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The tower is collapsing. Mounds of flesh pour forth from cracks and crevices, emerging from the shattered walls, ripping wallpaper to shreds. Ranboo abandons the dull axe, the weapon landing on the carpet with nary a thud, and grabs Tubbo’s wrist, fingers wrapped around the yellow sleeve.
An unearthly, deafening howl rings in Ranboo’s ears, as he and Tubbo dash for the beam of light at the end of the velvet corridor. Chunks of concrete raise from under their feet, splitting easily like the thin sheet of ice over a lake’s surface.
Ranboo gives a sharp cry as his foot catches on a pebble. He and Tubbo go tumbling, falling flat on their faces. Ranboo rubs at where his head struck a jagged piece of rubble, flinching at the throbbing of his skull.
Tubbo is the first to pick himself up, offering a hand to Ranboo which he takes. Together, they continue making for the window, the square of glittering moonlight that promises escape.
Behind them, the mountain of flesh chases. Embedded eyeballs flick from corner to corner, some trained on the fleeing children, some glancing at the dark corners of walls. Tapestries crash from where they hang and dust rains from the ceiling. Tubbo and Ranboo dodge crumbling debris and sidestep piles of stone, movements synchronized like they knew each other for a long, long time. As if they didn’t just meet hours prior.
Very soon, they almost reach the window. Ranboo can already taste freedom. Freedom from the tower. Freedom from this twisted, warped world of adults hungry for the blood of children. There lies but only a single ravine between themselves and sweet, delicious freedom.
Tubbo, with quicker steps, makes the first leap. He launches himself over the chasm, landing on his shoulder and rolling to his feet, yellow raincoat flapping behind him. He drops to a crouch and turns, throwing an arm out for Ranboo to grab.
Ranboo ducks his head, eyes squeezed shut and wincing at the sheer strain of his thighs, his muscles. All he can think about is the pressure, the effort. The price of failure.
When Ranboo reaches the edge, he pushes off just as the ground erodes away.
Time slows, and for a moment, Ranboo is suspended in mid-air, body light as a feather. Arm outstretched, fingers barely inches from Tubbo’s. Ranboo can hardly bear to look.
Then, he jerks to a stop.
Ranboo gasps, barely a whisper in the chaos. He dangles from Tubbo’s hand, the latter’s strong grip keeping him from falling to certain doom. Ranboo holds his breath, unwilling to release it lest it be a premature celebration. He merely waits, feet swinging, body limp like a rag doll.
Is Tubbo…not going to pull him up?
Ranboo glances up from the pitch-blackness below him, straight at Tubbo’s face, at the scar that runs diagonally from his forehead down the bridge of his nose, ending just before his chin. One of the many scars he sustained back at the school when kidnapped by those porcelain students.
Swirling in Tubbo’s eyes is an unreadable emotion as he locks gazes with Ranboo. What is that look supposed to mean? Ranboo wants to ask, but his throat tightened, locked in place. He cannot even so much as produce a sound.
Before Ranboo finds his voice, he falls.
Tubbo’s fingers are splayed, expression unchanging. Ranboo grows stiff, tumbling through the air, getting farther and farther away with each passing second. In an instant, Tubbo’s face is no more than a blur, his yellow raincoat lost to the darkness as Ranboo falls into the depths of the tower.
His best friend, his partner whom he went on such a long voyage with, just let him go. With such emotionless eyes. Like he meant nothing. Like he was nothing. The plain lack of anything on Tubbo’s face left a gaping hole in Ranboo’s heart.
He does not even feel the impact when he hits the ground. It should have killed him. It should have shattered his skull, should have broken all his bones, left him without life. But Ranboo does not care about that. He has only one question in his head, racing through his mind without pause.
Why had Tubbo done that?
*
A chair.
Ranboo staggers over the hill of pulsating flesh, ignoring the pink tendril clinging to his ankle. A lone chair stands in the room of flesh, carved of dark wood, legs a thin golden frame. Ranboo moves on his own, gravitating towards the chair, footsteps quiet in the overwhelming heartbeat of the tower.
A chair meant just for him.
Ranboo clambers onto it, lifting his tiny body up onto its gleaming seat. He buries his face in his hands, sobbing quietly into his fingers. What had he done to deserve that? What did he do to Tubbo to warrant such heartless betrayal? After all they have been through, after all they have sacrificed for each other, all they have…
Why did Tubbo…?
The heartbeat grows ever louder, its rhythmic roar drowning out Ranboo’s thoughts. Or keeping him trapped wallowing in his never-ending self-pity. Minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days. Days turn to weeks, to months. Perhaps even years.
Till the cycle starts anew.
The embodiment of sorrow now rests on the chair, elongated arms hanging by his sides. His suit fits him perfectly, red tie hanging from his neck, striking in the white of his shirt, the black of his jacket. The fedora shields his eyes from the glare of the tower’s light.
The time has come. Ranboo rises from his seat, ignoring the permanent burns upon his face, tracks of anguished tears that never quite dissipated.
The face of a boy in a yellow raincoat, the thin line of sliced skin streaked halfway across his mug, appears in Ranboo’s mind’s eye. Never has a day gone past that Ranboo does not think of him, not even as his body changed, as he grew beyond what was humanly possible. Never would Ranboo forget him.
His greatest nightmare.