Chapter Text
“Man,” Schlatt groaned from behind Quackity as he put his shoes on the rack. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Same here,” Quackity yawned. He arched his back, reveling in the satisfying series of pops that ran down his spine. “I’m gonna crash.”
“You did good today, yknow?”
Quackity turned to face him, a delighted smile on his face. Schlatt’s praise was hard to come by, but when it did come, it always left his heart soaring. “You think?”
“Fuck yeah.” Schlatt grabbed him by his waist, squeezing his hip possessively as he pressed a rough kiss to his forehead. “This festival’s gonna be great. I know you’ve been working hard.”
“All your idea, baby,” Quackity mumbled into his chest, and Schlatt laughed.
“Damn right it is! I’m so fucking smart.” His hand squeezed Quackity’s hip again before slipping higher up his back. “C’mon, let’s sit down.” He guided them both over to the couch, Quackity leaning into his side and basking in the warmth of his body as he nuzzled into the crook of his neck.
They cuddled in silence for a few minutes, Quackity gradually shifting closer and closer until he was practically sitting in his fiancé’s lap. It was rare that Schlatt ever allowed him to get this far in simple domestic affection. Usually, he rolled his eyes and called him clingy, often accompanied with a critique of his masculinity, or he took charge and advanced it to something a bit more sexual. Not that Quackity really minded the latter, but there were times where he just wanted to sit and cuddle.
Now, however, Schlatt only laughed as he stroked his hair. “You’re so fucking cute, pumpkin.”
Quackity turned pink at that, shoving his face deeper into his neck with an embarrassed whine as Schlatt let out an affectionate huff. He stayed like that for a little longer, savoring every moment in his lover’s warm embrace.
In all honesty, Quackity couldn’t believe he was letting him cuddle for this long, though he attributed it to their mutual exhaustion. Or maybe Schlatt was just in a good mood for once. Either way, he was taking full advantage of this opportunity.
“Hey baby?”
“Hm?” Quackity mumbled sleepily.
“Think you could get us a drink?”
Quality frowned and sat up a bit to better look at Schlatt, who was staring down at him in expectation. “You already drank yesterday. Got really fucking drunk too.”
“And?”
“You said you’d lift up on the drinking a bit,” he argued. “It’s bad for you.”
Schlatt rolled his eyes, shifting away so that Quackity was mostly out of his lap. He instantly missed the warmth. “It’s just one drink, man. You’re not my goddamn babysitter.”
“That’s what you always say—”
“Fucking hell, Quackity,” said Schlatt, voice rising in volume. He wasn’t yelling, per se, but Quackity flinched anyway. “Loosen up a little bit. Just get the drink. It’s not that hard.” His hand moved towards him and Quackity’s heart leapt to his throat, but he only lightly squeezed Quackity’s thigh. “You could do with the exercise anyway.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Quackity muttered, even as he stood to follow Schlatt’s instruction. He was always bad at saying no to him, and anyway, he didn’t want to ruin the night. While he sometimes put up a fight with his fiancé’s antics (which he usually lost, and quickly), he was exhausted enough to do anything to keep the fragile peace and domesticity they had going right now. “Fine, I’ll get you your drink,” he finally relented. “Want anything specific?”
From the couch, Schlatt gave him a lazy grin. “I’m feeling some whiskey tonight, whaddya think?” And before Quackity could respond, he added, “Make sure it’s on the stronger end.”
“Yeah, alright,” he mumbled, making his way towards the cellar.
“And get one of the nicer ones,” Schlatt called out from the couch. “I want to spoil my baby tonight.”
Quackity rolled his eyes even as his cheeks warmed. Deep down, he knew Schlatt just wanted to enjoy himself, but Quackity liked to think it was actually about “spoiling” him, that this was simply Schlatt’s unique way of showing affection.
Quackity hated going to the cellar, hated the darkness and silence and rows of fancy bottles that made anxiety swirl in his gut. The door creaked as he swung it open, and he shivered as he was hit with the cooler air of the basement.
He carefully made his way down the stairs, foot feeling for the edge of every step before he put his weight on it. He’d rather not fall again, and his neck twinged with phantom pain at the memory.
Quackity let out a breath when he reached the bottom. He flicked on the lights, and with a small buzz the room was flooded with a dim light that made it just barely possible to read the labels.
