Archive of Our Own

Karl was something made from the wildest of highs; all swirling colors and flashing lights. 

He, strangely, reminded Quackity of those little dots that swim in your vision after staring at a bright light for too long. He lingered like one too—in his mind, making a home cuddled deep in the folds of his mind, like he had nowhere better to be. 

Quackity had known Karl since Middle School. He started off as a hallway crush; that one boy that'd always catch his eye on his trek to class and make his heart beat a little faster. He was someone meant to be admired, from the tip of his brown curls to the cracked paint of his DIY shoes; he was beautiful. 

It was harmless. A cute, simple, seventh-grade hallway-crush. And then class-crush. Then crush-crush.

Then oh-shit-I'm-kind-of-in-love-with-you crush. 

The day he had gathered enough courage to speak to Karl was a rainy one. The sky had been cloudy for a few days prior, shielding the sun and casting grays across misted concrete grounds. The air had a lingering smell of dampness, rain hanging sticky and humid in the air. It was that transition period between seasons—a few weeks of storms and that general, cold (yet somehow always humid) solemn weather that pours in waves of fog and keeps you bundled up in bed.

Quackity was devoid of an umbrella, nothing but a pitiful hoodie with a faded duck on the front to act as a shield against unyielding winds. His hair was a mess—ruffled and stuck up in places that presented itself as nothing short of bed head—and he had large bags under his eyes from an ill-planned gaming session that quickly devolved into scrambling panic over a half-finished essay that happened to be due that very same night. Regardless, he made rockets of his feet and approached the boy that existed to float aimlessly in a cloud of haze, warm and heady like summer rain. 

The walk over to Karl was a difficult one. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, his heart leaping. He felt like one of those bunnies he'd see in the spring time; they'd scurry like it was life or death at the slightest of sound, such as the shaking of a bush or the persistent footfall of shoes down a sidewalk. He'd smile at their franticness (how one creature could live a life in such constant panic, he didn't know) but then, standing only a few feet away from the boy that's haunted his mind ever since he spotted his bright purple backpack in that fated hallway, he wished nothing more than to hide in a burrow. 

The potential outweighed the risk, however, and he forced one foot after the other. Karl was busy packing up his stuff, his brow furrowed as he seemed to struggle with shoving a bulging pencil pouch into the bag among the array of colorful folders. He knows the reason for the overflow of the pouch: highlighters and pens in every color you could imagine, a set of backup pencils—wooden and mechanical—wrapped in patterns or sparkles, a pack of small, rainbow tab markers and sticky notes, and a calculator with flowers painted on its cover. 

Is it a bit strange that Quackity has watched Karl enough to know the contents of his pencil pouch? ...Maybe so, but the boy practically lives in the thing; not a single assignment or paper devoid of splashes of color, doodles and highlighter lighting up the once dull white. The way Karl would organize his notes, all swooping letters and color-coded sections, was... for lack of a better word, cute. Overwhelmingly-sweet-and-adorable-and-god-he's-such-a-nerd kind of cute. 

Quackity's favorite pastime, when class drug out and he felt like he was passing out in-between one blink and the next, was watching the fluid movement of Karl's mosaics blooming out from a corner of the page. He often doodled clouds with suns peeking out, stars, worms(?), and other various little creatures. His new fixation of the week was drawing millipedes that stretched across the paper, circling and looping around printed text. 

Quackity has tried to imitate the sketches once in a while, bored enough that he'll draw out his own little clouds or a botched scribble of an insect. However, his drawings usually deteriorate into frustrated scribbles when his attempt looks more like a light bulb with legs rather than an ant. Nothing like the endearing, smooth lines of Karl's images. 

His most recent drawing, however, is held in his violently-trembling hand, clenched hard enough to crinkle the slip. The drawing was... pretty cringe, if he's being honest with himself, but it's something he thought Karl would appreciate: a little card (love note?) with a few words of—frankly—gushy confession, right above a doodle (although it's hard to consider a "doodle", with the amount of time and effort Quackity spent agonizing over whether it was ugly or just ugly enough to be cute to Karl's standards) of a butterfly with heart-shaped wings. 

The note sounded like a good idea at first, but now, slowly approaching Karl—who just successfully crammed the pouch into his bag—he really just wants to crumple the note up and go home. 

Who was he kidding, anyway? Quackity was not the kind of boy Karl would seek after. Quackity was all loud rushing and bad decisions, while Karl was all bright smiles and colorful paper. Karl was like a kaleidoscope; so overwhelming, yet so beautiful you couldn't take your eyes off him. He made Quackity feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed in the way that he wished he could squash the squirming feelings in his chest and be held by someone just as warm. 

(Someone like Karl.) 

But the sight of Karl brushing hair out of his face, all soft and beautiful, is enough to put Quackity back on his path, sucking in a deep breath and making his advance- 

Karl lifts his head in response to someone calling his name, and the smile that grows on his face is breathtaking. His cheeks turn pink as he flashes a toothy grin at whoever is making their way over to him, brushing his bangs back out of his face. Quackity is distracted by the gesture for a moment, so devastatingly enamored with this one boy, when someone steps beside Karl and loops an arm around his waist, pulling him in and placing a light kiss to his lips. 

