil looks sceptic, at first. Then relieved - relieved beyond anything and everything Ranboo’s ever seen. The man returns his smile. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good…”

And then, abruptly, Phil pulls him into a hug.

Ranboo stiffens, startled. Taken aback, for a few stuttering heartbeats. Then just as quickly, the Not-Prince melts into the embrace. Returns it, readily. 

He breathes, pressing his face into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil tightens his grip, slightly. He shudders.

“Phil,” Ranboo chuckles. Mildly concerned, shoving it to the side. “I’m just going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And Phil laughs, his shoulders shaking. “Right, right.”

Despite being ‘right’, Phil doesn’t let him go for a while.

But it’s okay. Ranboo doesn’t mind.

Ranboo stands in the kitchen. The lantern light is a dim glow. The moonlight even dimmer.

The cottage - the home - is silent, sleeping. Weary, from today. Weary, but so happy. Carrying smiles to bed, to dreams and memories cherished.

It’s late. Even the town was asleep, by now. He ought to have slept so long ago. And he would’ve, had he not been dragged out of bed.

But he doesn’t mind it. He’d be lying if he said otherwise, and Ranboo is no liar. He leans against the counters, and he watches his favourite person make them some late-night hot chocolate.

“So,” Tubbo smiles at him, and offers him a mug. “Town’s not that bad.”

(‘I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry. I should’ve done something sooner.’)

“No,” Ranboo hums. The mug is warm beneath his fingers, and the chocolate is sweet. “It’s not that bad, at all.”

Tubbo grins. He stares at him, but it’s not an ogling stare - not one of horror, or confusion. It’s one of pure contentment, as if Bo could stare at him forever and simply be so very happy.

And Ranboo understands. It’s the feeling he gets, when he stares back.

Tubbo blinks. His eyes unfocus. “Y’know,” he says. “I’ve got a question.”

“Wuh oh.” Ranboo snorts. He stretches his feathers towards Bo, taking out all and any sting from his tease. “Fire away.”

Tubbo leans into the feathers, into the touch. “Mmm,” he swirls his mug, “you once said you were partly enderman, right?”

Ranboo’s eyebrows rise. “I...did?” He stops, and rifles through his thoughts. “Oh! Yeah, I did. I remember that now.”

“Wow.” Tubbo snickers. “Little miracles?”

“Little miracles.” Ranboo grins. “What about that?”

“Ah-” Tubbo shrugs. He takes a sip from his hot chocolate, and the effect it has is visible - his shoulders relax, a face of pure bliss fits. “Was just wondering. Cause I thought endermen didn’t like eye contact.”

Ranboo hums. “We don’t. At least, not with strangers.”

And Bo frowns, softly. “Really?” he huffs. “Weird- Cause I remember, you never really minded making eye contact with me before. Even when we first met.”

Ranboo pauses, with the drink to his face. He takes a sip, and he remembers - he remembers being comfortable, remembers meeting Tubbo’s eyes, only after a few hours. Remembers being...okay.

He smiles. “Eh,” says he, with a soft laugh. “Maybe we’ve met each other before, in another life.”

Tubbo snorts a laugh, nudging him. “Oh fuck off, you,” he rolls his eyes, so very fond, “full of sap.”

“The very best kind.” Ranboo lifts his mug in a mock-toast. “Come on, you love me.”

“Maybe,” Tubbo grins, nice and easy. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

But Ranboo knows that. And Tubbo knows he knows. 

And Tubbo knows Ranboo loves him too - so much, so much, it hurt.

They fall silent, for a bit. Enjoying the comfort, companionship - them. Breathing in an almost silence - almost, for Tubbo hums a barely perceptible tune beneath his breath.

And when Ranboo recognises it, he jolts upright. “You’re singing the song!” He beams. “Can’t get it out of your head?”

Tubbo blinks at him, bursting into laughter. “Guilty,” says he. A sudden, mischievous glint enters the Goat Kid’s eyes. Tubbo slides his mug onto the counter, and plucks Ranboo’s mug out of his hands. 

“Hey-” Ranboo’s protests fall still, as Tubbo takes his hands. 

When the Goat Kid tugs him into a familiar step, spinning a familiar whirl, and singing a familiar tune - Tubbo laughs, and it’s better than any song Ranboo’s ever heard.

And Boo tries, to act annoyed. Tries to groan and to throw Bo off his feet. Tries to stifle his laughter, else he wakes up the entire goddamn house.

But he’s happy. Oh, how he’s happy. He doesn’t mind how late it is, or how his drink has gone cold, or how Tubbo nearly slams him into the cabinet one time.

He’s happy.

And so, singing their own tune, the moon their witness, they dance in the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“Shh-! He’ll hear you!”

“Your shushing is louder than my shuffling-”

“Shut the fuck up you two-”

Tommy pushes the front door open, and the cottage bursts into life.

“Surprise!” They say - cry out, and cheer. Laugh, with their voices in perfect sync. “Happy Birthday!”

The Golden Boy’s eyes widen as he flinches - his jaw parts as he gapes. “Oh shit-”

“You can die now, Tommy!” Wilbur slings his arm over Tommy’s shoulders, grinning. “Don’t fuck this up!”

The surprise melts away, and Tommy wheezes. “Why would you-”

“Cake!” Techno sweeps into the room, holding up a cake on a circular plate - the candles on it flicker, their fire swaying with the motion. “Ranboo, drag me that coffee table would you?”

“Sure-”

“So for the next two days,” Tubbo bumps his shoulder with Tommy’s, a cheeky grin on his face, “I get to do all the stupid shit without you.”

“No,” Phil leans over, and lightly smacks the back of his head. “No, you don’t.”

“Aw-”

“I’d never forgive you anyway.” Tommy gives Tubbo a large wolf’s grin, kneeling at the head of the coffee table. His face is illuminated by the flickering candlelight. “Not like you could do all those without my help.”

“I’ve got Ranboo!”

“I am not helping you with those.”

“Pfht- Traitor.”

Ranboo elbows him as they kneel, settling around the coffee table - the cake. “Maybe it was just never meant to be,” teases he, with a laugh.

Tubbo simply elbows him back, his eyes shining too much for his scowl to mean anything.

“Alright, alright,” Techno corrals them. He takes his spot, the final brother, and beams a soft and loving smile. “Happy birthday Tommy. Make a wish.”

The Golden Boy looks around, at the faces of his family - seeing their bright eyes, joyful. He glances down to his cake, carefully baked and decorated, for him - for this.

And Tommy smiles, as he blows out the candles.

“So you’ll distract him-”

“Until the sun goes down, I know.” Ranboo chuckles as he fits the sandwiches around in the picnic basket. “I won’t be early.”

“You better not be.” Tommy raises a threatening wooden spoon. His fingers turn white, flaked with flour and slippery with butter. “Sunset, broken clock. Remember.”

“I will.” Ranboo leans over, just enough to wack the Golden Boy with the tips of his stretched feathers. “Focus on your cake. Techno will kill you if you start a fire in his kitchen.”

“Yeah, yeah and I won’t respawn.” Tommy scoffs, aggressively stirring the batter in his bowl. A couple drops fly out, falling to the floor with tiny splats. “Honestly? Death can just fuck off, kindly.”

“Kindly.”

“Dad said she’s a woman. Gotta be respectful.”

Ranboo snorts a laugh. He flicks his wrist, and flicks the top of the picnic basket closed. In one smooth motion, he slips his arm under its handle. “I’m leaving.”

Tommy hums. He steps back from the counter, just to bump their shoulders. Ranboo returns the gesture, wrapping a wing around the Golden Boy - hugging, for half a second.

Then they pull away.

“Sunset!” Tommy calls again. “Don’t forget!”

Ranboo waves him off, laughing. He waves his farewells to Wilbur and Techno, caught in between their easy petty arguing - ‘I got the firewood last time! Oh just go on, it’s been so dry the entire forest is practically kindling- Oh, bye Ranboo! Have fun!’

The Not-Prince pushes through the front door, stepping outside.

And there he is.

“Tubbo.” Ranboo smiles. He hefts the picnic basket, showcasing it with a grand showman’s flair. “Ready?”

Tubbo glances back at him, and he smiles. “Always,” says he - the birthday boy. “I’m going to make it so incredibly hard for you to distract me.”

“Please,” Ranboo winces. “Tommy will have my head.”

Tubbo laughs. “Well I-”

Footsteps crunch against the gravel path - interrupting, intruding. They both fall silent, both wide-eyed as they stared at the unexpected guest.

“...Kristin.” Ranboo blinks. “I- What’re you doing here?”

And The Sy- Kristin gives a little wave. Meekly, stepping lightly, all too aware of the narrowed-eyed glare she receives from the Goat Kid.

“I brought this,” she lifts up a white envelope, and a small smile, “to send to your father. But then I realise that I- Well, written words can only say so much.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be saying anything,” Tubbo hisses. The Goat Kid shifts, and he - whether consciously or subconsciously - takes a step forward; an acting shield between the Not-Prince and the Sybil. “Maybe, and this is just a suggestion, you kindly fuck off.”

Kristin winces beneath the verbal flame. Her fingers grip the envelope. 

Ranboo sighs. “Tubbo-”

“What?” Tubbo whirls his head around, glaring. “I’m not gonna let her waltz in like she didn’t do jack shit -”

“I’m sorry-” Kristin tries.

“He’s said.” Tubbo’s shoulders tense. His stance widens. “I don’t buy it.”

Kristin sighs, and her shoulders slump. “No,” she nods slowly, “you’re not...obligated to. I’m...I’ll leave, if you wish. But...can you at least give Phil my-”

“Kristin?”

The three of them turn, just in time to see Phil step through the front door. The man’s eyes are wide, and for a moment they’re all for Kristin - her, and her alone.

Then Phil blinks, and he glances away. “Came out here to tell you two to get on with it, but-” He laughs, almost disbelieving, “this is- It’s one hell of a surprise.”

Kristin’s smile returns, brighter and eager. “Hi Phil,” she waves, “I er- Well, I figured we could...chat. Clear up the air, maybe…?”

Tubbo’s scowl only deepens, a contrast to the brightness in Phil’s eyes. 

“Yeah.” Phil beckons her closer, stepping away from the door. “We’re a bit busy at the moment, but...maybe you can help out.”

Kristin glances between the three of them; Ranboo - a face carefully constructed to be perfectly neutral, Tubbo - a warning hollered silently behind dark eyes, and Phil - hesitantly, beautifully hopeful.

She puts the letter away, hiding it in the folds of her robes. “I’d be honoured.”

Kristin makes down the path, her footsteps crunching against the gravel, and joins Phil to stand by the front door. They share mirroring hesitant smiles, but Ranboo does not miss the way Phil’s wings ruffle happily.

Kristin steps into the house first. Phil hesitates.

“...Were you tryna stop her from coming in?” The man asks. He holds no spite, no judgement to his tone. There is nothing but calm, wholesome understanding. “You-”

“I don’t understand,” Tubbo blurts. The Goat Kid reels back, as if startled by himself. “I don’t...understand,” he says again, softer. “Didn’t she hurt you?”

Phil blinks - once, twice, a third. His sigh is oddly fond, as too is the smile. “Tubbo,” Phil says, with a voice as gentle as the softest touch, “you’re not obligated to forgive her, but I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

Tubbo is silent, for a bit. Wrestling with his own thoughts, and it brings a heavy frown to his face.

Ranboo silently brushes his wings against Bo’s shoulders - throws a rope down the rabbit hole of his mind, and calls him home.

The Goat Kid glances up, and their gazes meet. Something about that, somehow, adds to the strength in Bo’s eyes.

“No,” Tubbo agrees, softly. He meets Phil’s gaze. “But I’ll keep trying.”

Phil looks...taken aback. Startled into a brief silence, thoughtfully contemplating. 

The man huffs a little laugh, shaking his head. “Go on, you two,” says he. “Fuck off and have fun, for christ’s sake. It’s your birthday.”

It was. Bo and Boo share a glance, at that. 

Ranboo gently jerks his head, to the woods. He shifts the picnic basket on his arm. Offers a smile, warm and gentle and so perfectly loving.

And Tubbo smiles back.

It’s only when they’ve reached the river, do Tubbo’s shoulders slump. When he sighs, and stops - pressing his lips so tightly together. When he stares into the ever-flowing water, perpetually moving, with thoughtful and troubled eyes.

Ranboo lets his wings stretch, lets the feathers brush against Tubbo’s shoulder. Let his presence be known, but not demanding.

I’m here, he says. I’ll wait, for as long as you need, and I’ll still be here long after.

Tubbo hesitates, leaning into the gesture.

Promise?

Ranboo breathes a soft sigh.

I promise.

The Goat Kid’s breath shudders. He does more than lean - he turns around, and wraps his arms around the Not-Prince; hugging him, holding him tight, relishing in the presence.

Ranboo wraps his arms, and his wings, around Bo. He gives him this, and he will give it over and over. Pressing his cheek to the top of Tubbo’s head, breathing in this moment, he can stay like this forever.

And for the shortest of seconds, he does.

“If you could go anywhere,” Tubbo says. His fingers are gentle, on the speckled feathers of Ranboo’s wings. “Where would it be?”

Idly playing with the flowers around them, Ranboo merely hums. “No clue,” says he. “Everywhere, I guess. Or nowhere.”

Tubbo huffs that little laugh of his. “Couldn’t have been more cryptic?” he teases. Bo rubs at that part - that one part, between wing and shoulder, where he knows Ranboo can’t reach. “Guess I’ll chart a path to nowhere.”

“Hah!” Ranboo snorts, waving him off. “You know what I mean.”

They fall silent, for a bit. Contented to stay like this, to sit together on a checkered picnic blanket, to hear nothing but the sound of their breaths and the gurgling waterfall.

A cloud passes over them, casting a shadow. 

“Sometimes I think about starting a business,” Tubbo hums. “Like, an inn maybe. Someplace where people from anywhere can come and tell their stories.”

“Strategic. You wouldn’t have to travel.”

“I know!” 

Ranboo chuckles. He pulls his knees to his chest, and rests his head there. A gust of wind blows through his feathers. “...can I come?”

Tubbo hums, and such a simple sound brims with his smile. “Well, I was planning on kidnapping you and tying you to the back of a horse- But yeah, I guess you can come willingly.”

“O-oh...thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Tubbo releases his wings, with one final brush. He falls on his back with a soft thump, and a knocked out grunt. The grin on his face is easy and comfortable, contented and at rest.

It belongs there, Ranboo thinks. Right then, right there, he makes a decision - to try his best, always, at keeping that smile where it belongs.

“Y’know, I had a dream about that inn.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep,” Tubbo pops the ‘p’, grinning. “I dreamt some random guy came in, gave me a bundle that was fucking moving, and then just left without another word.”

“I-” Ranboo leans back, and his eyes widen. “Wow. What’d you do with it?”

“He.” Tubbo meets his gaze - eyes soft. “The bundle was a...a baby. Looked sorta like Techno too, but...different.”

“Huh...” Ranboo tilts his head. “What’d you do with the baby?”

“Took care of him.” Tubbo shrugged. “Couldn’t have just left him alone. He was my son, I think. Can’t remember what I named him though…”

“Ooh, can I name him?”

“Can you name my son?”

Ranboo snorts, waving him off. “Fine then, pick your own name.”

“Aw, no-” Tubbo reaches forward, grabbing onto one flailing wrist. “You can name him. Besides, if he was real, you’d probably take care of him too.”

“Yeah?” Ranboo twists his wrist, to hold Tubbo’s hand in his own. He falls silent, thinking - thoughtful.

The wind blows through them, a gust of cool air.

“Michael.”

Tubbo blinks. “Michael?”

“Yep.” Ranboo smiles. He loosens his grip, for Tubbo to pull away if he so wishes. “I like Michael.”

Tubbo keeps his hand where it is. His gaze grows unfocused, and briefly hazy - caught onto some train of thought in his mind.

Then he smiles. “Michael’s good.”

Another cloud passes over, and they revel in the shade. Tubbo pulls his hand away eventually, though not before giving a gentle squeeze - pulling out any offence that could’ve been strewn or cast.

“Speaking of names, we need one for the inn.” Tubbo hums, as he pillows the back of his head with his hands. “At first I thought something along the lines of ‘Anywhere at all’ .”

“Cool name.”

“I know.” Tubbo sighs. “But if you’re gonna be there, then we’re probably going to co-own.”

“Oh-” Ranboo pulls a face. “You’re gonna make me do labour?”

“Absolutely! Labour in exchange for a place to stay. Duh.”

“Wow. And here I thought it was because you loved me.”

Tubbo smacks his knee, lightly. “Don’t pull that card on me,” he harrumphs. “I’m still making you do labour.”

Chuckling, Ranboo drapes half a wing over Bo - a silent apology. He shifts on the blanket until he sits cross-legged, facing the top of his Bo’s head.

“So, we co-own,” Ranboo takes strands of Tubbo’s hair in his hands. He thinks of Technoblade, and of Wilbur, as he braids them. “Oh! What about Bo n’ Boo? It’s got both our names on it.”

