Archive of Our Own

Ranboo, as far as he remembers, has never had a friend before.

Tommy, in contrast, has had many. But they have come and gone, leaving him to fester with hands that won’t stop shaking and a mouth that keeps on running, even when there’s no one left to listen.

So neither of them are really sure what to do with this, this friendship that has been the only thing tethering themselves to something real, something tangible.

All Ranboo knows is that Tommy is kind. Tommy is kind, even when he pretends he isn’t, and they haven’t known each other for very long but he can see it, can see the way he smiles and the way his eyes search for the barest hint of discomfort, something scared and desperate in his eyes.

Tommy has not had anyone but himself for a while.

When George’s home goes up in flames, Ranboo does not doubt Tommy’s words, promises and pleads that he hadn’t done it on purpose, that he had no idea how it caught fire in the first place.

There is something scary, he decides, in Tommy’s stricken, gaping face, disbelieving at the very chance that someone would trust him.

Ranboo’s smile is gentle, then.

George finds out about his home, though it is inevitable. They are called to a farce of a court, and Ranboo stews in his spot in the jury. He is not a confrontational person, he is not quick to anger, but something in him boils as Tubbo sends accusations with the ease of the enemy, as Tommy begs and yells from the cell they have placed him in.

But then—

“I heard,” Dream speaks, a smile in his voice and a lilt to his words, mischievous and cunning. Ranboo does not know the admin well, has never even spoken to him, and yet a primal part of him is scared of the man behind the mask. “That a certain ender hybrid was seen around the scene of the crime, with Tommy.” Niki and Puffy exchange a glance.

He cannot breathe.

Ranboo cannot breathe, and there are eyes on him, baring into his soul. Fight. Hunt. Kill. Hide. His instincts scream as he sits, frozen, and the president of L’Manberg’s eyes bore into his.

He cannot breathe, he cannot speak. He can- if he can just speak, he could come up with an excuse, could blame his memory problems, could give Tommy an alibi-

Tommy speaks. Tommy, his friend, his only friend— he who cussed and shouted at him, who smiled and helped him, speaks out over the eyes and over the arguing roar of the jury. “It was me.”

When the court assembled and the trial began, Tommy hadn’t been scared. He had been confident, with a proud puff to his chest, declaring that Tubbo would understand, that Tubbo wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. Ranboo had been wary, skeptical, but Tommy hadn’t been scared at all.

Now, his eyes fill with the fear he used to lack, those blue orbs pooling with trembling terror. Fear. Fear for Ranboo. His heart both swelled and dropped at the sight. Ranboo closed his heterochromic eyes in an effort to soften the blow on himself, knowing what was to escape his friend’s mouth wasn’t going to be good—For Tommy.

“I did it. It was only me, Ranboo wasn’t anywhere near, I burned down George’s house!”

Fuck. Hesitantly, Ranboo opens his eyes, narrowing them in a pleading manner, begging Tommy to shut his mouth, to retract his statements, but Tommy avoids looking anywhere near Ranboo, defiant and stubborn as George began yelling, as Tubbo began yelling, as everyone began yelling.

And despite how fucking obvious it was that Tommy was lying, Tubbo stands, declaring that the trial was over and he would provide both parties with his verdict soon. Dream scoffs.

The crowd disperses, some grumbling and a few telling the person beside them—“Of course Tommy burnt down George’s house, he was always so—“

Ranboo rushes to the cell, gripping the bars tightly. He stares down at the golden head of hair, and Tommy keeps his eyes on Ranboo’s shoulder, determinedly avoiding eye contact. Ranboo doesn’t have the energy to correct him, that Tommy could never be seen as a threat—all he can say or do is sink to the ground on his knees. “Tommy,” he says breathlessly. “Everything will be okay.” With a pained startle, he realizes tears are gathering in his eyes.

Water burns him. Tears burn him. For this reason alone, Ranboo does not cry easily. And yet.

Tommy shakes his head, gently, his golden curls bouncing. “Ran,” the nickname is careless, a slip of a tongue or a half-hearted abandonment of the formality of the last syllable, but it means something. It does. “Don’t you fucking cry on me,” he warns, a barely noticeable shake to his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”

And yet.

“We’re fine.” Ranboo echoes shakily. They sit there, together, for a moment. Ranboo has never had a friend before, and Tommy has forgotten what it was like to just…sit with a friend. Even if it’s in a cell, on opposite sides, Tommy relaxes a smidge.

