Chapter Text
Tubbo runs the towel over his hands, soaking up any of the remaining water. He looks at them, front and back, counting each finger as he takes a deep breath. He then checks under his nails for any remaining blood.
He’s relieved to find none.
Next, he checks the mirror. His reflection looks back at him. He looks paler than normal, he notices, he looks more exhausted than usual. His hair is more disheveled, kind of greasy due to a lack of showering in the past few days, and his clothes are wrinkled and—
Right, he’ll have to change that.
Red stains his white t-shirt, small and large patches of it alike with some flecks of it sprayed along the collar. His jeans also appear to be stained with a couple small patches near the top, creating a cohesive stain from the bottom of his shirt to the top of his jeans, and a couple patches on his knees where he must have kneeled in the blood.
He doesn’t remember much from the whole thing anyway. Everything sort of went dark and blurry for a bit and next thing he knew he was in the bathroom washing blood off his hands. He’s not even entirely sure he himself was the one who did it (he is about 94% sure, though).
Tubbo flicks the lightswitch off and stops the flickering of the light in the bathroom. He heads down the hall, walking past the entrance into the living room but not daring to peer in. He knows what’s in there anyway and he doesn’t need to see it again. He heads straight through to his bedroom instead— or, what’s mostly his bedroom. The apartment building they live in isn’t the biggest of spaces, so Tubbo’s forced to share his room with his parents—
Parent , right, only one now. He’ll have to get used to saying parent, singular.
Tubbo grabs a fresh pair of jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie off the floor. These ones might have old stains on them— ones from greasy, cheap takeout and all that— but at least they’re not bloodstains, so Tubbo’s happy. He’ll have to burn the blood stained clothes anyways. He should actually get on that pretty quick, actually.
But first, he needs a drink.
Tubbo pulls the jeans over his hips and the hoodie over his head and makes his way back into the hall, this time hanging a right into the living room. He stops and stands over the dead body laying limp against the couch. He reaches into the jacket that drapes over the body’s shoulders, fishing around for a wallet and smiling to himself when he finds it. Tubbo opens the wallet, finding a ten dollar bill and some change— that should be enough for a ticket and a drink , he thinks to himself. He also grabs the piece of ID, examining the face on it, and Tubbo has never been more thankful to look like his father.
(His father about five years ago and with a shaven face and life in his eyes. Tubbo may not have much life left in his own, but his father has even less, so it all levels out he supposes.)
He slides the ID back in its place and pockets the wallet. He doesn’t waste a second in heading towards the exit, unable to bear the stench of a rotting corpse any longer. His father hasn’t been dead for long, but the smell is still horrible and he hopes the neighbouring apartments can’t smell it yet.
He flips his hoodie up over his head before slipping out the door, locking it behind him.
Tubbo makes the familiar walk to the subway station. It’s not far from his apartment building, only a few blocks down, and it’s one that he’s walked many times before when he needed to get out of the house on particularly rough nights.
Late night walks had always been Tubbo’s favourite. With the sky gone dark, all that was left to illuminate the streets were street lights, and if you lived in an area like Tubbo’s, disrepaired and generally forgotten about, most of the lights were broken, leaving nothing but a few spotlights here and there, thus nearly fully disguising the overall nastiness of his neighbourhood. The cool, night breeze is always a plus too— Tubbo’s never been one for bright sun and sticky heat.
Tubbo keeps his head down as he walks. It's a habit at this point, not making eye contact with anyone out of fear that you might look at them the wrong way and end up in a fight. It’s happened once before and Tubbo doesn’t plan on letting it happen again.
Besides, he can’t let more blood get on his hands.
And, right… that .
Tubbo tries his best not to think about it. He doesn’t want guilt to set in because the last thing he feels about this is guilt . The man had it coming. After years of being neglected until it was time to put away empty beer bottles, having to listen to argument after argument between him and his husband until a slam of doors silenced them, to being on the receiving end of an outburst of anger and forced to feel the pain and bloom the bruises that came with it, the man had it coming .
