Chapter Text
Quackity speedwalks down a hallway with Fundy, one of his marine biologists, dancing around his heels like a puppy. Fundy's arms are full of folders as he desperately tries to explain them, speaking so quickly he's barely understandable and laughing with overflowing excitement. "It's a miracle, Quackity, a marvel of modern day science, have you even seen- ?" Quackity wonders if he thinks if he doesn't get his thoughts out quickly, he'll lose the words.
Slipping around Fundy with slight clumsiness - but really, it's ease! - he claps his hands on Fundy's shoulders and embraces him tightly. The incessant chatter chokes out into overwhelmed silence. "Oh," Fundy says, at a volume a notch below normal, arms squeezing so hard Quackity swears his ribs creak. Dios mio. He has to hug Fundy more often, for the sake of his continuing health.
"Fundy, my man," Quackity says, a little suffocated, "you're doing good work, really good work." After a couple moments, Quackity leaves the embrace and pats Fundy on the back, leaving a growing smile on Fundy's face and his fluffy shock of a fox tail swaying with contentment. Quackity cha-cha slides down the hall, shooting the vulpine finger guns. Fundy laughs, and for a moment, the hall seems a little bigger. The concrete almost brightens. Then, the moment is over, and Quackity is left walking down the hall, a half-smile twisting his mangled lips. He slips into a door a little further down - his door, painted a peeling yellow. Inside, a clear dinosaur lamp, soft and durable and packed with grief, lights the room.
No. Quackity shakes his head, pushing the feeling back under the bed where it came from. This isn't the time, he's happy today! Happy! Quackity sinks onto his bed, the dinosaur lamp casting shadows that dance on the walls and his devil-may-come smile plastered to his face with failing duct tape. He glances up at the calendar pinned above his bed and freezes. The date stares back at him, circled in unforgiving, chunky red, a reminder that another year without his fiance is drawing so close. He had forgotten. He had forgotten. Their anniversary looms, whispering traitor-traitor-traitor-monster-your-fault.
A wave of guilt crashes over him, a tsunami leaving him sick. Swept up in the current, Quackity is a monster. The laughter with Fundy was a betrayal, the reminder he'll never hear his fiance laugh again as painful as a backhand to the face. Quackity will never again hold his hands, hear his voice, kiss his mouth, and he'll never marry him.
They had been so close. For once, after all the gambles that made up Quackity's fucked up, miserable life, something had been good.
Quackity tears the calendar down, ripping it up with weak human hands, a raw cry tearing out of him. What could be penance for this? What could make up forgetting their anniversary? His mind is blank, foggy as if he's looking through Vaseline, and Quackity can do nothing but throw the blankets, pillows, and sheets off his bed, snarling. A monster. The word echoes, slamming against the sides of his skull and ricocheting back. Curling on the mattress, the dinosaur's light is cold.
The day after Quackity and the calender face off, Quackity wakes up aching, frozen, and hollow. The dinosaur had died during the night (just like-), leaving Quackity alone (speeding to the hospital one morning to find his life, el otra mitad-).
(He must have broken every speed limit there was.)
It didn't matter. With numb hands, Quackity picks it up and plugs it in. It's soft beneath his fingers, pliant and dead, and for a moment, there's a flicker of kinship. "Los dos estamos indefensos, ¿eh? ... Joder... No sé qué hacer," he mumbles to it, setting it down on its port gently and pushing both hands over his eyes. With an inhale of breath, scraping as it goes down like a razorblade, Quackity turns away. Firm fingers straighten himself out as he forces them to cooperate, muscles stretching like old rubber.
His shoes are still on, just another discordant note in a symphony, so after patting down his hair, Quackity hunts around for his beanie, too. The knit hat is easy to find under the empty expanse of bed, a blue lump. Pulling it on and twitching slightly, Quackity puts on a smile like he's greeting an old friend, and opens the door.