As if summoned by the damning thought, a throat clears behind Ranboo, and both their backs straighten, Tommy’s eyes clouding with something slightly darker.

“Tubbs.” He says the nickname gruffly, hard on his tongue and rough as gravel. A far cry from his previous call of Ran.

“Tommy.” The boy president returns, voice stiffly monotone. “And…Ranboo.” Something changes in his tone, something odd, or cold, but Ranboo cannot decipher it, not while he scrambles to a stand.

“Mr. President,” he says, a bit clumsily. Behind him, Tommy’s scowl deepens, and his own fists clench and unclench at his side. “You…I…” Quite honestly, Ranboo has no idea what to say. But he sees Tubbo’s eyes, burning and intense, and the way his mouth opens as if to speak—“Tommy shouldn’t be locked in a cell.” He finally settles on, a spark of delight in him when Tubbo falters. It wasn’t a jab, or at least the words were not formed in the suit of a dagger, but the bluntness to his words hits just as hard. As if it’s such a simple truth. Tommy shouldn’t be locked up.

The president adjusts his tie, looking a bit embarrassed. “I know,” he hisses, and Ranboo cannot find much sympathy. “He’s—it's just, with Dream and the others, a-and Quackity…” he trails off, looking to the side, before shaking his head and composing himself. “Tommy will have to remain in holding for at least tonight.”

“What?” Ranboo spits, hackles rising. Behind him, Tommy echoes a similar sentiment, though filled with far more cuss words. “He can’t—! He’s claustrophobic, for Prime’s sake!”

A flash of irritation passes through Tubbo’s eyes. “You think I don’t know that?” He snaps. Tubbo was Tommy’s best friend. “But my hands are tied. That’s how things have to be, and tomorrow, Tommy can be released and further arrangements can be decided upon.”

Seemingly satisfied with what he said, Tubbo nods once and turns on his heel, walking away with only a dismissive mutter of, “I don’t know why I thought it was ever a good idea to make Tommy a VP…” He disappears through the doorway, a flash of a green figure meeting him.

Ranboo scoffs. Best friend. He ignores the departing figure and turns back to Tommy, who looks distinctly ruffled by Tubbo’s appearance. Best friend my ass. “Tommy, I can’t let you stay here.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, though it is with a forced casualness that Ranboo could easily detect. “L,” he sighs. “It’s not really about you, Ranboob.” He looks down at the ground, scuffing his foot. “It’s Tubbo and the rest’s decision.”

“I could break you out,” Ranboo offers hopefully. He considers the bars separating them; he could reach through and grab Tommy’s wrist, and somehow miraculously harness his shaky powers well enough to teleport them both outside.

“Nah,” Tommy shakes his head, though a smile is now tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t really help the whole ‘dangerous criminal’ thing they’ve got me pegged for.”

Ranboo sits back down, leaning against the bars as Tommy mirrors the action from the other side. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles. “From what I’ve heard, this place has recently gone through so many wars, but an accidental house fire is such a big deal?”

Beside him, Tommy’s eyes soften a tad. “Yeah,” he sighs. “But Tubbs is in a tricky situation. The whole ‘burning down Gogy’s house’ problem is like a—“ he clicks his tongue. “Like a potential act of war, yeah? Tubbo doesn’t want this to break the fragile peace we got goin’ on.”

Ranboo smiles weakly.

“‘Sides, Tubbo’ll figure it out.” Tommy doesn’t look quite as confident as before, his shoulders hunched as he sits in his cramped cell, the words from his trial echoing in their minds. “I’ll probably do community service or have to apologize to Gogy,” his nose scrunches up at the thought. “Houses have been griefed before, and usually on a way larger scale than yesterday’s. It’s probably gonna be nothing.”

And despite Ranboo nodding and softly voicing some quiet agreement, he can’t help but think they’re wrong.

Sooner than either can expect, morning comes. And with it, Tubbo.

And Dream.

::

“I’ve been stripped of my vice president status, Ranboo.” Tommy mumbles the moment the hybrid opens the door.

Ranboo is relieved to see him out of the cell—he had been forced to leave, sent home with a cutting remark about leaving the prisoner, the- the accomplice alone. But Tommy still looks terrible, deep dark circles under his eyes (he didn’t expect him to be able to sleep in that cell, waiting for Tubbo’s decision).