He scanned the racks, looking for something on the lower end of what could be considered “strong” while still suiting Schlatt’s tastes. Quackity didn’t have much of a taste for whiskey himself, preferring a cold can of beer any day, but he knew Schlatt liked the show of luxury and sophistication. At last he found a bottle that he hoped counted as “nice,” recognizing it from one of their fancier date nights earlier in their relationship, and he picked it off the rack.
Maybe the shared memory would put Schlatt in warm spirits. They first drank this at a nice restaurant, but Quackity loved the idea of cuddling up next to his fiancé on the couch with glasses in hand. It sounded like a cliche scene of a sweet, domestic couple, and he latched onto the mental image as he gripped the bottle’s narrow neck.
The glass was smooth and slippery in his palm, and he clutched it tightly as he picked a couple glasses off the opposite shelf and made his way back up the stairs. It was a slow process, having to carry everything himself, as it forced him to pause every couple steps to adjust his grip so nothing slipped out of his hand.
At last he reached the landing, and he shut the door with his hip and crossed the kitchen, heading toward the living room.
At this point he was in view of the couch, and Schlatt lifted himself to give him a once over, a smile returning to his lips. “There you are, pumpkin. I was scared you got lost down there for a second.”
Quackity rolled his eyes. “Not that you can blame me if I did. It’s dark as shit down there.”
“I’ll get someone to install better lights. Just for you.” He gave him a wink, and Quackity couldn’t help but smile.
Schlatt was in a good mood. A really good mood. He was worried he’d triggered Schlatt’s short patience, normally multiplied when he was tired, but the man was still being sweet, if a little corny. The past couple weeks had been exhausting to say the least, and Quackity’s mind was elated with thoughts of finally getting to spend a peaceful, romantic night with his fiancé.
Even if he was drinking again. Though there was a decent chance that if Quackity asked him to limit it, he’d listen, and that was enough to soothe his nerves for the time being.
“What’d you get?” asked Schlatt.
“Remember when you took me to that one restaurant with the red floaty lights?” Schlatt hummed affirmatively. “I thought I’d get the same whiskey we had. You were so excited to have me try it, remember?”
“Aww, you’re so sentimental.” Schlatt lifted himself further to get a better view of the bottle.
Quackity tried to lift it into the air a bit so he could get a better view. The movement was a bit jerky from his exhaustion, and to his horror the narrow neck of the bottle slipped from his sweat-slicked grip, shattering upon impact with the stone tile of the kitchen floor.
“Fuck,” he swore, staring at the mess. Amber whiskey pooled and spread across the expanse of the tile, and even more was splattered up the white cabinets of the kitchen. Some even reached the edge of the living room carpet, and Quackity could only hope that it didn’t stain.
Even worse was the shattered glass that surrounded him. There were too many shards to count, and considering how small they were he was bound to step on a few while trying to tiptoe his way out. He probably already had a few embedded in his pants and fuck—he was still in his work clothes. Not to mention how much of a bitch they’d be to clean, especially with the dips between the tiles.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Quackity’s eyes snapped up to meet Schlatt, who was now standing and staring at him in a mix of anger and contempt. “I—”
“Do you have any idea how much that cost? Are you fucking stupid?”
His face flushed. “I didn’t do it on purpose, asshole.”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it, pumpkin?” Schlatt stepped closer, and Quackity instinctively stepped back.
He hissed as his heel met a shard of glass, the sharpness barely cushioned by his socks. His eyes watered, but he forced himself to blink the wetness away lest the tears become visible. Schlatt always hated when he cried.
“You destroyed a perfectly good, very expensive bottle of whiskey. Congratulations, Quackity. Are you proud of yourself?” Schlatt sneered at him.
“I said it was a fucking accident!”
“Well, your ‘fucking accident’ just cost me a damn expensive drink! Do you know how much I paid for that shit?”
“All hard-earned, I’m sure.”
Schlatt’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Quackity suppressed a flinch. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll clean it up, is that what you want?” He was tired. He didn’t want to fight, just go to bed and maybe pull out the shard that was slowly getting buried deeper into his heel.
“What I want is for you to stop ruining everything I do!”
You just told me I did good today, he didn’t say, even as his heart sank. “It’s one fucking bottle!” Quackity yelled in frustration.
“And if I break your arm, is it just one limb?”
