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Nighttime in Snowchester is cold and dark and eerily silent. The only sound you'll hear after dark is the wind's screaming as it whistles past your window. The cold arctic isn't touched by the warm sun meant to come with April, but this chill is familiar in a bittersweet way. Reminds Tommy of his time with the Blade.
This is different.
The mansion is big and warm and empty; there's too many rooms for only four souls.
"Tommy, can you go put away dishes? I need to get Michael ready for bed." Ranboo's low voice breaks through his thoughts.
It's barely 9 PM, but the house is already settling down for the night. Tommy raises an eyebrow and turns to glance at the kitchen doorway. Plates and bowls pile next to the sink. The piglin nods. "Yeah, yeah, I got it."
"Thanks, man," Ranboo sighs, and he's gone without another word. His tail whips behind him like it's working overtime to keep the guy balanced and Tommy rolls his eyes. He feels his joints pop as he drags himself off the couch and saunters to his task.
He tugs at the faucet handle. It resists. He tugs harder, and cold water begins to gush from the spout. "There we go."
The sinkwater stains the fur on his arms as he reaches for the first dish. It's a nice ambient noise as he listens to the otherwise silent house. Tubbo must be off showering right now. He'll brush his teeth, clean off his horns and hooves, and comb through his fluffy hindquarters with a brush. Then he'll treat his scars and change into pajamas, say goodnight to Michael, and meet Ranboo in their room.
Ranboo's probably in another bathroom, Tommy decides as he reaches for silverware next. The Beloveds_ always give Michael a bath before bed, making sure no wounds have gotten infected and he's still fluffy and healthy and happy. Then Ranboo will help him clean his hooves and bones and teeth and then he'll whisk him off to bed.
Tommy doesn't quite know what Ranboo himself does before bed.
Ow.
He stares at his hand. Blood begins to stain the thin fur around hoof-tipped fingers; the perpetrator, a steel knife in his left hand, is mockingly clean. He must've not used a rag to clean it. Oops.
Tommy turns to wash the blood off, staring down the hall at the thud of feed. He watches Ranboo follow his little son to the bedroom with the stars on the ceiling and the live chicken roosting on the bookshelf. Tommy glances back at his hand to see that the bloodflow has only increased under the water's flow and it's dripping off of his arm and staining the sink.
A low ring introduces itself in his ears. The piglin looks around again, but the room is empty. Tommy debates calling for some help, but the only help he'd want is a burnt, deaf old goat. Tubbo's not gonna fuckin' hear him from down here, his left ear is missing and the other's got tetanus to make Technoblade jealous. And Tommy sure shit doesn't want Ranboo's help.
He turns to stare at his hands again. The faucet is running blood now, too. Tommy slams down on the handle, but the stream doesn't stop. The drain isn't working, either, and Tommy feels dread grip his body as the sink begins to flood. He takes a step back and hits something soft.
He glances up. Wilbur smiles at him from above, so scarily taller. Dark blood is tricking down his mouth, a sign of a punctured stomach, Tommy knows. His fur is soaked and stained with red and he's towering like a brute. He looks so inhuman; too much like the piglins the Nether holds, like Technoblade, like Tommy. His tusks are bloody and his shirt is torn and ragged. The hybrid has lost his humanity.
Tommy whips back around when he hears the sick drip of blood spilling over the edge of the sink, staining the wood below his feet.
"Tommy, come back," Wilbur murmurs behind him. "I'm so lonely."
The blood begins to rise, the blonde fur at Tommy's ankles go red and sticky.
A scream sounds.
"There's nobody to play cards with in hell."
The scream sounds again.
Tommy jolts awake.
The air in his room is cold. His eyes drift to the window. The curtains are drawn tight and no wind ruffles them. He sighs in such a relief when he hears no glass shattering and sees no loose shards on the warm wood floor.
He sighs, thank god. He's safe. It's ok. He's in Tubbo's mansion, in his room, nobody's gonna hurt him, he's fine, he's safe, he's ok, Tubbo's ok, Ranboo's ok, Michael's o-
The scream sounds again.
Michael's not ok.