“Oh.” Ranboo searches Tommy’s face, his blue eyes that were directed to the floor. “Is that...a bad- o-or good thing?”

Tommy sighs loudly, scuffing his foot against the ground. “I dunno.” He mutters. “It- It’s good that I’m not getting a worse punishment, but…” He screws up his face, distaste clearly showing at saying anything particularly vulnerable or emotional.

“But..?” Ranboo gently prompts, stepping aside to allow the boy into his home. He nearly collapses inside, throwing himself onto Ranboo’s couch.

Tommy mumbles something, though it’s indistinguishable when muffled by the couch.

“What?” Ranboo settles into the cushion beside Tommy, smiling a bit when Tommy groans and lifts his head.

“I don’t know!” Tommy whines. “It’s-” he sighs, looking away with the barest hint of red on his ears. “I’ve..It’s really stupid, but I… I’ve always been the vice president.” He shifts, sitting up on the sofa. “My brother and I started L’Manberg, Ranboo, and I had always been his- his right hand man. The vice. The only time I wasn’t was when we were exiled from Manberg,” he spits the name with venom. “And even with Tubbo, I was his vice! And now…”

Tommy drags a scarred hand over his face. “And now, I’m not.” He finishes, the words simple yet haunting. It clearly weighs on him, pushing his head down and his shoulders in.

“Tommy,” Ranboo says. Tommy doesn’t budge. “Tommy,” he tries again, a lopsided smile in place. “I’m here. You’re here.” He draws his lanky long legs up, tucking them under as Tommy finally looks up. “Not to be cringe,” he laughs, and Tommy’s lip quirks. He takes it as a victory. “But I’ll be by your side no matter what, okay? And- And I’m no Wilbur, or Tubbo, but…”

“I’m here.”

Tommy startles at that. It’s nothing new—Ranboo’s said it before, said it when Tommy spirals and can’t see past his own scars and memories, the hybrid had said it moments before—but he hadn’t…it just hit.

“Okay.” Tommy says simply. He inhales a shaky breath, and for once, he does not feel the echoes of smoke filling his lungs and blocking his throat. “Okay.” He repeats, and somehow, it is.

Tommy smiles, then, tired and genuine, and Ranboo kind of wants to cry.

He doesn’t, though. He just beams down at his only and closest friend.

::

Tubbo looks exhausted. His back is straight, his suit unruffled, though he adjusts his tie every few seconds in a telling nervous habit.

It reminds Tommy of… Schlatt’s candidacy. Of secretaries and spies, of hidden meetings, starry skies, and smiles with secrets.

But the smile Tubbo sends him now is not with the promise of mischief, of a hidden secret between just the two of them. The smile is tired, half-hearted, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

They’re walking together. It feels like there are miles between them, countless planes and seas blocking any connection, and yet there are only a few feet and the presence of Tubbo’s cabinet.

Ranboo trails behind the two, paired with both Quackity and Fundy. Tommy can feel the weight of Ranboo’s gaze on him, flickering between the pair with nervous eyes. He hopes it’s not so obvious how fucking terrified Tommy is.

Because what is Tommy if not the funny friend, the fearless brother and the untouchable soldier.

They halt. It’s so abrupt, so sudden that Fundy knocks into Tommy, yelping in surprise and scurrying back with his tail bushy and alert.

There are walls in L’Manberg.

And Tommy—well, Tommy knows better than most the history of L’Manberg’s walls. He hasn’t recounted the story to Ranboo, whose stare is a tad confused and…somber, but Tommy knows. There were walls around L’Manberg in the beginning, safe and comforting with that iconic royal flair of Eret’s, and they had been torn down. Brought up. Torn down.

Dream stands atop the imposing walls, obsidian so dark and tall it nearly blots out the blue of the sky.

Brought up.

Tubbo is bristling, stepping forward with his hands clenched and his head slightly bowed, ram horns small yet sharp, pointing toward the man in the mask. “Dream,” he greets, voice sharp and cold, so startling that Tommy blinks away his shock at the obsidian.

“What-” Tommy mumbles, but he’s interrupted by Dream. The admin sways a bit on the wall, tilting his head to the side casually.

“Mr. President.” Dream returns. His shoulders roll back, the air of collection and calm exuding smugly. “Mr. Problem,” he says, almost teasingly, directed at Tommy. He leaps off the wall, landing perfectly on the ground with that damned divine grace. “Have you come up with your answer?”

