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"I will never allow myself to be devoured by love again."
--
Exiling Wil and Tommy was the best decision Schlatt made.
They were thorns in his side: whining, complaining, annoying revolutionists who can’t accept defeat. Talk about sore losers.
Watching their faces morph into horror when he stepped onto the podium, grinning from ear to ear, was truly satisfying. Quackity, beside him, doing the same with those stupid black sunglasses on and the blue beanie he never took off over his hair. It was satisfying, to say the least, to watch them get chased out of their- his- country; their stupid blue and white uniforms wrinkled and disappearing in a blur. On the other hand, Schlatt’s suit was perfectly pressed, tie adjusted, and sleeves cuffed right; he felt like a king.
He was a king now.
He had won that election, as rigged as it was; sure, maybe it wasn’t fair and square, but who cares? If Wil and Tommy got to cheat, it’s their sorry asses for losing despite that.. Besides, Quackity handed his votes over on a silver platter, and who was he to resist such a pretty face?
Of course, it irritated him that all anyone seemed to care about was stupid Wil and stupid Tommy and their stupid exile and their stupid country.
L’Manberg is a stupid name, anyway.
L’manberg is no more now; Manberg is what stood proud under his administration, with Quackity as his vice, and better yet, he had Tubbo.
Tubbo- a former member of L’manberg and Tommy’s so-called “best friend”- was his right-hand man, and Schlatt would be lying if he said he didn’t like the kid. He was hard-working, intelligent, and obedient. He did what he was told without question, accepted any demand with a nod of his head and fast feet- no, hooves.
That was another thing: Tubbo was practically the spitting image of him. The kid had the stubbiest horns Schlatt had ever seen: tiny little things that poke out of his messy, brown curls, ears sticking out from the sides of his head that flick every once and a while. He was like a smaller version of Schlatt; Schlatt with his long, curling horns and battered ears, gruff stubble, and a mouth that reeked of nicotine.
Tubbo didn’t have cigarette burns on his suit or dark bags under his eyes; he was youthful, with big blue eyes that didn’t shine with innocence, but something more like hope. Despite these differences, Schlatt couldn’t help but look at this little goat boy and think you’re like me.
Tubbo is reliable, Schlatt discovers. Loyalty didn’t seem like too big of a problem since Schlatt witnessed with his very own eyes Tubbo betraying L’manberg, right to Wil and Tommy’s faces.
The minute he stepped onto the podium next to Schlatt, he knew this kid was his now.
Tubbo was a breath of fresh air compared to Tommy. He took paperwork without a complaint and wrote speeches, only offering a “yes, sir” before disappearing to complete the task handed to him. Although he’d never admit it out loud, Tubbo was enjoyable to be around. A good kid. A kid with a bright future in politics.
You can imagine his anger when he discovered that Tubbo, the good kid, was nothing but a filthy traitor.
“A spy,” Schlatt spits, eyes narrowed and hands crossed together tightly where he sits, slouched, in his desk chair. Quackity, across from him, blinks in surprise.
“What?” Quackity asks, bewildered, suddenly sitting up straight. “W-What are you talking about, man?”
“Tubbo,” He grits out, “Is a spy for Pogtopia. The L’manberg brats.” He says L’manberg like its poison, the word feeling ugly on his tongue. “He’s been spying on us this entire time.”
Quackity slumped back into his chair, running a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Man...” He whispers. “Not the kid.” He straightens up suddenly, eyes locked onto Schlatts, very serious, angry. “So, what are we gonna do about it?” His mouth pulls to the side as he looks down, contemplating. “With the festival coming up, this could complicate things. We might have to cancel.”
Schlatt smiles. “Don’t worry sweetheart, the festival is still happening.” He stands, taking a swig from a flask and relishing in the bitter taste that burns down his throat.
“But-” Quackity starts, giving Schlatt a confused look. “Isn’t Tubbo supposed to be giving a speech? I mean, he’s planning the festival. How the fuck are we going to do it without him?”
Quackity’s gaze follows Schlatt as he steps out of the space of his desk. “Not to mention how bad this could tarnish Manberg’s reputation. This damn festival was supposed to make people like us, Schlatt, we’re fucked-” He’s cut off by Schlatt pressing a rough kiss to his lips.