Tubbo’s eyes light up, and oh such a sight it was. “I like that,” he hums. “Reckon we can change the ‘Bo’ part, though?”

A cold gust of wind blows. Ranboo’s hands still. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

Tubbo’s eyes widen, and he quickly says, “I’m fine with it when you call me that.” His hand finds Ranboo’s wrist, squeezing reassuringly - a second of comfort. “Not sure about having strangers call me that though.”

Relieved, Ranboo continues his work. “That’s fair,” says he, as he runs out of hair for one braid. He picks up some other. “What’ll you change it to?”

“Hmm.” Tubbo gnaws at his bottom lip. “Bee.”

“Bee?”

“I like Bees.” Tubbo’s upside-down face smiles at him. “Like, I could go on and on about how they’re useful and help the environment and all but- Oh, they’re actually just really damn cute.”

Ranboo giggles. “They’re basically you, then.”

Tubbo gapes, at once silenced and at loss for words. The Goat Kid harrumphs, flinging an arm around; one Ranboo barely avoids.

“I’m going to murder you,” Tubbo says. He tries, he does, to be serious and menacing - but Boo is laughing too damn hard for his act to stand for long; their easy laughter ringing through the flower fields, echoed by the slightest thrums of thunder.

Thunder.

Ranboo sits up at the same time Tubbo does. Another gust of wind blows, and it’s cold - charged, with electricity. Dark storm clouds loom on the horizon, an enraged gathering of shadows that stretch across the sky.

They share a glance with each other. Ranboo is...hesitant, but all that does is finalise Tubbo’s resolve.

“We’re leaving.” Bo snatches up the sandwich wrappers, stuffing them into the picnic basket. “If we hurry, we’ll get home before the storm breaks.”

It’s a hope - a dim one, farfetched. The clouds were getting closer, fast.

But Ranboo says nothing. He simply nods, and steps off the picnic blanket to pack it up.

The air between them is tense. Tubbo’s worried - he worries, and it’s clear in the side-eyed glances that come every so often. In the subtle pushes, the urges to go faster, the speed in his walk.

Ranboo bites his tongue, keeps his silence, until they’ve long left the river behind them. He slows.

Tubbo glances back at him. The clouds cast dark shadows, and it’s hard to catch the way his eyebrows furrow. “...what?”

The Not-Prince ruffles his wings, drawing them close. “...we’re not gonna make it,” he says. Meets Bo’s eyes. “You know that, right?”

The storm gathers above their heads, and a storm gathers behind Bo’s eyes.

“Don’t say that,” Tubbo hisses. He stalks forward to grab Ranboo’s arm, and the grip is tight and desperate. “We’re going to make it. I don’t care if you’ll have to wear the goddamn picnic blanket over your head.”

The Not-Prince snorts. He’s tempted, to push the idea that they’ll never make it, that the storm will break before they get even close, and that there’s no way that-

“Ranboo.” Tubbo’s voice is softer. It breaks at the very edges. “Let’s go.”

And Ranboo stops. He shifts his arm and grips Tubbo’s hand in his own. He breathes, and he breathes for this. “Bo-”

An ear-splitting crack rings through the forest.

Thunder, roaring thunder shakes the earth.

Something is...ablaze.

Tubbo’s eyes are wide and panicked.

“RAN-”

CRASH.

Phil never really understood the appeal. 

All those times he’d catch a glimpse of Ranboo and Tubbo, hanging out on the roof at night. He’d wonder why they didn’t just sit on the ground - it’d stop giving him so many damn heart attacks, and they could still see the stars.

That is, until he finds himself sitting on the roof with Kristin. Then he realises there’s...something about it, to have this spot. Maybe it’s private, maybe it’s closer to the setting sun sky - bridges at least some of that immensely vast distance.

And Kristin.

She looks...just as beautiful as he remembers.

Death holds her hands in her lap. A soft smile plays on her lips, a smile that he’s almost forgotten how much he’s missed. Occasionally, they’d glance at each other at the same time - occasionally, their gazes meet.

And Phil feels like a fucking swooning schoolboy all over again, and he’s forgotten how much he’s missed that too.

They sit on the roof, their backs to where the town would be. They sit in silence, watching the figures of Phil’s sons move around the house. 

Tommy sprints with streamers, cackling some reckless laughter as he throws them around. Not too far behind, Wilbur trails along - running damage control. Further off, Techno kneels in the fields; though his laughter is loud enough to be heard, all the way over here.

“Your sons are wonderful,” Kristin murmurs.

Phil glances at her, a single laugh tumbling from his mouth. “Really?” he hums. “Didn’t think you’d say that, especially after Tubbo.”

“Ah-” Kristin waves it off. “I did...kinda deserve that. He was warranted. He only ever cares.”

She glances up, and meets his gaze. “He’s like you, in that sense.”

Pride, warm and comfortable, blooms in his chest. “So he is,” Phil chuckles, “I-”

Thunder rumbles, cutting off their words. Death and her Angel glance up towards the sky, both with mirroring frowns.

A sinking feeling sends Phil’s heart down to the bottom of his shoes.

“Wil!” Phil calls. He stands on the roof, leaning forward. “Did Tubbo and Ranboo get back yet?”

Wilbur glances up. Through the distance, Phil sees the shock frozen fear, gripping the brother’s shoulders - and he knows the answer.

His wings ruffle. The edges of his vision tunnels. The man spreads his wings, bending his knees to jump-

“Phil-” Kristin grabs his arm, her touch bringing his raging thoughts to a screeching halt. “Phil…” she breathes, and Death has never sounded more terrified. “Look-”

It’s as if her command rages through all of them - they all stop, they all fall still, and they all turn their attention towards the forest.

The forest, and the smoke. 

The storm rumbles again, a growl.

At the very edge, a tree ignites. Bursting into flames. Within seconds, it grows, leaping from treetop to treetop.

The forest is a feast, and the fire is starving.

Phil stops breathing, then. 

“TOMMY!” screams the figure of Wilbur. The brother tackles a struggling, screaming blur of red, white and blond. “Tommy, don’t-!”

“THEY’RE IN THERE!” Tommy’s wretched, desperate yell strikes their hearts - so different from his carefree laughter, just a few seconds ago. “Wil- Wilby let me go- Wil they’re in there! They’re IN THERE -! ”

The fire simply roars, echoing Tommy’s shrieks.

Kristin drops his arm, stepping back. Her breath hitches, and she breathes a shaky exhale.

“Kristin-” Phil quickly turns. He stumbles to his knees on the roof, grabbing the bottom of her robe - clutching the hem, desperately. “Please,” begs he. “Please- I’m begging you. Leave them- Just this once- please, bend your rules.”

But Kristin cannot.

He knows this.

Death takes another step back, and breathes a choked exhale. Her robes slip out of Phil’s trembling hands.

And he is helpless - hopeless.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Kristin breathes. Her voice sounds choked, wrestled out of her throat. “I’m sorry.”

In a few steps, she falls off the roof and vanishes from sight.

And in her place, a crow takes flight.

Flying to the flaming forest.

“...boo...ake...ease…”

“Ran...BOO!”

Ranboo jolts, gasping for breath and he-

Chokes, on a lungful of smoke and heat. He coughs and sputters, heaving out the ash. Every gasp is a desperate claw for oxygen, a competition against the hungry flames.

The forest is on fire.

They’re inside of it.

His wings hurt.

He whines in the pain, choked and distorted. He makes to glance back, to survey the wretched damage-

But Bo grabs his face. His hands are covered in soot and ash. His eyes shine with wetness, red-rimmed.

There’s red everywhere. Fire, heat. The crackling is deafening, the roar in his ears.

“Don’t look at that,” Tubbo slips his arms under Ranboo’s shoulders. “Focus on me, don’t- Don’t look at it. It’s okay- ”

It takes Ranboo too long to register the words. It takes him even longer to realise he’s meant to be standing, that Tubbo had been half-dragging him across the forest floor - that Bo had been pleading, begging for him to get up because he can’t carry him like this-

Ranboo moves his legs through a haze. He steps, and stumbles, and winces in pain. His feathers ruffle and it sends a hot-white jolt, coursing through his veins.

“Bo-”

“Just keep going.” Tubbo moves faster. Half-carrying, half-running, he is the lifeline that keeps them alive. Keeps them moving, faster and faster. Always just out of reach from the fire’s wrath, the forest’s fury.

At some point, Ranboo’s legs work. At some point, they run - sprinting between the burning trees, every step a spark and every breath a wrestled scream.

And at some point, at some point, Tubbo is the one who falls.

“TUBBO- !” Ranboo stumbles to his knees. Frantic, panicked hands grab Bo’s shoulders; shaking, begging. “Tubbo- Tubbo, please-”

Tubbo’s coughs are gasps for breath. They’re cries, they’re pleas, his body begging for air. His skin is red with burns that’ll scar - marks of this time, permanently etched on his body. 

The fire rages around them, greedy and cruel.

Ranboo wraps his wings around his Bo, as if his charred and scorched feathers could make any difference. As if he can make a difference, surrounded by a relentless inferno.

He can’t

But he moves - will keep moving.

He will claw his way out of hell’s fire, and he won’t leave Tubbo behind.

Ranboo isn’t the strongest, and Tubbo isn’t the lightest. But he will not leave - he picks Bo up, he ignores the choked yelp that comes from his own throat, and he keeps moving.

Tubbo’s coughs, his gasps wrack his entire body - shaking it, it’s never been frailer. And every time the smoke and heat barrels into his lungs, his breaths go ever slightly fainter.

Ranboo flinches, as a flaming branch falls ahead of them. He stumbles back, holds Tubbo tighter to his chest. His body screams in the pain of its own but he needs to keep moving-

“We’ll get out of here...okay?” Ranboo whispers, oh so hoarsely. “We will- I’ll get you out of here. I promise- ”

And in his arms, Tubbo relaxes.

Because he trusts him.

He - they - stumble on. Step by painful step. Outrunning the fire was a dream that slipped by, and now they flinch away from the licks of flame.

“The river-” Ranboo chokes, at some point. “Why didn’t you go to the river-”

Tubbo breathes so softly, so quietly it’s almost as if it weren’t there. His charred lips move, muttering something weak and frail.

“...leave you…”

Couldn’t leave you.

Couldn’t leave you behind.

Something on his face burns and Ranboo flinches - thinking it’s the flames, thinking the heat had gone to his head and he’s lead them straight into the fire.

But it’s not. It’s wet, and tastes vaguely of salt.

Ranboo keeps walking. He tries to run, but stumbles and nearly drops Bo. He tries to jog, but every step makes him want to scream. He’s crying, wailing, screaming at the flames. 

It only screams back.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much.

There, in a tiny clearing, stands a smattering of small boulders. And there, Ranboo gasps a smoke-tinged breath of pure relief - because the boulders do not burn, and there is shelter. A small gap between two boulders, it’s their salvation.

He stumbles to the rocks. A nearby bush ignites. Ranboo ignores it, ignores it all, ignores everything except for the way his hands shake as he desperately pushes Tubbo into the shelter.

And the Goat Kid barely moves. Barely breathing - barely there.

Ranboo slides into the shelter next to him. They fit only just, squeezing together on their stomachs. The fire rages above them, around them - branches snap and fall, flames roar as they leap from meal to meal, and columns of it reach for the sky.

But the boulders do not burn, and neither do they.

Ranboo’s lungs wrack and heave - he coughs, and he coughs, and it hurts. The heat is unbearable, the smoke bitter and wretched.

Tubbo hasn’t spoken in a while.

“Bo- ” Ranboo rasps, his own voice dragging thorns in his throat. His fingers shake, his hands spasm as he reaches over. He pulls Tubbo close, wraps his arms around him - his wings, burnt as they are, act as a familiar blanket over them.

If he closes his eyes and tries - tries really, really hard - he can imagine them at home.

So he does.

“We promised-” Ranboo shudders, chokes and sobs. His arms tighten, and he ducks his head. “We’ll make it out. We’ll make it out. We’ll get out of here, Tubbo-”

Tubbo does not hum - does not reassure that he’s listening. He is soundless, save for the tiniest rasps. He is motionless, save for the slightest twitching finger.

And it’s so pitifully minuscule, but it’s enough - it has to be.

It’s all he has.

“I’m here,” Ranboo breathes. “I promise you, I promise you, I’m still here- ”

The Not-Prince sobs. 

“Please- Bo please be here too-”

A whimper, soft and frail. 

Ranboo doesn’t know if it’s him, or if it’s Bo.

The fire roars as it consumes, a hearty feast for the flames. The storm rumbles and thunders, an echoing growl.

And Ranboo hums a weak little song. A song of a dance, in the kitchen at night.

Chapter Text

Tubbo blinks awake, and he finds Tommy sleeping next to him.

The Golden Boy snores gently, buried in the covers. The serenity of sleep is an odd contrast to his usual aggressive energy, but it’s a nice fit on his face.

A bout of fondness grows in his chest. Tubbo smiles, softly - pulls the covers higher up Tommy’s shoulders.

His eyes adjust to the night. He realises he’s missing somebody.

The Goat Kid sits up, staring around the bedroom. The other two beds are empty, but the window is open. The wind blows against the curtains.

Tubbo clambers out the window. He grips, and climbs, and finds himself shuffling on his hands and knees to the top.

And there he is.

“Ranboo.” Tubbo smiles. He sits, and brushes their shoulders together - humming softly at the back of his throat.

Ranboo doesn’t respond immediately. He stares up at the stars, a deep frown pulling at his face.

“Hey, Bo?”

“Yeah?”

“Where...where are you?”

“...what?”

Ranboo turns his head. He stares at him - eyes wide, and terrified. “Where are you?” He breathes - rasps, as if he’s been inhaling smoke. “I...I can’t...find you, Bo. Where have you gone?”

Tubbo glances up, though he knows the answer. “Oh, Boo,” he chuckles. “I’m not there.”

The caw of a crow rings loud.

Ranboo wakes up.

He is alive.

He is alive.

The forest is silent - quiet, the deathly kind. There is no rumbling crackle of flames. There is no thundering growl of a storm. There is no howling wind.

There is only silence.

And him, in the wake of it.

Ranboo hisses, as every single ache of his body makes itself loudly known. His wings ruffle - the pain of his scorched feathers, once white-hot, dull to a persistent ache. 

Bit by bit, The Not-Prince pulls himself out of the shelter, the gap between boulders. He gasps a breath, the bitter tang of burnt and heat wretched in his throat.

Everything is grey. The soot, the faint wafts of smoke, the air. The forest is...gone - nothing more than charred stumps, and damp crumbling leaves. As he kneels, they smudge his hands - a mark, filthy, stinging his skin.

The sun shines, morning.

And Ranboo breathes. 

“It’s gone.” His voice tumbles, hoarse and dry. It’s loud in the empty silence. Odd, and misplaced - but it’s his voice, and it’s alive. “It’s...gone.”

The fire is gone. 

They did not burn.

Ranboo chokes a laugh, hissing softly against the burns of his tears. But his shoulders shake, with the tear-jerking relief that they made it. The fire had raged, a wrathful inferno, and they emerge in spite of it.

“Tubbo-” Ranboo turns, with eyes so bright. “It’s-”

And he falters - stops, dragged to a screeching halt.

“...Bo.” Ranboo reaches in. Gently, ever always gently, he shakes the Goat Kid’s shoulders. “Bo. Tubbo.”

Silence screams.

Ranboo drags his Bo out of the shelter, the space between boulders. He is gentle, always, as he pulls him close. His fingers (don’t) shake, when he pushes the hair away from Tubbo’s face. His breaths (don’t) choke, and his heart (doesn’t) hammer desperately in his chest.

“Wake- Wake up, Bo.” Ranboo pulls Tubbo’s head to his lap - as he’s done, so many times before. As he was going to do, as the years go by. “Bo. Tubbo. It’s gone -”

Silence.

It’s only him.

Ranboo’s arms tighten. He wraps his wings around Bo - around them, as he’s always done, as he was meant to do. He chokes and shakes and shudders, pressing his face close to Bo’s chest. 

Tubbo is cold, to the touch - so very cold. But Ranboo is here, and he’s always been warm - his wings a blanket, in the winter months before. Ranboo is here, he’s here, and Tubbo will not be cold anymore.

“Help,” Ranboo whispers, mumbles through his ragged and wretched voice. Then, louder. “ Please- please.”

The forest is silent. It’s only him.

“Help!”

The fire had raged long into the sleepless night. A burning roar, just outside their windows. It hurt to be so helpless, to be forced into a stalemate when they wanted nothing more than to make sure that their own was okay.

But they couldn’t. They couldn’t go racing into the flames, couldn’t play the heroes’ game - it didn’t work like that, they wouldn’t win. All it would do, if anything, was trap them in there as well.

So they waited. It was all they could’ve done.

Helpless.

Watching, the fire as it stretched high into the night sky. Waiting, for the storm clouds to finally break - for the rain, the godsend, to quell the fire’s hunger. Begging for dawn to break, for sunlight to arrive.

