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A rustle and swaths of faint fabric pooled by his side. His good side.
“You look lonely.” said the ghost.
Tubbo absolutely did not want to talk to him right now.
…
“So… how's Michael?”
“Leave.”
He did not leave. Tubbo was getting quite annoyed now.
The ghost, who apparently hadn't been sitting, sat down next to him. Tubbo made a point of scooting a couple of inches away.
The ghost stared at him. He dared to look back.
As close as they were, the fabric that covered the ghost’s face, which once seemed opaque, was transparent. Tubbo stared at the face of his dead husband for the first time in 3 months and his stomach rolled with disgust.
Tubbo stared and couldn't look away.
He should have expected it, he's looked a ghost in the eye before. Their eyes are glazed over, tinted grey, and pupils dilated. Ghostbur’s were permanently stained blue after Doomsday, his tears were ink-like and dyed the rotten sclera permanently.
Ranboo’s tears burned him. Ate away at the sensitive skin on his cheeks and left them scarred.
The ghost’s face was blemishless. And his eyes were perfectly white.
Tubbo felt as though he stared at a stranger.
The ghost took his hand and gently placed a wilted pink tulip in his palm. Tubbo wanted to throw up.
“You left it at my house. I think you forgot it there.”
Tubbo got up and ran. He didn't stop running until he reached Snowchester. And even then, he didn't stop until he was inside his house.
The tulip in his hand was half crushed and fell apart when he opened his fist. He let it fall.
…
He was really not good at this whole ‘grieving process’, huh.
Guess he's still in denial.