“Trust me. I’ve got it under control,” He mutters, pulling back slightly. Quackity doesn’t say anything, only gazing up at him with a hard look. Schlatt stands up straight, pulling away fully, and laughs. “You’re always worrying, baby. Loosen up, this is supposed to be fun.” He flashes a sharp smile, all teeth, and leaves Quackity in the office with a light slap to the ass.
You’re going to regret ever betraying me, Tubbo, Schlatt thinks dangerously, schooling his angered expression into a sly smile. I’ll make sure you never forget.
--
“Let the festival begin!”
Tubbo’s concluding words echoed in the microphone, a proud smile plastered on his face, and Schlatt’s hands curled into fists. People clap, and Tubbo turns to Schlatt, expectant. Schlatt takes a deep breath, schools his anger, and smiles. He claps a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder harshly.
“Are you done with the speech?” He shoots Tubbo a very pointed, very fake smile.
“Y-Yeah, I’m done with the speech.” Tubbo sounds a bit nervous, but he meets Schlatt’s eyes anyway.
“Alright, alright,” Schlatt mutters lowly, nodding his head calmly before shoving Tubbo by the shoulders.
He stumbles backwards and into the concrete box behind him, hitting its back wall hard and wincing. He whips his head up to stare at Schlatt in hurt confusion, watching as Schlatt slams the fence closing off the box shut.
“I’ll cut to the chase, alright?” He sneers at the now panicked boy. “Tubbo- it really sucks, that I have to say this-”
“S-Schlatt- Schlatt I- I can’t get out,” Tubbo interrupts him, hands white-knuckled over the high fence, shaking.
“Tubbo… I know what you’ve been up to.” Schlatt can see the moment Tubbo goes still, eyes wide. The crowd is quiet, and the tension feels like a blanket, suffocating.
He remembers calling The Blade to the stand, his broad shoulders and tall stature looming over Tubbo where he stands, shaking, in the yellow concrete box.
He remembers the command spilling out of his mouth, ugly and blood red.
He remembers the way Techno’s expression shifted to something akin to dread.
I need you to take him out.
The last thing Schlatt saw before the world exploded in color and sparks was the crumpled, bloodied body of a boy, isolated in a concrete box. A boy that looked too much like the boy he once held, small, in his arms.
It doesn’t feel as good as he thought.
--
Schlatt was angry. It felt like his default these days, although it was amplified by the constant tension in the air because people couldn’t just get over shit.
Quackity kept his distance from him, avoiding him with a pissed expression. Anytime Schlatt tried to pull him in, he would shove him away by the shoulders and scowl, stomping off with regret staining all his features. Schlatt would only ever roll his eyes because he can shove it up how ass if he wants to be difficult.
Quackity was, apparently, very angry with him for what had happened at the festival. As if the traitor didn’t deserve it.
“He’s a kid, Schlatt. Are you insane?” Quackity shouts, throwing his hands up in angry exasperation.
“He was a traitor,” Schlatt shot back. “I only dished out what he deserved.”
“Execution?!” Quackity sounded appalled, breath labored as he yelled. “So what if he was a spy? It doesn’t mean he deserved to- t-to have his fucking face blown up!”
Schlatt rolls his eyes and slouches back in his chair, unammused. This seems to piss Quackity off even more, because he slams his hands onto the desk, eyes narrowed as he growls, “We’re supposed to decide this stuff together. Forgive me if I don’t appreciate you murdering a kid without telling me first!”
Schlatt matches his glare, silent and unwavering. Quackity leans in closer, a threatening look in his eyes.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Schlatt sneers, scoffing. “It’s not like the kid is dead forever. He still has a life left-”
Quackity interrupts him by slamming his hands on the desk again, jostling the name plate and causing it to fall to the floor with a clatter. Schlatt frowns at it.
“That’s not something you should decide!” His loud volume is starting to become irritating. “He was just a kid, fighting a war he shouldn’t be a part of! You had no right to just- kill him like that!” Quackity’s voice begins to waiver slightly, hurt flashing across his face. “I-I thought we were just gonna- l-lock him up or something, not publicly execute him!”