Wilbur did not leave Tommy’s side. They stayed together, curled up in the sofas of the living room - the living room, because Tommy couldn’t bear to look at their empty beds, and neither could Wilbur. 

The fireplace was dark and unused. They thrived only on each other’s warmth.

Wilbur tried everything. Tried talking, tried singing, tried harmonising and rambling - praying that the sound of his voice, the gentle vibration would be enough to lull his baby brother to sleep.

It wasn’t.

Techno joined them, late into the night. When the crackling of the forest fire had been stilled, replaced with the thrumming of raindrops.

The pig had stared at him, in the dark dim candlelight. Wilbur had stared back.

“...still awake?” Techno murmured. The very edges of his voice broke, crumbling with exhaustion. He’d been up himself - watching the fire, making sure it did not leave the treeline, did not put the rest of them at risk.

Wilbur shifted the Golden Boy in his arms, slightly. “Yeah,” he sighed. He wished, he wished, he wanted to say more - to speak out the raging mess of thoughts and fears, to get it out of his head and his heart.

But not in front of Tommy. Not Tommy, who raged and screamed and kicked, and then slumped in Wilbur’s arms. Not Tommy, who was brighter than the sun - curled up and motionless. Not Tommy, who still sometimes shook with sobs.

Not Tommy, who pretended to be asleep, just because he wants Wil to stop worrying.

But Wilbur does. He does worry. That’s none of their faults.

And Techno understood. The pig moved quietly, sliding up next to them on the couch. He’s warm, and big, and when Techno wrapped his arms around them - they are safe, a selfish comfort.

“Ranboo!” Wilbur calls. He cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts into the decimated forest. “Tubbo!”

The forest does not answer.

It’s silent. And there’s only them.

Footsteps coming to his side. Tommy’s dull eyes, rimmed red with sleeplessness, meet Wil’s own - they mirror, the brothers.

Tommy’s eyes water. He makes to speak, but the only sound that limps out is choked and wretched.

Wilbur says nothing, speaks in silence. He only wraps his arms around the Golden Boy, and he holds him.

“We’ll find them,” promises Wilbur - the liar. Trouble maker, snake charmer, smooth talker. “We’ll find them, Tommy.”

And Tommy believes him. Because he trusts him.

“Guys!” Techno’s voice calls. The pig stands a distance away, a figure of pink in a dull grey landscape. Through the distance, they see him gesture - come here, and come quick.

Hope, for the first time since dawn, sparks. They hurry over, their footsteps brushing against the ash coated forest floor. The morning sun shines too bright, no canopy of leaves to shade their heads.

“What is it?” Tommy croaks. He clears his throat, grabbing onto Techno’s arm - clinging, something he hasn’t done since he was so very little. “Did you find them?”

Techno hesitates. Slowly, he points up - gesturing to the sky.

Dad’s wingbeats are soft. He’d been soaring over their heads - taking advantage of a bird’s eye view. But now, now he flies in place, staring shock still in one certain direction.

They all fall silent. They all turn their heads. Looking - eyes roving, and listening so very intently.

The silence is deafening. It stretches, for what seems like forever. 

But then, Wilbur hears it.

‘Help.’

A streak of black and green zips through the sky. Dad soars, leaving the rest of them to sprint after. 

And they do. They run, faster than they’ve ever run. Their panting breaths echo in sync, and the hope in their hearts grow ever so slightly larger.

Wingbeats. They’re music to his ears.

The Not-Prince jerks his head to the skies. “Phil -” 

A few moments later, Philza lands.

“Ranboo-” He stumbles to his knees. Phil grabs his shoulders, staring at him - as if the man can’t believe he’s there, can’t believe he’s alive. “Holy shit-” Phil chokes a soft, utterly relieved sob. “Holy fucking shit you’re okay-”

“Phil.” Ranboo grabs a wrist, desperately. “Phil, I can’t- He’s- Phil, it’s Tubbo -”

Phil stills. Breathes the softest gasp.

He looks down, slowly. He moves, slowly. Shaking hands reaching forward, slowly, for Tubbo.

And Ranboo starts to let him, because Phil surely can help- All Phil ever does is help, so why would now, when it matters the most, be any different?

But there is a wet shine, a tightness in the man’s eyes. A quick, half-second glance between Ranboo’s face and Bo’s. The slightest press of lips. Pain, etched in the subtlest of lines.

Hauntingly, grief.

Ranboo holds Tubbo closer. “You’re-” He swallows, breathes against the tightness in his chest. “Don’t- Don’t look at him like that. Why are you...”

Phil stares at him. He makes a soft, sorrowful sound. “Ranboo-”

“Wake him up, Phil.” Ranboo chokes, gasping and grasping for a breath. “Phil - Wake him up-”

“He’s not-”

“He is!” Ranboo ducks his head. He presses his ear to Bo’s chest, because Tubbo is still alive and his heart still beats because it needs to - he needs him. 

Ranboo needs him. He needs Bo.

Yet no matter how quiet he goes, no matter how hard he listens, no matter the thunderous heartbeat in his own chest - Tubbo is as soundless as an empty shell.

“RANBOO!”

They whip their heads around.

Tommy, Wilbur, Techno - they run, sprinting through the empty forest. Tommy’s eyes are wide with relief, and he wears a smile that’s oh so bright - the Golden Boy, a light of colour in the grey.

A light that dulls, dims and flickers out, as soon as he catches sight of the Goat Kid. Suddenly, Tommy’s no longer running - he’s stumbling, falling down to his hands and knees, staring with those same wide eyes.

Except now it’s no relief. Now it’s horror. Now it’s desperate denial.

It’s familiar.

A beat passes. Then two. Shaky inhales, shaky exhales.

“...Tubbo?” Tommy shudders. “Tubbo?”

But Tubbo doesn’t answer.

Tubbo isn’t there.

Something breaks, then. Some line crossed, some threshold left behind.

Someone breathes a shudder, a shaky exhale of pain.

Maybe it’s Tommy, when he breaks down into screaming sobs, in the charred forest. Maybe it’s Wilbur, when he kneels down to pull Tommy close - burying his head in the crook of the Golden Boy’s shoulders, his own shaking with the strength of his stifled cries.

Maybe it’s Technoblade, when he stands still - as if moving would make it real, would drive home the reality. Maybe it’s Phil, when he turns his head away, tears streaming and breath hiccuping. 

And Ranboo knows. He knows, he knows. He knows Tubbo was dead before he even woke up. That it doesn’t matter how long he drapes his wings over him, nor matter how many nights he spends, nor matter how many forest fires that rage. 

Tubbo will never be warm again.

Maybe that’s what pushes him, maybe that’s what breaks him. Maybe he was always broken, and fool of him to pretend otherwise.

“Tommy-” Phil speaks, hoarsely - but it’s urgent, harried and worried still. The man gestures. “Quick- There’s not much time.”

Ranboo blinks. “Time for what?” he whispers. His skin wails as he wipes his tears, only for new ones to fall. “Phil-”

But Phil only reaches forward. His eyes plead, echoing his voice when he begs him to let go of Tubbo’s body.

It’s the realisation - the shock of it, the aching pang that stabs right through every piece of him - that it’s Tubbo’s body.

And that’s all it is anymore.

Ranboo lets go. His fingers twitch in the empty air. He’s...cold, very.

Wilbur practically picks Tommy up, from the ground. “You gotta,” the brother whispers, through a broken wretched voice. “You’ll regret it. You know- You know you will.”

Tommy’s voice shakes, hiccuping and sobbing too much to form a coherent sentence. But something drives him forward, something guides his hands to pull Tubbo close to him - a hug, desperately, for one final time.

Ranboo feels like an intruder - a stranger, amongst people he knows and has lived with. Kneeling on his hands and knees, he watches as they each take their turn to pull the Goat Kid close to themselves, to grasp at one final gesture of affection, to let their love have an outlet for one final time - before it’s gone, and there will be nothing more to love.

Leaving, in its wake, grief.

Phil beckons him, close. The man sniffs, and hiccups, and turns his head away as if that could remove the burning image of Phil crying out of Ranboo’s head - as if that memory wouldn’t be as ingrained as the scars on his face.

“Ranb-” Phil swallows. “Ranboo, come on. Come- come here.”

Numbly, Ranboo shuffles forward. Their collective warmth, surrounding him - oh, he’s missed that, so much. They’re so, so warm now; some part of Ranboo, the foolish one, feels safe.

But Tubbo. Tubbo is still very, very cold.

Something’s...happening. With horror, Ranboo watches on as Tubbo disappears, melting. Not melting - disintegrating, turning smoke or mist. Into the very likeness of  that killed him, dissipating from their fingers like crumbling sand.

“Wait-” Ranboo launches forward, to grab Tubbo close again, as if he could stop the change - as if he could do anything. As if he could simply hold him, and Bo would come back.

But miracles happen only in fairytales. This is not such a tale.

Phil grabs him by the shoulders. He grabs him, and he pins his arms, murmuring some useless reassurance as if Ranboo would give a damn about that and not-

“Let him go,” whispers Phil’s broken voice. “You need to let him go.”

But Ranboo can’t. Not Bo. Never Bo.

A ruffling of smaller wings. A bird - a crow, calling - leaps off its charred branch of a perch. It sweeps around the smoke, shifting and swirling and curling-

And then it's gone.

The crow, the smoke, Tubbo.

The smoke - one that was a person. Someone so precious, so loved and so very dear - with dreams never to be chased, and a bed never to be used again. Someone who will never laugh, never joke, never see the end of summer.

And what cruelty must he have dealt, what evil had Ranboo committed, to love someone who died the day after they were born? What is he guilty of, other than daring to love so foolishly?

Is it loyalty, or is it foolishness?

That, is definitely what breaks him.

They went home. It was all they could do.

Ranboo didn’t even try to walk - Phil didn’t even ask. The man simply scoops him up, holding him to his chest. Ranboo isn’t a child, and Phil isn’t his father - but for this broken moment, that’s what they allowed themselves to be.

At some point, somewhere through the grey emptiness of the forest, Tommy stopped walking too. They traded; Ranboo was shifted into Techno’s arms, while Phil carried his Golden Boy onwards.

Techno’s sorrow is quiet - silent, as soundless as the trees, but so very much there. In every hiccup and every hitch of the pig’s breath. Every time Techno stumbles, instinctively murmuring an apology - oh, Ranboo feels like he wants to scream.

He doesn’t. He is a silent as a corpse, alive only physically.

“Sit up for me mate,” Phil murmurs. As if the silence was a ritual, a rule he dared not break. The man holds bandages and creams and a couple other things Ranboo can’t bring himself to care much about.

But obediently, silently, Ranboo sits up on his bed. He doesn’t know where Tommy is, he doesn’t know where Wilbur is, he doesn’t know where Techno is.

He knows where Tubbo is, and that it’s not here. That this bedroom will always feel a little bit colder, and a little bit emptier. That everything will just be a little bit quieter. That his hands will never stop shaking, and that he will always taste smoke.

“You’re thinking real hard,” Phil murmurs. He sits in front of him, one of Ranboo’s hands in his lap - spreading the cream, relieving the burning agitation. “Sometimes it’s...better to think aloud. Thoughts can turn bad, if you don’t let them breathe.”

Breathe. It’s something Ranboo does, then. He breathes a shaky exhale.

“...I don’t get it,” Ranboo whispers - croaks, stepping over the crumbling cracks of his voice.

Phil looks pained. “Get what?” he asks, softly.

“Why...why am I still alive?”

The man freezes. His eyes widen, a mixture of fear and panic - horror, and dread. Caught greatly off guard, stumbling desperately for an answer. “I-”

“I had a tree fall on me, Phil.” Ranboo curls his fingers into fists, undoing all of Phil’s hard work. He remembers burning, he remembers suffocating, he remembers being crushed.

And he remembers surviving.

“I should’ve-” He closes his eyes. Squeezes them shut. “I should’ve-”

Phil says nothing. He speaks in silence, clutching Ranboo’s hand in both of his own, tightly. The man breathes, and it sounds like he’s choking.

Ranboo opens his eyes. “...Phil…?”

And that does something. Crosses some threshold. Pushes the man over the edge, and Phil sputters. He chokes, and he breaks into sobs. His hair falls across his face, casting it in shadow - but Ranboo doesn’t need to see his expression, to know he’s in tears and in so much pain.

“I’m sorry,” Phil breathes, whining almost. He hiccups, rubbing at his eyes, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ranboo.”

Ranboo stops breathing. For a moment, he feels like he’s dying. But that’d be...impossible.

“Why..?”

Phil glances up, and meets his gaze through tears. Pleading, for forgiveness, for understanding.

“I only wanted you to be happy,” Phil whispers. “I swe- I promise you, Ranboo, that I only kept it from you because- because I wanted you to be okay.”

But despite it, or because of it, Ranboo pulls away. He is numb, frozen, cold.

So, so cold. 

“Why didn’t I die, Phil.” 

This time, it’s not a question. But this time, Phil answers.

The man swallows. “Because you can’t.” 

Beat.

“You don’t- you don't die, Ranboo. You won’t...ever.”

A joke, Ranboo wants to say. A horrible, wretched, disgusting joke. You're not funny, Phil.

Phil isn't joking. He wouldn't - not about this, not now. Phil has a sense of humour, Phil isn't this wretched - this evil.

And yet for once, just this once, Ranboo wishes he was. Let the twisted humour undo him, let it be the death of him, so long as it's not that.

Phil has only lost one, one son - yet he stares at Ranboo in tears, as if he's already lost him too.

And Ranboo knows, too. He knows.  Fool of him, for pretending that he didn’t - fool of him, for convincing himself that he didn’t. For forgetting something like this, for daring to try and live.

Fool of him for daring to live, when he’s too stubborn to die.

Something rings in his ears. Someone sobs, a sputtering screaming wail - it’s him, it’s Ranboo, and he doesn't recognise himself.

“Ran-” Phil grabs his shoulders, pulls him into a hug; something Ranboo doesn’t know he needs, doesn’t know if he deserves, doesn’t even know if he wants.

He doesn’t know anything. 

“Why-” Ranboo croaks. He grips the fabric of Phil’s clothes, clutching onto it like a lifeline he doesn’t need. “Why -”

And he’s not afraid to ask. Why would he, when he’s already so low? What more could Phil possibly say, what more could possibly happen, to break him even more?

Phil’s breath shudders, and hiccups. “You were a prince.”

Yet, he manages it.

Tommy pushes the bedroom door open. He stands there, swaying - exhausted, so very, in more ways than he ever cares to admit to himself. He stares at Tubbo’s bed; something meant to be empty, and meant to have wrenched his heart into a million tiny pieces all over again.

It’s not empty. But it’s not Tubbo.

Tommy moves forward. He is numb, as he curls up on the bed - pressing his back against Ranboo’s spine, fitting in the space between wings. His mind takes the feathers’ texture as comfort; that was what it was, what it used to be, what it was meant to be.

Now it’s...cold.

They are silent. Ranboo lays facing the wall. Tommy lays facing his bed. Their backs to each other, they lay together - on Tubbo’s bed.

It shouldn’t be this comfortable. It’s meant to be cramped. There’s meant to be three.

Now, there is only two.

Ranboo doesn’t speak. He knows Tommy’s there - his breath hitched, when Tommy curled up. He simply does not say anything, does not try to ward off the deafening silence. 

Tommy finds himself wishing he would. Then he finds himself regretting it, soon after.

“I’m surprised you don’t hate me.”

Tommy feels a breath, choked and caught in his throat. He swallows, and he tries - he does, he tries so hard - not to sound angry.

He fails.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ranboo’s flinch is heavy enough for him to feel. Regret, twisted and heavy, settles in Tommy’s chest.

Tommy sighs. “...It’s-”

“I killed Tubbo.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words are out, harsh and heavy, before Tommy even realises. He curls his fingers into tight fists, so tight that they shake. His chest hurts. “No. Don’t fucking say that. Don’t even think it.”

Ranboo falls silent. For a moment - a brief, startlingly beautiful moment, Tommy thinks that actually worked; that the goddamn Broken Clock would see how fucking absurd it was, how horrible it is to even begin to think-

“He could’ve gone to the river.” Ranboo’s voice has never been so lifeless. Never so dull and empty, broken and gone. “He’d have survived, then.”

And it hurts - oh, god it hurts.

“You-” Tommy’s voice shakes. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, curling his knees so closely to his chest. He stifles his sobs, bites down on his own pain because he needs to say this. “You know damn fucking well he wouldn’t have left you. That’s not your goddamn fault.”

Ranboo’s wings shift. For a moment, the broken feathers brush against him - a habit, a muscle memory, an instinct to drape and comfort and be there.

But then Ranboo pulls away. And Tommy finds himself screaming at the absence, in an all-too-perfect silence.

“He shouldn’t have bothered with me,” Ranboo whispers. “He should’ve focused on himself- Should’ve saved himself-”

“And leave you to fucking die-? ”

“I don’t die!” 