Quackity had stopped dead in his tracks, eyes locked onto the other boy and of course—

It's Sapnap. 

Sapnap, with his hair up in messy space-buns (something he obviously began doing on behalf of Karl) and edgy cargo pants that were too big on him. The edges of the jeans drug on the floor and over his black and white converse, holes ran rugged in the seams from the constant abuse. 

(Quackity always laughed, meanly, to himself whenever he caught Sapnap tripping over them in the halls.) 

Sapnap, with his charismatic grin and swept, raven hair. Sapnap, with his ratty backpack with the broken zipper, front pocket always slightly open. Sapnap, with holes burned into the sleeves of his hoodie from when he got too trigger-happy with a lighter. 

Stupid, annoying, motherfucking Sapnap. 

Sapnap, the same piece of shit that could commit straight murder and would still show up to school the next day just because his dad is a teacher. The same annoying dickhead who would spout idiotic bullshit and chalk it up to be some grand, profound philosophy that someway, somehow, always got a giggle out of Karl. 

SAPNAP, the same boy who someway, someHOW, got to the boy of his dreams first. 

He has no fucking idea how or why Karl decided stupid fucking Sapnap was the guy who deserved his soft smiles or gentle kisses (something Quackity would probably commit murder for). It was the one thing Quackity resented more than his own self-destruction, even at the ripe age of thirteen. 

It seemed like everywhere Karl existed, Sapnap was right behind him like some parasite leeching off of all his light. Sapnap was the storm cloud that loomed over the sun that is Karl, blocking him in and casting dark grays over the sky.  He was the fire that'd consume all of Karl's color, reducing it to nothing but raging oranges and reds to an inevitable pile of ash. Sapnap wasn't the gentle prism of color that matched Karl; he was destruction. 

Despite his previous revelation and Sapnap's adamant attempts at trying to be "cool", it was quite obvious when the boy faked a lower voice, or puffed up his chest, or struggled to sling a possessive arm over Karl's shoulders because he was too short. Sapnap was pathetic, to say the least, yet everyone seemed to relish in it. 

Sapnap was a pathetic, shining ball of fire, and everyone loved him. Everyone important, that is. 

Everyone being Karl. 

It was always Karl and Sapnap for as long as he could remember, and it had hurt for as long as he could remember, too. He supposes you can't create a prism of color without the sun first, and isn't that what Sapnap was? Nothing short of bright and alarming; so bold and burning it's easy to get caught up in the flames. 

The flames seem to swallow Quackity whole, and he seethes. 

He's been seething; in the halls, in class, even when they graduate and enter into a new form of prison ready to wrap metaphorical hands around his throat and squeeze (also known as high school), he seethes. He resents. 

And he snaps. 

Sapnap may have held Karl before him, but that never meant he could hold him better, and Quackity was resolved to snuff that fire out. If Quackity was anything, he was stubborn, and when one thing—one person—soothes the constant missile fire of hell reining in his head, why shouldn't he fight for it? 

It was petty. It was petty and mean and unnecessary, but if he was good at one thing, it was making bad decisions.

(And it just so happens that the potential result of said bad decision is getting to kiss the prettiest boy he'd ever seen.)

—

Sapnap fucking hated him. That was nothing new, although the extent to which he hated certainly was, moving from weird glances to death glares with those piercing, fire-lit eyes. 

Sapnap had interesting eyes. They were a dark, raw umber-like color, golden around the edges that shone in the sunlight, but there was also a sort of flame that burned in them. A red—or maybe orange—that sparked when his eyes crinkled in a crackling laugh, loud and bright and all-consuming. He laughed so brilliantly—while Karl's was all bubbly and sweet, Sapnap's was a stark reciprocal of fiery livelihood. 

It was almost hypnotizing, how his face seems to light ablaze whenever he'd grin all wide and teeth-bearing whenever he spots Karl in the halls, or laughing loud and booming at whatever dumb joke Dream spouts. He's awkward and obnoxious and so, so pathetic... but he's also so—so—

Warm. Uncomfortably warm, scorching and burning him with every glance. 

And maybe that's the kind of person Karl wants. It wouldn't stop Quackity from trying, though. Because he isn't thirteen and scared anymore, he's determined. He's only ever wanted one thing in this life, and there he stands, all pretty and devastating, and Quackity refuses to let him slip through his fingers just because the fire burned brighter. 

He'd snuff that fire out.

—

His face felt uncomfortably hot, probably red and flushed as he pushed through the sea of bodies. The lights were low and flashing, colors swimming in his vision through the artificial fog wafting through the hazy air. He was sweating for sure, all pressed up against the many other inebriated teenagers.

He's a bit sick of this party, honestly. He's usually down for parties; no harm in getting shamelessly drunk or high and doing stupid shit you'll only regret after dealing with the matching hangover the next morning. He's pretty known for his party presence, passing joints and pulling glass rims to grinning lips, smoke curling out of his nose and framing a tempting face. 