“Lower your volume before I do it for you,” Schlatt warns, sitting a bit straighter, but Quackity only scoffs, “And what are you gonna do if I dont-”
Schlatt stands suddenly, fisting a hand into Quackity’s shirt and shoving him back. Quackity stumbles, falling to the floor. He stares up at Schlatt, the glare still evident.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think.” Schlatt looms over him, fists curled and threatening. “And I’m getting real sick of you acting like you are anywhere near the same level as me. Learn your place before I make you regret ever speaking back to me.”
He storms out of the room. In the corner of his eye, he can see Quackity curl himself into a ball, shaking.
Quackity didn’t speak to him after that, like the dramatic bitch he is, only silently shuffling through the halls of the White House like a ghost.
It was quieter- empty, almost- without Tubbo around. He had grown accustomed to the pitter-patter of hooves clacking against wooden floors or the sound of a flowing, annoying accent that spoke with too much optimism for someone who was a part of (and had been in) war.
He also chose to ignore the pulling feeling of dread in his chest whenever he thought of Tubbo’s bleeding body- how his horns curled similarly to his, the way his blue eyes sparkled, too familiar for comfort.
The day he caught Tubbo applying brown dye to his bright roots; the day he discovered Tubbo was, in fact, not a natural brunette. Tubbo had stuttered his way through an explanation, I started dying it a few years ago and the plant dyes aren’t very strong so- s-so I redye it once in a while, and Schlatt had only shrugged and walked off, trying not to think about how much Tubbo looked like him as a brunette, and how Tubbo also looked too much like the little boy he left behind, all those years ago, as a blonde.
--
The White House was too quiet.
Quackity was gone most days now, slipping away into the night, and Schlatt honestly preferred when he was gone because the unsettling stares he could feel down his spine were becoming unbearable.
Quackity was the quietest Schlatt has ever seen him, and it was creepy, watching him take paperwork without a sound, just a far-off look in his eyes.
The whole country was too quiet. After the festival, after the massacre that occurred afterwards, most people stayed distant; the image of a boy, his face caved in and fire carving scars into his skin, too much for people to bear.
It felt like the calm before the storm. It felt like inevitability.
--
A boy, blue eyes now grey and dull, wide open and empty, and the eyes are weeping red tears. The red drips down his once crisp suit, tie burnt off and the frayed remnants of it only drift lightly in the breeze.
His right hand is black; the outer skin charred like the coals in his fireplace, and the red around it is almost like a fire, blinking to life.
The fire grows, and it eats the boy alive, the right side of his face decimated, red carving into once soft cheeks and digging in, exposing stained ivory that gleams, almost tauntingly, in the bright glow of color.
Explosions ring out where sparks fly, fireworks shooting off and aiming at bystanders, but he can only see the discarded body of a boy, too young to be bleeding like this, too young to die like this.
The fire turns to him, and his vision swims in blue and red sparks.
He lurches up, gasping. He turns to see the familiar sight of his bedroom, the windows dark with only the soft gleam of moonlight.
He pretends not to see the shadow shifting in the corner and goes back to sleep with fire and blood seeping into the edges of his mind like a promise.
--
The room is dark. He can just barely make out the slumped shape of someone in the bed, chest rising and falling slowly. The smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey assaults his senses, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.
He looms over the edge of the bed, fingers tightening over the hilt in his hand, the sharp blade of it catching the moonlight and shining slightly. The man in the bed, goat horns curled around his tangled hair and ear flicking lightly, doesn’t stir; nothing but a tight expression on his face as he sighs in his sleep, those familiar lips opening slightly.
He stares at his rising chest, wishing he could will it still. Like if he stared hard enough, it would stop moving.
He brushes hair out of his eyes and readjusts his beanie. The dagger feels hot in his hand.
--
Schlatt and Quackity had a complicated relationship. The ring on their fingers labeled the relationship, but late nights and broken glass said otherwise.