Tubbo grimaces, though his eyes do not falter in meeting the man’s porcelain mask. “You gave me three days.” He says, his voice once strong now with the slightest waver in them. Behind him, the rest of the cabinet seems confused.

Dream laughs, cutting through the air with the precision of a knife. He gestures to the obsidian wall, a nasty grin in his voice. “Three days,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Right. That means you have one more day. Tick tock, Tubbo, I want my answer.”

Tubbo doesn’t reply, he just stares at the growing obsidian, his mouth in a grim line.

“Wait, wait, back the fuck up.” Tommy steps up, brow furrowed and confused. “What the fuck is going on?! Tubbo- what is Dream on about?”

Dream giggles. “You fucked up.” He says, delight and relish in his voice. “George’s house was a direct attack from L’Manberg. From you. I’m punishing L’Manberg, unless…”

“Unless you are exiled.” Tubbo finishes quietly.

Fundy straightens. “But- I saw George fix his house already! And- Tommy’s not part of the L’Manberg cabinet anymore…” he trails off, sending his uncle a nervous glance.

“Exile?”

Tommy’s voice cracks. Exile… he… Pogtopia. Wilbur. Schlatt. Ram horns. The Pit.

Tubbo turns, a gentle but suffocating hand placed on his arm. “I’m not gonna exile you, big man.” But he says it in a murmur, as if to not let Dream hear. Behind them, beside Quackity and Fundy, Ranboo makes a face. The particular tilt of Tubbo’s head illuminates his horns in the sunlight that spills past the obsidian walls.

Dream scoffs. “Probation isn’t enough for someone like Tommy,” he says his name like it’s a joke, like it’s ridiculous to even fathom.

Tommy inhales a shuddering breath, and in an instant, any remnant of his brief vulnerability is swept away. He rears forward, all puffed up and angry. “I have the remains of Spirit, Dream.” He threatens. The one bargaining chip in his possession, the remains of Dream’s beloved horse.

With a powerful flick of his wrist, Dream throws obsidian to the floor, stepping forward as well. Tommy may be taller than Dream, but the admin has a stifling, destructive presence, and there is a shocking feral tone to his voice. “I don’t give a fuck about Spirit, I don’t give a fuck about anyone!”

George. Sapnap. Bad. Quackity frowns.

“I only give a fuck about you, and your fucking discs.” Dream sounds on the verge of unhinged, an edge to his voice that had never been there before.

What follows is a screaming match reminiscent of war, Tommy’s voice hoarse with shouting unintelligible threats as if he were back on the ruins of his camp, yelling crass insults across the battlegrounds with arrows barely missing his face. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at that point, pressing forward as if he were ready to scale that damned wall and get to Dream himself.

“Tommy.” Tubbo snaps sharply, his voice cutting like a blade. Tommy doesn’t listen, he can’t–he’s screaming and shouting and his blood rushes in his ears, roaring over the other’s words and his skin is hot like lava. “Tommy, leave.”

A hand slips into Tommy’s. It’s not a suffocating and tight grip on his wrist, holding him down in warning. It’s gentle, and cold, contrasting so suddenly against Tommy’s molten veins. Tommy stills, if only to look up at the owner of such a hand.

Ranboo smiles, and it’s a bit nervous, a bit awkward. His eyes scrunch up in a reassuring manner, and he squeezes his hand. “I-I’ll bring you home, yeah?”

Tommy huffs, a deep sigh in his chest. “...Fine.” he mutters mulishly, the fight drained out of him in an instant. Tubbo shoots them both with a suspicious look.

“I’m not sure…” he mumbles. Ranboo rolls his eyes, almost unnoticeably, but before anything can be said in response, Fundy steps forward, tail straight and alert, ears perked.

“I can- can go with them.” Fundy’s nervous gaze flits between the three, his offer echoing between them. Tommy blinks, head tilted, looking confused but not malicious nor angry. Tubbo narrows his eyes, but nods once with finality. Ranboo only peers at him, his gaze unreadable. Suddenly, the hybrid breaks out into a small smile. Fundy can’t help but send back a shaky smile of his own.

“Go, then.” Tubbo dismisses, clasping his hands together and turning. “Return right after escorting Tommy, you two.” he adds over his shoulder. Fundy’s smile falters, and Tommy slumps a tad.