Maybe it's just his lack of sleep for the past week, or the essay that's due in two days, but he's starting to regret throwing this party. People have been pissing him off recently (people being Sapnap, mainly), and for some reason, he just can't handle it. He's usually able to take Sapnap's bitching with a roll of the eyes and a retort just as quick, but lately, Sapnap's jabs have only served to stir his festering anger rather than feed into it. He knows Sapnap can see it too; there's an air of victory whenever Sapnap bites words at him and receives no response—just blank vexation that simmers in a dark expression and an unspoken "I've won". 

He hasn't been able to stop thinking about the raven-haired boy, actually. His face rankles something in Quackity, sometimes boiling up violently with a desire to grab him by the collar and sock him in the nose. He chalks up his recent obsession to hate—the constant stream of thinking that leaves him groaning and shoving his face into a pillow at night. He's so. sick. of. thinking. 

He slips past two girls violently making out on his couch until he reaches a table littered with bottles and cans, and he picks a random one, clicking it open and chugging it.

The mystery liquid burns when it slides down his throat, and he suppresses a cough as he swallows rough. Chugging alcohol is, in hindsight, not a good idea, especially when you have a class early the next morning and that damn essay due the day after, but he's done with being sober. In simple words, he wants to be drunk. Blackout drunk, now. 

It was the only reason he threw this party in the first place. Despite what others must perceive him as, or how much he likes to smoke and drink, he's what people would refer to as an "academic weapon". He decided to lock in and crack down on his schoolwork seventh grade year (when his heart was dead-set on a purple boy and, eventually, broken by another made of fire) and start working towards law school (A wide jump, he knows).

Who does Sapnap think he is, anyway? Just because he gets a pretty boyfriend and a popular best friend, that means he gets to walk around like he owns the place? Just because he has a sweet dad and is decently good at the sport he plays and is probably off doing something better than getting pathetically drunk at some lame party? 

Someone bumps into him, causing him to stumble where he stands hunched over a table of drinks. The lights are starting to make his head spin, dots dancing in his vision, and he deliriously thinks of Karl. He knows better than to think Karl would be at a place like this—loud and gross and reeking of poor decisions—but a part of him wishes to catch sight of the boy anyway. Just seeing Karl's pretty face would probably solve a lot of his problems right now. 

He mindlessly grabs another drink, pushing his way through the crowd and away from the drinks table, eyes catching on someone he knows and heading in that direction. He eventually makes his way to a side room away from the main crowd, relatively clear of cups but hazy with smoke. A group of people sit in a circle, some he knows, some he doesn't. 

"Eyyy, it's big Q!" He turns to face the speaker, being met with the grinning face of Minx. Her purple hair is tied up in pigtails on the side, albeit a bit messy. She's got lipstick smudged on her bottom lip and stained down her neck, a cigarette lit between her fingers. She tilts her head at him and pats the ground beside her, smile growing sharper, "Wanna join in?" 

"What are you playing?" Quackity huffs, surveying the group. There's Punz and some other guys he recognizes from the football team, a few girls including Minx, Dream and George (when are they ever not together?), and of course, Sapnap. 

His eyes meet Sapnap's, and they linger there for a moment, both of them sharing a look he can't quite describe. It makes something dangerous flutter in his stomach. 

"Seven minutes in heaven," Dream responds, breaking him out of his trance. His arm is draped loosely around George, who sits all pressed up against his side. He's got a few bruises blooming against his collarbone, the culprit of said bruises now leaning his head against Dream's shoulder, sly little smile on his kiss-bitten lips. 

Quackity's never been a huge fan of party games. It's all a dumb excuse make out with a stranger, and majority of the time, the games end in regretted affairs and drunken confessions. He looks over at Sapnap once more, eyes roaming across his state in curiosity. He's wearing his jersey, hair ruffled but still somewhat kept. His neck is clear of any color, for obvious reason—he wonders if Karl is here too, considering they're dating, and what other reason would Sapnap have to be at a party if not to get drunk and fuck his boyfriend? 

He blames the alcohol he's recklessly consumed in his system for the reason why he agrees to join, but a part of him wants to challenge the look in Sapnap's eyes. He wants to dissect it; figure out what he's thinking behind that burning gaze. It makes his legs feel a little wobbly, something foreboding lingering in the air. 

"Sure," He croaks, eyes still locked with the boy he'd slime out if he could, but right now, his head is hazy and he feels kind of giddy-stupid, so he lets it go. He sits down next to Minx, who winks at him and offers a blunt. 

He takes it with shaking fingers, trying to ignore the tension that has grown thick enough to slice through. He imagines he could, taking one of the bottles and smashing it against the ground and using one of the pieces to slice through this—this feeling he doesn't understand. 

He watches the bottle spin round and round, some girl giggling when it lands on some other guy he can't bother to remember the name of. They hurry into the closet, and someone sets a timer, people passing blunts and bottles in the meantime.

Quackity watches Sapnap finish off a bottle of something, gasping when he pulls off the rim. He can't help but fixate slightly on the way Sapnap parts his lips, red and a bit wet from the drink. He looks different like this, without his "cool guy" facade, and he almost looks... tempting. Like it’d be easy to pull him in and shut him up with a rough kiss. 

He shakes the thought quickly. 