While Tubbo didn’t remember most of it, he does remember a bit .
The memory is mostly in the form of sounds. Glass shattering against a wall, almost but not quite drowned out by yelling. The words that clouded Tubbo’s mind were negative, derogatory, humiliating . It didn’t last long, though, because there was the sound of glass shards being moved and a quiet— an abrupt kind of quiet to contrast the former yelling — taunting, “You wouldn’t dare.” That was the last straw, Tubbo thinks, and the sudden silence in the apartment left the sound of sharp glass piercing skin to ring out all that louder. It didn’t stop at just one— gods, no . There was a third and a fourth and an eighth, and however many more until the man stopped grunting as the glass was jammed into his body; until it was silent.
Then, of course there was the sound of water running and laboured breaths and a mind clouded with ‘fuck, fuck I just did that’ reveberating in his dizzy mind.
Yeah, no, murder? Not a great experience in Tubbo’s opinion, because now he’s got a body to bury and—
Oh gods, he has a body to bury.
Tubbo doesn’t know how to get rid of a body— hell, he doesn’t even know how to do his own laundry . He has, however, heard enough murder stories on the radio to know what not to do, which is get caught. Most murder cases get found out about because there’s evidence, people reporting them, and as far as Tubbo’s aware there’s no one who’s going to be reporting about his father’s absence, so there’s that point taken care of. Evidence, however, would be much harder to get rid of. Just because Tubbo’s washed the blood off his hands doesn’t mean there’s no longer blood on his clothes, the couch, or the carpet. There’s also, you know, the body itself . Tubbo thinks he has a plan for that too; a way of killing two birds with one stone.
Finally, Tubbo reaches the entrance to the subway station.
He wipes the thoughts from his mind, blanking his mind and focusing only on what’s happening now . It’s essential. He can’t raise any suspicion at all.
So he keeps his head down as he descends down the cement stairs. He approaches a kiosk and purchases a one-way ticket. He doesn’t plan on coming back this way anyway— it’s best to be away from the scene of the crime, Tubbo reckons.
He scans the ticket and heads through the gates, descending more stairs until he reaches the train platform. There’s only one other person there, an older looking man standing on the other end of the platform. He’s likely going to take the first car, so Tubbo stands a fair ways away, setting himself up to take the fifth or sixth car— a fair distance, but not one long enough to raise suspicion.
The wait isn’t long, and before any memories creep their way into his mind, a train comes racing towards the platform. He has half the mind to jump in front of it.
The train stops and the doors open. Tubbo steps into the sixth car, which is nearly empty save for one other person on the other end of it.
He takes a seat, once again glueing his eyes to the floor. His eyes flick from speck to speck across the floor, focusing on each one. His leg bounces anxiously, which probably isn’t the best move to make when you want to look calm and composed and not like you’ve just murdered somebody, but he decides to let himself have this little thing— a drink will help him relax anyway.
The train stops and goes periodically. Tubbo knows the name of nearly each stop anyway— knows that he has to get off in four stops to switch lines, then travel six more before he can get off. He lets his mind go quiet.
He counts down. Four— don’t think about the living room — three— don’t think about the bottles, empty and full alike — two— don’t think about dad don’t think about dad — one— don’t think .
Tubbo stands, makes his way out of the car, heads up a few stairs, down some more, waits for about forty seconds, resists the urge to throw himself in front of the train once more, then sits again.
He counts. Six, five, four…
On the second stop, another person enters the same car as him. The person ducks as they step into the car, preventing their head from hitting the top. They’re essentially all legs, Tubbo thinks, point proven as they awkwardly sit down in the chairs across from him, legs tangling in a position that looks uncomfortable, but they seem content with it.
Having someone enter the train at this hour is rare— even rarer that they look this strange (although strange looking people are quite normal at this hour, just not.. this ).