Ranboo begins his stride, Tommy sending both Tubbo and Quackity an uncertain glance before following. Fundy bows his head slightly and scurries after the two, playing with the brim of his hat. Dream’s mask slowly turns to watch them, eerie.

Quackity sighs.

“We need to talk.”

::

The first walls in L’Manberg were crafted seemingly for protection, yet its creator was a spy, a traitor turned king.

Walls returned, with the sanction of a former spy turned President. They close in.

You know what they say about history repeating itself.

::

Tommy dislikes silence. That much is obvious.

Fundy is quiet, following them without a nervous word, though something brews in his eyes like he wants to say something. Ranboo, similarly, is silent, but he’s resolute, unwavering as he steps. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“How are things, Funds?” Tommy slips into the nickname a bit too easily for how much time has passed.

Fundy seems to share the sentiment, wincing a bit, but before Tommy can apologize or speak with less vulnerability in his voice or words, his fur straightens and he stands tall.

The flag is burning.
A spy far too hidden for his own good stands tall.

Tommy blinks, and the embers disappear.

“I’m…fine.” Fundy says, a bit shortly. He picks at his nails. “Tubbo got me a spot in the cabinet, even after all that happened…” he sniffs, though it’s a bit wry. “It’s a nice gesture, even if…”

He looks up to see his uncle looking at him curiously, eyes imploring him to continue. Ranboo strides beside him, stiff and indifferent, though a small hint of a glance, worried and warm, betrays himself.

“Even if things are odd right now.” Fundy finishes, words carefully chosen. The effort is rather useless, for nonetheless Tommy snorts and shakes his head, a smile too bitter on his face.

“Yeah.” He agrees lamely, ironically. The next few steps are silent, but it’s not malicious nor stifling, just awkward. Tommy seems warm enough though, sending his nephew little smiles when he finds himself lagging behind.

Thankfully, they reach Tommy’s home soon enough. Fundy stares at it. It’s been here for ages, living through so many wars and destruction. It has sat here, with its grass and flowers and little wooden door, before L’Manberg. Before even Wilbur came.

He remembers that in the first L’Manberg war, the war for independence, Dream had blown up Tommy’s home, crushed it to ashes and ruins. Wilbur had riled Tommy up, egging him on and convincing him to attack Dream’s home in return. It had seemed inspiring at the time, like they were fighting for something great. Now, to Fundy, it felt like pointless war. Revenge and revenge and revenge.

I’m punishing L’Manberg, unless…unless you are exiled.

Fundy blinks away the memories, suddenly realizing he had been standing on the front path, staring at the door. Ranboo has already ducked in, while Tommy waits in the doorway for Fundy, wearing a tired grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

With a quick intake of breath, Fundy follows him inside.

His uncle’s home is shockingly simple. He might have been here once or twice before—it has been the target of many pranks, after all, but… Fundy has never quite looked around.

Ranboo enters with familiarity and ease, hardly giving the spare furnishings a glance before he steps into what seems like a kitchen, grabbing cups and plates from high shelves without even looking. He’s been here before. Many times, in fact.

Tommy himself flops onto the bed—it is small and ragged, a glorified mattress pushed against a wall. He gestures to the rest of the house with a mocking grin. “Make yourself at home. It’s not much.”

Fundy smiles awkwardly as he steps inward, scanning around for something to say or do. “I-it’s nice,” he offers lamely. He means it, though. The natural sunlight spills through in golden rays, lighting the room in a gentle glow.

Tommy’s smile softens. “Yeah. Thanks, I know it’s a shithole but it’s home, y’know?”

There are clear signs of Ranboo’s presence in the home. Flowers potted in the windowsills, sewing supplies left in an orderly fashion on the table, a pickaxe leaning against the counter… Fundy had no idea how close the two were.

Tommy ushers Fundy into a seat fussily, sitting up to smile softly at Ranboo, who has finished preparing whatever food he had briefly worked on. He looks so… vulnerable. Soft. Familial.

This cannot be the boy sent to exile.

“They’re going to exile you.” Fundy blurts, ruining the easy atmosphere that has built up in the haven of Tommy’s home. He winces, drawing himself inward as the two stare at him.

Ranboo sighs quietly, nudging the platter of fruits toward him. He shares a meaningful glance with Tommy. “We know the most likely outcome is…Tubbo exiling Tommy.”

Tommy grimaces, but it’s clear he agrees, however little he likes saying it.