He doesn't notice that time has passed until the couple is stumbling out of the closet, giggling and breathless. The bottle is then passed to Sapnap, who places it in the middle before flicking his wrist and spinning it hard. He can see George lean into Dream's space in the corner of his eye, and he whispers something in his ear, pulling back to look at Dream directly. There's a certain spark in his gaze that he can recognize anywhere, and Dream can see it too, hand sliding to rest on his hip intentionally. He quickly averts his eyes. 

The bottle spins, and speaking of Dream and George, Quackity wonders if Sapnap is only here for Dream, or if Karl is somewhere else. Did Karl and Sapnap go to parties together? Or would they rather stay at home, cuddled up in bed or on a couch, senselessly making out until their breaths run short. Has Sapnap seen Karl shirtless, or desperate, or were they nothing like that at all? Was Sapnap the type to be shy, to blush all red and cute-like when offered simple things like a kiss or a held hand, or was he confident? Did he kiss soft, hands cupping a cheek like it's the most precious thing to ever exist—or did he bite, pulling him in by the chin and kissing like it was the one thing he was made to do. 

A series of "ooo"'s and laughter break him out of his thoughts, and he snaps his head up to see what the commotion is about. Sapnap is staring at the middle of the circle with a horrified look, and Quackity flits his eyes to see who the bottle landed on. 

The rim of the bottle is pointed, green and glassy, right at him. 

His brain stalls for a moment, staring at the bottle, before lifting his gaze to meet Sapnaps. 

Fuck. 

Sapnap, in a moment of panic, looks to Dream and George, only to find them missing from their place. They’ve most likely run off somewhere; a bathroom or bedroom, probably. Quackity can’t help but feel sympathy—it sucks to be abandoned by your friends at a party, especially when you’re being forced into a goddamn closet with the guy that's totally in love with your boyfriend and makes sure you know it.

They're both stumbling into the closet the next thing he knows. It's unbelievably cramped; shelves on the back wall filled with junk, a few mysterious masses he can't make out in the dark. There's just enough space for two people to squeeze in the corners or press up against the door. The closet is hot and a bit humid, dark enough to leave you stumbling, but enough to make out the furrowed brow of the other boy. 

"This fucking sucks," Sapnap mutters bitterly, and Quackity huffs, tripping over his own feet a bit in his quest of keeping as far from Sapnap as possible. 

“You’re telling me,” Quackity crosses his arms across his chest, leaning up against the wall and roving his eyes over Sapnap’s face. His face is flushed, even in the dark, and his eyes are a little unfocused, but he’s still glaring at Quackity anyway. 

“What’s your fucking problem, anyway?” 

Quackity snaps his head to look at Sapnap, eyes narrowing. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” 

Sapnap rolls his eyes, and god Quackity wants to slam him up against the wall. In a threatening way, of course. 

“Uh gee, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you wont stop fucking flirting with my boyfriend?” 

Quackity barks out a laugh at that, rolling his own eyes. “God, you’re still bitching about that?” 

“Yes??” Sapnap shouts, “he’s my boyfriend!” 

“Well maybe,” Quackity bites, “I don’t think you deserve him.” 

A quiet falls over them, and Sapnap stares a bit open-mouthed, eyes narrowed in indignation. He can see the flame flickering to life in his eyes, reigniting at the sharpness of words. He looks appalled, like he doesn’t see the color the Karl emits that swirls in and out of Quackity’s conscious whenever he closes his eyes. Like he doesn’t know how long Quackity has been longing to touch him—hold him, kiss him, love him—like you’d crave oxygen. 

“Who says that you do?” 

Quackity snaps his head up, meeting the glowering gaze of the other boy. He spoke darkly, eyes narrowed and fist clenched. He looked like he wanted to beat Quackity to a pulp; it felt like a challenge. Quackity smiles smugly. 

“Give me one night with him, and then you’ll see—” He’s cut off abruptly by Sapnap slamming him into the wall by the shoulders, fingers digging in harsh and bunching up with shirt. Said article of clothing rides up his stomach a bit, pushed upward by the sheer force of pressure. The breath is knocked out of him, and he pants, stunned, as Sapnap leans his face close to his, growling, “Don’t you fucking finish that sentence.” 

It was a shitty thing to say, Quackity will admit, but it had its intended purpose: piss Sapnap off. Quackity had no intention of objectifying Karl in any way, but the way the words seems to snap something in Sapnap encourages slick pride through him, and he can’t help but stare a little breathlessly at the way he grips him. Sapnap’s hands are hot, painfully so—they seems to burn embers into his shoulders where they tighten, heat traveling through his torso and down his body, settling in a place he’d rather not admit. 

He moves his hands up to grip at Sapnap’s hands where they’re grabbing him, biting back with just as much poison, “And what are you going to do about it, pretty boy?” 

Sapnap seems a bit taken aback by the pet name, blinking rapidly as if to shake off it’s affects, and Quackity grin widens. “You’re not as big and scary as you think you are, you know,” He sighs, tightening his grip on Sapnap’s wrists and yanking them down, forcing Sapnap down to meet his eyes as he whispers. “You’re pathetic.” 