Tubbo doesn’t want to judge or shame or anything, but the guy looks fucking bizarre . He’s unusually tall, about 70% leg, 30% torso. He’s dressed in a suit as if he has somewhere important to be at this hour, and a mask covers half his face, tinted black and white on either side to match his complexion— ridiculously pale on one half, and dark, almost grey on the other, and if Tubbo remembers correctly most people aren’t grey . It’s fine, though, maybe it’s just makeup or something (the split-dyed hair may help prove that this is some sort of aesthetic, along with the different coloured eyes— dark green and a reddish-brown).
Tubbo briefly wonders what someone like this is doing here at this hour— where they’re going.
As the doors close, Tubbo brings his eyes back down to the floor. He doesn’t want to stare too long— not only would that be suspicious as hell, but maybe this person is really good at reading faces and will be able to tell that there’s some shady business going on with Tubbo.
The train starts moving again and Tubbo keeps telling himself not to stare. He resolves for leaving his eyes at the stranger’s feet, counting each stitch that connected the sole to the rest of the boot. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…
A distant memory begins to play in Tubbo’s mind.
“Well at least I’m not a fuckin’ whore who goes around showing my flat ass to anyone who so much as looks at me,” Tubbo hears Schlatt shout, voice slightly muted behind the closed bathroom door but not nearly enough to drown the argument out completely.
“Excuse me?” Quackity retorts, obviously offended by the sounds of it. “First of all, my ass isn't flat, and second of all, sure, fucking shame me for finding people who actually love me, alright? I’ve barely known these people and they’ve already given me more than you ever have.”
“Oh my god, just shut the fuck up!” Schlatt shouts. Quackity’s response is in the form of a pained yelp, and having heard enough of these through thin walls and doors, Tubbo knows Quackity’s been hit. It was one of those nights, Tubbo supposes, the ones in which Schlatt lashes out with both spiteful words and punches.
Tubbo reaches into his pocket for his pocket knife. While he knows, realistically, he’s relatively safe in the bathroom, you can never be too sure. He busies his hands with flipping the blade of the knife open and closed again, zoning out on a particular tile on the floor to keep himself from spiralling. He feels as if he should be used to the arguments by now.
Tubbo realizes at that moment that those arguments won’t happen again. There will never have to be another night in which he hides in the bathroom and presses his shoulder against the door to keep Schlatt out. Tubbo won’t have to clear up any empty beer bottles to keep Schlatt from tripping on them in the following morning, nor will he have to clean up the messes of vomit on the floor. He’s finally free.
For the most part at least. As long as he gets away with this whole thing.
Tubbo’s eyes flick upwards, away from the stranger’s feet and instead to the wall behind them. The stranger quickly turns their head away, shifting in their seat and coughing, clearly caught in the act of staring at a stranger for a little too long. It’s awkward as hell but Tubbo doesn’t pay much attention to it. Judging by the way the stranger is built he can only assume that awkwardness is just something of a constant in their life.
The train finally reaches the last stop and— excitedly— Tubbo rises from his seat before the train even begins to slow down. He faces the doors and holds onto one of the handles as the train slows to a stop, managing to keep himself upright without stumbling.
The doors open and let him out. Tubbo walks quickly as he makes his way out of the station, continuing to keep his head low. It’s another fairly short walk from the subway station to the specific bar Tubbo’s looking for (it’s not one he frequents often, but has been to enough on particularly rough nights to know where it is without having to give it too much thought). These streets, however, are bathed in light from both streetlights that actually work, and neon signs in the windows of different clubs and shops open late. Music from different buildings plays loud enough to drown out the sound of Tubbo’s footsteps.
Footsteps were something Tubbo had learned to listen for. He always knew where they were coming from within the apartment, and who they belonged to. He could always tell what mood the person was in, too, and what the different sounds meant. Quackity’s footsteps were usually okay to hear, regardless of what mood he was in. The worst thing Quackity ever did to Tubbo was call him irresponsible for not cleaning up after Schlatt one night, but nothing more (and, in Quackity’s defence, he’d had to put up with Schlatt for the past week straight, which, in Tubbo’s experience, is quite a long time).
