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“Ranboo,” Tubbo whispers from the doorway. “Holy shit.”
His hair is sleep-ruffled, his eyes dark and bleary, but he’s silver and gold in the kitchen light. With an awkward grin, Ranboo gestures to the plated lump of icing in front of him. “Happy belated wedding?”
The cake is terrible. The icing is white, because that’s what he imagines a wedding cake is supposed to look like look like, but as he was adding decorations, he got distracted, and… well, sitting before him is a blood-red mess of hearts and stars, all dancing across the surface of his sad, lumpy dome cake, baked in the first bowl he could find.
It’s awful. It’s shapeless. He’s really very proud of it.
“So that’s where you went,” Tubbo sighs, breathy with relief. He rubs at his eyes when he catches sight of the cake and complains, “’S too early for murder. Who was it this time?”
“Um… Niki? She would die if she saw this, probably.” It’s nowhere near the truth; Niki would level him with that stare of hers, infinitely powerful, and he would beg for forgiveness and gut himself with a ritual blade to bring honour back to the Syndicate. Or something like that.
“I thought -” Tubbo interrupts himself with a yawn, leans back against the counter. “I thought you left, for a second there. Married me and ran off.”
“I would never.” Ranboo scoops two forks from beside him, shuffling forwards so he can stretch his legs out and let them dangle over the counter. He holds the smaller fork out for Tubbo – he can be very particular about this sort of thing – and waits for him to take it. “Is a healthy breakfast such a crime?”
“This is not a –” Tubbo freezes. Frowns. Grabs his fork, twists it like a dagger. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Yeah. I’m obligated by law to do that, now. Sorry.”
“Sure. What am I meant to do with this?”
“Eat, I think.” To prove his point, Ranboo unceremoniously stabs the cake, prying some out. “It’s, um, vanilla. With berries. I thought that was a – a safe option, so –”
“Oh.” Tubbo fiddles with his fork, flicking it up and down between his fingers.
“It’s cake,” Ranboo says, and he hopes Tubbo knows what he means – it’s a gift. It’s all of his love, made ugly and sweet. “To – to thank you. For letting me stick around.”
“Ranboo Beloved,” Tubbo begins chidingly, then pauses and amends, “Ranboo – Ranboo Underscore-Beloved. That’s what I meant. I don’t…” He smiles at the gaudy mess that is Ranboo’s masterpiece, then back up at him, his eyes oddly shiny. “I don’t think I can ever forgive you for this, big man.”
Underscore-Beloved, Ranboo thinks giddily, and knows that whatever he’s about to say will be nonsense at best. “I didn’t use any of your ingredients, if that helps. I know it’s not bread, or potatoes, or whatever else that you –”
“Thank you.” Tubbo pauses - drops his fork on the counter - drifts to the sink. Flicks it on. Scrubs hard at his hands. He has habits, sure – preoccupations, maybe – but Ranboo doesn’t mind. He’s always careful to dry off his hands, anyway. “Did you marry me as a joke?” Tubbo asks suddenly, with that strange look he gets when he’s nervous: blank and curious at the same time. “It’s funny and all, no judgement. But I don’t know if I should react like it’s serious.”
Ranboo blinks. “I’m pretty serious. Did you want it to be a joke?”
Tubbo shakes his head mutely, eyes wide in the grey morning light.
“Okay. Um. Do you want some wedding cake? Some terrible, awful wedding cake?”
“It has so much poison in it,” Tubbo laments, but he’s lost some of the rigidity in his shoulders. It’s a good sign. “And blood. All sorts of blood.”
“But it’s serious.”
Tubbo nods sharply and parrots, “It’s serious.”
“And it wants to stick around.”
“And it wants to stick around. And its jokes can be a bit alright, sometimes. As long they’re not about being a wedding cake for the fun of it.”
“Its jokes are great all the time, actually. Like – like the other day at the creek, with the -”
“Fuckin’ – what, the bowtie fish? ‘Sofishticated’?” He turns and pushes himself up to sit on the counter beside Ranboo. It’s too squished for the both of them; they’re left pressed together, indistinguishable at the seams. “I want a divorce.”
“I can’t believe you can say that now.”
“Shut up. Forever. Cake.”
“Cake.”
Tubbo takes a forkful. It’s not long before he’s shaking a hand, gesturing, humming with his mouth full.
“You’re going to choke,” Ranboo warns him. “I’ll cry if you do.”
“Shut up,” Tubbo repeats, muffled and content. “You know how when, like, a – a star exhausts its core hydrogen supply, right, and it starts…” He makes a growing motion with his hands, starting as a small circle and drawing them out. Ranboo stares at him, baffled. “Like, as time goes on, it cools and expands, see, and it can swallow entire solar systems, and – well, that’s me right now, is what I’m saying.” He tips his head back, content. “The cake’s good,” he finishes when Ranboo fails to understand. “It’s so fucking good.”
“Your – huh? Will you be alright, with – with no… core hydrogen - something?”
Tubbo shrugs, thudding his heels happily against the cupboards under the counter. “The cake is poggers. So poggers it’s making me die.”
“I’m… glad you like it, then.”
“Serious?”
Ranboo nods. “Serious.”
The morning drifts on.