The frigid damp of the concrete pool, stained and crumbling, sinks into Quackity's wetsuit the moment he steps into it, sand melting around his bare feet. They don't drain their pools when they're doing a maintenance check and Quackity is not going to burden anyone by having them help his sorry, sick excuse of a carcass haul around hoses and seal the pool's underwater entrance for something more. The air stinks of chlorine and rot, stale and undisturbed.
Grief rings hollow in an empty head, and when Quackity sinks into the water, it's like it melts his thoughts like candyfloss, watering down his blood. Muscles strain, thin and weak, gripping a brush that scrapes away algae with hard bristles. They poke into his hands, his legs, his face, his back. The water is dark and murky, and the back of his neck prickles.
There's something watching, through glass, and Quackity abandons his brush, letting it float up to the surface on tiny air bubbles. He didn't bring respiratory gear, he recalls, as his lungs start to burn.
(Brown hair. Brown hair. Brown hair. Quackity can't recall his face.)
There he is. Face scraped over with vosian blur, hair greasy and limp, he's dressed in a hospital gown. A laugh, but it doesn't sound like him, flute-like and stuttering, and he speaks. ".- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / - .... . .-. .? --.- ..- .- -.-. -.- .. - -.-- ?" He beeps, starting and stopping, hands pressed against the glass. ".. / ... . . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-/ .. .----. -- / ... .- ..-. . / -. --- .-- --..-- / -.. .. -.. / -.-- --- ..- / -.- -. --- .-- / - .... .- - ?"
Quackity shoves his face against the barrier in turn, a trapped creature, his lungs exploding like firecrackers in his chest. His head is light and dizzy, suffocating, thoughts incoherent. Thinking is too difficult, slipping out of reach.
".. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- --..-- / --.- .-.-.- / .--. .-.. . .- ... . / .-. . -- . -- -... . .-. / - .... .- - .-.-.-" He sounds depressed, and the sound is deeply wrong. The beeps and dashes waver, like he's just realizing no-one's heard.
Why can't Quackity understand?
Hands, fingers, tendons scrabble against it until they can't anymore, nails snapping, legs pumping, slamming up against the glass until his shoulder cracks, paralyzed and expending what little air he has. There is ringing in his ears and he can't feel anything but cold and hollow, his lover transforming from ill to healthy one blink to the next, again and again.
Quackity sees his face, and all he can see is pity.
-
Holed up in an unused room, hunched over the laptop he's had for years by now and making useless ("-couldn't contact you-") spreadsheets, Quackity hears when his Dad finally finds him. Actively avoiding him, avoiding everything, does fucking nothing. He's known that since he was a kid. Stupid.
He can hear his Dad swimming circles, splashing in one of the tanks Quackity installed in every room. He breathes in. Out. Waits for his Dad to speak. Vacantly, he stares at the staff scheduling, typing something that he deletes. He thinks about the nightmare, too, and starts breathing faster. No.
Then, his Dad's voice, worried but comforting, begins, "I want to know what's wrong."
Quackity quietly breathes. In, then out, in, then out. The lights flicker, and Quackity's head aches like a bad omen. He doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches on. "Quackity. You haven't eaten in days, I don't see you unless it's for the project, and I don't know how much you've slept!" Sam sounds desperate, pleading, and God. "I understand it's important, Q. I know, it's important to all of us and we want to see it through, but you look so tired."
Quackity doesn't answer, staring at his blinking cursor. When his Dad gives up, heaving the sigh that means he'll come back later, but go away now, something seizes. Still water ripples as Sam submerges, leaving the way he came.
Quackity's heart is a dead thing, heavy in his chest, the air is cold and unforgiving, and somewhere in the pipes, Sam decides that enough is enough.
The mouth of the Craft pod's cave yawns in front of Sam, his tail flicking and his eyes chips of steel.
Technoblade, Blood God, comes to the entrance, staring at Sam with a thinly veiled threat, and gesturing him to come inside. Sam grits his sharp teeth, swimming just ahead of the Blood God, studying the algae-covered walls, coral cliffs growing from it and small bioluminescent fish, not worth the effort to catch, darting around the cave.