Schlatt’s footsteps were different, though. The uneven, stumbling ones were always okay. They usually meant Schlatt was too drunk to really care about Tubbo, or even remember he existed, so most of the time they meant he’d be left alone. The soft, tip-toe like ones weren’t good, because while it may seem like they meant Schlatt was calm, it was always usually the opposite; it meant he was looking to pick a fight. Then, of course, the loud angry ones, which were never good in any scenario, so the moment those were heard Tubbo always did his best to make his way out of the house as quickly as possible.
And— oh, that information probably isn’t useful anymore considering…
Tubbo shakes his head, almost as if to physically shake the oncoming thought from his mind. It’s almost annoying having to clear his head so much, because of all things to take up space in Tubbo’s mind, Schlatt should not be one of them.
Without needing to look up, Tubbo turns left and opens the door to the bar.
If he’s being honest, he’s never been the biggest fan of these spaces— there’s sometimes too many people and always too much social interaction, even when the only thing he says is his order.
But it’s better than being at the scene of a crime.
Tubbo takes a seat at the very end of the bar. The barstool is a little high so he has to jump up a tad, but he’s quick in making himself comfortable.
The bar is relatively quiet in terms of it being a Thursday night. The lighting is dim, with lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling encased in squared mason jars. There’s fairy lights lining the shelves that contain bottles of alcohol. The counter is made of polished wood to match the actual tables that dot the floor. There’s also small trinkets everywhere, some hanging from the wall, others placed on shelves and corners of tables. The theme is clearly a little rustic, maybe a little industrial, but Tubbo doesn’t come here for the aesthetics.
The bartender stops in front of him. Tubbo looks up.
“What can I get for you this evening?” He asks, soft spoken. The voice and face is unfamiliar and Tubbo assumes they’re a new employee. They’re in the process of polishing a glass, and Tubbo can’t help but notice the size of their arms— well, the size of them in general. They’re a large guy, built well with muscles that press against their apron. Tubbo squints to get a closer look at the pins on the apron.
‘Sam :)’ one of the pins says, clearly written in their own handwriting, ‘he/him’ says another one placed just below the first.
“Just an old fashioned, please,” Tubbo replies.
“Of course,” Sam says with a sweet smile as he puts down the freshly polished glass. “Can I just quickly see a piece of photo ID?”
Tubbo reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet. He grabs the old driver’s licence and shows it to Sam, whose eyes flick back and forth between the card and Tubbo’s face.
With a satisfied hum, Sam adds, “Coming right up.”
Tubbo pockets the ID and puts his head down, sighing. Somewhere in the background buried under the quiet country music playing through the speakers, Tubbo thinks he hears the door open, but doesn't bother lifting his head to check who's just entered– he’s far too tired for that. The adrenaline must have worn off now.
He can also hear Sam shuffling around, glasses clinking, liquid pouring, and then, finally, “Here you are.”
Tubbo looks up to see that Sam had placed the drink in front of him, face still holding a smile— Tubbo wonders if he always looks that happy to be doing his job.
“Thanks,” Tubbo mumbles, grabbing the ten dollar bill from the wallet and sliding it across the table. Sam returns with change before Tubbo can even take his first sip.
When the first sip does come, it goes down well. The sweetness was definitely needed, Tubbo thinks, and it doesn't take long at all before the familiar numbness begins to seep under his skin. It feels comforting. It’s always felt comforting.
And it’s better than taking sips of whatever’s left in Schlatt’s empties before tossing them out. It’s better than sitting in his room and hearing Schlatt throw up in the living room and knowing that he’ll be called soon after. It’s better than being anywhere around Schlatt— better than being related to a waste of life.
And, yeah, Schlatt’s life was a waste. He lived wasted and he died wasted and now he’s nothing more than something that needs to be disposed of. Past tense. That’s all he is.