Sapnap only breathes, eyes darting darting across his face, briefly landing on his lips before snapping up again, speechless. He’s a bit open-mouthed, and up close Quackity can see the flush to his cheeks; red consuming him in an all encompassing fire, and he kind of feels like he’s teetering off of a ledge. They’ve never been this face-to-face before, and Quackity feels a little helpless watching the way Sapnap wets his lips, slow and nervous and enchanting. 

“And you think you’re any better?” Sapnap whispers shakily, swallowing hard at the way Quackity leans closer, eyes solely fixed on his mouth when he says, “I know I’m better.” 

It feels inevitable—an unavoidable outcome the second they stumbled into this damn closet together—that they’d end up here, up close and dangerous. A part of him wishes, begs, prays that Sapnap will keep his mouth shut; back away and scoff, huffing about how dumb this is and how he’d rather be doing anything else. 

But the unfortunate truth is that Sapnap is drunk and probably high, and Quackity is fairing no better. The truth is is that they’re both stupid and drunk and teenage boys, both tripping over the sunshine that one boy make of color radiates and helplessly following after. The truth is, that even after all of Quackity’s resentment, he’s still drunk, and Sapnap is right here, looking flushed and stupid and hot—

“Prove it.” 

And nothing, truly nothing, can ever go the way he wants. 

He doesn’t even register when he moves, but the next thing he knows, he’s crashing his lips into Sapnap’s, hands falling off of his wrists in favor of wrapping around his neck instead. They move senselessly against one another, and Sapnap moves his hands to wrap around Quackity’s waist, pulling him in close.

It evicts a noise from him, and he tilts his head to further deepen their kiss, biting mercilessly at Sapnap’s bottom lip. Sapnap gasps lightly, and Quackity takes the opportunity to flip them and push Sapnap up against the wall he just just leant up against. They part, breaths mingling and heavy. Quackity can see the glazed-over look in Sapnap’s burning eyes, like he’s in euphoria, and everything in his head is kicked out nicely on it’s ass in favor of pressing his lips into Sapnap’s once more. 

Everything slips away in a daze, and Quackity can’t tell you what possessed him—a demon, probably—to be making out with the boy he’d sworn the last four years to despise. His body feels alight, slowly rising in temperature and burning at every point of contact.

At some point, they migrated to the other wall, and Quackity is back to being shoved up against it. He gasps when Sapnap moves his lips to his neck, kissing up and down his sternum like a dying man. He burns when Sapnap takes his skin between his teeth and bites—a sharp feeling that easily takes over his senses, overwhelming him in a raging fire as the only thoughts that can make their way through the inferno being Sapnap, Sapnap, Sapnap. 

It feels like he’s trapped in a supernova, pulsing heat and fluctuating in and out of control; feel’s like he’s being turned inside out. His head is hazy and wild and unfocused, but he can’t seem to stop, pulling Sapnap up from his ravage against his neck to pull him into another bruising kiss. He drinks up all of Sapnap’s sounds like he’s dehydrated, sipping the blissful waters of an oasis that burns like a wildfire. He feels warm all over, glowing red-hot and aching, fire blazing in his chest as he moans openly into Sapnap’s mouth. 

"Fuck-" He hears Sapnap sigh against his lips, "You're so fucking annoying." 

Quackity gasps against when Sapnap slides his hand underneath his shirt, hands hot and rough but no less welcome. "Y-Yeah?" Quackity breathes, eyes fluttering shut as Sapnap rides his shirt up more, exposing the expanse of his stomach. "Why don't you shut me up then?"

He runs warm, warm, warm fingers around his torso, stopping at his waist and digging in, squeezing. He moans, throwing his head back, and Sapnap takes the opportunity to kiss bruises into his pulse point. 

He curls his fingers through raven hair—slightly greasy and sweaty—tugging at the strands. Sapnap groans at that, moving to rest his forehead against his shoulder. They both just breathe, and Quackity feels so out of his mind like this—knows this is insane, but he can't seem to stop. 

"Sapnap," He whispers, for no reason other than just to say it. He can feel when Sapnap's breath hitches against his shoulder, clearly affected. It fans the flame that's burning in his chest, traveling lower and simmering. He feels desperate and needy; craving and craving like it's the only thing he was meant to consume, this boy in front of him. 

"Fuck. Fuck!" Sapnap breathes heavy and hot, and he full-body shivers when Quackity tugs lightly at his hair again. "I can't think straight around you." 

"Can't think 'straight'. Hah." Quackity giggles, and Sapnap rolls his eyes so hard he can almost hear them knock around in his empty skull. Sapnap retaliates with a bite to his jugular, and that shuts him up real quick.

"You drive me insane," He growls, breathless but no less sharp.

He tugs at Sapnap's back, lifting up his shirt and head tilted as far back as it will go. Sapnap soothes the ravaged area with his tongue, leaving violet streaks in its wake. Quackity pulls Sapnap's hair until he's lifting from his neck to face him, and he kisses him with fevour. He nips at his bottom lip until Sapnap relents, and he moans. It takes Quackity by surprise: how easily Sapnap melts into the kiss, letting him lick into his mouth and drink up his noises. It's like a switch has been flipped; Sapnap now pliant and shaky against him, hands aimlessly fumbling anywhere they can reach.