They swim into an open area, Blood God's eyes heavy on his back and species of seagrass growing under their tails like a human carpet. Phil and his other two children sit on top of a slab of stone, above Sam in every way but one.
Wilbur, the Siren of the deep, twists around Philza and asks, suspicion clear, "Why are you here, Sam?" then, when Philza raises a quelling hand, his face conflicted, the Siren falls back again, a calculating look on his face, pupils slit. Sam doesn't answer. His expression tightens with the effort of keeping his emotions off his face, and he clenches a hand around his trident, taking another breath.
Philza looks down at him with scrutiny, narrowing his eyes and motioning for Sam- the Warden to continue.
He takes a deep breath, gills fluttering, watching Philza try and stare him down. But he is the Warden, and this is for his child. He will not be cowed into submission, even by one of Death's Angel's caliber, and he knows Philza knows it. He flicks his tail, forcing down the anxiety in his gut and centering himself.
When Philza sits back, his children crowding around him, Sam speaks words into existence that he knows he will never let himself regret, turning his misgivings into cold indifference with a clinical hand.
"I need your help."
Quackity stares at his latest piece of paperwork. His eyes are so blurry that he can't even see it, so he squints, but nothing gets clearer, just aggravating the pounding headache behind his eyes more. Maybe it'd be fine if he took a break. —"-Quackity!" and a camera clicks— Quackity's eyes burn and he takes a sharp, forced breath, going down his tender throat like claws on salmon skin.
He scrolls down on the document he can't see, can't comprehend, pretending he's doing more than being a useless, sad sack of shit when there's a knock and something else, muffled, that he can't hear through the damn ringing in his ears. "Come in," Quackity scratchily calls, clearing his throat before trying again. Footsteps approach him tentatively. Ranboo then. He doesn't turn.
The document at this point is a lost cause, with absolutely nothing coherent to be wrestled out of it, so he clicks on the finances tab. Hopefully a change of scenery will help… Quackity thinks, sighing heavily. The footsteps have stopped to the left of his chair, just behind him and Quackity looks mournfully at the empty coffee cup that was on his desk and then at the equally empty coffee pot. Now he's going to have to get up and go get more… That means more poorly hidden concerned looks and invasive, estúpido culo questions.
"Q-Quackity?" Ranboo stutters after a minute of silence, "The Craft pod is here… They, um, well, they want to-" Ranboo breaks off and shuffles, not continuing. Quackity sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It burns in a way he knows well when he uses up too much of himself. Everything hurts, even his pinky toes, not to mention the fuck-off headache he has chipping at his already dwindling sanity. He swings around in his office chair, staring at Ranboo and squinting before he remembers what the fuck he turned around for.
Ranboo winces and bites his lip, slipping over his words and sliding into well-meaning sentences that peter off into uncertainty. Quackity's left eyelid twitches. He closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and breathes out a strained breath. It's fine! He can't just go and yell at the kid for anxiety, then he'd really be awful. He opens his eyes again, offering a strained, fake smile. "Ranboo. What do you-" and his voice almost cracks, he can feel his composure start to splinter, but- "-need?" he finishes. Just fucking barely, he's done.
Quackity refuses to show Ranboo how much he should hate him today.
Ranboo clears his throat and starts again, clearer this time, "Well, uhm- actually it's about the Craft pod… Uh-"Ranboo coughs subtly into a hand. "Well- uh-" Warmth pricks at Quackity's aching, tired eyes and he heaves another breath. Composure, control, keep your decorum, Quackity tells himself. His splintering mental state cannot deal with the fucking Craft Pod of all things. They'll ask him how he's doing, what he's up to, they'll act like they care. It's his fault for making the poor teen nervous, for being such a standoffish, sensitive, bastard. At the rate they're going, tumbling over every syllable, he's gonna be here all day and then some. It- it's so fucking annoying. Quackity knows Ranboo didn't really do anything, but God, is his temper rising.
"Despellejarme vivo... Spit it out, Ranboo!" He barely stops himself from grabbing the front of their suit, if only because he currently wishes for death and it would be painful as fuck.
