Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the heat and the muck of a hot, summer swamp, Tubbo laid in the mud. It streaked across his forehead, all over his arms, and anywhere else Tommy had chucked it at him. More of him was probably covered in mud than wasn't. The consequences of agreeing to do what Tommy wanted to do for a day, Tubbo mused.

Tommy was somewhere else in the wetland, probably scooping up whatever he could grab to throw at Tubbo the next time he saw him, or god forbid, Wilbur or Fundy. Both of them, back at the house, weren’t as much for playing in the mud as the two coolest members of their household. Tommy would be a fool soon to be dead to greet either of their freshly washed clothes with a new stain.

Come to think of it, that would make them pretty good living shields.

Tubbo yanked himself out of the mud and stood, wiping off the excess as best he could. He took to running as he hurried out of the murky, miry swamp, dashing past trees and roots as distantly, he heard Tommy laughing. As he reached the treeline, he could hear something splashing in the water not far from him.

Making it into the tall grass, he ran up the hill before him, Tommy’s voice louder as the two darted for a small house in the sunny clearing. Tubbo spotted Fundy on the porch first, and quick as he could manage, made his way behind him with a pant.

“Hey!” Fundy shouted, smacking away Tubbo’s hands as he braced himself against the older boy’s back. When Tommy reached the two of them and they both started to dart back and forth, Fundy pressed his ears down and snarled. “Dad!”

With that shout, and the impending sound of footsteps across the wooden floor inside the small house, Tommy leapt forward and smeared his hands down Fundy’s shirt, barking a laugh. Then, he darted away.

Tubbo was quick to follow him down the steps, laughing too, both of them basking in the glowing sun over the valley as they ran for the trees once more.

From the porch, a loud voice rang out. 

“Tommy! Tubbo!”

They both kept running, knowing that no matter what, Wilbur wouldn’t be able to catch them.

In the end, after minutes of hiding in the swamp, Fundy managed to grab both of them and drag them through the dirt, the marks along his clothes and his fur sure to bring both stains and matts. Despite their yelping, Fundy dragged them both by their wrists.

He tossed them down at the house’s steps, where Wilbur was sitting with a stern, tired look on his face.

“It’s not our fault.” Tommy blurted out before they even finished rolling onto their stomachs.

“I don’t care,” Wilbur groaned, grabbing at the bridge of his nose. “Apologize to Fundy.”

Tubbo looked at Tommy, who rolled his eyes. Tubbo followed suit. This only got another, louder groan out of Wilbur. “Come on, just be done with it. I’ve got things to do, you all need to come in and—”

“—he should’ve just come frog hunting with us!” Tommy crossed his arms, losing the only thing holding him up from the ground. He fell with a grunt.

That was the original plan, at least. And out of courtesy, Tubbo had asked if Fundy wanted to join them, but older than the ten year olds as he was, right at the start of his teenage years, he denied them for two reasons—one he said and one Tubbo knew.

Tubbo and Tommy were, quotably, ‘dirty and snotty and disease-ridden’ , and that going out into the woods to look for frogs with them would only end with Fundy in the mud and the two boys 'tick-covered time bombs!’ .

The real reason was that Fundy was a teenager, and if what Phil used to laugh about held any truth, teenagers were meant to be moody, dramatic, self-absorbed whiners. Tubbo could remember a time, maybe a few years back when he’d first moved in, where Fundy was just one suggestion away from messing around. But it seemed the teenage years did what they did.

Fundy sneered from where he stood beside Wilbur. “Where’s your frogs?”

“We let them go, duh. We’re not fuckin’ animals.”

“Looks like you are.”

Wilbur stood and shoved his arm out in front of Fundy. “Tommy, say sorry. Fundy, go change, Tubbo—”

Not the bow, not the arrow, not the target—Tubbo had no recognizable part in this, recognizable being the keyword.

“Go change too. We’ve got a guest.”

A guest? Had Phil come for another visit? Or maybe Technoblade?

Tubbo always loved when either of them came by, since they brought Antarctic sweets with them each time. Even if Tommy stole most of them, and Fundy snatched a handful, Tubbo was able to get his own. Plus, Tommy shared the ones Tubbo could wrestle them from his hands.