Ranboo’s yell startles him. Tommy flinches, jolting upright - sitting, staring, with eyes so wide, with his heart hammering against his ribcage.

And Ranboo stares back. He’s sat up too, pushing himself against the wall. He bares his teeth, hissing softly.

It takes Tommy too long to realise that he’s not hissing - it’s the tears.

That breaks his startled haze. “Ran-”

“I don’t die,” Ranboo snarls, through gritted teeth. His shoulders shake as he sobs, but it’s not despairing grief - it’s anger. “I never have and god, I never will. It was for nothing! He died for nothing!”

Tommy swallows. It’s hard - it’s so hard to think around the heart in his head, around the rushing blood in his ears.

“The fuck-” He swallows again, tightly. “What the fuck do you mean?”

And Ranboo meets his gaze. The anger melts - or rather, shifts, into one of bitterness. He smiles, and it’s bitter. He laughs, and it’s bitter. 

“I’m Prince.” He laughs, again - as if that’ll somehow twist this into good news. All it does is sound pathetic, and so incredibly hopeless. “As long as my throne stands, so too will I.”

Ranboo’s head drops, then. It looks heavy, and he looks tired of holding it up. He looks tired, exhausted and sick of it.

“I’m Prince,” Ranboo murmurs. This time, it’s to himself - this time, it sounds like he’s scolding himself, for fool of him to ever try and pretend otherwise. 

And maybe, just maybe, fool of Tommy for believing him.

But Tommy- Well, he’s never taken kindly to being called a fool.

“I’ve seen you take damage.” Tommy grabs the Prince’s shoulders, shaking him. “What the fuck do you mean, you can’t die?”

Ranboo stares at him, eyes searching. 

And Tommy hates, hates, hates the bitter smile on Ranboo’s face.

“I’m too stubborn to die, Tommy.” Ranboo lets his head loll forward, until it rests against the Golden Boy’s chest. “I’m stubborn. So, so stubborn. I cling to life and do you know what, Tommy?”

Tommy swallows. He wraps his arms around Ranboo’s shoulders, out of instinct. Following the little voice that whispers in the back of his head, the one that sounds vaguely like Tubbo.

“...what?” Tommy breathes.

Ranboo’s breath hiccups. His tears burn, and they seep through the fabric of Tommy’s shirt.

“Life lets me,” says Ranboo - the Broken Clock Prince. “Because I’m the damn Prince.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes, and it’s so hard to do even that. The silence drowns them, it’s so loud.

They stay like that. A little piece of forever, stretching endlessly - for a minute, or two. 

Eternity, for a minute or two.

Sometimes, Ranboo would start to sob. Sometimes, it’s Tommy. Sometimes, it’s both of them at once. And sometimes, it’s only silence.

And the silence is somehow the loudest.

“...can I sleep with you tonight?” Tommy whispers, at some point. When the sun had set, the moon had risen, and they sat in the dark.

Ranboo shifts. It couldn’t have been comfortable, hunched over as he was for as long as he was. “...you’ve never ask- asked, before.”

Tommy shuts his eyes. “Didn’t need it, before.”

Silence. Then, a soft sound, wrestled from the back of the Prince’s throat.

Yes.

Curled up in the dark, listening to the sound of Tommy’s breaths, Ranboo finds himself thinking. He can’t sleep, and he can’t move - not without waking up the Golden Boy, he who’s lost so much.

They both have.

With nothing else to do, Ranboo finds himself thinking. And he finds, it’s Tubbo.

For Ranboo and Tubbo were...different. But akin to the sun and moon, their differences were complimentary. They made each other whole, finished what the other couldn’t, built scaffolds through memories.

And now the sun was gone, and it was dark always.

They were different. But never more than they were, now.

For one Death had taken too early, and the other she will not take at all.

It’s not fair. It’s cruel, actually. It’s not fair for Ranboo to be stubborn, and for Life to allow such to happen -  when it’s Tubbo who has his life ahead of him, when it’s Tubbo who deserves it.

When it’s Tubbo, who’s gone.

It’s unfair. It’s cruel. And it’s a reality Ranboo has no power to change.

For he’s nothing more than the useless, broken clock Prince. And he will never be anything other.

Tommy shifts. He rolls around in sleep - sleep, finally - and Ranboo finds himself curling up tighter around him. 

He’s tired of thinking. Tired of feeling. Tired of the burns on his face and on his hands.

So throughout the eternity of one night, Ranboo focuses on Tommy’s breaths. It’s all he has.

Chapter Text

If Ranboo keeps his eyes closed long enough, he can almost think that nothing has changed.

That the body curled up next to him is Tubbo, and that any second now the Goat Kid will wake up, see him asleep, laugh so sweetly and curl right back down. For everything will be right in the world, and they are together.

But imagination is a poor substitute for reality.

When the body uncurls, stretches and yawns, it does not sound like Tubbo. When it shakes Ranboo awake, it’s not with the bleary gentleness Tubbo would have.

This gentleness is hesitant. Wary and cautious, as one would treat a pile of broken glass instead of a person.

To be fair, that’s what he is.

“Ranber,” Tommy mutters. “Get the fuck up. I’m hungry.”

Ranboo wasn’t asleep - he hadn’t been, for the past few...hours? Still, he steals a few selfish moments in the darkness of his own closed eyelids. Pretends that everything, for a few stuttering breaths, is okay again.

And then he opens his eyes.

“Why do I have to come with you,” Ranboo mumbles. “Go by yourself.”

Tommy sighs. He rubs at his eyes, blinking the heavy sleep away. “Cause I’m not a fucking idiot to let you starve to death.”

Ranboo’s lip curls. “That train’s left,” he grits, “seeing as I can’t.”

Tommy falls silent, and it’s an emptiness that fills the Prince with the most wretched feelings of regret. Tommy didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve...this. He didn’t deserve anything, other than to have his brother by his side again.

And Ranboo took that from him. 

So, slowly, he pushes himself upright. His wings stretch and fan, more out of instinct more than any desire to move. 

Tommy eyes them, the scorched feathers. “...do they hurt?”

Yes.  

“No.” Ranboo shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

Well, he didn’t truly lie. The pain had dulled, a mix of Phil’s care and time’s passage. It’s more of the emptiness that gnaws at him, the odd lightness, the air that blows through holes that should not be there.

The Prince wonders if he’ll ever fly again.

He doesn’t want to answer himself.

The house is a deathly place to be, for once. It’s quiet, dull and heavy. The air practically chokes down their throats. Every breath is too loud, every shift deafening.

Tommy holds his hand, and it’s an odd texture against the bandages. Ranboo doesn’t know if it’s to comfort him, or the Golden Boy himself.

He doesn’t think Tommy does, either.

“What time is it?” Tommy mumbles. He peers at the windows, watching the morning sunlight rays beam through - gauging how long they’ve slept, how much of the day they still had. “Where...is everyone?”

Techno and Wilbur’s door is open - just enough for them to see how empty it is. Two beds unmade, flecks of dust flying in the air and illuminated by light. Lifeless, and empty.

Phil’s door is shut. It looks cold, unwelcoming - wrong. They don’t bother trying to peer inside.

Tommy and Ranboo glance at each other, in silence. Ranboo wants to go back to bed - wrecked with lethargy, some part of him wants to drown. 

But Tommy’s eyes simply gain a bit of steel. His grip tightens.

Ranboo understands the message, in such a simple gesture. He hates how effective it is, and how much the Golden Boy must’ve known it would’ve worked. He hates how he cares, and he hates how he does.

If you drown, Tommy says, then you’ll drag me with you.

They held hands.

Together, they make their way down the steps. Slowly, treading lightly, as if the entire cottage were booby-trapped overnight. Neither of them breathed too deeply, neither of them tried calling out. The silence was a rule, a ritual they dared not break.

Tommy dropped him off at the kitchen. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll check the rest of the house.”

And, too weary to care much, Ranboo simply nodded. He sits in one of the chairs - the chair he’s always sat on, one that’s ‘his’ - and rests his elbows on the table surface. He drops his head down, pressing his forehead against the cool wood.

If he closes his eyes, and imagines really hard, he can almost imagine nothing has changed.

And that everything is okay.

Tommy’s footsteps shuffle, socks sliding against the floor. Ranboo lifts his head up just in time to see the Golden Boy wave around a small piece of paper - a note.

“They’ve went out.” Tommy drops the note on the table. Wilbur’s handwriting stares at them. “Said there was bread n’ butter. Some jam too. We could make toast.”

Ranboo eyes the note. The words swim, foreign and useless to him. “Where’d they go?”

“Eh.” There’s a shrug in the Golden Boy’s voice. Tommy doesn’t care - he knows they’ll come back, believes in the promises. That the sun will rise the next day, and so too will they.

Ranboo...doesn’t. Yet he bites his tongue, and keeps his silence.

Cabinets creaking as they’re pulled open. The click and clang of utensils. Tommy huffs a grunt, muttering to himself under his breath. Something...glass, something porcelain.

A dragging sound, from the chair beside him. Ranboo jolts.

“What’re you doing?”

Tommy pauses, half bent to sit. “Making toast?” He gestures vaguely, shifting the jars and bread in his arms. “We gotta eat.”

“That’s not where you sit,” Ranboo blurts out. He stops, and falters, as soon as the words are out of his mouth and into the air. As soon as his mind catches up to his tongue, he feels like kicking himself.

Because, no, that’s not where Tommy sits. Usually, he’d sit in the chair across, next to Wilbur’s seat.

Tubbo sat there.

Tommy’s eyes shift. Somehow, someway, they both soften and harden. Somehow, someway, he looks both sympathetic and in pain. “Ran-”

“Forget it.” Ranboo turns his head away. He stares, and he breathes, and he quells his rapid heartbeat. “Just- I’m sorry. I don’t…”

His words trail off. He doesn’t continue. Doesn’t want to, or can’t - the two blends together, and to him they’re one and the same.

He doesn’t want to. He can’t.

Tommy doesn’t want to push him. Or...can’t. The Golden Boy sits down next to him, soundless in his motion. For a moment, it sounds like he’s not even breathing.

The silence deafens. The emptiness is too heavy, too much.

The jar lids pop, as Tommy twists them open. The bread is untoasted, but neither of them really cares. After a few moments of motionlessness, of uselessness, Ranboo takes the extra butter knife and helps spread the jam.

Tommy glances at him. “...we gotta do something about your face, man.”

Ranboo twitches. “Don’t bother,” he mutters. “Phil tried. It’ll just wash off again.”

Tommy makes a soft sound, pained. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Ranboo doesn’t answer. He can’t find it in him to try and lie. 

They get a good amount of jam spread on a good amount of bread; enough for the others to eat, if they get back.

When, Ranboo reminds himself. When they get back.

He doesn’t believe himself. Or, he can’t.

They hear it at the same time. The front door pushed open, footsteps coming into the house. Phil, Wilbur, Techno’s voices. They’re arguing, heated tones contradicting the softness of the way they’re spoken.

“-won’t leave you. Any of you. You know that-”

“We know, Dad. It’s just- What were we supposed to think? You were gone the whole night! We couldn’t- We…”

“...Techno, come on. Surely you didn’t-”

“It’s not that, Phil.” Techno’s voice sounds heavy, weary - in pain. “It’s- Maybe we didn’t have anything to worry about. That doesn’t mean we still won’t.”

It’s silent. Tommy and Ranboo share a glance. 

Speak up.

You do it.

I’m not fucking getting in the middle of that.

Well neither am I.

Tommy harrumphs, and chomps on his bread rather aggressively. Ranboo merely glances away, wings ruffling.

“...alright,” Phil says, finally - concedes, agrees, accepts. He lays down his verbal sword, surrenders the war. “I’m...I’m sorry. I’m sorry I worried you. I shouldn’t- Should’ve left a note, or something.”

A sigh. More words, too low for them to catch this time.

Ranboo leans back, staring up at the ceiling - blank, bland, and empty. God, he wants to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to breathe.

He wants to drown. He wants to trade. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants Tubbo to be here. He’ll trade, he’ll trade - over, and over, for just one last chance.

For just one last smile.

Ranboo stands at the same time Phil walks in.

The man blinks, startled. “...you alright, mate?”

No.

“Yeah.” Ranboo rubs at his eyes, chasing away spots. “Tired. Going to bed.”

“What? We just woke-”

Ranboo doesn’t let Tommy finish. He doesn’t want to - he can’t. His movements are swift and his silence firm, as he slips out of the kitchen.

(“Hey, Boo. Kristin’s not so bad. She’s pretty nice, actually. Tell Phil I said sorry, won’t you? Bet he’d...bet he’d be proud of me.”)

Ranboo wakes up with a jolt, crying out to an ache in his chest. 

He...was asleep. He was dreaming, even. His heart races, as he desperately tries to remember the slipping dreamlike memories. It was important - it tasted sweet, smelled like tulips, sounded like a voice he yearns to hear again.

But he forgets, and the dream is gone.

Ranboo lays on his side, in his bed - his, this time. He lays there, covers pulled up to his shoulders. It’s hot - it’s summer, but the blanket feels like a hug, so he leaves it there. He can’t be bothered to move right now, anyway. Can’t be bothered - doesn’t want to.

The ache in his chest doesn’t leave. It only grows, the longer he stares at Tubbo’s empty bed. The longer wakefulness lets his thoughts roam. The longer the rays of sunlight grow, stretching across the room.

He doesn’t know when he started crying. He doesn’t know when he stopped noticing. Ranboo hisses, curling his knees to his chest - he presses his sleeve to his eyes, though that does little to quell the tide.

He’s drowning. It’s not as fun as he thought it’d be.

Ranboo rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He gasps for air, choking. The silence is so loud, the emptiness too heavy. He can’t breathe -

Help, he wants to say.

He doesn’t.

Someone’s preening his wings. Their touch is gentle. It feels so good - a luxury, comforting through the wretched haze of sleep. 

“...uhbbo?” Ranboo murmurs, at some point. His voice is thick and heavy with sleep and sorrow. “...Bo…”

They stop preening, at the sound of his voice. A wrestled breath of air that, for once, isn’t echoed by the tones of his own voice.

They touch his face. Their fingers are calloused, but gentle. They wipe his tears away, careful with the burns.

“Go to sleep, mate.” They say. “You’re- You’re alright.”

No, Ranboo wants to say. No, I’m not.

He doesn’t.

When Ranboo wakes up to music, he thinks he’s still dreaming.

For a moment, the Prince simply stares. Stares - staring, eyes wide - at the brother sat on the foot of his bed.

“...Wilbur…?” he breathes.

Wilbur glances up, and the music stops - the guitar strings falling still, and silent. His eyes are weary, and rimmed red with tears and pain. But he smiles - it’s an odd thing, a twist of the lips, meant to be gentle and comforting.

It’s sad.

“Hello,” says Wilbur, through the cracks around the edges of his voice. “I hope- I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Ranboo makes a soft sound, at the back of his throat. He might’ve, he might’ve not - either way, the Prince was glad to be awake. The air in his lungs feels fresh, and good. There’s still that persistent ache, but for once he can breathe.

And he does. Simply breathing for a few minutes, doing absolutely nothing else.

Wilbur sniffs. He turns his head away, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “...sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m not- It used to help. Music.”

Ranboo blinks, slowly. “...used to?”

Wilbur breathes a shaky, shuddery exhale. “Tubbo liked music,” says he. He laughs softly - bitterly, yet so sweetly at once. “Would pester me to teach him. I remember, when he was younger and...and annoying, I gave him a little ukulele. Said it was a ‘baby guitar’.”

He falls silent - choking, drowning in memories kept behind a glass encasement, for fear they’ll disappear.

Never to be remade.

“...I remember that ukulele,” The Prince murmurs. He shivers, curling his knees to his chest. “I asked if he could play for me. And he said- he said…’Maybe one day ’.”

And that’s the threshold. 

Wilbur chokes. He drops his head, curling himself around the guitar on his lap. His shoulders shake, and the palm he presses into his eyes does nothing to stop the tears from falling. They spatter, tiny droplets growing larger, on Ranboo’s bed.

“Fuck,” Wilbur shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Don’t apologise.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I know.” Ranboo glances away. He stares at the wall, and it looks grey. Everything looks grey. “I know.”

He’s stopped breathing. Ranboo takes in a soft, gasping breath - focuses on that, his inhales and exhales. It takes too much of his mind, to remember something meant to be instinctual, to remember to live - it’s...a lot.

“...can you play me something?” Ranboo murmurs. He lets each and every blink grow longer. “Until I...until I sleep?”

Wilbur shifts, the bed dipping beneath the motion. Breathes something choked, something wrestled and something pained.

“What’d-” Wilbur stops, gasping for a shuddering breath. He grits his teeth, and lets out a sharp exhale through them. “What’d you have in- in mind?”

Ranboo lets his fingers curl, gripping the covers. His tears sting and ache. He doesn’t bother wiping them away - can’t bring himself to.

“...the summer solstice song,” he breathes. “Play me that, Wilbur. Please.”

Sobbing so softly, Wilbur does.

Techno looks...surprised to see him.