Ranboo shuffles again, flicking his tail like an agitated cat before twining it around his leg, faltering. Then he shuts his eyes tight and speaks so fast that Quackity's useless lump of meat he calls a brain can barely keep up, "TheCraftpodwouldliketospeakwithyou!" He squeaks, cracking open an eye and adding a, "Please?" that would usually make Quackity rethink whatever he was about to do, but Quackity is too tired and in too much pain to have any fucks left to give.
"Tell them I'm busy," He grits out, glaring at the blurry shapes of Ranboo before sharply spinning back around, grabbing his desk in a white-knuckled grip to stop his momentum, and slamming open one of his desk drawers, breaking it for certain if the sharp crack it gives is any indication, then snatching the beaten calculator out of it before slamming the fucking useless thing back closed again. It hangs crookedly and he growls, slamming it with a palm until it fits back in again. Great, now his hand hurts too! This has been the best day.
Ranboo gulps and opens his mouth a few times before venturing, "They- I don't think they'll, uhm, like that..." He trails off with uncertainty. Quackity's aching, painful eyes give Ranboo a hateful side eye that the kid obviously sees but ignores, straightening his back and continuing, "No, I'm sure they won't like it," he looks terrified, wilting slightly at the sheer amount of GO-THE-FUCK-AWAY Quackity is projecting at him and starts shuffling again, looking to the side.
"Well, then I guess you can tell them to suck my dick, Ranboo," Quackity turns back to his work for what he prays to Prime is the final time, staring at the blurry ants crawling across his screen, "I don't particularly care what they want, I'm working, so please, fuck off."
Ranboo lingers and Quackity closes his eyes, praying to any gods out there that they don't say anything else. He can't take it, not today of all days. Ranboo's footsteps walk towards the door, walking out and shutting it with a small click, bringing relief to Quackity so strong he folds over.
Finally. Quackity groans, burying his aching head in his aching hands and holding back a sob. He- he shouldn't be so harsh. He huffs a bitter laugh, what a useless thought to have after everything's all said and done. The guilt of everything, of what he could have done better, is a hard rock in his stomach. He sinks back onto the desk, pushing aside the coffee cup and its matching pot to make room for his aching, burning arms. The cup falls off the desk with a small thud, landing on the rug below his feet.
Why is he always so useless? He always hurts others on purpose and he's too much of a coward to do anything but realize, of course, after he's already lashed out, how bad of a person he is. Quackity itches for a drink. He needs alcohol.
Just then, the padlock firmly fixed to Quackity's bad feelings box almost breaks, straining. Instead, he sets his jaw and straightens, his grip on his desk almost iron clad. It's fine. He may be a terrible person, but at least he can try and work off the suffocating guilt. He'll apologize to Ranboo later and it'll be fine. It's okay, you melodramatic asshole, he tells himself firmly, just shut up and work.
So he does for about an hour and a half. The air is cold and it feels like knives on his picked-open skin, the only thing marking the passage of time his out of tick clock. It's at least two hours behind the times, but it was a gift.
(A bubbly smile, fluffy hair, and a baggy hoodie greet him from his bed. He doesn't know who Quackity is.)
—Quackity shakes his head violently, only stopping when he goes lightheaded, black spots appearing in his vision. He- he refuses to think about him, not now when there are more important things to do. He stares at the light purple walls of his office. All he can remember is him.
(Purple was one of his favorite colours. In his room, it was purple, in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Quackity loved it. He loved him.)
A mechanical whirr and thunk break Quackity's thoughts, and, just as he expected, a splash follows soon after. His left eyelid twitches. "Sam, if you try and tell me to go and see the Craft pod, I will fucking strangle you." he hisses, refusing to turn around and see his Dad's concerned face. "Not right now. I am busy and will remain so until further notice." Quackity picks a mechanical pen off from his desk, aggressively clicking it until he doesn't want to commit arson and homicide. It doesn't work. He wants to die.