Quackity had always told himself he loved Schlatt. He’d let Schlatt press rough lips to his and lead him backwards to wherever he wanted them to go. He’d let Schlatt run hands under his shirt, chapped lips pressing into his neck (Schlatt was not subtle when he lusted after Quackity, and Quackity let himself believe it was out of love. Even when it didn’t feel loving.) He’d let Schlatt pull him in by the waist, a sharp grin on his face. He’d let Schlatt become president, combining their tallies, and despite him having more votes, he was content with being vice; as long as Wil and Tommy lost, he was satisfied.
He can’t say he expected Schlatt’s drunken rages to be directed at him, but he can’t say he wasn’t completely not expecting it, either.
That was one thing about Schlatt: he loved alcohol more than he loved anything else. He’d drink nights away and then drink away the hangovers that followed, and when asked, he would only lift his flask invitingly, flashing a grin that was all teeth. The bitter taste of bile always lingered on his lips after they kissed.
(He doesn’t remember when he began to loathe it.)
--
Quackity loved Schlatt. Or at least, he should.
Could you blame him for cracking under it all?
Could you blame him for wanting love that didn’t come with raised fists and harsh words, love that came without expectation of pleasure, love that didn’t involve executing fifteen-year-olds in front of everybody at a peace festival?
Could you blame him for the inevitable resentment that consumed him whenever he laid eyes on the man he once kissed well into the night?
Could you blame him for wanting the bastard dead?
--
He lifts the dagger.
--
Broken glass crunches under his weight, but he doesn’t care, only tipping the bottle back and letting the burning liquid slide down his throat. Schlatt does this whenever he’s angry, or frustrated, or annoyed, or just tired of being sober, and by gods, if he isn’t sick and tired.
He feels nausea roll in his stomach, but he drinks anyway, ignoring the shivers that run down his spine uneasily. The alcohol feels heavy on his tongue, and he laps at it like a dying man.
He throws down the bottle once he's finished, the sound of shattering glass echoing throughout the office like a song. It sounds expectant, almost.
He has no idea where Quackity is, and frankly, he doesn’t care, because fuck him. He was never good for anything outside the bedroom, anyway.
“You’re a bad person,” Quackity had said to him once, amidst yelling and smashed bottles, and Schlatt grits his teeth because so what.
Who was going to stop him?
He flashes his teeth and cackles madly. It sounds like finality, and he raises a flask to his lips and drinks.
He throws the flask to the ground when the alcohol stops tasting like liquid and more like fire, lapping at his throat and dragging him down into his grave.
He can hear Death’s song ringing through his ears when he swipes an arm over his desk, knocking everything off rather violently, and he screams.
--
He hadn’t heard anything from Pogtopia lately. No signs of Wil and Tommy trying to sneak past the borders, or Nikki’s vengeful look when she was forced out.
No sign of Tubbo and his red, red face.
He still sees the kid in his dreams, though, and it’s miserable, because Schlatt did not regret executing him, so why in the name of whatever god was he still thinking about it? Schlatt would blow the kid's face off time and time again because no one betrays him and gets away with it, but those once-lively blue eyes turned dull still haunt the corners of his mind.
He can’t stop seeing the similarities in Tubbo’s face: The dimples that appear when he laughs loud and hiccuping, the soft freckles that are dotted across his cheeks and arms, or the dark blue eyes that he once loathed.
Schlatt has a past, that he will admit. A past he’s not particularly proud of, but it didn’t matter anymore; it shouldn't, because it was years ago. That little boy, his little kid, sleeping peacefully in that ratty cardboard box. Not a care in the world, in his sleeping face, safe and trusting. Trusting Schlatt.
I’m sorry, kid, He remembers whispering. I can’t take care of you.
--
Schlatt is running out of alcohol.
He throws the empty bottles in a fit of rage, angry that they can’t magically refill themselves, and watches the way the glass shatters into pieces. Whatever moisture was left in the bottles stains against the walls, only adding to the suffocating scent of smoke and bad habits.
It’s late, and Quackity had just left. He finally returned after like, a week, and Schlatt was already pissed, so seeing Quackity in his stupid beanie only fueled the fire. They had fought because when are they not, and Schlatt relished in the way Quackity fell after a particularly hard hit. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, remnants of Quackity marring his knuckles, and he rubbed over them with gritted teeth.