“You’re awake.” The pig notes. He shifts the hay bales to under one arm, gesturing vaguely at him with the other. “That’s...good.”

Ranboo meets his gaze, blinking slowly. “Phil said it’d be...good if I got up,” he mutters. “‘Sides, Tommy wouldn’t let me sleep another day away.”

“No,” Techno agrees. “He wouldn’t.”

For once, they’re not in complete silence. He supposed the barn never really could be quiet - not with all the animals, not when there’s too much life and motion. Always something to do, always something to occupy the mind.

He wonders if that’s the reason Techno stays in here all the time.

“...Phil said you haven’t been inside in a bit.” Ranboo drops his gaze, staring at the ground - worn with footsteps, feet of all kinds. “I’m meant to tell you to come back. Not to push yourself too hard.”

Something in Techno’s breath hitches. “...that’s vaguely ironic.”

And for the first time since forever, and a few days ago, Ranboo breathes a somewhat laugh. “You tell me.”

The hay bales fall to the ground, with a dull thump. Ranboo blinks, and glances up.

Technoblade stands there. He’s still, barely moving. Barely even breathing. 

But alive. There. Real.

The pig spreads his arms, silently. He’s shifting and awkward, glancing away as if he can’t bear to look Ranboo in the eyes.

But...there.

Ranboo moves forward, before he even realises it. He says nothing, keeps his silence, and accepts the hug.

It feels...good. Techno is soft, and warm. Each breath is steady, and Ranboo finds himself enraptured. Listening carefully to the thrum of his heart, until the Prince finds that they echo - mirroring each other.

And Ranboo breathes, softly.

“Phil wouldn’t...mind, if we stayed out longer,” Techno says. It’s an invitation, spoken in the subtlest of ways.

“No,” Ranboo agrees. “He wouldn’t.”

The Prince wakes up to the sound of sobs. They aren’t his - they are another’s. The only other person meant to be asleep in this dark bedroom.

“...Tommy.” Ranboo shifts off his bed. He casts shadows as he moves through the moonlight. Within seconds, he’s curled up in Tommy’s - curling around the shaking, sobbing Golden Boy. “Tommy.”

Tommy flinches, at first. Reeling away from his touch. Then just as quickly, the Golden Boy melts - lets himself fall into the Prince’s embrace, lets himself pretend that Ranboo’s charred and broken feathers are as they’ve always been.

Comfort.

“It hurts,” Tommy wails - soft, choked, wretched and in pain. “It hurts so fucking much. I mm- I miss him. I miss him - Fuck it- It hurts -”

And it does. It does, it does, it does so much.

Ranboo lets him cry. He wraps his arms around Tommy’s quivering shoulders. He presses his face into the crook of them, simply holding - simply choking, breathing becoming such a chore. Drowning, suffocating in the smoke of their grief.

Ranboo cannot die. But this, he feels, is something similar.

Tommy grips the front of his shirt, clinging onto the lifeline that he is. The Golden Boy yelps, sniffs, sobs and wails - he’s in pain, he’s grieving, he’s hurting so much. Sputtering and screaming, he lets himself feel.

He lets himself drown.

Ranboo wraps his hand around one of Tommy’s. He grips, tighter than he means to.

They drown.

It’s been a while, since they’ve sat like this. 

If it weren’t for the rain - a steady downpour, pattering on the roof - they probably wouldn’t have. Technoblade would’ve still been out, throwing himself into his work. Phil would’ve gone...wherever it is, that Phil goes to. Wilbur, too.

For the briefest of eternities, Tommy and Ranboo would’ve been left alone. Something that both never happened before, and happened all the time - they’ve been left alone, but back then there were three.

And then, then there was two.

Ranboo sat, cross-legged on the floor. He stares - staring, at the roaring fireplace. It would’ve been too cold without it; this, he knows.

Doesn’t make it easier, knowing.

If he closes his eyes, even for the briefest of seconds, he’s not in the house - he’s in the forest, where everything burns and it is so incredibly painful. So Ranboo stares at the fire, keeps it small and meek, just warm enough to be comforting - to stave off the starting whispers of autumn’s prelude.

In a sense, it feels good. He’s keeping them safe, by watching the fire. They won’t burn, not if he has anything to say about it. And he has quite a bit of words.

Wilbur and Techno sat on the couch. Their chatter, soft and steady, echoes the rhythm of the rain. Every so often, Wilbur would clear his throat away from a break in his voice. Every so often, Techno would falter for words and fall simply silent.

Yet, still, they talked.

Tommy curled up in Phil’s armchairs. The Golden Boy had found himself some extra yarn, and sits knitting away with half-lidded eyelids. He looks...peaceful, for once. Not happy, not content - but alive, and simply breathing. Simply being.

Phil, the man himself, sits behind Ranboo with the Prince’s wings in his lap. Through some unspoken agreement, some instinct, he preens the broken speckled feathers. Phil works silently, pausing only whenever the Prince would wince or breathe differently - murmuring apologies, and softening his touch.

Ranboo frowns. “...Phil?”

“Yeah...?”

His voice no louder than the crackle of flames, Ranboo asks, “How did...how did you know?” 

The man stops, his fingers grazing the very tips of Ranboo’s feathers. “Know...what?” 

Ranboo swallows. “That...the Prince, thing,” he stumbles, lamely. “That I- That I can’t-”

And he can’t say another word of it. The entire subject makes him retch, makes his lip curl.

Phil’s breaths are so soft, they’re like sighs. The man leans forward, pressing a warm palm to the space between useless wings.

“I can tell you,” Phil whispers, so softly Ranboo can barely catch him. “But, mate, when you knock on enough doors, you better be ready for the devil to answer.”

Silence, save for the fires and the chatter. Silence, save for the thunderous beats of Ranboo’s heart, ringing in his ears - deafening.

Phil leans back, pulls away. The preening continues, feathers rearranged and cleaned.

“You wanted to ask something, mate?” says Phil, louder.

Ranboo breathes out, gripping the fabric of his pants. He breathes, against the prickling of his skin, the chill dragging down his spine. 

“No,” he swallows. “Nothing.”

And Phil doesn’t push.

They kneel on the floor of Phil’s study. The carpet is soft on them, yet not even that is enough to chase away the strains of staying still for too long.

“Why the fuck does he even have all this,” Tommy mumbles. He huffs, throwing another roll of paper into the Ask-Phil-What-That-Even-Is pile. “They’re so dusty. Bet they’re a thousand years old.”

Ranboo makes a non-committal sound. A thousand years as they may be, they’re babies compared to the books he used to have back in the End.

Speaking of.

He picks up a book from one of the unsorted piles. It’s dusty, old - just like each and every one of them before. He doesn’t expect to even understand the written words when he thumbs blankly through the pages.

Until he does.

Ranboo stops. “...Tommy?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s this?”

The Golden Boy glances up, and his eyes widen. “Oh, shit-” He leaves the dusty scrolls behind, sniffing away the agitating dust. “That...oh, man.”

Ranboo lets his fingers graze across the words - symbols, letters he finally recognises, written in some offhand corner.

T-H-E / E-N-D

“Is this a...a map?”

Tommy kneels down next to him. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he takes the book off Ranboo’s hands. “Mmm,” the Golden Boy gestures, vaguely. “Me and...Me and Tub- Tubbo, we’d uh...We used this, to find the stronghold.”

Ranboo stares at him. “...stronghold?”

“It’s like this weird,” Tommy pulls a face, “abandoned area? That’s where we found the End portal. That’s how we found...you.”

And Ranboo feels like he’s drowning. He swallows, gasping for a breath.

“...can you-” he leans over, slightly. “Ex-explain it? I don’t…”

Tommy blinks. His eyebrows furrow, slightly - confused, startled. “What...the map?”

The Prince nods, slowly. “Can...can you?” He pauses. “...please?”

Tommy’s eyes soften, ever so slightly. With a grunt, he sits back and crosses his legs - sharing the book between them, stretching the single-paged map - words and notes, most of them foreign to Ranboo’s eyes.

Except for those two. Those startling, shocking two.

Tommy speaks softly, for once. Wrought with memories, oh so bittersweet now. Every so often, he would stop - simply to breathe, and to recollect himself. To swallow against the tide of grief, brought raging back with the topic at hand.

And Ranboo, ever patient, lets him.

“-and we didn’t have to dig no more, ‘cause we found this really fucked up staircase.” Tommy gestures, with a twirling finger. “Spiralling all the way ‘round. It took us a bit to find the portal- Sorry, I don’t think I remember that now.”

Ranboo breathes an exhale, accidentally setting off a cloud of dust. “It’s alright,” he clears his throat. Idly, he drags his nails down the book’s spine. “Thank you, Tommy.”

Tommy shrugs. “Sure,” says he - dismissive. There’s nothing odd, nothing off, nothing setting alarm bells ringing in the Golden Boy’s head. To him, Ranboo was simply curious - itching for memories, perhaps.

Good.

Ranboo eyes him, carefully - watching as Tommy makes to move back to his scrolls, rubbing at his nose and grumbling beneath his breath. The Prince moves his hand, gripping the page - the map - in one hand, the bottom of the book in another.

And just as Tommy sneezes, he rips the page and stuffs it in his pocket.

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.

Chapter Text

He hates the throne.

Ranboo stumbles off it. His skin prickles. His lips curl and his teeth bare, the feathers of his wings flaring. The throne is as much of an enemy as he’s ever needed. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it so much.

Meanwhile, it’s indifferent. It’s simply a chair. A symbol of his status. His immortality.

The Void screams at him, through the open windows. It knows he’s here - knows he’s...back. It’s louder than Ranboo remembers. Or maybe he’s used to the silence of the Sky, and had forgotten the strength of the Void’s rage.

The Prince hisses, softly. He shakes his head, and his fingers twitch. He can’t cover his ears without accidentally axing himself in the head, so he finds himself struggling to drown out its calls.

Then, he breathes. He chokes. He hefts the axe.

The throne stares back at him. It’s indifferent to the pain he’s in, it’s indifferent to what he’s been through. To what he’s lost, to how much he hates it. It’s simply a chair.

He hates it.

Ranboo takes a moment, circling around. The throne is befitting, for a Prince. Meant for him. It’s the very thing that keeps him alive - it is, quite literally, his lifeline.

He stops.

Will he die?

Now, only now, he confesses to himself - admits, that he doesn’t know. Will he die the moment the throne is in pieces? Or will destroying it only destroy his immortality, finally allowing him to cross the threshold?

He supposes the question is more like this; just how quickly will he get to see Tubbo?

Ranboo swallows. He chokes, he breathes, he gasps.

His grip tightens around the shaft of the axe. He steps closer to the throne. It’s not alive, and it will not die. It’s not him - it’s not Ranboo, they are separate.

He is himself, his own person. He is Ranboo.

He lifts the axe over his head. The weight swings, beautifully.

He breathes in. He breathes out.

He brings it down.

The first blow embeds the blade. It doesn’t hurt - defying his expectation that he’ll stumble, retch and die. It makes him feel...good, and hopeful for once. Hope, a fragile thing, one that grows as he lifts the axe back up again.

Thud.

Another blow, this time to the seat. Some part crumbles to the ground. His breath hitches.

Thud.

The axe embeds into one of the arms. It leaves a crack. He’s breathless, now - slightly giddy, giggling softly.

Thud.

Then, it hurts. His fingers spasm. The axe falls to the ground with a clatter. He hears whining, a wretched wail of pain, echoing with the tones of his own voice. The floor is harsh on his knees. The End is cold.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Tearing him apart, swords through every piece of him. His eyes sting with unshed tears - tears he will not shed, not as long as there is life in his veins.

And yet now, dying, Ranboo has never felt more alive.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, for when the spots in his eyes vanish. He gasps a desperate breath of air. The throne still stands, and he’s not done yet.

He reaches for the axe. It’s heavy. His arms ache.

Grunting, Ranboo pulls himself to his feet. His wings flap, useless feathers instinctively helping raise him up. Those same wings ruffle and tense, defensive.

The throne stands. It stares at him. It waits. It’s indifferent. It’s just a chair.

Ranboo lifts the axe over his head. He holds his breath, and time holds its breath in anticipation.

A hand clamps around his wrist.

‘Hello, Prince.’ An Enderman says. They stare down at him, smiling softly. ‘Back at it again, we see?’

Ranboo freezes. His eyes widen - panic, fierce and howling, raging through his veins and dragging chills down his spine. Through the corner of his eyes, he sees more - The Council.

They’ve caught him.

Ranboo glances at the throne, again. He still has the axe in his hands. Maybe-

The Enderman catches on. Slowly, they start to slide the axe out of his grip. They fall into a stalemate when Ranboo tightens his grip. They stare, meeting gazes - a battle, silently deadly.

‘Come now,’ the Enderman says softly. Like he is a child, like he’s throwing a fit. Condescending, patronising, wrong. 

‘We’ve given you your time to play,’ they tug on the axe, ‘it’s time to come home.’

And it’s wrong. It’s wrong. The other Endermen step closer. There are a lot of them. Shadows surrounding with the absence of the light.

Ranboo moves. He snaps a wing open, harshly shoving the Enderman away. They fall with a cry - they leave the axe in his hands.

But it’s useless. It’s futile. He’s surrounded - pushing away one will not push away the others. Yet this is all he has, the axe in his hands. The axe, the throne, him - he swings it above his head.

It falls, with a thud. Clattering uselessly to the ground. Ranboo snarls, throwing himself against the grips on his wrist. They clamp him down, holding him in place - gripping, arms twisted in the way you’d grip a struggling animal.

And, like a struggling animal, Ranboo screams.

‘It’s alright, Prince,’ they say. As one, working perfectly together, they force him to sit on the throne. Something clings and clangs, echoing underneath the sounds of his howls. ‘We understand- We understand- Stay still, now-’

Something cold clamps around his wrist. It gives him pause, makes him hesitate for a few fatal seconds. 

Horror. A sinking, dripping feeling of dread. Chills raking down his spine, ruffling his feathers.

“Wait-” Ranboo gapes, as they chain his other wrist. Effectively bounding his arms to the armrests, him to the throne. The binds are short - he can barely stand, with them. “What’re- Hey! Let go-”

The Council steps back, away from flailing and kicking limbs. ‘You’re distressed,’ they say. ‘This is normal, Prince. You’ll calm down-’

They flinch, when The Prince throws himself against the bounds. The chains clang, loudly.

“Don’t say it like you’ll know it’ll happen,” Ranboo hisses. His skin chafes. “Let me go. Let me go, right now.”

Some of them lean forward - drawn, instinct calls them to answer their Prince, to obey. But too many of them step back, too many of them defy; caught onto a twisted sense of morality, of priority.

One of them, the one he’s shoved back earlier, steps forward. ‘Time will calm you down,’ they reassure him. ‘We can wait, Prince. As long as it takes.’

It looks like they itch to approach, but know better - especially when Ranboo bares his teeth. Instead, they signal to the rest of the Council; as one, they begin to move away.

“Where are you going?” Ranboo strains against the chains. He doesn’t go far. “You’re- Come back! Hey!”

They merely glance at him, muttering amongst themselves. Without another word, without so much an apology, they file out of the throne room.

The door shuts, heavy. He is alone.

He is alone.

Ranboo’s teeth ache. His jaw hurts, and he tastes metal on his tongue. It’s a disgusting thing to see, his saliva all over the metal binds. They burn against his own skin - answers Wilbur’s question, he supposes.

But still, he carries on. He’s tried pulling, tried twisting - tried squeezing his wrists out of the chains. He’s tried following the chains, seeking desperately for a weak link.

There are none. He is the only weak link in sight.

The chains - he didn’t even know they were there. He’s always avoided the throne, whenever possible; it made his skin prickle, made his heart race. He didn’t even see the dark metal when he was busy tearing it - himself - apart.

But wherever it was, the place that they were hidden, it was good. Properly made, as if designed that way.

As if they’re meant to be there.

He pulls away from them. They burn on his skin, so cold. Freezing heat in the face of hopelessness, failure.

It hurts. It hurts. He sees the axe on the ground, too far for him to reach - his broken feathers falling just short of the wooden shaft. He has nothing else.

He has nothing.

Ranboo leans back - weary, exhausted, frustrated. At the very least, the throne was made to be...comfortable - as if comfort would ever be remotely on his mind.

He wants to go home. He misses- He misses them. Tommy, Wilbur, Techno, Phil. He wants to go home.

The Prince gasps, softly. Hopelessness is a feeling akin to grief. Wrenches the breath out of his lungs, pulls tears to his eyes. He clamps his jaw shut, gritting back against the rising tide of simply wanting to fall.

The throne room is silent. Not even the Void yelps for him - it’s cold, and empty. Nothing lives there.

And nothing is alive, here. The only heartbeat to be heard is his own, the only breaths tinged with his voice. Ranboo is alone.

The Prince sits on his throne.

The Endermen are back. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but they’re back. And he hates that they are - but more, he hates how happy he was to see them.

‘Have you calmed down now, Prince?’ They chitter, nervously. Flitting about him, peering. ‘Would you like us to let you go, now?’