If he was in a more logical mental state, Quackity would recognize that this was an empty threat. Schlatt’s style was not often physical, and in the few times it was, he’d never physically harmed him with anything more than a slap or a bruising grip when they were standing nose-to-nose in a particularly heated argument.
However, Quackity was barely keeping himself together, mind fragile with fear and exhaustion, and so he took another step back. Thankfully, he didn’t feel any new stings in his other heel, but he could feel the initial shard burying itself deeper as he put more weight on that foot.
“I’m running an entire fucking country, in case you haven’t noticed. The least you could do is carry a bottle of whiskey without dropping it.”
“Oh, shut up, Schlatt,” Quackity shot back defensively. He instantly regretted it, wary of provoking Schlatt even further, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “All you do is sit around while I actually get the work done. It’s thanks to me that your sorry ass even ended up in power. And we’re a coalition, in case you forgot.”
Schlatt barked out a laugh, humorless and ugly. “Coalition. Yeah, keep telling yourself that. It’s no secret I’m in charge here, everyone knows you’re just my bitch.”
Quackity’s ears burned in embarrassment, and he felt another wave of tears rush into his eyes against his will. “I’m not your—”
“You’re crying now? You’re so pathetic. It’s a wonder anyone even voted for your ass.” He snickered to himself. “Actually, that’s probably the only thing they voted for.”
“Why are you—”
Schlatt’s eyes dropped lower, and a burst of nausea filled Quackity’s gut as he tried to angle himself away. “Though recently you’ve been slacking there too. You had one job, flatty patty.”
“Stop,” Quackity rasped, voice fighting to make its way out of his throat. He hated when Schlatt got like this, words of barbed wire that left him feeling ashamed and exposed. All he wanted was one night of peace in all the chaos of the last few weeks. One night.
To his horror, the tears spilled over onto his cheeks, and he furiously wiped them away. He was certain he looked like a sorry sight, face red and blotchy while whiskey soaked into his socks.
To his credit, Schlatt did stop, though only after rolling his eyes. “I can’t deal with you anymore. I’m going to bed.” He made eye contact. “Stone cold sober. I’m hope you’re fucking happy.” He turned and took a couple steps towards the hallway that branched out to their bedroom before pausing in his tracks. “Don’t bother joining me until you clean all this up. You better fucking hope it didn’t stain the carpet.”
“Okay,” Quackity whispered. That seemed to satisfy Schlatt, because he nodded once and walked away, leaving Quackity alone in the pool of whiskey and shattered glass.
For a few moments, Quackity stood in place, trying to fight off more tears threatening to spill into his vision. When a broken sob tore its way out of his throat and his vision was just as compromised, he blindly stumbled his way to the nearest stool and sat down, barely feeling the cuts in his feet in the effort to stifle his sobs.
He hated how easily Schlatt reduced him to this and how often it happened. And even more, in the silence of the kitchen where all he could hear was the buzz of the overhead light and his own muffled hiccups, he hated how much he still missed him, missed the warmth of another body and the comfort of another voice.
Everyone knows you’re just my bitch. The memory of Schlatt’s voice echoed in his ears, and sitting on the tiny step stool, still thinking about Schlatt even with shards embedded in his feet, he wondered if the man was right.
The thought made him gag, and he took several deep breaths before he ended up throwing up all over himself. Prime knew he had enough to clean already.
When his tears subsided enough to make out the end of the pool of whiskey and most of the glass pieces that littered the ground, he deemed his vision decent enough to get up, and so he did.
Quackity first tiptoed to the bathroom, gripping the wall to keep his balance, and grabbed the first aid kit. He sat on the toilet, striped off his whiskey-soaked socks, and used a pair of tweezers to pick the glass shards out of his feet, doing his best not to get any blood on the floor. He doused some bandages in healing potion, wrapped them around his feet, and slipped on a thick pair of sandals to clean the kitchen.
The next hour or so passed in a blur, his movements mechanical and his mind too exhausted to form a proper thought. He swept the glass shards, mopped the whiskey, vacuumed the carpet (he hoped the noise didn’t wake Schlatt), and wiped down the cabinets until everything was such a stark white it made his head hurt.
His hands shook as he worked, and his sluggish movements made it take longer to clean than he would’ve liked. He wrung out the last rag, then turned and winced when he checked the time. 2:13 blinked tauntingly at him from the oven display. Evidently, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Finally, he went back to the bathroom, stripped off his dirty work clothes, and used a couple wipes to get rid of the whiskey that had soaked through to his skin. Thankfully, he still had his extra stash of clothes in the bottom left drawer, and so he changed into a fresh pair of boxers and an oversized t-shirt.