I hate you, Quackity had said, quietly, where he lay crumpled on the floor, a trail of blood dripping out of his nose and a bruise blooming on his cheek, I really hate you.
He then picked himself up and left, and Schlatt couldn’t find it in himself to care.
--
“You know I love you, right?”
Words only said to manipulate, but taken as something sweet:
“I know. I love you too.”
The yelling and bruises and drinking and glass glass glass glass-
“Good. You know, you’re always so much nicer to be around when you just shut the fuck up and listen.”
He readjusts the beanie on your head, and it’s trying to be affectionate, but it feels controlling.
Glass glass glass glass glass glass everywhere-
“We’re in love, Quackity. That ring on your finger is mine. Remember that.”
All he can do is nod his head and let his chin be tipped up, lips interlocking, but it’s never felt gentle, never felt nice.
He finally knows what a real, sincere kiss feels like, and this isn’t it. Schlatt’s kisses have never felt nice, loving, or kind. His lips taste like whiskey and death.
Glass glass glass-
Quackity longs for lips that taste like honey and remnants of energy drinks, longs for warm hands that hold his cheek with love, longs for two pairs of arms encircling him and letting him sob into a soft shoulder.
He doesn’t long for Schlatt. Not anymore.
--
A sword is being pointed at his head, and Schlatt feels like laughing, because what are the odds?
The group stands looming over his hunched, ratty form, crossbows and swords aimed at him. His vision is hazy from the results of bitter liquid, but he can make out familiar faces: Wil and Tommy, of course, Nikki, Fundy… surprisingly, and-
And Tubbo.
Bandages engulf him, the right side of his face completely covered, as is his right arm. He’s slightly hunched, his left arm curling around his middle like he’s in pain, but his face shows none of it. There's still fear in his eyes, but it’s overshadowed by sheer determination. He looks tired, still. Exhaustion seems to weigh on him, too much weight that a fifteen-year-old should ever bear.
Always have been a strong one, Schlatt thinks, almost deliriously.
His hands are trembling, but he raises the glass bottle clutched in them nonetheless, lapping up the last of it, and it tastes wrong.
It tastes like death.
He feels all the air in his lungs be violently yanked from him. He hears Wil say something about last words or whatever, but he can’t think to respond because he can’t breathe.
He sees black wings out of the corner of his eye.
A hand comes up to clutch at his heart, eyes wide as he chokes, and it goes quiet as he gasps.
He sees Quackity, in the crowd, clutching an axe, and resents. That good-for-nothing vice.
The last thing he sees is Tubbo, and for what feels like the first time,
He regrets.
--
All tyrants fall in the end. Schlatt is no exception.
--
The casket is carried out. It’s not quiet; no one is mourning the man in the casket, but he’s in a casket anyway. People are celebrating the death of a tyrant, of Mr. J. Schlatt, and no one is mourning.
Quackity isn’t.
Quackity feels like he should be. It doesn’t matter how much of a sleaze Schlatt was, he still was something to him. But Quackity doesn’t mourn.
He smiles.
Everyone else is cheering, dancing. No one is crying. No one is frowning.
--
I love you
--
Quackity reaches into the casket-
--
You know that, right?
--
And unbuttons the buttons on the suit-
--
We’re in love, Quackity
--
Bare skin is exposed, and he is hungry.
--
That ring on your finger
--
He lifts a familiar dagger and plunges it into flesh.
--
Is mine
--
He reaches into the exposed chest of a man he once loved and finds the one thing he’s been chasing after ever since he first laid eyes on Schlatt.
--
Don’t forget that.
--
He rips the heart from its strings, the blood of it dripping scarlet down the pale skin of his hand and wrist. It squelches in his hold, the remnants of its beats throbbing ghostly in his hand.
“‘Till death do us part, my love,” Quackity whispers, hungry.
He lifts the heart and bares his teeth, sinking sharp canines into wet flesh.
It tastes sweet, like promise, and he hungers for more.
When he’s done, he licks blood off his lips, smiling. He thirsts, hungers, longs for more, so he lifts the dagger and drags his tongue across the blade.
“I love you,” Quackity says, to no one who can hear, only to the one who now lays bleeding in a casket, dead. Finally dead. “Don’t forget that.”