“You guys have a plan, right?” Fundy asks, tail swishing clear in his nervousness. The words rush out of him.. “Because Quackity’s been really pushy with Tubbo being more aggressive and of course he trusts Quackity because of-'' he falters. “of…Schlatt.”

Tommy’s gaze darkens at the name, though Fundy knows the growing anger is not directed towards him, he still slips in a quiet murmur of an apology.

Tommy waves him and his apology off. “It’s fine,” he says, though it’s anything but. “We’ll be fine.” The pair share a glance once more, silently communicating, and Fundy can’t help but wish he had a companion such as that. “Ran’ll stay in the cabinet for now, and we’ll figure it out soon. Before…the deadline.” His lips turn downward at the word. “You didn’t tell me about that.” He grumbles.

Ranboo’s brow furrows together. “I didn’t know.” He says weakly. “Tubbo must have met up with Dream right after the trial, and…and made that deal.”

Tommy huffs, any lingering anger within him diminishing, as minor as it was. “Yeah, I figured.” He mutters. “Sorry, I’m not angry at you, or even Tubbo… just…”

“Angry.” Ranboo finishes, his eyes gentle.

Tommy huffs, but gives them both a brisk nod.

Ranboo and Tommy share one last look, a determined affirmation within their orbs, before they turn back to Fundy in sync, clutching each other’s hand quite tightly.

He opens his mouth to speak.

::

Tubbo massages his temples, leaning back in his chair as he inhales deeply.

Ranboo stands a little ways away, back rigid and hands clasped behind his back. His heterochromic eyes flit from Tubbo to the rest of the room, unnaturally still in body.

“I have to…” Tubbo mutters, so quietly that Ranboo nearly misses it. The boy president looks up, weary and tired eyes meeting Ranboo’s. The hair on the back of his neck rises, but Ranboo doesn’t dare look away. “I have to, Ranboo.”

It’s not an apology, or anything quite close to it. But Ranboo swallows it all the same, understanding lingering in the air. He nods. It’s not quite acceptance. Something passes between regardless. Settling.

Their gaze breaks just as suddenly as it was formed, Tubbo’s head dropping tiredly toward the table. Ranboo’s head snaps to the door, his bones buzzing beneath his skin.

The dark oak door echoes with three, clear knocks. They’re hard thumps, purposeful and demanding. Ranboo’s head tilts in lieu of a greeting as Quackity storms in.

Tubbo sighs heavily, sagging in his tailored suit. He doesn’t cut that same intimidating figure as he had in court, or even by the walls, ordering Tommy home. Now, he looks just as young as he actually is. “Hi, Quackity.” He mutters. His eyes screw shut for a painful two seconds, before he gathers himself and straightens in his seat. His young face cools, smoothing out into something more presidential. Ranboo feels as though he’s learned something.

“Hi,” Quackity snaps, fuming in his steps toward Tubbo. His hands slam against the desk loudly and suddenly, garnering a flinch from the young ram hybrid. Quackity softens a tad, before correcting himself and hardening his fiery glare once more. His presence feels like a wildfire. Burning, intentional, but without direction. “We need to talk.” He sends a rather intimidating glare at Ranboo. “You. Get out.”

Ranboo doesn’t need to be told twice, his stiff shoulders falling with a quick exhale. There is humming beneath his skin, growing louder and louder in his ears before he disappears with a gasp and flurry of purple particles.

He catches the tail end of Quackity’s shocked “-the fuck?!” with a breathless, gasping laugh.

(Quackity turns back to Tubbo, incredulous. “Did you know he could do that?” Tubbo stares at the spot Ranboo had just stood, and throws his head back and laughs, tears in the corners of his eyes.)

He reappears in Tommy’s home, accidentally slamming his head against the low dirt ceilings of his hobbit hole. A hysteric giggle slips past his lips, shoulders shaking in laughter as bits of dirt crumble and fall onto them. He opens his eyes with a weirdly giddy smile, beaming at the blonde boy before him.

Tommy is gaping at him, a blue cardigan pulled around his body. The sight of him, so shocked and frozen, a dash of blonde hair falling in his face as he looks on, unsure of what to do, sends Ranboo in another flurry of giggles. With a bright, loud laugh, his knees buckle beneath him and he sits on the floor, laughing at nothing.

“...Ran?” Tommy says hesitantly, sitting up from his bed to peer worriedly at the enderman hybrid beneath him. “Are you–okay?”