Before he turned off the lights, he paused, staring at his reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, which was nothing unusual.
His eyes wandered lower, and he lifted his shirt slightly to look at his ass.
Was it actually getting flatter?
He thought it looked the same as it always did, but maybe Schlatt was right. Maybe he was slacking a bit, being so busy with paperwork he hasn’t been taking care of himself properly. He sometimes wondered if his waist was getting too thin, and maybe that was why he didn’t notice his ass getting flatter, but surely it was just a trick of the light?
Quackity had always openly prided himself in having the “fattest ass in the cabinet,” even before Manberg. He liked to feel sexy, liked to flaunt, and his fiancé found it attractive, so why not?
Recently, however, he found himself staring at his reflection far more often, analyzing every curve and sharp angle with a growing pit of anxiety, sometimes even disgust.
He could feel the pit beginning to fester already, and so he let his shirt drop, the hem reaching past his boxers and concealing his curves.
He turned off the light and tiptoed down the hall to the bedroom, partially to keep the pressure off his injured heels but mostly to keep from waking Schlatt. The man usually slept like a rock, so Quackity wasn’t too worried, but that was when he had a decent amount to drink before. He wracked his brain to remember what Schlatt’s sleeping habits were when he was sober, but his mind drew up blank.
The room was pitch black when he creaked the door open. Schlatt’s snores filled the silence, and with a sigh of relief he edged toward the bed, maneuvering with practised ease in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he made out Schlatt’s figure, which somehow managed to take up a majority of their king-sized bed, as well as all of the covers. Fucking typical.
He put out a hesitant hand on the mattress. When he was met with no reaction, he leaned forward and climbed onto one knee, putting his weight on it. The mattress dipped beneath his leg, and the snores suddenly ceased. Fuck.
“Pumpkin? That you?” Schlatt’s voice came from in front of him, heavy with sleep.
At the nickname, Quackity let some of the tension leak from his shoulders. “Yep, just me. Go back to sleep, honey.” He finished laying down on the edge of the mattress and closed his eyes.
He felt a shift beside him and opened his eyes to find his fiancé leaning over him slightly, still sleepy but much more alert. Quackity’s breath got caught in his throat.
“Did you clean up? Everything?”
“Yeah,” he affirmed. Schlatt paused for a moment, then let out a huff and laid back down, this time leaving a bit more room for Quackity. He was able to breathe again.
“I’m gonna take the price of that whiskey out of your paycheck,” Schlatt told him.
Quackity nodded, then, remembering it was dark, cleared his throat. “Okay,” he agreed. After all, it was his fault, so it was only fair. He had no idea how much it cost, but he hoped it wasn’t too much. Then again, considering he and Schlatt did live under the same roof, he supposed it shouldn’t matter whether the money was in his pocket or Schlatt’s.
(It did matter.)
Quackity turned on his side so he was facing the other. Schlatt’s eyes were already closed, so he let his own flutter shut as well.
Half a minute later, Quackity felt a hand on his arm, and he flinched harshly, eyes opening in panic.
Schlatt frowned at him from across the bed, hand paused on his arm. Looking down, Quackity realized he was only going to stroke it, but the realization did little to calm his beating heart.
“I’m not actually gonna break it,” said Schlatt, and Quackity was surprised he remembered his earlier words. “It’s a fuckin—it was just a metaphor, y’know?”
Quackity shivered, feeling guilty about his reaction. He knew it was all just talk. Schlatt had never physically hurt him in a way that was severe or permanent, so what right did he have to think so lowly of his fiancé? “I know,” he whispered. And then, “I’m sorry.”
Schlatt said nothing, but after a small pause, he resumed his stroking of Quackity’s arm. The tension slowly leaked out of the air, and Quackity let himself relax against the mattress, focusing on Schlatt’s gentle strokes. Within a few minutes, Schlatt fell asleep, hand going limp over his arm.
Quackity scooted a little closer, crossing his arms to hug Schlatt’s extended hand to his chest. It was warm and strong as it always was, and Quackity found comfort in that fact, despite everything that had happened earlier.
After a couple minutes, he followed suit and fell asleep, until nothing but their soft breaths could be heard in the silence.