The treats were sugary and cold and something familiar. Not really very familiar any more, since Tubbo had been dropped off here a few years back with a wide smile and ‘you’ve got a kid his age hanging out here, right Wil?’ and whatever else. Wilbur’s place was nice and all, but he missed the Antarctic. Maybe he just missed the treats.

Tommy had promised him when they were adults, they’d live in the same house, but Tubbo wasn’t sure if that was going to be possible. Tubbo held a fondness for the cold, and Tommy loved plains biomes, swamps, lakes, dirt, and heat.

Which was why they were both covered in mud right now.

“Ugh!” Tommy groaned loudly, cracking his knuckles as he crawled to his knees. “Alright, what’s the big idea, huh? You wan’us to be prim and fucking proper for Technoblade? Or fucking—wait, is it Niki?”

Tubbo walked up the stairs regardless of Tommy’s meandering, muttering names and sounds that were vaguely words as he tried to guess their visitor. The stairs creaked under Tubbo’s shoes, which he kept his eyes on, stepping up until he nearly stepped on another pair of shoes. He bounced back a step, careful not to trip and find himself in yet more dirt.

“Or I bet it’s that fucking land-owner guy, come ‘round for another fight. I could take him, y’know, he’s not that fucking—”

“Jesus!” The guy in front of Tubbo laughed roughly, making Tommy stop his shouting. “You got a fucking sailor in the making.”

Wilbur spun around with an odd smile on his face, something Tubbo could only place between discomfort and embarrassment.

This new guy was tall, more reasonably so than Wilbur, at least, and stouter by half. Though he gleaned down at Tubbo with dark eyes and a myriad of bags under them, there was something rather joyful about his grin. Or maybe smug was a better word.

With dark hair idly hanging around a curled set of horns, Tubbo’s attention was certainly drawn to him and that inhuman part, something rather familiar. At least, he tried to pay more attention to that than the scraggly mutton chops covering the guy’s cheeks.

“Schlatt!” Tommy shouted before he ran up the stairs, barrelling past Tubbo to throw a playful punch into the guy’s stomach.

Schlatt, as his name seemed to be, groaned and shoved Tommy away by the face. Tommy simply laughed as Schlatt pushed him back, doubled over and his grin long gone. Though he opened his mouth, a raspy breath that would usually form the start of a word, Schlatt didn’t speak as he steadied himself.

Tommy’s excitement died for a moment as he narrowed his eyes. Tubbo wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

Wilbur corralled Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy inside while giving Schlatt a pat on the back, a whispered “throw up in the grass” seemingly going unnoticed by all but Tubbo.

Though he wondered what that was all about, he continued into the house. It opened right up to a kitchen and living room side by side, a hall straight ahead that he continued down, over to his shared room with Tommy at the end. Fundy and Wilbur remained by the front door, both peering out the window.

Tubbo changed quickly and wiped himself down with a cloth in the washroom, figuring that he’d just shower later. It didn’t help his matted hair, but it was good enough to clean him of the dark marks along his arms, and good enough for him to go sit on the couch without anyone throwing a fit.

Tommy did much the same, joining him on the couch a moment later only to bound back up, endlessly energetic. As Tubbo looked at where Tommy had been a moment ago, he noticed a bag he’d never seen before.

“What’s Schlatt doing ‘ere?” Tommy asked joyfully, spinning around to Wilbur and Fundy, sat at the kitchen table. “Or out there?”

Wilbur gnawed on his lip for a moment before he answered Tommy, arms up on the wood and eyes drifted out. Even with a sure voice, a sure answer of “he’s passing through and he needs a place for the night”, Tubbo could see something off.

He could see how Wilbur’s brow was furrowed, the dark bags under his eyes more pronounced, and the decades upon decades of lines on his old face—seriously, he was, like, thirty, who even lived that long?—and how they almost looked cut deeper into him than usual. It was clear as day to Tubbo, Wilbur was nervous about something. About this.

If it weren’t for the fact that Tommy knew Schlatt, Tubbo might have been a bit more concerned himself.

“And what’s your problem?” Tommy asked Wilbur after another moment.