"Michael?" Tommy whispers. He throws his blankets off, slips out of his bed. The wood creaks beneath his feet. His tail twitches as he hears just the faintest cries in his shredded old ears, too high-pitched to be anyone else. "Michael?"
He throws open his bedroom door. The hallway is long and narrow and he sees, at the far end on the left, the room he's looking for - stickers decorate the door.
"Michael!"
Footsteps thud on the floor. Tubbo groans as they register in his head, faint in his ruined ears. The quiet purring of the room falls silent when Ranboo hears it too. A stiff silence takes its place, but Tubbo is calm.
He stretches and rolls off the bed, steadying himself before he hits the ground. Ranboo grumbles as the warmth beside him vanishes and Tubbo adjusts the blankets he leaves behind.
"Come back," Ranboo yawns. "'s cold."
"Yeah, yeah, in a minute," Tubbo grabs a sword and scabbard. "I gotta check something."
"What is it?" the blankets next to him murmur.
"Someone just ran down the hall," Tubbo wisely observes. "Could be Tommy. Or an intruder."
"Someone broke in?" Ranboo stiffens. His eyelids flicker open, he props himself up on his elbow.
"Go back to sleep, I'll take care of it."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Ranboo sighs and flops over, burying his head in the pillow. "Alright. Don't die, please."
"Got it, bigman."
Goat hooves tap against the floor as Tubbo pushes open the door and glances around. The mansion is dark, all the doors are firmly shut tight, the rooms are silent. Tubbo pushes his hair out of his face and makes his way down the hall, checking for lights under the doors or out of place ob-
Tubbo slows.
Michael's bedroom door is wide open.
Tubbo resists the urge to rush down the hall with a sword. Instead, he steps quietly and carefully and slowly up to the door. His ears - or what's left of them - twitch and flick, straining to hear like Tommy or Ranboo. The noise hits him faint - the sound of quiet crying claws at him but he continues to sneak, hand on the sword on his hip. He peers inside the room.
The only light Tubbo has to go by is the faint glow of the little nightlight he'd left on the dresser. Otherwise, the room is cast in shadow. But Tubbo's eyes shoot to the half-illuminated bed and his heart drops when he sees no child curled among the blankets and pillows and plushies.
He glances around the room and finds his target just to the left, tucked at the corner between the bed edge and the wall. Solace floods his body and he makes out, just barely, soft brown and shredded ears. Tusks gleam in the faint light, and Tubbo can see a soft mane in the dark, reminiscent of the great boar king of the arctic. A twitching, thick-furred tail, plaid pajama bottoms and a baggy white shirt.
Tommy, sat in the dark, Michael held tightly against his chest.
The blonde is humming something to the kid, rocking in place.
Tubbo sags with relief, his son is safe in Tommy's arms. But he doesn't quite leave, doesn't go back to his room, to Ranboo. Instead, he tilts his head and angles his intact ear to the doorway, trying to listen, trying to paint in his head where he'd heard that song before. It's not in any language he recognizes, but the melody reeks of familiarity nonetheless. Tubbo racks his brain; where has he heard that lullaby?
A gray ghost sings quietly to a battered blonde boy. Tubbo adjusts his jacket, he doesn't feel like he has the right to listen.
An enderman murmurs the tune he'd heard from the boar of the north when he'd fallen into the burning snow. Tubbo clutches the lapels of his husband's suit in a grip death would envy.
The brute towers over the smallest little spirit, draws him close to guard him against the cold and hums to him as the spectral worriedly asks what had happened to his brother when the anvil had dropped. Tubbo sheathes his sword; he'll leave them be.
The warrior drapes his cloak over a shaking little piglin, the brother he'd never acknowledge, and he warbles a comforting song. Tubbo wishes he'd been there to comfort him, too.
The farmer mumbles his melody to the fallen leader as the curly-haired hybrid cries in the cave of stowaways, potato farms and revolution. Tubbo straightens his liar's tie and leaves without farewell.
Tommy sings it to Tubbo's son - the song Technoblade had always murmured to him, and to Wilbur, and even to Ranboo, and Tubbo just watches.
Tubbo had never been on the receiving end.
