Chapter Text
Ranboo needs to die. Now.
Tubbo stays quiet until they falls asleep. To their credit, they don't try to start a conversation with him either. There's an unpleasant tension between them now, and Ranboo keeps their distance all the way to nightfall. He thinks the only time they get within a meter of him is when they come over to drag their sleeping bag to the other side of the store they've holed up in, behind the checkout counter.
The entire time, he tries not to think about what he's about to do. If Tubbo really focuses, he can feel the hole Ranboo punched through his mind like a physical wound. Or, not a wound, exactly. It's like Tubbo had spent his whole life with a door in his bedroom that nobody knew about. Like he had slept in that room every night for eighteen years, then Ranboo came through with the key and threw the door wide open, so Tubbo could realize exactly how unsafe he was the entire time. That Ranboo could enter into the most private place Tubbo knew anytime they wanted. Are his thoughts leaking out into the air even now? Can Ranboo hear them? Could they hear what Tubbo was thinking the whole time?
Tubbo does math in his head until his watch says it's one o' clock. Then, he gets up. He is used to moving silently through homes, but the convenience store is a different beast. There's no creaky planks, but one section in the middle of the floor has collapsed entirely into some kind of shallow sinkhole, and the area around it is covered in empty chip bags. It'll be difficult to tackle, even with the loud rain outside. Tubbo takes off his shoes and creeps down across the linoleum floor, dropping onto all fours when he has to go past the glass windows that overlook the parking lot — no risks. He supports himself on the empty shelves to avoid making noise, stepping onto them when there's no gaps in the plastic.
Ranboo didn't even bother covering their neck.
Tubbo looks down at them, lit only by the light of the moon. Their hair isn't actually grey like he thought — it's mostly black with these shiny white strands mixed in everywhere, like Ranboo is old instead of eighteen or something. Tubbo thinks they're around his age, at least. That one school ID he found in their backpack said Ranboo was 13, but Ranboo also told him they hadn't gotten a new one in a long time. It would really suck if Ranboo was just a tall 14 year old, but Tubbo has no way of knowing and after this, he'll have no way of finding out.
Quietly, slowly, he moves to straddle their upper body, kneeling with one leg on either side of Ranboo's sleeping bag. The hoodie they're using as a makeshift pillow has their hair framing their face like a halo, and it is only now that Tubbo realizes how neat it is. Has Ranboo seriously been doing whatever the fuck they do to their own hair to keep it from getting tangled? Their lips are chapped, parted just enough to make a tiny triangle of black that leads to the inside of their mouth.
Ranboo's neck is warm to the touch. He can feel patches of eczema rash under his fingers on one side, smooth skin everywhere else. Tubbo moves two fingers to their pulse point. It's much slower than what he felt when he was checking up on their injury earlier today; Ranboo must really be unconcious. He puts both hands around their neck, and notes that his fingers meet on the other side.
Tubbo can wrap his hands all the way around.
How fucking adorable of them, to be so fragile.
It takes about five seconds for Ranboo to wake up once he starts squeezing.
Their eyes fly open and they jerk upwards, but can't push Tubbo off. Ranboo's arms are still in the sleeping bag, and he can feel them squirming underneath him, desperately trying to get air. Tubbo squeezes his legs together to cut off the possibility of Ranboo getting his arms free and Ranboo makes eye contact with him.
Their expression is pleading, uncomprehending, terrified. Ranboo says something, but they don't have enough air to get it out and the words die on their tongue. He thinks it might've been "why?".
Tubbo opens his mouth, and then he closes it. There can't be much more time left now.
Suddenly, there's this sense of free fall, like a hypnic jerk or missing a step on the stairs. Tubbo feels someone lurch his body to the right and he moves like he weighs nothing at all, tumbling head over arse until he rolls into the sinkhole. His eyes stay on Ranboo the whole time, so he's treated to the delightful view of Ranboo weakly pushing themself out of their sleeping bag. Fucking amazing.
Tubbo lands on his side, against a piece of tile that jabs painfully against his outer thigh. His body wriggles away from it and flips onto its back, then his hands come up and wipe some of the dirt off his face, away from his mouth. His eyes close, his breaths slow, and he realizes too late that Ranboo is putting him to sleep. Like he's their unruly toddler. He wants to kill himself, and that's his last thought before he blacks out.
Ranboo still hasn't left when he wakes up. His body is in a different position, cross-legged on a hard, smooth surface—the tiles—and his eyes are still closed. They open, and Tubbo discovers that Ranboo is sitting cross legged across from him, back straight, hands twisting rhythmically in their lap. He has no control over his breathing, his eyes are trained on theirs and he flinches at the vulnerability of it all, but Ranboo never lets the impulse come to fruition. Like before, every dropped signal contributes to this mounting sense of frustration, neurochemicals piling up in their chambers. Or something. He's not a neurologist.
If Tubbo focuses, and it is so weird to try to focus on something when his eyes don't follow, he can see that Ranboo's neck is bruising in the shape of Tubbo's hands. He wants to laugh. Ranboo is probably seeing all of this hi Ranboo you little dickwad puppeteer loser asshole but he can't make himself care anymore. Tubbo is still in freefall, and everything else seems so far away.
Ranboo wrinkles their nose at him. "Okay." They pause, and then, "If I stop, are you going to shoot me? Nod or shake your head."
There'd be no point in going for the guns, they're too far away. Tubbo's pretty sure Ranboo took his Swiss Army knife too, and strangling is obviously too slow.
He tries to shake his head. Nothing happens.
"Great. Good." Ranboo doesn't let go. Tubbo strains against it, as much as he can strain against anything with no body, and runs into a wall. He's struck with the mental image of being gripped from the inside, hundreds of Ranboo's stupid spidery hands emerging from every nerve ending, circling every part of him, holding his mouth shut. His gag reflex tries to trigger.
Ranboo looks away. "I didn't want to leave you. I—I could've, but I didn't," they start.
Tubbo would've left them, if he was in their position. He would've put a bullet in Ranboo's head, no hesitation.
"I don't think either—you won't survive alone. Nobody can. And sometimes when I—" Ranboo taps the side of their head "—go in here, especially for the first time, people get weirdly angry. I mean, I'm in their brain, and it just kind of dumps massive amounts of stress everywhere. Like, a disproportionate amount." They laugh awkwardly. "I know you're mad at me. It—I—I know. It's nobody's fault. But. It will…probably go away soon, and until then, I'll stay out of your way."
Ranboo stops pleading their case to the empty shelves and starts looking Tubbo in the eye again. He feels his body go limp, and then buzz all over, every part numb with pins and needles. Tubbo blinks on his own. He swipes his tongue around his mouth and rocks back and forth, while Ranboo watches eagerly. "Deal?" they ask.
Wow. Ranboo doesn't think they're a threat at all. How fun. Tubbo has half a mind to throw himself back into the dirt.