Ah. If Tommy couldn’t pin down any source of anxiety in his brother, then Tubbo didn’t even want to try to guess.

The front door swung open once more, and Schlatt returned inside with a grumble, one hand idly rubbing his face.

“Sorry ‘bout your bushes.” He mumbled quietly, stepping into the kitchen.

“It’s fine,” Wilbur replied just as softly and a whole lot faster, standing abruptly and dragging Schlatt into a chair. Shoved off his feet, Schlatt groaned and gripped his head.

Tommy bounded over happily and Tubbo had half a mind to follow him. Though maybe he was only using half his mind for that idea, because since the door had swung open, Tubbo had scrunched up his nose at a foul stench.

Schlatt smelled like Wilbur after a bad night, six times over. There wasn’t a world where Tubbo would tell anyone that, because he valued being able to sleep at night, but the scent of a drink and a smoke on the porch wasn’t one he really liked, and it permeated through the kitchen like thick swamp fog.

Maybe Schlatt was interesting enough for that to be ignored, but Tubbo couldn’t bring himself to care about that right now. He was kind of damp and cold, and above everything, he did not want to force another social interaction out of himself for this guy. 

Tubbo turned from the kitchen and headed back down the hall. He’d shower and take another whack at reading one of the books on his shelf. It might be boring, but he’d try it all the same.

When supper came, Tommy gathered Tubbo like he was annoyed to be away from Schlatt for even a minute. He pounded on the bedroom door and nearly slammed it against the wall, grabbing Tubbo from where he was laid comfortably on his bed and dragging him to the kitchen.

Tubbo stumbled along the wood floor behind Tommy until his arm was finally released. Though the rudeness of it wasn’t lost on him, Tubbo didn’t say anything. He joined Tommy at the table, squished between Fundy and his friend under the burning torch light. The round table wasn’t very large, and the four of them usually were pretty close together. Now, with five, Tubbo could feel Fundy’s fur against his arm. Pleasant.

Wilbur had already set their plates, at least, and Tubbo dug his spoon in quickly. It was mushroom stew, as usual. Tubbo wouldn’t say he hated free food or anything, but it had become increasingly obvious over the years that Wilbur could make approximately five different meals and no more. 

Beside him, Tommy seemed to be staring at Schlatt in awe, like he’d never quite seen someone so cool. But given how Fundy’s eyelids had already fallen halfway down and Wilbur was still making his pursed lip smile, Tubbo couldn’t deny a theory that Schlatt wasn’t all that.

For now, at least. Maybe there was something shining under that smoke. A proper diamond in the dust, deep in a mine.

Schlatt met Tubbo’s eyes. Shit, he’d been staring too.

“Who’s this one? C’mon Wilbur, where’s your manners, introduce us!” Schlatt grinned once more. “He’s got ram’s eyes.”

Did he? Tubbo always knew he was something not quite human and his eyes were half the proof, but he’d never really locked down what made his pupils different. Goat, ram, horse, something along those lines.

Did that mean that he’d grown horns like Schlatt’s?

“Right, uh—” Wilbur sat up straight. It was a bit odd. Tubbo had never seen him like this. “Well, you know Tommy. And you remember Fundy, I’m sure.”

Fundy made a noise. It might have been a greeting.

“And that’s Tubbo.”

Schlatt hummed. “He wasn’t here the last time. Where do you keep getting these things?”

He was sitting right there, right? Surely Schlatt saw he was more than old enough to explain this himself. He was ten, he wasn’t some stupid kid.

“Phil—y’know? He dropped him off a few years back.”

Schlatt barked a laugh. “Phil still got you by the short hairs, huh?”

“I’m not his lackey just because I did something nice for my father. And for Tommy and Tubbo.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Schlatt waved his hand with another laugh. His eyes shifted back to Tubbo, a curious rise to his smile. “Hey, don’t sweat it kid. I got dropped off from place to place when I was your age, and now look at me!”

Schlatt was wearing an old burgundy suit, a bit tattered at the sleeves and a stain that Tubbo hoped was mushroom stew on his white collar underneath. Besides his general state of affairs, he did seem more well off then they were.