"Wow," a familiar, annoying voice says, "Is that all we are to you? The Craft pod? And after all this time. I'm hurt!" There's more obnoxious splashing and Quackity decides he doesn't want to deal with this today, aggressively slamming himself away from his desk and standing up, wobbling when his vision goes and the ringing in his ears rises to a buzzing crescendo.
He can't do this. The tears start falling and he puts an arm over his face, breathing heavily. "… Quackity?…" Wilbur's voice is hesitant. He finds he doesn't give one solitary fuck. A low, continuous whine comes from somewhere and he's not surprised when he discovers it's from him, spinning on a heel and bursting out of his office. Ranboo is right outside the door. Of course. Damn all these caring people. He tries to speak to Quackity but he just dodges past them, storming into the common area where the visiting mers come to hang out. Tommy is lounging on the water, his golden underbelly visible as he floats, but he perks up when he sees Quackity coming. Then after Quackity's anger processes, he swims back a little, holding what might be his hands in front of himself. Technoblade and Phil are there too, Wilbur poking his head out of the opening Sam uses to get inside the visiting pool.
His head hurts too much to even be angry about it. His bones feel like they're degrading inside of him, falling to frail pieces and crumbling into dust. Quackity violently slams himself into the chair he usually uses, making it screech across the concrete and slide back a few feet, a new wave of pain bursting across his spine. He refuses to let any of the pain into his face, even through his obvious tears. "Okay, I'm here. What do you need." He keeps it short and puts every second of anger into it, making Tommy flinch and swim behind Phil. Quackity's heart twinges but he- he wipes his face free of damning tears and sets his jaw.
Phil doesn't look like Quackity's acting out of place, he knows he's in dangerous territory with these mer, but Phil's face looks effortlessly neutral when he speaks, "Well, mate, we actually wanted to talk about the territories, but I think we'd rather ask you a question if you'd let us," he smiles in sharp contrast to Quackity's permanent glare. Quackity's smart enough to know, even through his mind-numbing, survival instinct stealing pain, that he wasn't asking. He sighs, forcing his face into a neutral expression.
"Yes, of course," he can't keep the slight malice out of that last word and Phil certainly notices, but doesn't comment. Despite it being Phil who asked for 'permission', it's Techno's normally comforting rumble that answers.
Technoblade flicks his tail, maybe not so accidentally flicking some water onto Quackity that makes him flinch—
(Before, Quackity remembers going to the beach. The baggy hoodie is gone and he looks so beautiful, Quackity can't believe how lucky he is.)
—and force himself to keep neutral. It's all filed away for later, for some time when he feels less like peeling his skin off and crawling out of it, less like he might just try and strangle one of his good friends. Everything is too much. His suit feels stiff on his clammy skin, scratching it away to find nothing inside and the buzz of the fluorescent lights is grating against his ears. It worms into his brain and stays there, an unwanted guest in Quackity's show of misery.
Technoblade is still talking, "-off. What's bugging you?" he says, staring into Quackity's dull eyes, searching. Quackity closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself it's all out of concern. Or maybe he's cataloging all of Quackity's weaknesses. This is fine. He shudders, his scraps of composure barely holding on. He should have done more—
(He's so sick now, he doesn't remember how to swallow anymore. They have a tube down his throat to keep him from starving, but Quackity watches on, helpless, as he wastes away.)
Quackity attempts a strained smile, "I'm fine, it's nothing of your concern." He assumes the reassuring he just did didn't work when Technoblade's and Philza's eyes harden. Techno sets his jaw and Phil's smile strains, a dangerous edge to it that fuck, Quackity decides to ignore. What the hell. Usually he'd be all over every speck, scrap, and sliver of body language he can get his hands on. He wants to sleep for the next century. Maybe that'd mean he'd finally be able to breath.
(That smile shone like the sun, just for him.)
Wilbur is obviously unsatisfied with Quackity's answer and with a powerful beat of his tail, he's clinging to the edge of the concrete pool, shoulders tense and face probably upset. Quackity is so very tired. His eyes hurt. Then, Wilbur decides to open his annoying mouth, "Actually, Quackity, It's very obvious you're not fine!"