His brain short circuits when those warm hands dip below his waistband, ever so slightly, and he feels his breath stall. It's like he's being hit by a train, brain whiting out and falling into this pit of heat he can't seem to escape as those hands get bold. His vision swims in indigo bruises and roiling flames, pulling at every part of him and taking.

"I fucking hate you, you know?"

He can't think past fire-bright hands, and everything falls.

(He doesn't even have half a mind to realize how wrong everything is.)

—

He's rudely awakened by sunlight streaming through the window and the chirps of birds outside. They sing happy tunes, twittering high-pitched and repetitive. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the light, nuzzling down into the mattress. Someone pulls him closer, and he snuggles up against the warm arm wrapped around his waist, sighing in contentment. His head fucking hurts, but the warm body pressed up against his bare back helps soothe the pain, leeching heat into his already sweaty skin.

Wait a minute. A body?

His eyes fly open, and he recognizes the familiar sight of his bedroom. His sheets are rumpled where he lays atop of them, body covered by a thin sheet that could definitely use a wash. He can see his guitar set safely on its stand, the same worn stickers peeling around the edges and faded with years of attention.

His room is relatively bare, except the occasional poster and the sheet music strewn across the carpet. He's grateful his guitar seemed to escape the wrath that is highschool parties; he always locks his room to prevent any couples getting frisky in his sheets. Someone seemed to slip their way in, though, because he can feel hot air against his neck. He whips his head—big mistake OW—to face the person snoring lightly behind him, just to find—

No, He thinks, gaping at the sight of ruffled raven hair and flushed cheeks. There's no fucking way. He looks down at his bare chest, then to Sapnap's, then to the pile of clothes across the room. It feels like the world is tilting, heart teetering on the edge of a steep drop as he slowly puts the pieces together.

No no no no no—

He stares, open-mouthed, at Sapnap's resting face. He looks in sheer horror at the smattering of bruises that litter Sapnap's neck, and he can assume his neck fairs no better.

ANYONE but him PLEASE—

And the truth is that he, Alexis Quackity, is laying, naked, in a bed with motherfucking Sapnap Halo—who also happens to be very naked—with kiss-bruised lips and a raging hangover.

He's lying. Naked. In a bed. With Sapnap.

He thinks he might throw up.

He scrambles to push Sapnap's arm off of him, shoving Sapnap to the side and rolling out of bed. Sapnap groans, sluggishly rolling over. He quickly grabs his clothes from where they were haphazardly thrown, hastily putting his boxers back on. His shirt feels gross when he touches it, remnants of fiery hands cementing itself in the fabric. He throws the shirt to the side, fishing out a new one and throwing it over his head. He turns to glower at the other boy who turns to wrap arms around his pillow, and chucks the closest thing he can grab at him.

Sapnap startles awake, flinching when a pair of boxers hits him in the face. "The hell?" He mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face. He blinks the haze out of his eyes, widening them when he realizes he's in an unfamiliar environment. "Wha— wh— where—"

He looks down to his chest, then the blanket, then to Quackity in his rumpled t-shirt and boxers, cogs slowly but surely twisting in his mind and making a connection. His expression twists into horror then, fingers tightening in the sheets. "What the—" He stutters out, looking at Quackity with a hard expression. "Why— what happened?"

"The fuck do you think happened?" Quackity bites, angrily putting a pair of shorts on. Sapnap just sputters, looking alike to a lost puppy.

"I don't—" He stammers, "What— how—" He swallows thickly, "That can't be—"

"Well it is," Quackity hisses, turning to face Sapnap with narrowed—but tired— eyes. "We fucked, Sapnap. Is that what you want to hear?"

"No!" Sapnap shouts, sitting up straight and defensive, "You—you're wrong, that can't—I would never—"

"Well it's the truth, so fucking deal with it." Quackity mumbles, sudden exhaustion weighing over him. His limbs feel heavy and slow as his head aches, and he wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball on his bed and pretend like this is all some bad dream.

Sapnap seems to be fairing no better, as he puts his clothes back on with a look of disbelief, like he just can't admit the truth to himself. He opens and closes his mouth the entire time, trying to form words to untangle the muddled mess of memories that are slowly starting to haunt the corners of both of their minds. Quackity bets he could find that bottle still left in its place on the carpet.

"You're messing with me," Sapnap finally comes up with, "I got drunk and passed out in your room and now you're pissed and you hate me so you're making up this—this bullshit!"

"Why the fuck would I lie about us having sex?" Quackity laughs, indignant. "Unlike you, I actually have some dignity left."

Sapnap stands up off the bed, shoving Quackity up against the wall. He seethes, glaring at Quackity, but no words bite out of his clenched jaw. His fists shake where they're curled into his shirt, whether from anger or horrid realization.

"I would never cheat on Karl." Sapnap whispers, coming out less intimidating than intended.

"Well you did," Quackity whispers back with ferocity, his own bubbling disappointment simmering down in the wake of a resigned acceptance. He's less angry or disgusted about it than he expected; all fury aimed at his own careless actions rather than the situation itself. He feels… indifferent, almost, like he maybe doesn't care.

