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Schlatt was an abusive piece of shit who used Quackity for his own wants, and Quackity is fucking glad that he's dead. He wanted to beat him bloody when he was laying there on the floor, his heart finally giving out after all the years of pushing it to its limits. Quackity wanted to wrap his hands around Schlatt's neck and drain the final bit of life out of him, but..
He was still too scared. He still is. It's why he didn't spit on Schlatt's corpse. It's why he didn't scream and yell at his body. It's why he didn't kill Schlatt when he had the chance. It's why, after all this fucking time, Quackity keeps going to visit his grave. He doesn't even know why he keeps going, he doesn't have to. But he does, he does have to. He has to because Schlatt wasn't always bad. There were good nights, god, there were good nights. Where Schlatt laughed and put the bottle down, where he would tease Quackity about his fashion sense and gently urged Tubbo to do the same.
There were nights where Schlatt would bring him down from a panic attack, from a flashback. There were nights where Schlatt would comfort Tubbo and tell him that things would be alright, that he considered the kid to be his son. There were nights where Schlatt was soft and gentle and kind and sweet, and those nights were the best ones. Schlatt never said sorry for what he had done in the past on those nights, no, none of them did. They danced around it and pretended like it had never happened.
They pretended like it was all alright, and if they pretended hard enough, it was. Quackity remembers drifting off to sleep, not scared of what would happen while he rested. He'd lay his head on Schlatt's shoulder and close his eyes, and when he woke up, he'd be right where he had fallen asleep, an arm wrapped around him. Quackity doesn't think that he ever loved Schlatt, not like that. The man made it easy, though. A few simple words of praise, and Quackity was fucking smitten, like the goddamn idiot he was.
They were politically married, to unite their rule, to signify that they would stand together, no matter what. To signify that, through everything, they would be together through the ends of the world and time. Quackity wasn't that stupid, he wasn't that delusional. He knew, he knows, that Schlatt never loved him, and that was okay. Quackity is still fairly certain that he never loved the ram-hybrid either, but when he lets his mind wander, he-
No, Quackity squeezes his eyes shut. No, he doesn't need to think about that. He's already written hundreds of letters, all explaining the same exact thing. How maybe he did love him, how maybe it wasn't unrequited. How maybe, if he thinks enough, Schlatt could have loved him back. He's burnt every single one of those letters, he reached into the fireplace with the papers in his hand and waited until they ignited, waited until he felt his hand sear and burn and blister. It's nice, sometimes. To feel the warmth of the flames and pretend like he can feel more than hurt.
Quackity sits up in his bed, kicking off the blankets. They hit the ground, and he rolls out of bed, stepping on them. He fucking hates the blankets. They smell like Schlatt and alcohol and Schlatt, and he hates them. Quackity doesn't know why the fuck he can't bring himself to burn them, to get new ones.
He doesn't know why the fuck he still sleeps in Schlatt's house. In his room, in his bed. Quackity hates it, he hates it so much. He hates waking up and not being able to breathe because he swears he hears breathing next to him. He hates looking to his side and not seeing Schlatt, and he hates himself even more for wishing that the man was still there. He drags his feet along the ground as he walks, blinking away the fleeting moments of sleep. Quackity doesn't sleep much. He tries not to sleep. Sleeping just brings him nightmares and pain and memories, and it's easier to just go without it.
Quackity pauses as he looks at Schlatt's office, staring at the papers scattered around, pens laying haphazardly on the floor. The chair is tilted back ever so slightly, and-
Schlatt leans back on the chair, a pen tucked behind his ear. He chews on his thumb, scrunching up his nose as he stares down at a piece of paper on his desk. He hums softly, tapping his foot along with whatever melody is playing in his head. "Hey, Quackity?" He turns, his hand drifting down to lay on his desk. "Do you remember what the date is?" Schlatt asks, a breathless laugh escaping him a second later. "It's uh, Monday, right?"
"Tuesday," Quackity laughs, scribbling down his own notes in the office across from Schlatt's. Politics wait for no man, even if it's barely five in the morning. "Tuesday the fifteenth. What're you working on?" He asks, smiling back at Schlatt.
"Just some documents," he waves a hand, grabbing the pen from behind his ear when he does so. "What about you, Alex? What're you workin' on?" Quackity breathes out, pretending like the name doesn't make his chest hurt. Schlatt only calls him that on good days, when he isn't drunk off his ass. His tone is light and soft and full of life, bubbly and happy for once. It's easy, it's so easy how Schlatt makes him feel. "Quackity? You good over there, big guy?"
He nods, gripping the pen in his hand a little tighter. "'Course I am," he breathes out. "So..is it libel if I.."
Quackity gasps for air, feeling like he's been punched in the stomach. He rushes away from Schlatt's office, scrambling down the stairs to escape the house. He slams open the door to the outside, not even caring that he doesn't close it behind him. He breathes fast and hard, his head spinning and whirling from the memory. He grabs a rose from the rosebush outside of Schlatt's house, not caring that the thorns prick his palm and his fingers. He tightens his grip around the flower, reveling in the sharp stings of pain.
He doesn't quite realise where he's going until he's already there, staring at Schlatt's grave. He hovers above it, his fingers ghosting the top of the headstone. There are no flowers to be seen, which means that someone is getting rid of them. Quackity always brings flowers, and so does Tubbo, whenever he visits. Quackity wonders who's getting rid of them. They have no fucking right, they have no fucking right, to get rid of those flowers.
"You," Quackity whispers, "are the worst thing to ever happen to me."
Silence.
Schlatt's laugh rings in his ears, mocking him, taunting him. Urging him to keep talking, to keep insulting him and to cry and to..to..