Quackity raises his eyebrows, "Mhm. Sure. And why'd you think that, Wil-bur?" He puts just as much vehemence into his voice as Wilbur did, not quite mocking. Quite. It's very close.
"Because you were whining just like a distressed kit in your office," Wilbur shoots back with a shit-eating smile, "It was…" Wilbur takes a rare second to think about what's he's about to say and obviously decides it's not stupid enough to stop there, "… Pitiful, Quackity." He looks almost apologetic. Quackity could spit.
"You're full of shit," Quackity outright lies, refusing to let him get the upper hand, even when he's a second away from toppling forward into the visiting pool. His headache sharply stabs him in the face and Quackity is forced to squeeze his eyes shut, hissing through clenched teeth. Fuck. That did not help his "I'm fine," case. Damn it all. He opens his eyes as quickly as possible, which is to say it's not quick at all and he can only manage one, staring at the Crafts, daring them to say something.
Wilbur takes a breath, opening his mouth, and Quackity hisses, "Shut up," before he can even start.
Phil tsks like he's disappointed, and it immediately makes Quackity frown with anger. Why does he think he can pull that? The only person who could even dream of tsking at him was—
(It was only when he was especially upset, when that beaming smile just for Quackity hid behind a pout so sweet, he felt as if he was going to burst.)
—he can't do that. Certainly not fucking now. Quackity, through pure spite, forces himself to bring down his hands to his sides, straight as iron bars. The pain of it threatens to leave him deaf and blind with buzzing spots and ringing ears, cotton filling his useless, empty head. He pushes it down and spits, "Can we move on now, please? I'd like to talk about the territories." he mentally tacks on another 'please'. They don't hear it. He's sweating buckets, hot as fire but chills wrack his body. He really, really, wants to fucking lie down.
Technoblade reaches towards him and he flinches away, even though the mer has no chance of reaching him where he sits, several feet away. Wilbur obviously thinks he's won, that he's right about everything! "Oh, look how useless Quackity is, whining like a little baby. Can we get rid of him now, Daddy?" He hates himself, he hates today. He might even hate everything else, too.
Phil tsks again, saying in such a disappointed tone that Quackity could just set him on fire, "Oh, mate," he says, swimming closer, "You don't look too good." Wilbur falls back down into Sam's tube, his eyes glowing in the dark, and letting Phil replace him where he was clinging to the concrete. Technoblade won't stop staring at him. His red, burning eyes, feel like hot coals on Quackity's chest, making it hard to breathe. Tommy stares too, from behind Phil's tail. He can't—
"I-I'm fine, leave me alone!" he croaks, glaring. His eyes dart like he's a trapped animal, looking for a way to get out of this. His head— Quackity almost tumbles out of the chair, the fluorescent lights stabbing into his eyes like needles into a pincushion. Oh God, he almost pukes right there. He wants to sit, just please, in a dark, warm place, and stop fucking existing for one minute. Please. But he stays strong as always, back as straight as a wooden ruler and hands gripping the chair's metal arms like he's an alcoholic and they're the last drink in the bar.
They look at him like they know. Like they can see how much of a mess Quackity is. He's shivering, can they tell that he's one wrong move away from falling apart? Oh God, he hopes not. He hopes with his entire fucking soul that they can't tell. Technoblade is the next to speak, his deep voice less of a comfort and more of a prevalent threat, "… You really don't seem okay there, Ducky. Let us help you." Technoblade definitely sees him tense, ready to bolt, but he's too far away to grab Quackity and he thanks his lucky stars while he stumbles over his feet, his vision darkening and his head… It… Fuzzes up like an old TV screen. He feels himself falling, a hand reaching out towards the closed door to the hallway, then slam into the tiles.
His entire body explodes in pain and he groans, tears falling. "Fuck… I-" Quackity sobs, curling into a ball on the floor. He didn't even last a second. What would- he think of him now?
(He'd always thought Quackity was so strong. He'd grin and he'd ask so many questions. "Can you carry me?" was a favourite.)