It stems from a deeper truth, of knowing he's been fighting a losing battle (there was never a chance of victory in the first place), yet he still decides to get up and chase after Karl anyway.

Because the unfortunate truth was that Karl and Sapnap worked. They looked good together, worked well together, and overall, loved each other. Karl was irrevocably and indefinitely in love with Nicholas "Sapnap" Halo—not Alexis.

Not him.

It feels selfish, he finds himself thinking, to wish and wish and wish for a boy as sweet as summer wind to love him back when he already has the luxury of even being friends with him. He and Karl got along—he'd quirk his lips and spill whatever dumb, smooth flirt comes out of his mouth, and Karl would hide his smile behind a sleeve and giggle.

Maybe it's for that reason that he kept trying: Karl never seemed to distance himself. It was that sliver of hope that somehow he had a chance; how could he not, when Karl would pull Sapnap into a kiss one moment and smile at Quackity with glittering eyes the next.

He supposed he's delusional, though—he and Karl's interactions may have been a bit more than what was considered "friendly", but everyone who knew Karl knew that that's just how it was with him. Karl is the type of person to feel nothing but platonic feelings for someone and still lean his head on their shoulder, or intertwine their fingers, or even place a playful kiss upon their hand. It's a different kind of feeling behind those actions when they're meant nothing short of companionable rather than affectionate; a specific air that lingers when Karl smiles at Sapnap than when he smiles at George.

(An air he's come to so desperately envy. An air he didn't think Sapnap deserved.

An air that he's afraid to notice when he's with Sapnap.)

He's brought out of this thoughts by hiccuping inhales, and he whips to face the source of the sound. Sapnap, standing in the middle of his room with his hands clutched in his hair, looking very panicked and heaving breaths.

"He's—he's going to hate me," Sapnap whispers dejectedly, "I—I cheated on Karl—" He sucks in a large breath, but it doesn't seem to quite reach his lungs because it catches, the following exhale shaky and unstable-sounding.

Oh god, is he having a panic attack in the middle of my room? Quackity thinks helplessly, can only stare as Sapnap starts to pace, fingers hold a death-grip in raven locks. Sapnap genuinely looks like he's on the verge of tears, and Quackity just shuffles awkwardly, strangely feeling… sympathetic.

He's never seen Sapnap vulnerable like this before. He's always been clenched fists and raging fires, never this—this mess of disarray.

It's like he actually cares, Quackity realizes, like a revelation. Maybe it's stupid to think that Sapnap didn't actually love Karl—not in the way Karl deserves, at least —but it's always been in his mind that Sapnap is this emotionally unavailable and haughty person, rather than the softer, feeling person he's watching freak out right in front of him.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Quackity sighs, walking over to Sapnap and pulling his hands gently away from his hair. Sapnap just looks up at him grievously, tears welled. His eyes are wet, and it makes them glisten slightly.

Sapnap's eyes were nothing special—nothing in comparison to the breathtaking sight of the warm, hazel color of Karls—just a sort of greyish-brown that deepened into a richer color around the edges. His eyes are soft-looking, gentle in a way that still inflicts embers but can soothe the very burns they inflict. It's easy to get lost in them, he notices, eyes roving across the expanse of his irises and mapping out where dark brown branches into the lighter sections, like lightning striking across a dusky ether. He blinks, almost in a daze, sudden calmness washing over him as he slowly drags his gaze away from taupe-colored depths.

"Look," He starts carefully, pulling his hands back when he realizes they were still connected to Sapnap's. "We—We were both drunk, okay? Neither of us were in the right state of mind. We—you—we wouldn't have… you know, if we were sober, right?" Sapnap nods jerkily, eyes not leaving Quackity's. It makes him slightly nervous, the eye contact seeming to burn into his soul, like Sapnap can see past his ribs and into his heart.

He swallows hard.

"If Karl was a good boyfriend, he'd understand that you weren't—that you didn't mean to," Quackity's hands begin to shake for reasons unknown, but he keeps a steady hold on Sapnap's gaze. "And Karl will understand. He… he loves you too much not too."

It hurts to say.

Sapnap nods once, taking in deep breaths as he calms himself down. "Y-Yeah, you're—you're right." He sighs, running a hand through ruffled hair. His hair really needs to be washed, he notes.

"Look," Quackity says after a moment, a bit strained, "I… this was dumb, okay? Let's just forget about it."

Sapnap grimaces, biting his bottom lip. "Yeah…" He then looks up at Quackity with urgency, "This stays between us, right?"

"Of course?" Quackity scoffs, "If people found out I had sex with you, it would be social suicide."

"Fuck you," Sapnap mumbles, shoving Quackity lightly to the side has he goes to put his shoes on. "We do not speak of this."

"Good with me," He watches Sapnap lace up his shoes, the bottom and sides of them stained with mud. "You have to promise me one thing, though."

Sapnap looks up at him where he's crouched with a confused quirk of his brow. Quackity crosses his arms, expression hard, "You have to tell Karl. Don't keep this from him. He— he deserves to know."

Sapnap's expression melts into resignation. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, clearly trying to form whatever words he wants to say with failure. After a few seconds of his struggle, he sighs, hanging his head, "Fine."