Tommy rocks with a light gentleness Tubbo rarely ever sees from the blonde. The kind of warmth reserved only for his sweet cows, a warmth he's offering to Michael.
"What's wrong, Big M?" Tommy asks when he's finished his lullaby and the baby's cries are reduced to sniffling. "Why were you screaming?"
The child tells him, and god, Tubbo wishes he could understand his son. Tommy listens, then he jokes and jests in that same low, foreign tongue and Tubbo watches through the dim light as Michael giggles, as he wipes off his face with his little hands.
Tommy lifts Michael up and stands. He speaks in English; "Let's go find Papa and Dad, alright? You can sleep in their bed, they'll protect you. I'm sure they won't mind."
Tubbo stiffens. He closes the door gently, then turns and books it down the hall and back to his room. He didn't want Tommy and Michael to turn and see him eavesdropping, but he knows that even his torn old ears could pick up his noisy hoofsteps on the wood tile - and they can't hold a candle to Tommy's apex hearing.
He knows Tommy heard him.
Oh, well.
Tubbo's hung his sword back on the wall before Tommy even gets to the hall. Ranboo barely reacts as Tubbo jumps over the edge of the bed and worms into the blankets with no hesitance, pressing himself against the warmth Ranboo offers. He hears a mutter of You alright? and he moves to pat Ranboo's cheek in a quiet Yeah, now shush.
Soon enough, they hear the quiet tap of piglin hooves as Tommy approaches their room about a minute later. The hall light flickers on and the wood creaks as he pushes the door open.
Tubbo keeps his eyes sealed tight and resists a smile as Tommy quietly drops Michael into the space between his fathers. The blonde pats his nephew's little fluffy head and turns to leave, but Michael squeaks and immediately reaches for Tommy, trying to grab his arm. Tubbo sees his chance and yawns, he pretends that the movement had woken him.
"Michael?" he mumbles. "What's up, tiny?"
The little pig takes the immediate opportunity and cries to Tubbo, pointing and gesturing at the blonde stood frozen at the foot of the bed, still poised to leave.
Tubbo understands. Michael's upset that Tommy is leaving. But Tommy remembers how to move and he tugs his arm out of the child's grasp. "I'll be in my room if you need me, M."
And he leaves without another word, despite the teary protests of the little piglet in the bed.
Michael deflates like a puppy when the door clicks closed.
Tubbo sighs and wraps an arm around him, pulling him against his chest. "It's okay, bud. Your uncle's just a hermit."
The piglin shakes his hands, palm up, in front of his body, thinks for a moment, then lifts one hand with the thumb and pinky extended and throws it out. It's sign language. "What that?"
"'Hermit?'"
Michael nods.
"I'll tell you in the morning," Tubbo decides. "For now, go to sleep, buddy. No nightmares are gonna hurt you when I'm here, got it? We'll keep you safe, promise."
A dark gray paw reaches over the two at we. Ranboo tiredly tugs them closer, his eyelids flickering; his eyes are glowing purple like a cat's and Tubbo laughs quietly as he starts purring again.
When the tundra's morningbirds are screaming again and the sun drifts bright through the curtains, Tubbo is jostled awake again. He blinks and opens his eyes to Ranboo, stretching his long limbs above his head. A small body is tucked under Tubbo's head, Michael is sound asleep.
"Morning, Boo," Tubbo whispers.
"G'mornin', Tubbo," the enderman yawns. "And Michael." Ranboo glances at his husband out of the corner of his eye and buffers - he turns to stare at the space beside the bed instead. He snorts. "And Tommy, I guess."
Tubbo follows his gaze and bursts into laughter. Leaning against his side of the bed in a position that definitely isn't comfortable is none other than the great TommyInnit, arm propped up against the mattress and head tucked into the crook of elbow. He's sound asleep, there's a blanket draped across his shoulders, and he rumbles like an oversized cat. He must've come in the night.
"His neck is gonna fuckin' hurt when he wakes up," Tubbo manages through his cackling. Michael blinks awake as the living heater beside him rocks with laughter. He sits up, notices his parents are staring to the left, and props himself up on Tubbo's hips to see what's so funny.
The smile that splits across his little face is heartmelting.
They have waffles for breakfast.