Ranboo grits his teeth. “Wanted you to do that ages ago,” he bites. “Let me out.”

The Council glances amongst themselves. Some of them step forward, only to be pulled back. ‘You still sound angry,’ they mutter. ‘I think we need to wait a bit more…’

Ranboo stares at them. “You don’t.” He shifts his arms, tugging against his bounds. “You- you really- Please let me go-”

It’s as if he simply didn’t say anything. As if his words are no more than silence, easily ignored. It grates at him, to plead - and yet, and yet they don’t care. 

‘It’ll be good for you, Prince.’ They nod, for they are wise and knowing, and the Prince is simply having a difficult time. But no matter, for they are here, and they will fix everything. ‘We are patient. You’ll see.’

Ranboo doesn’t. And as he doesn’t see their ‘reasons’, they do not hear his screams.

With a jolt, he wakes up. The chains clang loudly, ringing in his ears. His body aches, slumped as it is.

He fell asleep. He doesn’t...know how long it’s been. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep. His already warped sense of time stutters even more.

How long has he been here? Is it...tomorrow, yet? He told Phil-

The Prince grunts, curling up. He starts to pull his hands to his chest, yet they are rudely stopped in their tracks. The chains too short to allow for even the simplest comfort of holding himself.

His throat prickles. He’s parched. His stomach growls and curls into itself, wretchedly in pain. It’s empty. He’s hungry. He’s exhausted, though he hasn’t moved at all.

Perhaps that is what exhausts him. Forced into stasis, a standstill. His wings stretch, broken feathers fanning - it gives him little reprieve, but he is desperate for something.

Something other than the lack of feeling in his limbs. Something other than the lack of thoughts in his head. Desperate to feel, something other than blind numbness.

He is the End Prince, and he sits on his throne. He is the Void compressed, empty and nothing. He is nothing. He is Prince.

His name is Ranboo. He almost forgets, then.

He bites the chains again. 

“You know,” Ranboo mumbles, once. “One day, you’ll come in here, and I’ll be dead.”

The Endermen jump and stare, startled. The Prince had kept his silence, lips pressed tightly together, throughout the whole time they were there. His voice is soft, weak - barely alive, barely there.

‘What do...you mean by that, Prince?’

Ranboo shifts. He tugs on the chains, rolling his wrists the best he can. The movement gets his blood moving again. It’s not the best, it’s not even enough - but it’s something.

“You guys are terrible at keeping prisoners,” he mutters. “No wonder we don’t have a dungeon. All of them would just die. You don’t feed them, don’t let them move.”

He shrugs stiffly, wings ruffling. “And I’m Prince. Can’t imagine how you’d treat other people.”

There’s silence. Ranboo peeks through beneath deeply lidded eyelids, watching as the Council glances around at each other. Something vaguely like hope - vague and dim interest - flutters in his chest.

Then the Council bursts into laughter, their sharp voices popping his brief balloon.

‘Ah...Prince, ’ they chuckle. ‘You say that like we don’t know you. You’ll never die. You are, after all, too stubborn for that.’

And it’s the horror. It’s the fear. It’s the daunting, slow realisation that they’re right. They can wait for all of eternity for him to thaw, and he’ll still be there long after.

The Void wails.

Ranboo starts sobbing, then. Shoulders shaking, breaths heaving - living, despite it. He hates the weakness. He hates it when the Council tries to comfort him - as if their hands aren’t the same damn ones that chained him to this damn throne in the first place.

One of them cups his cheek in their palm. Ranboo doesn’t think.

‘Ow!’ They wrench their hand away, clutching it close to their chest. They gape, startled. ‘He bit me!’

He is Prince. But right now, he doesn’t feel like it - right now, he feels like a beast. And like a beast, he has bitten the hand that strikes him.

And, meeting the gazes of the Council, they know he’ll do it again.

Eternity is taking its sweet time. 

He’s slumped over one armrest. One arm pillowing him the best it can, the other pulled against the binds. He brings his wings to his face, until he can see nothing but the charred glory of his speckled wings. 

He closes his eyes. He tries - he does, he tries so hard - to imagine that he’s not here. He squeezes his eyes shut, and imagines he’s in his bed. He’s back home. He’s safe.

He can’t.

Ranboo misses the sun, the moon. He misses the rain. He misses the snow. He misses the trees and the autumn leaves. He misses the wind.

He misses the flowers. Pink tulips. Alliums. Sunflowers. Roses. He misses the stars - Alpheratz, Andromeda, Pegasus.

He misses Pissbaby, Henry.

He misses Tommy - loud Tommy, sweet Tommy. He misses Wilbur - cheeky Wilbur, caring Wilbur. He misses Technoblade - charismatic Techno, responsible Techno.

He misses Phil - he, who only ever cared.

He misses Tubbo - his sun, his Bo, his tulips. 

He misses the sun, the moon. He misses the stars. He misses home.

The Void is all there is. A constant backdrop of nothingness and null. There is no clear passage of time, there is no inclination of how long it’s been here. He has lost count of the seconds.

He listens to the beat of his own heart. Stuttering at times, weak. Stumbling as the time ticks on by, ticking to oblivion.

And he knows he will be there, at the end of it. At the end of eternity, at the end of oblivion.

At The End.

The Broken Clock Prince, stasis for all of eternity.

Help. He breathes, softly. Help.

Help, he cries.

No one answers him. No one is here.

‘There’s a letter for you, Prince.’

Ranboo blinks. His thoughts are sluggish - he is, too. He’s slow. Tired. The waiting game exhausts him, every piece of him.

“A...letter?” He frowns, dragging bleary eyes to stare at the Enderman. “Whuh...from who?”

The Enderman folds it open. They are alone - a daring feat, to approach the chained Prince without backup. Dimly, Ranboo can’t help but appreciate that.

He straightens stiffly at the glimpse of the words. They are useless and foreign to him, but the handwriting - the handwriting, he knows.

“Tommy-” Ranboo’s jaw drops. He gapes. “Where- where did you get that?”

The Enderman pauses. They stare at him. ‘...it was passed over to one of our scouts.’ They hum, ‘Would you like me to read it?’ they ask.

Quickly, Ranboo nods. Please.

The Enderman makes a soft sound, at the back of their throat. Their eyes rove against the words, skimming the letter he doesn’t understand - yet already, holds so dear. 

It’s Tommy. It’s Tommy. It’s Tommy. 

‘Oh, dear…’ The Enderman’s eyes widen. They glance between his imploring gaze and the ink-clad paper. Softly, they push their hand to their mouth. ‘Oh…’

For the first time in what feels like so long, Ranboo struggles. His arms strain against the chains. As far as he’s allowed, Ranboo leans to get closer. “What?” he breathes. “What is it?”

The Enderman hesitates. They sigh, shoulders slumping. ‘Don’t worry,’ they manage. ‘This always happens. Whoever it is that you frolic with, Prince, they’re...loyal, I admit.’

And it’s so, so incredibly cold.

“What do you mean, by that?”

They take their time to answer. Humming, softly - unrushed, picking their time, their words. Nothing at all worries them, nothing at all bothers them. They do not hurry to answer, the screaming wail of confusion in his head.

Ranboo grits his teeth. “Why...didn’t you come for me?” He asks. “I left. The crown, the kingdom. You didn’t care?”

He regrets asking almost instantly - regrets it, when it sounds like he’s hurt. When it sounds like he wants them to come chasing after him. He doesn't - he doesn't, he wants nothing less. What he wants is, simply, answers - not them, not this, not the damn crown.

The Enderman tilts their head. Something vague, and unreadable - dangerous and unknown - fits through their gaze.

‘Why, it’s because we knew you’d come back.’ They say, simply, ‘You’ve always come back.’

Ranboo stops breathing. Stops being. Stops, for a split second - time stretching into more, barely recognizable.

“...what do you mean?”

They shift. For a moment, it’s them who looks confused - who has the audacity to stare at him, with doubtful eyes, as if he’s playing a morbid trick.

‘You don’t remember?’ They guess. Softly sighing. ‘Ah, it’s no wonder, then.’

They pause.

Beat.

‘You’ve left before, Prince. And you’ve always come back.’

Ranboo leans back. As if he could physically reel away from the answer, as if that makes it untrue.

“I’ve...done this before?” He blinks, struggling to see. “I…”

The Enderman hums. ‘It goes roughly the same, every time.’ They gesture, vaguely - lazily, dismissive. ‘It matters not. You always come back. You love us.’

That, the simple sentence, spoken as if it was a fact - is a shock enough to make him flinch. “I do not,” he bites. Snarls it, practically. He curls his fingers into fists. “Don’t say that. I really, truly, do not.”

‘No?’ They tilt their head at him. That wretched, condescending, patronising tone slithers back into their voice. ‘Yet you keep coming home.’

Ranboo glares. He bites down the words - for they will tumble, messily, and he will say something he regrets. For it cannot be worth his time, not as much as the letter - still clutched in their hands.

“Read me that letter,” he says, simply. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s used that tone, the voice that does not sound like his. He doesn’t remember when the last time was, when he hadn’t spoken as Ranboo - but rather, as Prince.

The Enderman straightens. They hold up the paper a few distances away from their eyes.

‘'Ranboo’,’ they read. ‘’I’m going to beat your fucking ass’.’

Tommy stops, quill hovering over a crumpled paper. Messy handwriting stares back at him. His is barely legible at the best of times - now, barely seeing through the tears, it manages to get worse.

He sighs, shakily. Rubs an arm across his eyes, chokes - drowns.

Then, then, when he is ready, he continues.

“'Dad tells me I can’t come to get you’,” he writes. Scratches the quill - a blade, the ink its blood. “'But I know, for a fact, you weren’t thinking straight when you left. So I’m coming. I don’t care-’.”

He stops himself, because that’s not quite true. He cares, he cares, he’s only ever. Love foolishly, love stubbornly, love loyally. It’s the only thing he’s ever done, it’s the only thing he will never ever regret.

He crosses the last words out. He breathes in - The Golden Boy, rambler and conversationalist, utterly at loss for words.

“'I care',” he writes, instead. Those two, simple words, wrenches a sob out of his lungs. He hisses and presses the back of his hand to his eyes, mindful of the feather quill - dark, speckled purple. 

He breathes a shudder, chokes a shiver. He grits his teeth, his jaws ache. He is careful, to not get his tears on the ink - it’ll smudge, and then he will truly have to start over.

He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to start over.

“‘So I’ll give you time’.” Tommy swallows, tightly. “‘One week, Broken Clock. Then I’m getting you home'.”

Please, Tommy begs. He pleads to the stars. Help me bring him home.

Hope had never been more bitter. The once sweet-smelling feeling, light in your chest; makes him want to retch and gag.

Tommy’s coming, in one week’s time. He doesn’t know how long that’ll be. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, since he’s written that. He doesn't know how much time he has left.

All he knows, the only clear thought in his mind, is that Tommy can not come.

“You’ll kill him,” Ranboo breathes. He stares at the Enderman - they, the sworn protectors of the crown. Of him. “You’ll kill him the moment he passes through that portal.”

The Enderman tilts their head. ‘Of course,’ they say - as if it was never even up for debate, not even a question. ‘What, did you think it was skill, that let you leave? Did you think they saved you?’

It’s a rhetoric question. A falsehood. Ranboo doesn’t bother answering.

‘Oh, no,’ The Enderman shakes their head, ‘we let you leave, Prince. And now, it’s time for you to be at home.’

His head is, suddenly, so incredibly heavy. He lets it drop, lets himself fall against the binds. He’s tired. He stands at the edge of a proverbial cliff, and his wings aren’t working.

He doesn’t want to do what he’s going to do.

He doesn’t want to be here.

But above all, he doesn’t want to be responsible for one more death. He will not be. He can’t.

Can’t - won’t. They blend together, they are one and the same.

“Write a letter back.”

‘...pardon, my Prince?’

Ranboo snaps his gaze up. “You can write in their language, right?”

The Enderman pauses, briefly. ‘Yes…’ They say. ‘I learnt it, during my time as a scout-’

“Yeah, I don’t care.” Ranboo shifts. One last time, he tugs on the chains - one last time, he defies. One last time, he fights - struggles against what holds him back.

Nothing happens. As nothing happened, the last few hundred times he’s tried.

He drops his arms. He drops his proverbial sword, lays down the war. The Prince, finally, surrenders. He stops, he stops fighting - for he knows he will not be able to bear the casualties.

“Write- write a letter back. Here’s what you’ll say.”

The softest vwoop and Phil instinctively ducks his head - frantically avoiding that fatal gaze. He sees purple particles floating in the air around. The Enderman casts a silhouette - a physical, looming shadow.

They offer him a letter, holding it in front of his face. Phil, dumbly, blinks at it for a bit.

They leave the moment he grabs the little paper envelope - disappearing, as if they were never even there. Not a single lingering trace, save for the slightest warmth in the air, save for the glimpses of purple.

And it’s not like he’s looking. No, he’s too occupied - the letter in his hands shakes more and more, the longer he stares at it.

The man turns around. Town - grocceries be damned, he slams back into the cottage. His sons all glance up at him, all with wide eyes.

“You’ll want to hear this,” says he - bites it out, gasps it. He chokes on hope, painfully hesitant. “Kitchen, everyone. Let’s go.”

‘I’m ready, Prince.’ The Enderman barely shifts, twisting the quill in their hands. ‘You may begin.’

Yet, Ranboo hesitates. He breathes a shudder, chokes a shiver. He squeezes his eyes tight - for the last time, he is selfish, and he imagines himself back home.

His imagination doesn’t get any better, at pretending to be the truth.

“‘Tommy’, ” he begins. “‘Wilbur. Techno. Ph-Phil’.”

He waits, until the scratching stops. He can’t bring himself to look, even though he will not understand it - can’t bear to gather the strength, to lift his heavy head.

“‘I’ve left you’,” he breathes. “‘As I’m- I’m sure you’re...aware. There’s a reason for that.’”

“The fuck does he mean?” Tommy interrupts. He doesn’t sit - he is too agitated, too angry. The Golden Boy carries, with him, the entire familial rage of the sun. “There’s a reason he fucked off? Yeah, I bet.”

“Tommy-” Techno grabs his shoulder. His grip, his voice - they are gentle, and it contrasts with the firmness in his gaze. “Let Phil continue.”

Humour, wry and slightly bitter, blooms in Phil’s chest. It shrivels up and dies the moment he turns his attention back to the letter - the words, wretched.

It shrivels up and dies, like the hope he’s had earlier.

“‘Tommy, you’ve written to me before. I...appreciate that’.”

Perhaps it is here, when he starts to crack.

“‘But my answer is no’.”

Perhaps it is, here, when Phil feels himself shatter.

Phil stops breathing. He chokes, he hisses, he gets the closest to death as he’ll ever get.

“...Dad?” Tommy tugs on his robe. His son’s wide eyes are desperate. It pleads, shelters one last child-like shine of hope. 

Tell me something, he begs. Tell me anything.

Phil cannot stand those eyes. He closes his own, blocking out everything. Breathes in one shudder, breathes out a shiver.

He clears his throat. When he opens his eyes, those same words are there - unchanged, heedless to the sorrow it wrought.

“‘Because I ’,” reads he, aloud. His voice shakes. “‘ I...I do not want you here. I ask you to...to stay away. You will- You’ll remind me too much of- of-'”

He gasps, one final breath of air. “‘Tubbo -’”

One day, he’ll finish reading it. One day, he’ll reach the end and he’ll read it again and again. One day, he’ll scourge the ground to see what he’s done wrong, what he’s done to deserve this.

But now, now Phil falls. He drops to his knees, the letter stumbling uselessly from his hands. He sobs and wails, screaming with the pain in his chest. His voice echoes that of his family, as they shatter into a million tiny pieces.

He doesn’t know - doesn’t know if Tommy’s the one who wrestles into his arms, or if he’s the one who pulls the Golden Boy close. The Golden Boy, who’s lost so much so early. Who has lost not one, but two.

And Phil swears. That as long as Tommy is alive, his father will do everything he can to make sure he does not lose another.

He cannot stand for otherwise.

‘Oh…’ A soft, silky smooth hand cups his cheek. They brush away his tears, wincing at the water on their fingers. ‘Prince...it’s alright. It’s better this way.’

Through his swimming vision, the aching burns of his sorrow, Ranboo glares. “How...is it better?” he spits - hating the way his voice shakes, the weakness in his own breath. He hates the shatter, he hates what he’s done.

And he hates, above all, how he knows he’ll do it again. Again, and again.

“You...you did this.” Ranboo’s rage lives in his breath, and it’s entwined so deeply with his grief. “You don’t get to tell me it’s alright.”

The Enderman freezes. Slowly, they pull away. The letter, embedded with the ink of words he can’t read, yet already hates, is clutched in their hand.

‘We did this?’ they ask, softly. ‘No, Prince. This was all you.’

Ranboo snarls. “How is it-”

‘You think you can leave us? Us, your kingdom? Your responsibility?’ They gesture at everything and nothing. At The Prince, and his throne. To them, they are all one and the same. ‘So desperate, you are, to prove you’re something you’re not. You’ve killed your own Dragon for it.’