Tommy lit up at the words, turning to face Tubbo. “Yeah, he’s literally so rich, dude!”

“That I am.” Schlatt lifted his glass of juice. “Destitution is a young me’s problem. I’m the richest guy for a hundred thousand blocks.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I am the goddamn rags to riches cutout.”

Holy shit.

Maybe it was just the money talking, or the fact that Schlatt had taken one look and been able to tell Tubbo something about himself, but Schlatt was actually starting to sound kind of cool. How the hell did Wilbur know this guy?

Tommy was practically shaking in his seat. “You’re gonna buy us tons of cool shit, right?!”

“Tommy,” Wilbur chided.

“What? I’m just asking. Not got a knife to his throat or somethin’.”

Beside Tubbo, Fundy mumbled something to his father and stood, to which Wilbur mumbled back a hurried ‘please do’ . Wilbur watched Fundy walk to the sink and set down his empty bowl, but didn’t say anything until he was gone down the hall. Tommy still babbled about all the swords and axes he apparently needed desperately, even as Wilbur sighed.

“Ah, well, teenage boys. I guess he’s right, we should be wrapping up—”

“Nah, nah, come on. I got a gift for you guys.” Schlatt stood with a wobble and marched over to the couch, grabbing his bag. He practically tore it open and pulled out a red bottle, shaking it briefly in their direction. “Good scotch.”

“Oh, Schlatt, you shouldn’t have. Really, really shouldn’t have.”

Why did it seem that Wilbur meant every word of that? This guy was cool, he got them alcohol. And if he could actually get swords, that would be a game changer for Tubbo and Tommy’s weekly brawls.

“I was gonna drink this for my company’s fifth anniversary.” Schlatt chuckled as he returned to the table. “But, eh.”

He set the bottle against the wood and let it roll over to Wilbur, who caught it desperately before it crashed against the floor.

When Tubbo returned his eyes to Schlatt, he seemed to be staring at the table across from him, at the broken seal and the scotch that only filled half of the bottle.

Tommy wasn’t speaking anymore, which for a reason Tubbo couldn’t place, was what made his hands feel a little weak.

Wilbur cleared his throat and began to pick up their bowls, but Schlatt sat down once more and looked directly at Tommy and Tubbo. Picking at his cuffs, Schlatt eyed them both curiously. Tommy raised a brow while Tubbo looked at him for any sort of indication of if this meant trouble or if Schlatt was in some drunken stupor.

Eventually, after what was likely only a few seconds, Schlatt sighed. “Alright, I want you two to listen to me. I got advice for you. I know shit. I know a lot of shit, you know.”

“Okay,” Tubbo mumbled when Schlatt fell silent for a minute.

“I do. And you know what I know? It’s that life is… no one is gonna give you what you want. Everyone— everyone is out to get you. They’re gonna pull the goddamn rug out from under you and laugh when you eat shit on concrete.” 

“Schlatt.” Wilbur spoke firmly.

Schlatt’s words began to slur. “You need to take what you want and tell everyone else to fucking suck it! Alright? You win fairly and those bitches’ll hate you but you’ll be the winner, and they’ll just be the fucking idiots that lost! Because you—you know shit!”

Wilbur hurried around the table and grabbed Schlatt by the arm, dragging him to his feet. “Tommy, Tubbo, head to bed, it’s late.”

Tommy just made a loud noise of confusion at the stiff words, which Tubbo met with a furrowed brow.

“It’s only six thirty?” Tubbo said, watching Wilbur toss Schlatt to the couch.

“And I don’t have a fucking bedtime! What am I, three years old?!”

Wilbur turned back to them and pointed to the hall. “Now!”

Tommy grumbled as he hopped out of the chair, stomping down the hall with Tubbo close behind. He mumbled loud enough for Wilbur to hear, but Tubbo didn’t care to join him this time. Even if Wilbur was being an ass.

As they stepped just out of view of Schlatt and Wilbur, Tubbo tapped Tommy’s shoulder and whispered to him.

“I’m going to the washroom.”

Tommy seemed to understand as he gave Tubbo a coy smile and a whispered “good luck!”, though to be fair, Tommy did say that a lot.