One last stray giggle escapes him, before Ranboo’s smile flitters and flakes, his clawed hand reaching up to drag across his face. “I’m tired.”

With those clipped, honest words, energy and movement zaps back into him. He collects himself in a snap, full of energy yet in a far more composed way than the exhausted fit of giggles he had been in previously. He’s moving around the room, gathering random odds and ends and arranging them into groups and plucking certain ones in his hands.

Tommy watches him dart to and fro around the room, still frozen and quite confused as to what the hell happens. “Ran. Ran. Ranboo!” Third time’s the charm, or perhaps it is with the shocked incongruity of the use of the full first name, but Ranboo finally pauses to look at him, stilling in his quick motions. “What’s going on–?”

In a moment, Ranboo appears in front of Tommy from across the room, the barest hint of purple particles following him, the items previously in his hands left at the counter. He ignores Tommy’s disbelieving, shocked, not quite accusatory and rather awed, ‘You did it again!’ in favor of clasping Tommy’s hands in his. “Tommy.” He says intently. “We need to kickstart the plan, by like, thirteen hours.”

“What?!”

“I’m sorry for throwing this on you, but I don’t really know how to explain it. Quackity’s forcing our hand on this with his aggression and pressure on Tubbo, and an unspoken understanding passed between Tubbo and I.” Ranboo’s eyes dart to the side. It’s clear he’s still unsure how to feel about Tubbo. “He seems like he knows what we’re going to do, and we know what he’s going to do. We can do these things without technically stopping each other. It’s sort of a grim acceptance. He’ll officially declare you exiled, fulfilling his deal with Dream, but we’ll still leave. We can escape while mitigating the damage.”

Tommy meets his gaze with wide eyes, before saying quite weakly and breathlessly, “That’s you not really knowing how to explain it?” He sags backward, hand running through his wild blond curls. “You would have done really well as a president.” He says while looking at Ranboo as if he hasn’t seen him in a light like this before.

Ranboo hums a little, absentminded but it’s clear he’s a tad pleased by the compliment.

“Right, we have to pack.” Tommy shakes himself out of it, standing and rushing past Ranboo in a flurry of movement, echoing the frantic darting of Ranboo previously. Ranboo smiles after him, a little tired, but lopsided and fond, before going to meet him.

::

For someone most definitely awaiting exile, it was ridiculously easy to pack up most of his home and sneak to the outskirts of L’Manberg. No one came to guard or watch him. It felt careless, sure, but almost…purposeful. Perhaps Quackity thought he could still bank on taking Tommy by surprise with the exile sentence. Intentional negligence or not, Tommy and Ranboo ducked under the sea of stars and made their way to the border.

They step up to the Nether portal, intending to travel through the Nether System to cover more ground in little time. The sun is beginning to set, and the golden rays mix with the otherworldly, fluorescent purple light of the portal. Bathed in its glow, Ranboo relaxes, barely, and while knowingly perfectly well that as far as anyone could figure, Ranboo couldn’t be from the Nether, Tommy considers the thought. He seems at home under the glow of a portal. Maybe just not this one.

Gripping Ranboo’s clawed hand with a tight vigor, Tommy gestures softly for him to go through. The hybrid steps forward, though stops abruptly when Tommy makes no move to follow him.

“Step in first,” Tommy whispers, hushed, though there is no need. It’s getting late, and with the events of today and the events sure to come tomorrow, most are asleep or at home, nowhere near the edges of the country. Ranboo stares at him, at a loss, but Tommy grows more insistent. “Ran, I’ll be fine. Just go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”

Ranboo’s eyes screw up in something hesitant, wary, but utterly trusting. With one last searching look, his hand slips out of Tommy’s and steps backward into the portal. Tommy catches the glint of a diamond sword that Ranboo pulls out just as he disappears into hell.

For a brief, stifling moment, Tommy just stands there, staring empitly at the portal. Something akin to mourning curdles in his stomach, deep and hollow. In the low stillness of sunset, nothing moves, nor whispers.

His foot slides on the ground, scuffing against the dirt as he turns on his heel. Now facing away from the portal, the bright purple seems to dim into a hazy backdrop. All Tommy can see is what he would leave behind. Hadn’t he died for this country? Hadn’t he built it with blood and tears and his brother by his side, forging a home in the heart of an empire that refused them?