They tilt their head, staring straight through him. ‘You’ve killed your guest too, haven’t you? That’s usually the reason you come back.’

Ranboo flinches, reeling back. The throne room falls silent, empty save for the haggard sounds of his own breaths - for the heartbeat, ringing in his ears.

The Enderman pays it no mind. They fold up the letter, pressing down against the folds - neatly, tidily, befitting that of a royal message. ‘Don't worry. We will wait for eternity, if that makes you see reason.’ 

They glance up, meeting his gaze. For once, it’s he who’s frozen still - whose terror shines, spotlighted by the purple eyes.

Trapped. Pinned. Paralyzed.

‘We’ve waited for an eternity before,’ they hum. ‘What’s one more?’

Tommy never stopped, crying. At least, not really - not until it stopped hurting, truly. And he knows, he knows that will never happen. For as long as he is alive, for as long as his memory lives; Tommy will never forget.

For in the span of one year, he’s lived the best life. And in the span of one year, he feels he’s died twice.

Wilbur doesn’t let him go. He’s lost two, too. And he knows, as they both do - as all of them do - that they cannot afford to lose another.

His brother’s arms are stiff, strained. He’ll get aches from how long they’re sat still. They’ll hurt, physically and emotionally. They’re stiff - yet warm, real, it’s an embrace, it’s a comfort. Wilbur loves him. He can’t let him go.

Tommy loves him too. That, if nothing else, will be the reason he holds on. 

It hurts. They’re hurting. Techno, Phil, Wilbur, Tommy. It hurts because they would’ve given everything - the world, and more. And yet, and yet, it wouldn’t have been enough. They would never have been able to love more than Ranboo had hurt.

And yet, still, they love. He supposes, that’s why. For it hurts them to have one of their own hurting, and if staying hurts-

If staying hurts, then they’ll let him go.

It’s dim, dark - curtains drawn shut, for the life and the light of the sun has never felt more off-putting. He can’t read the words on the letter, left on the table. He doesn’t think he wants to.

Tommy will never forget. They will never forget. If they cannot have the presence of their own, then they will have the next best thing. They’ll encase their memories, swaddle them carefully.

For they are precious, as precious as the people they were made with.

Like Tubbo, they will do for Ranboo. They will hold the memory of him forever. The Prince who appeared in their lives, one autumn. The Prince who was gone, the next.

Chapter Text

Ranboo wakes up, knees curled to his chest. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember his dreams.

He blinks, eyebrows furrowing. The brief luxury of sleep fades away quickly, and his aches make themselves known. He hisses, softly - arching his spine, wings stretching, getting his blood moving the best he can.

The throne room is silent. The Void screams. He is alone.

As ever, always.

He shifts. His stomach had stopped complaining a while ago. Perhaps it knows that it’ll be useless, futile. That all it does is waste more energy, in calling for the help that will not come.

Ranboo tugs on the chains, and they clang against each other. He twists his chafing wrist, shifting and pulling. Grabs the chains and tries, again and again, to see if he can break free.

It’s useless. It’s futile. He is hopeless. 

Yet, still, he tries. He only ever.

He bites the chains. Nothing else changes, except he’s a bit sorer.

It was worth a shot, though. It’s not as if he could be doing anything else, right now. Or ever, in general.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen The Council more excited, before. They murmur rapidly to each other, some of them practically dancing in place. Their gazes are bright, gleaming with anticipation.

He holds out for a bit - watching them, eyeing their motions, wary and unsure. Maybe he should’ve said nothing - waited them out, for the forever that he has. But he is weak, and he has been here alone for so very long.

“...what?” He leans back, pulling a face. “What’s happening?”

The Council lights up impossibly more - they’ve been anxiously waiting for him to ask, brightening up like children finally given the treat of his undivided attention. As if the Void were ever much company, and he had so many other things to do.

‘We’ve got you something, Prince!’ A couple of them hurry out, but most of them step up to surround his throne. Purple eyes from all over stare, gleaming. ‘You’ll like this, we’re sure!’

Ranboo...doubts it. Still, anything is better than having to listen to the Void screaming till oblivion. 

Or so he thinks.

The ones that left the throne room come back in. They carry something large between them, hurrying over to step up to his throne.

And Ranboo, he feels he stops breathing.

“...that’s-”

‘The Dragon’s egg!’ They set it by his feet. One of them proudly pats the dark and coarse shell, as if they were the ones that laid the damn thing. ‘It’s due to hatch anytime now. You love the Dragon!’

Ranboo stares at it. The egg, speckled purple. He holds his breath, when he stretches his wings towards it, brushing broken feathers - speckled purple.

“...Dragon?” he breathes. He blinks, and his vision swims - the egg blurs, as does everything. Something burns. “Oh.”

The Council falls silent - still. Worried, they glance at each other for guidance. ‘We thought you’d appreciate the news, Prince.’ They sigh. ‘It is a shame, that They’ll never get to meet Their mother. But then again, that’s how it’s always been.’

Ranboo ducks his head, pulling his chin to his chest - feeling each and every shudder, each and every hitch. He swallows tightly.

He’s silent. There is nothing to say. His own mouth tastes stale.

The Council lets the silence stretch. They sigh, horribly dismayed and disappointed. 

‘We’ll leave you, Prince,’ they murmur. Without another word, without another glance, they head out of the throne room.

The door falls shut, heavy. It’s silent. The Void wails, crying out - it feels him, his heartache, his sorrow, his grief. It begs to be free of it, begs to be filled with the nothingness it was meant to be.

Help, cries the Void. 

Every single breath is sharp and stabbing - hurts. He shakes ever so subtly, shivers ever so quietly.

He doesn’t sob. Not yet.

His jaw aches, weary from holding back his cries. He gasps, he chokes, he breathes. And eventually, he quietens - falling silent, falling still. A corpse, alive only physically.

He stares at the egg. 

“You know,” Ranboo hums, when the silence had gotten too long, and the emptiness had gnawed off a piece too big. “I didn’t...know Dragon had already gotten an egg. I thought...thought She would’ve told me.”

The egg doesn’t respond. That was equal parts good, and bad; good, because it would’ve been really weird if the egg started talking. And bad, because Ranboo had gotten really sick of the sound of his own voice.

He sighs, softly. Finds himself brushing his charred feathers against the egg again. “I wish I knew,” he murmurs. “Maybe- Maybe I could’ve taken you out there. You would’ve loved the Overworld.”

He falls silent.

“I know...I know I did.”

The Prince is tugged, rather rudely, out of a half-sleep. He frowns, blinking blearily up at the ceiling. He pulls on his wrists - the chains clang and holds him in place, his binds to the throne. Quite literally.

It’s silent. He’s left wondering what woke him up. Wondering why he even wakes up, in the first place.

Then, he hears it again. 

Crick...crack...crackle.

Wide-eyed, Ranboo stares at the egg. 

“Oh...n-”

A single talon pokes out of the shell, shivering against the dry cold air. Another crack, another crumble, and-

The egg breaks - hatches. Splits apart into pieces. Standing amidst the mini wreckage - a Dragon.

The Ender Dragon. 

“Oh…” Ranboo breathes, oh-so-softly. He feels as if he is shattered glass, painstakingly pieced back together - only to be forced to bear more of the very pressure that broke him.

And he is terrified; of doing the wrong thing, of saying the wrong words, of ruining something that never even began.

He swallows. “...hello.”

The littlest Dragon stumbles, ever so slightly. Their gaze swings from side to side, searching for the voice They hear so clearly now. Instinct, written down into the paper of Their very being, calls Them forward.

Listen, instinct says. This is your Prince.

Their gazes meet.

Something in the air shifts, something in his blood churns. Dragon breathes a smoke-filled breath, and the tiniest of purple sparks fly from Their mouth.

The bond, between Prince and Protector.

And Ranboo breathes out - for once, of relief. He feels...lighter. He’s almost forgotten what that felt like - to be so light, so at ease. His fingers twitch, gesturing.

Dragon cannot fly - not yet, not this early. But that does not deter Her from clawing up the metal chains, scaling the height of the throne. 

She is...so unbearably small. She scampers atop the armrest, gwarks at him - wordless and yet so painfully expressive. Especially as She hops a funny little dance of triumph, proud of Her climb.

Pointedly, She nudges Her muzzle against one of his closed palms. She stares at him, blinking slowly.

Ranboo snorts. Slowly, wincing whenever the aching chafing skin on his wrist gets ever too agitated - he turns his palm upwards, opening his fingers. And so Dragon takes Her place, proudly curling up on his hand, between the subtlest of burn scars.

The Prince stares at Her. He curls his fingers in, just enough to stroke the very top of Her spines - of Her head. The Dragon huffs a breath, sniffing at his fingers.

She turns Her head around. Lets their gazes meet, again.

Hello, says the Dragon.

Hello, says the Prince.

The Council didn’t...quite know what they were expecting. Maybe the clamour of chains again, as their fool Prince struggles against His fate. Maybe He will stare at them, in that way of His, and they will struggle to pull away from the deep-rooted instinct to obey.

But this- this wasn’t quite what they were expecting, at all.

The egg had hatched, apparently. Evident by the mess of eggshells on the ground, evident by the sleeping Dragon in His lap - roughly, now, the size of a small pillow.

And oh, how they felt relief! For finally the Dragon is back, and finally they are back on track. For the Dragon is back, and so ends their waiting game. 

The Council knows their Prince, you see - they know, for a fact, of His struggles inside. They know, for a fact, that He will have loved Her; as He loves his people - as much as he denies it.

The Prince is sleeping. He does that often. He is bored. Immortality tends to do that, to you, often. They pay it no mind.

The Dragon awakens, staring at them as they approach. She is wary, of course - it is in Her very being, Her blood purpose, to protect. But they are not enemies - no more than they are friends - and eventually, She allows them closer.

The Prince sleeps, still, when they unshackle Him. He sleeps, when they lift Him up - gentle as ever to their Shattered Glass, their Broken Clock. He sleeps, slumbering, as they move Him to His room.

They leave the throne room behind, Dragon trailing after their feet. They shut the door, it’s heavy.

Ranboo wakes up from a dream he can’t remember. He grasps at the blurry memories, like writhing shadows before they are gone.

Slowly, he sits up. The covers tumble to his waist. They are soft and gentle on his aches, his bandaged wrists. He stifles a soft cry, as he reaches back to brush knuckles against his feathers. 

They’re...wet, but not quite. He struggles to find the right word for it, to find a name for the sensation he feels. He gives up eventually.

He’s in a room. A bedroom. He vaguely recognises it, vaguely feels at peace. He’s spent a good amount of time, here - he’s spent a few lifetimes, sitting in this room.

He realises he’ll spend a few lifetimes more. The thought isn’t appealing.

He shifts off his bed. The floor is unbearably cold. His wings ruffle as he shivers, fingers curling to fists.

Everything is quiet. Even his breath is soft and barely audible. His windows are open, yet the Void screams null. He is alone.

He runs. Crashing out of his room, each footstep flying off the floors as he races through the halls. Each turn makes his heart leap into his throat, dreading the fatal possibility of running into the Council. 

The castle is empty. He makes it back to the throne room. Nothing seems to have changed - they haven’t even hidden the shackles, and those still hang from the throne; empty of its prisoner, it’s Prince.

And there, still on the floor, the axe.

He stumbles towards it. Every step sends a stumbling jolt of pure ache. Every breath drags glass down his throat. His hands shake, and the axe feels so incredibly heavy. He struggles for a strength he doesn’t have - pleading to himself, for this one last moment.

He can barely hear anything over the thundering sound of his own heart.

Something rustles - something that isn’t him. With a choked back gasp, Ranboo whirls around.

The Dragon perches on the armrest. She is larger, grown roughly to the height of a dining table.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but that does little to deter the fact that he knows. Knows that Dragon’s quick growth is only so quick. Knows that he’s missed so much time, already.

How long has it been? How much has he lost, more?

She stares at him curiously. Huffs a breath, blinking wide purple eyes.

Ranboo swallows. Once, twice - a third. It’s suddenly so very hard to breathe. Drowning in the intensity of the ache in his heart, the whirling storm in his mind.

Dragon. Protector of the End. Key to the portal.

He lifts the axe over his head, slowly.

The Dragon does not move. She blinks those eyes of Hers - perfectly trusting, falsely assured that the Prince will not hurt Her. He will not betray Her - not Her prince, not ever. For why would he ever need to?

Where will he even go?

His grip tightens around the axe. He breathes in a sharp inhale, stabbing his own lungs.

‘Hrr,’ Dragon chirrs.

For the final time, the axe falls to the ground. Ranboo drops to his knees before it - sputters a wailing sob, a burning cry of sorrow. He is weak. Every breath is wrought with grief, every inhale painful and every exhale excruciating.

He is weak, a failure.

He is Prince.

His throne still stands.

“Council.”

‘Yes?’

Ranboo sits on his bed, hands in his lap. He doesn’t meet the Council’s gaze - doesn’t think he ever could, anymore. He clutches the fabric of his covers, eyeing the way they fold, illuminated and echoed by the roaring crackle of the fireplace.

“My wings,” he mumbles. Slowly, he takes one to his lap, running his fingers along the feathers. Once charred and brittle, they shine now. There are still holes, but they look...smaller, somehow.

“My wings…” he echoes himself. “What did you do to them?”

The Council hums. ‘We’ve treated them, as we’ve treated the rest of your wounds.’

Ranboo blinks, eyebrows furrow. “How did...you can’t treat something like this. I was- I’m meant to be...”

‘...flightless? Forever?’ They raise their eyebrows at him, bemused. ‘Come now, Prince. Really?’

Ranboo falls silent.

“Where’s my book?”

The Council flinches. They shift their feet, glancing at each other. ‘We’ve...replaced it, Prince.’

Ranboo shuts his eyes, briefly. “Why…” he bites, through gritted teeth. Lifts his gaze up to glare. “Who told you to?”

It’s almost gratifying to see the way they flinch. He feels horrible afterwards, but it was a gratifying half-second. 

‘Uhm- No...one did.’ They mutter, as meek as a couple of scolded schoolkids. ‘We just...well, it was old and...the pages practically tore apart at the touch. We figured...’

Unimpressed, Ranboo says nothing. He sighs, shoulders slumping - unbelievably wary of simply everything and anything. Lethargic beyond anything.

Dragon, curled up along the length of his bed, snorts at him. Ranboo scowls back. 

‘B-but-’ The Council moves. They shove one Enderman forward - they, who wince and slowly approaches him; painfully wary of the wrath of their Prince, and by extension the flames of his Dragon. Ever so subtly shaking, they offer him another book.

Ranboo blinks at it, slowly. He takes it, thumbing through the empty pages. It’s a simple message in the most soundless of ways.

Write more. Make new memories. Forget.

“I-” Ranboo glances up, and the words crumble and die off his tongue. He blinks - once, twice, third. 

The Council is gone, as if they were never even there. Dragon is gone, and it’s quiet without the ever constant huff of Her breath. It’s cold - the fire burns low and dim. Shadows creep along his walls.

He is alone. He was...he was so sure that he wasn’t. He was sure someone else was here, with him. 

Has he always been alone?

Ranboo stutters, trapped in the limbo of himself. He chokes and gasps for breath, wings drawing close - holds himself, self soothes, blocks out the wails of the Void.

When he is ready, he glances back down to his book - runs his finger along its spine. It’s still new, and he flicks to the first page.

It’s practically empty, save for the tiniest notation. Scribbled at the very top, an encouraging little smiley face.

He had a garden...didn’t he? 

Yes, yes he did. He remembers it now. He follows the hallway, trailing fingers along the walls until he finds the door - hidden, barely a shift in the colours, a lightening of shade.

The secret garden welcomes him more than the castle ever did. He supposes it makes sense, given that it’s technically outside. But the flowers bend beneath his touch, the petals gentle on his fingers - they bloom, they prosper, they’re alive.

He is, too. Though he doesn’t feel like it sometimes.

The Prince finds himself sitting on the bench. He does nothing else but breathe, and breathe, and stare at the flowers. He can recognise some of them - the flowers; those are Alliums, those are Roses, and those are…

What’re...those? Maybe he...never got to see them. Back at the-

The...where?

Ranboo wakes up. 

He’s in his bed. He lays there for a bit - breathing, simply, focuses on the act of being alive. It’s...harder, than he would’ve liked and thought. For all of eternity, and a few brief moments, he lays there.

On his bedside, half across his new book, the Council had left him his crown.

Abruptly, he sits up. He itches to get up, to walk around - to move, for once to breathe out of the suffocation of his sorrow.

He had a garden...didn’t he?

“Tommy! Everyone’s already outside. Come on!”

“I’m coming,” Tommy calls, absent-mindedly. He knows he should be going, knows Wilbur and Techno are waiting for them outside - Dad down the steps. He knows there’s nothing else here, nothing to be found.