"Ducky…" He can hear Technoblade, his voice soft, and his anger sputters in his chest. He's so tired. Quackity wants to sleep all this pain away, drown it out with cheap alcohol. He doesn't. On these days he's not allowed to be happy, not allowed to forget, so Quackity sobs one last time, snaps another "Shut up!" and shakily shivers to his feet, stumbling towards the doorknob. Something big scrapes against the concrete floor behind him and there's a splash. Mierda!
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Wilbur says conversationally, "It'd be a bad idea to touch that doorknob, Q." He sounds like he's right behind Quackity and he flinches, stumbling again like he's a fucking newborn fawn.
Quackity grits his teeth. He still can't see through the buzzing white but fuck, he's got hands. They feel numb, full of pins and needles, but he takes one of them and clumsily reaches for the doorknob. He gropes for it and Wilbur hums. It's… Really pretty. He just wants to listen to it, he's so tired and his head hurts so bad… Quackity's hand falls away.
Wilbur lilts his hum up into song, about sickness and healing and love. Quackity wants that so badly- but he- it's so pretty, but- he, he can't have it today because he promised himself he wouldn't forget. Quackity shakes his head as hard as he can and Wilbur's song becomes a question a split second before Quackity snaps out of it, jerking away from where he was drifting towards Wilbur. He looks around frantically, his eyesight still blurry as fuck, then slams himself into a corner.
What the fuck was that? Wilbur sighs from where he's sitting on the edge of the pool, complaining, "I thought that would work!" then to Quackity, "Why do you have to make it so difficult, Q?"
Quackity stares at the blob of Wilbur until finally, one of his neurons spark and he slaps his palms to his ears. What the fuck. What the fuck. Dios mio. Quackity mutters several prayers to a god he hasn't spoken to in his life, trying to squash himself into the corner until he's invisible. Wilbur stares straight at him and laughs, muffled, "--That'll-- really--?" Most of the words are indistinct, helped by Quackity's raging headache, constant fucking pain, and ringing ears. Wilbur takes a breath and starts singing again, and Quackity almost relaxes when he can't hear it. Wilbur seems to notice his not hypnotized state, though and raises his voice.
Quackity is so tired… It's been weighing him down for a week now, but the beautiful music helps him understand just how tired he is, singing of rest and sleep and soft things. He doesn't deserve any of it, not one fucking blanket, so Quackity starts shaking his head when there's a muffled groan of frustration. The song changes to something about the dark and rest and seeing someone he loves.
(He remembers soft hands, sweet giggles, and lots of books. The smell of coconut shampoo lingers.)
Quackity slumps against the wall and tears start falling again. Why is he so exhausted? He- needed to do something?
There's a slick shhhh like a jacket sliding off of flesh, clattering quietly wherever it falls. Now… There's footsteps? He's confused, Quackity can't think through his pounding, aching headache. The singing comes closer and Quackity whines. Oh God, he hurts. He's in so much pain, he wants the dark and rest and to see his special person. Where- where is he? "K-Karl?" Quackity croaks, tears dripping down his face. He whines again, stretching out one aching arm to search for his person.
"Oh, sweetheart," a voice croons, "Who's Karl? Is that why you're so upset today?"
Quackity sniffles and quietly calls again. He feels unsteady, like his soul is about to dissipate. Quackity calls for him one more time, but he doesn't answer, no matter how much Quackity stretches his arm out to feel for him. Quackity scrunches his face and tears start dripping down his face faster and faster, hot trails of sadness.
The voice murmurs, "Q…" Then the song restarts, about journeys and searching and coming home. Quackity pries his blurry, hurting eyes open, searching for the thing he needs to find. He stumbles up and makes a confused noise when he can't find it, shuffling towards where the voice was before.
He falls into warm arms, but just before he passes out, Quackity thinks one last thing.
It's their anniversary today.
(He remembers laughter and cake, "To another year, mi amour!". He remembers happiness and holding hands and drinking wine after dark. He remembers kissing soft lips and going on dates and knowing who his soulmate was.)