What was it all for, if not him?

Because what is Tommy without L’Manberg? Without Tubbo?

A step taken brings him closer to the earthen planes of L’Manberg, farther away from the glowing portal and farther away from…from Ranboo. He’s trembling in the distant wind, eyes furiously locked on the horizon line, the buildings peeking over the edge, the rebuilt rubble of Wilbur’s dream.

He’s leaving that behind. He has to leave it all behind, because…because they’re going to exile him. Because it’s not Wilbur’s anymore, it hasn't been since the elections were formed, it hasn’t even really been Tommy’s since he lost his life with an arrow to the heart. As his blood had seeped into its waters, a part of Tommy had let go.

What is Tommy without the shattered pieces of his brother’s dreams, cradled in his arms?

Wilbur may have doomed this country into debris, but Tommy will be utterly selfish and leave it to its own destruction once more. With turmoil in his mind and a pang to his heart, he is about to turn around, to barrel through the portal to hell and escape to a better life with his best friend, when he catches sight of a shadowed, horned figure.

Tubbo.

He’s not some distant mirage, wavering and disintegrating as though a hallucination. No figment of Tommy’s passing imagination could conjure such a solid figure as his, as real and rough as the rock beneath his feet.

There is a lightness to his head now, a wavering decision in the palm of his scarred hands.

Tubbo, his best friend, his brother in a way Wilbur and Techno never could be–though what was family if not for hurting each other and spilling shared blood—Tubbo the gentlest of those who hurt him. He could go back. Could return to logic and politics and a friend with horns that grow larger every day and hope that he will never fulfill Wilbur’s doomed legacy.

But it’s not fair. Not to Tommy. Not to Ranboo, waiting anxiously on the other side of the portal. Not to Fundy, quietly hoping that what is left of his family gets to be free. Not to Wilbur, who died undeserving of love yet got it so desperately and fully; who built a country that twisted its poison into his brother’s lungs past surviving ash and bombs.

Not even to Tubbo, shackled to decisions and positions and under the watchful eye of malicious figures, thrown into a political battle of wits when only months before he had been a careless child that won a war. With horns as heavy as the sky that curl to hide his tears, pointed as if to strike himself.

Tommy’s racing thoughts of brothers and home and presidents are abruptly halted when the shadowed figure, unmistakably Tubbo, moves.

Now, there are many things he could have done.

Tubbo could have straightened his back, saluting rigidly in a nostalgic motion, bringing back those months of when revolution burned in their veins and they dreamed of something greater. It would have been something Wilbur would’ve done. Some dramatic send-off, calling back to when things were bright and hopeful. It was something Wilbur had done, heard from the hushed whispers intermittent with sobs from Phil, as he had died in view of a destroyed nation.

Tubbo could have reached out a palm, extending past the hundreds of feet between them to reach towards Tommy, a silent call for him to return, to grasp his scarred hand and get pulled back home.

Instead, Tubbo reaches up to his neck, grasping a familiar red cloth. Though old and a bit tattered, it was unmistakable. Tommy’s bandana. The one they swapped when wartime tensions had reached its peak, when they weren’t sure who to trust and what to do.

Tommy hasn’t seen the red bandana on his friend since Tubbo’s impromptu inaugural speech, right before Wilbur’s final detonation. After it all, the bandana was swapped for a mature dark green tie to match his presidential suit.

“Tubbo…” Tommy whispers, overwhelmed, and though he couldn’t possibly hear it from so far away, Tubbo nods. There’s a small, sad smile on his face. And maybe, just maybe—a tear, streaking down his face, trailing down and cutting through his burn scars.

They’ve made their choices.

“Goodbye.”

Tommy steps backwards, eyes on his old friend as the portal warps his view, distorting Tubbo’s figure in a swaying purple.

He stumbles as he reappears on the other end of the portal, but gentle hands support him before he can trip onto the floor. He looks back, up at Ranboo, who smiles softly with understanding in his eyes.

He straightens, taking in his surroundings. The Nether is cloyingly hot, heat seeping into his skin. Already, he feels the slick of sweat on the back of his neck.

He is in literal hell, and yet he grins at Ranboo as though the sun had risen for the first time in a long, deadly winter.

He is free.

Ranboo takes his hand, the cool of his claw an oasis in the heat of the Nether, and together they set off to find a path to a new home, thousands upon thousands of blocks away from Tommy’s tomb.