"I hate you," he murmurs. "I hate you. I hate you, and your- your stupid fucking face, your horns and your suit and the way you.." Quackity shakes his head, throwing down the rose. It lands perfectly on the mound of raised earth, right above where Schlatt is. His hands are bleeding. Red blood the colour of rose petals trickles down his wrist, and he fucking hates it. He hates all of it. "You made me weak," Quackity snarls, collapsing to his knees. He digs his fingers into the dirt, into the ground, gripping it as if it were a life force. "You made me weak!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut. "You fucking..you..it was always..you always.."
He breathes out, trying his best to ignore the way Schlatt's laughter rings in his ears even louder, how it makes him want to scream and cry. "Did you ever fucking care?" He asks. "Did you? Did you ever give a shit? Or- or were you just..just using me? That entire time, were you just using me for your own fucking wants and needs? Was it just because I was easy and young and- and I.." he chokes out a sob, hating the way his voice pitches at the end of his words, hating himself and the way he's still alive. "You never fucking cared, did you?" Quackity whispers. "You never cared. You never did."
"He never did," another voice confirms, and Quackity snaps his head up, staring at Tubbo. In his hand is a bouquet of flowers, all yellow. "He never cared," Tubbo moves forwards, tossing the flowers on top of Quackity's rose, staring down at the ground. "I hate him," Tubbo tells him. "I don't know why I keep coming out here," he pauses, shifting from foot to foot. "No, that's a..that's a lie. I do know. It doesn't feel real, does it?" He asks, voice soft. "It feels like he's still here. I feel like I have to come out here and..I don't know. Prove that I'm better than him. Prove that I can be strong, too."
"Yeah," Quackity laughs, leaning back. "He made us weak," he snorts, reaching up to wipe away his tears. He doesn't know if he started to cry out of anger or grief, but he doesn't think he needs to know. "I think I loved him, Tubbo. I don't know if I did. I think I might have."
"I loved him," Tubbo murmurs. "Not in the same way. He was like my f- my father," he closes his eyes, reaching up to comb his fingers through his hair. "He called me his kid, he always acted like he was my dad. I never had a father before him, and I thought that maybe, maybe he..you know. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he actually thought of me like his son, but I don't.." he shrugs, moving to sit next to Quackity. "I don't know. I don't think he did."
Quackity nods. "I don't know," he admits. "I miss him."
"So do I," Tubbo whispers. "I don't know why."
"It was familiar," Quackity looks down at his hands, looks down at the blood that still trails down to his fingertips, staining the earth with red. "He was familiar. You get used to it. It isn't so bad anymore," he closes his eyes. "It doesn't hurt as much once you get used to it. And then," he breathes out, "sometimes, you can't..you can't live without it. 'Cause you're not supposed to, you're not supposed to live without it."
Tubbo nods gently, twirling blades of grass around his fingers. "I'm happy that he's gone, I mean," he closes his eyes, swallowing. "Why wouldn't I be? I..he was a bad person, and he deserved to die. But he..wasn't always bad, you know? He was good, sometimes," Tubbo rocks back and forth, so subtly that it's barely noticeable. "But that wasn't enough, right? That's not good enough. You can't only be good sometimes and..and expect.." he shakes his head, cutting himself off. "I don't know. I wish I knew, Quackity. I wish he didn't..have control over me. Over us."
"And no one understands," Quackity laughs, bitter resentment echoing in his words. "No one but you. We were the only ones who went through it, and no one else can ever understand why we.." he shakes his head. "Why we come out here. Why we bring flowers and shit, why we..why we miss him. Why we're confused."
"Yeah," Tubbo agrees, his voice wavering on the word. "Do you think it'll get better?'" He asks. "Do you think we'll stop coming out here?" Tubbo looks towards him, his eyes half-closed. "I wish I could stop. I don't.."
"Maybe one day," Quackity interrupts. "When things are..better. Easier. I don't think we'll get over it," he admits. "You never get over this shit. But it'll get easier, I think. That's what people would tell me. Maybe it's true. I hope it's true."
"Me too," Tubbo murmurs. "Thank you, Quackity. For.." he shrugs, looking away. "Being here. I wish you didn't understand."
"I wish you didn't, either," Quackity says, and he's being entirely honest. "I'm sorry. I wish you didn't get pulled into this." Tubbo gives him a half-hearted shrug, a tired smile working its way onto his face.
"Too late," he laughs, sounding exhausted. "Too late for that. It'll be alright," he doesn't sound like he believes the words himself. Quackity doesn't, either. "We'll be okay. It'll take some time, but, um..we'll be okay. Probably." Quackity laughs, ducking his head.
"Probably," he agrees. "Well," Quackity pushes himself off of the ground, wiping his hand on his pants. He offers his other hand to Tubbo, the one that isn't bleeding. Tubbo takes it, dragging himself to his feet. "Thank you. For making it easier." Quackity heaves a sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets as he starts to walk, Tubbo right by his side. The birds sing softly as they walk, and Quackity can't help but feel..better.
Safer, maybe.
"You too, Quackity," Tubbo smiles at him, looking a little less tired. "He's not going to control us, not forever."
"Not forever," Quackity nods. "Not forever."
He thinks, that maybe, if he repeats those words enough, he'll eventually believe them. God, he hopes so.
Quackity keeps walking, and with Tubbo next to him, he thinks that things will be okay. He thinks that maybe, things will finally work themselves out. Quackity thinks that with time, both of them will be free of Schlatt's grasp, that both of them will be okay.
Until then, he thinks, at least he has someone else. At least he has someone that understands.