Tubbo sighs and takes another sip. It’s cool but it still burns going down.
None of this feels real, honestly. He knows this is part of the five stages of grief— or seven, or however many there are— yet he still tries hard to suppress the denial because the last thing Tubbo wants to feel towards his father is grief. It must be due to the routine Tubbo had followed for the last fourteen-ish years of his life— come home, listen to arguing, try to find something to eat in the almost always empty fridge, clean up Schlatt’s mess, try to get to sleep, repeat. And the fact that none of that will be happening anymore must be fucking with Tubbo’s head, because there’s no other reason to feel grief about Schlatt.
Maybe it’s grief for himself, for what his life could possibly turn into if he doesn’t fix this. Tubbo’s not a killer. He doesn’t just off people for fun. He does it only when there’s a reason to kill and what happened tonight was the cause of a very valid reason. He’s not that bad, he’s really not that bad— Tubbo convinces himself he’s not that bad. But just because Tubbo keeps telling himself he’s not bad doesn’t mean that the body in the living room will disappear, or that the blood on the carpet will evaporate, or that Tubbo will be able to get away with this with no effort whatsoever.
He still has to figure out how exactly to dispose of a body. He’s heard of a few methods before on TV shows, but he’s hesitant to try them considering a lack of information for how well that disposal method would work. It’s not like Tubbo’s done this kind of thing before, so he really has no point of reference. Maybe he could just let Schlatt rot forever while he moves to some foreign country, or maybe he could burn the whole apartment down— no, because then he’d have to get away with arson too— or he could find a way to make it all look like an accident.
Tubbo really should have thought about the consequences of this whole thing before he drove that bottle into Schlatt’s chest.
His heart begins to race thinking about the consequences in their entirety. Tubbo knew killing people was bad— obviously — but he didn’t realize the true weight of everything until he’d actually done it. There was so much to think about, so much that could go wrong, so much error he could make that would end up screwing him over for the rest of his life. If he got caught he’d be put on trial, there’d be no hope for bail or an easier sentence because none of it was in self-defense, and he’d be locked up forever and ever and ever and his already shitty life would become ever shittier and—
This was not something a seventeen year-old should be worrying about.
At least he’d go to juvie. That would make things a little better, right? He could always find a way to escape prison, right? There was a way out of this no matter how bad things got, right?
Who is Tubbo kidding?
He’s seventeen and drinking at a bar courtesy of his dead dad’s drivers license. Identity fraud is already a crime in of itself, what’s a little murder on top of it?
Gods, he needs to get out of here .
Tubbo drains what’s left in his glass, setting it down gently on the table before standing up. He gives a nod to Sam as a sort of silent ‘thank you’ before heading towards the door. He pushes it open and heads out into the night again.
He walks in the direction of the subway station. It’s not because he’s heading back home— no, Tubbo’s not going on the train again at all. He’s just… looking for a place to stay, he supposes. He’s pretty sure there’s a park nearby anyway.
The walk back is different than the walk there; with a slightly quieter mind and more of a sway to his step. Tubbo’s not usually this affected by alcohol, but he reckons it’s been quite some time since his last drink, so it makes a bit of sense.
Another difference in this walk is the presence of audible footsteps.
They’re coming from somewhere behind him— somewhere a few paces away— and without Schlatt clouding his thoughts Tubbo realizes he’s had this off feeling ever since he got off the train, a feeling as if he were being followed. At first he assumed it was just him being superstitious, and not wanting to seem suspicious he didn’t bother checking. But now he might want to turn around, just for a second, just to make sure because he’s 95% positive there is actually someone following him.
Tubbo turns his head, preparing for the worst but…
There’s no one behind him.
He pauses, making sure there really is no one there and it’s not just his tired eyes messing him, but no, there’s just genuinely no one there.
Tubbo hums, a little confused but mostly relieved, and carries on.
Must be nerves and all that anyway, because if Tubbo knows one thing about people who have killed, it’s that they never really have a guilt-free mind afterwards.