But still, he looks. Standing in the room that used to be his bedroom - that used to be their bedroom - once cramped and crowded and filled. Now, it’s empty; bare walls and empty floors. It looks...dead, as much as a room could be.

They’re leaving. They stuck out for years in this cottage, living with the ghosts and the memories and breathing in every sorrow that leaked. But as they - he grew older, the walls began to squeeze; like claws around his lungs.

It hurt, to admit they couldn’t stay. It hurt, but in the way that felt vaguely good - like ripping off a bandage, just so that it could heal faster.

God, Tommy wanted to heal. He wanted to heal so much. For so long, he’s been terrified that moving on meant forgetting - throwing himself back down into the same damn hole, just so that he could remember how much it had hurt.

But he’s tired. Wilby’s tired. Tech’s tired. Dad’s tired.

They deserve to heal.

He huffs, one last weary breath. He pulls a letter from underneath his cloak - the cloak, an old and faded thing. Once upon a time, it was embroidered with tulips - once upon a time, it belonged to someone else.

It’s his now. It might as well have been. He knows-

He knows Ranboo wouldn’t have minded.

Gently, he kneels. Takes a moment for himself, pressing his palm flat against the floor - where, once upon a time, there wasn’t even a bed. Only a mattress thrown onto the ground, for a sudden guest - a sudden piece of a new family.

Tommy leaves, his cloak billowing around him, and he leaves the letter behind.

‘There’s a letter for you, Prince.’

Ranboo stops. His eyebrows furrow, staring at the flowers - as if they could give him the answers he needed.

“...a letter?” He pulls his hands out of the soil, turning around in the Secret Garden. “From...who?”

Who would ever send him a letter?

The Enderman merely shrugs. They approach him alone - a rare sight - but he only pays it half a thought; too occupied with the envelope in their hands.

They pass it over, and Ranboo takes it with fingers smudged with dirt. He doesn’t deny the anticipation, rising curiosity - a letter, for him! Whoever would?

Who would ever.

Ranboo unfolds the paper, and he...finds himself horribly disappointed. A morbid crash of high expectations - he kicks himself for ever trying.

“I can’t…” Helpless, he gestures. “I can’t understand this. What...language is this?”

The Enderman tilts their head, simply shrugging again. ‘Not any that I’ve learnt of,’ they say. ‘I’m sure you’d know a lot more than I do.’

Well, he doesn’t. There’s not much he can do about that. The symbols and letters are foreign to him - useless. 

‘Oh-’ The Enderman flicks their wrist. Suddenly, their empty hand is no longer empty - in their palm, they hold an...odd bulb-like thing. They offer it to him. ‘There was this, too.’

Hesitantly, Ranboo takes it too. He frowns at it, turning it over his fingers, hefting it. “What’s...this?”

Again, the Enderman only shrugs - as utterly clueless as he is. ‘Maybe you should plant it?’ They suggest. ‘My Prince?’

Ranboo furrows his eyebrows, only just remembering to wave the Enderman off - giving their reprieve, their dismissal. When the Enderman leaves, the Prince stands alone; with a letter he doesn’t understand in one hand, and a foreign bulb in the other.

Plant it? Ranboo muses.

Well, it’s worth a shot.

(“Hey! Mister! Can you hear me?”)

(Ranboo blinks.)

(He meets the narrowed eyes of a...small child. They frown softly, staring - in their hands, clutching a few papers.)

(“Mom told me to give you these,” they say. They slam it on the counter, a wooden surface separating them. “They said as a thanks, for giving us those extra blankets.”)

(Dimly, moving slowly, Ranboo takes the papers. “Thank you,” he hears himself say. “Tell your mom it was no trouble.”)

(“Yeah yeah.” They lean back, crossing their arms. “Oh! Another thing, can you tell Mama where we’ve gone? I don’t want her to get worried.”)

(“I thought you were leaving with your mom?”)

(“That’s Mom. I’m talking about Mama. Two different people.” They stick their tongue at him. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting all weird.”)

(Ranboo blinks. Once, twice, another. He grips the papers in his hands. They shake.)

(“I’m fine,” says he. “Sorry. Just...thinking, a bit. Distracted.”)

(Their eyes soften. They stare at him for a bit - perceptive, in the quiet way that children are. Caught onto what he doesn’t say, curiously observant.)

(Finally, they shrug. “Okay. Bye!”)

(Ranboo waves as they scamper off, running into the rest of the inn.)

(The...inn. He sees it now. He stands behind a counter - he’s in charge, he’s ‘manning’ it. He watches as the patrons move about the common area. They tell tales; tall ones, befitting lifelong travellers. They sit around a fireplace on comfy armchairs, shuffle their feet along soft carpets, eat and laugh around dining tables.)

(Ranboo blinks again. He glances down at the papers. They’re...a currency, of some sorts - most of them are, at least. Slid in between the paper currency is a small, hand drawing.)

(Thank you, it says, written at the top. In the middle is a sketch of a smiling family, holding folded blankets. We loved it here, at the Bee n’ Boo!)

(Ranboo hums, softly. Tubbo was going to love this, he thought. It’s going on their wall.)

(Then he stops.)

(Everything about him freezes, whilst the world moves on. He’s stopped breathing - choking, gasping. His thoughts churn, wailing in confusion, crying out in the dim light of hope.)

(There’s a song, he hears. It’s in his ears. It’s soft and barely audible, but Ranboo can hear nothing else. Doesn’t want to hear anything else.)

(The song goes vaguely like this;)

(You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…)

(In a daze, Ranboo follows it. He waves away patrons asking how he’s been, where he’s going, if he’s okay. He follows the voice, the song - an audible light, all the way up the steps, all the way through hallways. )

(He approaches a door. It’s left slightly ajar. Flames crackling, echoing the melody. The voice - the voice he knows, he knows.)

(Ranboo opens the door.)

(“Tubbo…?”)

(Tubbo glances back at him. His eyes widen and soften - he is happy, happy to see him. Softly, he lifts a finger to his lips; calls for silence. Those lips twitch into a smile, as bright as the sun.)

(His Bo, his sun.)

(Come here, Tubbo gestures. Come look.)

(He holds something in his arms. It twitches and shifts, rolling around. Something pink wrapped in the warmest, softest of blankets.)

(Ranboo steps closer. The bedroom is warm. There are pictures hung on the wall - he sees some of himself, smiling. A portrait of a good life. Papers are stuck on the wall; some filled with written reminders, some etched with hand-drawn, crayon stick portraits.)

(There is a child, in Tubbo’s arms. A small piglin, with a half-decayed face and eyes lidded in the content of sleep. Here, it’s warm, it’s safe - it’s loved. He’s loved.)

(Michael.)

(His son. Their son.)

(Tubbo starts singing again. His voice is soft, gentle - a fireplace in winter, a warm drink in the cold, flowers near a lake.)

(You make me happy, when skies are grey. He sways, rocking Michael gently. Ranboo finds himself enraptured, utterly.)

(You never know, dear, how much I love you. Tubbo moves, then. Towards the bed, with covers warm and used, oh so soft. He is the warmth of the sun, kissing the very top of Michael’s head, as he tucks him in for the night.)

(Please don’t take, Tubbo sings, for the very last time. My sunshine away.)

(They stare at each other. Ranboo chokes on every breath. Tubbo tilts his head, and his eyes are as soft as flower petals. As warm as a hug, a love so warm and real.)

(A hug. Something they do, then. Holding each other close, breathing in such a simple gesture - a thousand words, a thousand lives, a thousand memories. Here, here is their Elysium; here, is their home.)

(Together.)

(You’re forgetting, Tubbo breathes. You’re forgetting who I am.)

(Ranboo sobs. He presses his face into the crook of Tubbo’s shoulder. For once, for once, his tears do not burn. For once, he cries, and it feels so good. He is a crumbling dam, and it’s only a relief to wail.)

(“I don’t want to-” He hiccups, tightens his grip. “I don’t. I can’t-”)

(Shh, Tubbo rubs comforting circles on his back. Don’t be afraid, Boo. It’s okay.)

(Ranboo stifles a wail. “How can you s-say that,” he hisses, struggling to keep his voice down - something something about not waking up their son, because he knows it’d be a pain to get him back to sleep.)

(“How- How can you say that,” chokes he. “I’m terrified.”)

(I know, Bo says, simply. But you’ve always forgotten, Boo. Every time you go back, you forget .)

(It makes him feel worse. It makes him feel like he’s drowning. Like he’s the mud tracked into a spotless home.)

(It’s cruel. It’s so unbearably cruel. Cruel to let him hold Bo again, like this. To show him Michael, his son - his baby, his baby boy - and not even be able to hold him. Cruel to show him this life - this happiness, what could’ve been slipping between his fingers. )

(“I’m sorry- ”)

(Tubbo’s grip around his shoulders tighten. Don’t be, Tubbo says, firmly for the very last time. It’s not your fault.)

(Bo stretches his arms a bit, preening the feathers he could reach - the ones that bridge between wing and back.)

(I’ll come to get you over and over again. Tubbo stops preening, just to hug him tighter. I promised, Boo. Don’t you remember?)

(Ranboo shudders to breathe in. Takes a breath for this moment. Takes a breath for this memory. This life he’s never lived.)

(This dream, that he’ll never remember, that he’ll never have again.)

(“No,” he whispers. “I don’t.”)

The torchlights burn low and dim. Shadows stretch, spreading their fingers between the slumbering flowers. Between them, as motionless as he is unliving, kneels the Prince.

The Void yawns above him - an unending emptiness, forever nothing.

His hands shake. His bulb had grown - it’s a flower, it's flowers now. Blooming vibrant pink petals, with the sweetest smell he’s ever encountered. 

He knows this flower, he does - he knows it, he knows it, he knows it -

He can’t remember what they’re called.

The Prince slowly takes a couple, plucking them out of the ground. He breathes a shudder, as he presses his face into the delicate petals - breathes them in, tries so hard to remember. It’s important, it’s important, it was.

It was.

With his makeshift bouquet, he shakily stands. His mind whirls and churns, its desperate confused wail echoing that of the Void - everlasting. He sits slowly on the bench, draws his wings close to himself; the speckled feathers healed up nicely, almost until he can’t imagine them otherwise.

He breathes. He chokes. He drowns. He cries.

Quietly. No wailing sobs, no shuddery breaths, no sorrowful hiccups. Practically silent, basically soundless. Motionless, too - a living corpse, alive only physically.

He rubs at his eyes, hissing as it only makes it worse - now, instead of his face burning, it’s his hands too. He makes a soft sound, shaking and shivering.

He takes his crown off his head. It’s heavy. He doesn’t know why he wears it. Gently, for fear his shaking fingers would just shatter the delicate crystals, he sets it on the bench next to him.

For the Prince does not cry. But Ranboo, he does.

He doesn’t quite like the garden, anymore. Finds himself avoiding it - he knows the flowers will be fine, The Council takes care of them.

With nothing else to do, Ranboo roams his castle. Makes through his halls, stares at the empty rooms, watches as the shadows dance along to the flickering lantern light.

There’s music. 

Ranboo stops. The Prince frowns softly. His heart, it beats faster.

He follows the song. Slipping in and out of hallways, around corners. Ducking his head into rooms, only to slip back out when the sound grows softer. Briefly, he panics - for what if he’s too late, and the song is over before he finds it?

He finds it. In a room he’s rarely had a use for, but one a castle would not be complete without. A ballroom, with high arching ceilings and meticulously carved pillars. Intricate window frames opening out into the Void.

The music is loudest, here. A ghost brushes against him - a laugh rings in his ears.

Ranboo doesn’t know what seizes him, what guides him. He moves to stand in the middle of the room - alone, yet not...lonely, for once.

He closes his eyes. Imagines that he’s somewhere else, somewhere not here. A place where it is warm, a place where it is soft, a place where he feels safe.

The music grows louder. 

Someone grabs his hands, gently. Their touch is warm.

He dances. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, to the melody of a song he hears in his head, stepping along to the beat - holding, tightly, to the gentle guidance of his dance partner. 

He hears another laugh. It’s so, so fond - so very loving. There is another, and this time it’s his - his laugh.

It’s been a while since he’s heard it.

A door creaks open. The music stops. The hands entwined with his are, suddenly, ice-cold.

‘...Prince?’ calls the Dragon. Her footsteps thud against the ballroom floor, echoing through the practically empty hall. Her head - her muzzle, lightly nudges his back.

Ranboo opens his eyes. 

He is alone. His dance partner has gone. He holds nothing in his hands.

He blinks. Once, twice - a third. Breathes a shudder, soft and soundless.

Dragon’s eyes, curious, peer at him. ‘Who are you dancing with?’

The Prince swallows against the dryness of his throat. He finds himself choking, seized by an irrational wave of...grief, and sorrow. 

He feels like he’s lost something.

And he knows that he’ll never get it back.

“I...don’t remember.”

The bigger Dragon grows, the less time she spends in the Castle. She’s a wild thing, truly happy when She is free out of the confines of the castle walls - soaring through the Void, magnificent and glorious.

And Ranboo only wants Her to be happy. So he says nothing, keeps his silence, and carries on. 

There is nothing else to do, except.

He’s started trying to run away. There’s not really anywhere he can go, and the whole trial is futile and pointless. Still, it forces conversation between another living thing - that, if nothing else, is something to look forward to.

Thus, he packs up. He puts on his cloak. He maps escape routes and crosses them out, at the back of his book. He scowls and he complains and he makes it so difficult for them to find him - but always, always, he comes back.

He has nowhere else to go.

Ranboo sits at the edge of an End City. The shulkers try to get him down. The Enderman frantically hurry about, calling out for him. 

But Ranboo wants to try something. He’s tired of dragging his wings behind him, useless. He can’t remember anything wrong with them, and they look fine - which means that he should be able to fly with them. Surely.

So, he picks his crown off his head and sets it beside him.

Really, it’s quite an oversight. They have large and empty rooms nobody uses, dust gathering on the walls and corners - lifeless, and empty. Yet the one thing the castle doesn’t have is one single garden. If they wanted to keep him from going outside too often, then the least they could do was bring a little bit of outside in.

But no, not a single garden. He’s walked the halls forever, he feels. He would’ve known if there was a garden.

Whatever. He has the lake. The lake is good enough. He likes the lake - likes sitting at the water’s edge, just far enough to not get burnt. He likes cracking open chorus fruits and listening to the sound of the creatures.

It’s not as cold, here. It’s as if someone else is here, too.

‘I don’t know about this, Prince…’ The Dragon paces. She huffs a smoke-tinged breath, gnawing at Her jaw and Her anxiety. ‘It’s my duty to protect The End - you. Letting you do this seems a bit...contradictory, to that.’

Ranboo snorts, softly. “It’s fine,” he waves Her off, “what’re they going to do? Push me off?”

‘...yes?’

Ranboo flaps his wings. The Dragon scoffs, but falls silent.

They stare up at the obsidian pillar. It’s battered beyond anything he remembers seeing, a few blocks even carrying obvious cracks. It’s impressive, and slightly worrying - for he doesn’t know if those blows came from the Dragon, or the outsider.

The outsider, apparently staked out at the very top of the pillar. A bit...odd, but outsiders do as they are - he supposes.

“Here,” he proposes. “If they push me off, they’ll be distracted. And then you can sneak up and kill them.”

The Dragon makes a soft sound, still very doubtful. But it’s not an outright disagreement, and Ranboo figures he won’t get into too much trouble for it. So, he takes it.

The Prince spreads his wings and takes off. He scales the height of the pillar, occasionally giving it a little kick to help boost himself up. A jolt of adrenaline courses through his veins, brings a giddy smile to his face.

He lands, at the very top. The Prince blinks, taking sight of how high up he is - staring at the sight of the Main Island, sprawling underneath him. Even Dragon looks small.

The outsider. He sees them.

They kneel beneath the broken remnants of a crystal. They hold a crossbow in their hands, inexperience or fear shaking their grip - rendering their aim practically useless. A pair of veiny wings shiver behind them, practically buzzing.

A bee. 

The outsider stares at him, and Ranboo - he stares back. Frozen, in place.

He knows, he knows, that he’s never seen anything like this before. He’s flown miles through his kingdom, and not once has he seen anything like this before. He knows, he knows, for surely he will remember seeing this.

Surely...right?

And yet, and yet, there is an undeniable air of familiarity between them. Somehow, they feel... right. The final puzzle piece, the final gear in his broken clock life.

The outsider, they feel it too. They relax, a minuscule amount - pushes away strands of shaggy brown hair out of their eyes. Through them, now, their gazes meet.

And Ranboo knows them - he knows who this is, this stranger he’s never met. And even if he doesn’t, he feels he wants to. 

He finds he doesn’t mind, getting to know them all over again.

Over, and over again. 

“You’re...you’re like me.” They blink. The crossbow dips down, the arrow pointing to the ground. He knows - they know - that the arrow will never be fired.

Ranboo breathes. He is so, incredibly light. He breathes, he breathes - he is alive.

Their eyes, he feels - he will never get sick of them.

“...hello?”

Ranboo smiles.

“Hello.”