Once Tommy opened and shut the door to their room, Tubbo stayed just against the hallway wall, listening as the couch creaked as Wilbur must have sat down on it as well.

He wasn’t one for eavesdropping, he really wasn’t. It was just… well, it was beneficial sometimes. As Tommy said, being ahead of your enemies—like his bastard brother—never had a downside.

The house was quiet for a while, until Wilbur sighed.

“You said you were hungover.”

“Something like that.”

Wilbur groaned rather loudly, the couch once more creaking as footsteps across the wood followed. He paced, and Tubbo could picture how Wilbur had his arms crossed and his hair freshly hand-brushed through.

“Why are you even here, Schlatt? I have been a very gracious host to even let you in and you’re—god! I don’t know what you want.”

“A place to crash. Jesus, you’re making a problem outta nothin’.”

“You probably scared Tubbo and Tommy half to death! Yelling at them, what is wrong with you? I’m glad Fundy had already headed off before you decided to start sundowning.” 

Schlatt laughed roughly. “C’mon, they’re what, twelve? Give them a piece of the real world. And Fundy’s basically an adult, let him be a man. Let your wife baby him.”

Tubbo sucked his teeth. Even he could feel how much that pressed on a sore spot.

“Are you actually so intoxicated that you haven’t noticed Sally isn’t here?” When Schlatt didn’t reply, Wilbur groaned. “Can’t you just go back to your office? Or is the totem business suddenly not providing enough comfort with its millions that you have to come traipsing thousands of blocks to my—my tiny sanctuary of moderate peace?”

“I’m leaving in the morning, ain’t I?” Schlatt grumbled. The springs of the couch clunked as he must have sat up. “Don't worry about it, alright? I don't think you’ll be seeing much of me for a while. Just write me when you miss me, yeah?”

“Oh, it'll be a long while, and a good reason.”

With that, Wilbur stepped into view for a moment as he marched back into the kitchen. Tubbo shuffled to his feet and hurried down the hall, quiet as he opened the door to his and Tommy’s room, hopefully unnoticed.

When Tubbo had first moved in, he’d been a bit annoyed that Tommy had already taken the top bunk and he’d been delegated to the bottom bed. But he’d come to appreciate it with time. His bed was much warmer than Tommy’s—which wasn’t actually that nice in the summer, as he laid there now with the blankets thrown on the floor—and the angle at which the moon and the morning sun hit their window was perfectly blocked by one of the posts.

The light did, however, reach Tommy perfectly, which meant that he didn’t sleep for a while, and always was up early.

“Tubbo.” Tommy whispered. “Tubbo!”

Which meant that Tubbo didn’t sleep for a while.

“What?” He whispered back, opening his eyes and leaning out. He saw Tommy leaning back, staring at him from the top bunk.

“Did you like Schlatt?”

Tubbo hadn’t… really settled on an opinion. He was interesting, he supposed. He couldn’t deny that he did like the money aspect of it all. Being able to buy whatever you wanted, whenever, and do anything you wanted—it called to him. And he could relate to a kid, abandoned and skipping between homes. Hell, so could Tommy before he met Wilbur.

Maybe that was why Tommy liked him so much.

Or it was the money and fancy clothes.

Either was cool.

Yeah, maybe that was it. Not like, or dislike, but just… cool.

“He seems cool.”

“Yeah, he does! When I met him, he brought me my own sword! It was so cool, and if Fundy hadn’t ratted on me for trying to… influence a seller into giving me stuff for free, I would still have it. I’m gonna be him when I grow up, you know.”

Tubbo laughed. Maybe Schlatt was just having a bad day.

“I hope he comes by again,” Tommy said, rolling back into his bed. “And brings some cool shit. Like fireworks! I bet he can get the best kind of fireworks, like the fucking colourful ones. I bet he can do literally anything. He’s almost as cool as me.”

“Nah, that’s too hard, boss man.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Too high of a bar for anyone.”

Tubbo laughed, even if he did hold some hope in his heart. He’d like to see Schlatt on a better day, and hopefully get to know him and whatever rich person gifts he’d bring. Maybe the next time he saw Schlatt, there’d be fireworks.