—

Quackity walks Sapnap to the door, cringing at the mess of solo cups. That'll be fun to clean up with a raging hangover.

They both kind of hover awkwardly by the door, clearly unsure on how to properly bid goodbyes in a context such as this, so Sapnap doesn't, just leaves Quackity with a glance and walks out the door. Quackity closes it behind him, and after a few seconds of standing, he slowly slides down the door and sinks to the floor, laying limp and staggered. He stares out into space, mind running circles trying to process the tangled mess of emotions that's passing through him. He pulls his knees up and hides his face in them when his thoughts get too loud, and he groans, long and tired.

This is so, so unbelievably fucked.

He kind of wants to cry, because this is all so overwhelming and his head hurts and he doesn't know how to feel. He decides to begin cleaning the aftermath of his poor decisions under the reason of distracting himself from the mess in this room (and the… memories that accompany it). He picks himself up, legs a tad shaky but he chalks it up to the hangover weighing his body down. He makes his way to the bathroom first and pops a few ibuprofen and chugs a glass of water before trekking into the living room to assess the damage.

There's red cups scattered over his floor, a few spills here and there. The general air smells sticky and kind of gross, lingering scents of alcohol and sex stinking up the air. One of his couch cushions has disappeared from the couch, somehow, and he finds it stranded in the hall leading into the kitchen, laying mournfully across the linoleum.

He has about two hours before one of his parents are expected to come home, so he needs to get the house cleaned before then. Not that his parents would really care that he had a party (like they care about much of anything, really), but for his own peace of mind, he'd rather keep it to himself.

He digs underneath his kitchen sink until he unearths a crumpled box of latex gloves (this was a high school party— he'd rather not risk touching whatever mystery liquids or drugs that potentially await him) snaps them on, and gets to work.

As he cleans, his head begins to clear minusculely, and he starts to remember snippets of the party. He avoids the carpeted area across the living room like the plague; memories of games and warm lips and a bottle spinning round and round and round haunting him.

After he's dumped the trash bag full of cups into his trashcan, he flops onto his (now clean and with all its cushions) couch with a loud sigh. He rubs harsh hands into his eyes, groaning at the pounding in his head.

"God," He sighs, leaning hard and slumped into the back cushions. "This sucks."

—

When his parents get home, he's already retired to his room, laying face-down on his bed until the squirming under his skin gets too overbearing and he has to take a shower.

He undresses in his bathroom, wincing at the ache in his limbs. He stops dead in his tracks, though, when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror.

His shirt is off, so his chest is exposed, and he just now sees the expanse of color littering his neck and shoulders. He nudges at them in awe, delicately poking at the most ravaged ones. There's a stark, purple and red one that sits at the column of his throat, standing proud and bold in a way that screams "hey look at me, I'm a slut!".

He then remembers the way it stung when teeth claimed his skin, biting mercilessly and in a way that he definitely found hot. He remembers the way he threw his head back, fingers gripping at dark hair as warm lips melted him into submission. He remembers how out of his mind he felt, nothing but warm, warm, warm running circles in his mind when those hands grew bold enough to dip under his waistband.

He backs away from the mirror, feeling hot as he flushes. He deliberately ignores the way heat travels further down, ever-so-slightly, and steps into the shower. He lets the warm water slide over his shoulders, and he sighs, content. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying to focus on the steam curling around his cheeks instead of—

Stumbling out of the closet and past the living room. Pushing open the door to his bedroom. Senselessly moving lips against lips and wandering hands. Hands running underneath his shirt and pushing it up and over his head, discarding it on the carpeted floor. He does the same for the boy against him, sliding his hands against a bare chest that leaves him breathless. He remembers kissing up against that chest, relishing in the whimpers it elicits. They kiss into the room until his knees hit the bed, and he falls onto it, pulling Sapnap with him. Sapnap crawls on top of him like it was the only place he was meant to be, and he loses himself when he dips his hands under his boxers—

"FUCK!" He shouts, dragging hands down his face. He knocks his head against the slick linoleum wall as if he could knock those thoughts out of his head. He rests his head on the wall for a while, letting the water run down his back, unceasing. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could reach inside his chest and punch all the bemusing, aching feelings out of it.

When he finally leaves the shower, he dresses and shambles into the kitchen. He cracks open a can of 7-Up, taking a long swig before digging through the cabinets to satisfy the increasing grumbling in his stomach.

"Fun night?" his mom asks, not looking away from the TV where she sits on the couch. Despite his valiant attempt to leave the house spotless from the events of last night, the smell of smoke and desperation never stops lingering, and he's had enough parties for her to make an assumption that one took place the second she got home.

He's quiet for a while, staring at the droplets of condensation from his can that drip onto his fingertips—

sees those same hands touching sin into the heated body of a boy he's supposed to hate

—and takes a deep breath.

"Sure," He mumbles, snagging a bag of chips and making way back to his room, intentionally avoiding the room that's now stained with tantalizing promise.

—

Karl was like an irreplaceable color, swimming in your vision and warping your mind like a bad edible. He ate up all the room for logical thought in his mind, consuming him ever since he first laid eyes on a boy that shone in a purple luster.

He would daydream about a future with Karl— something sweet and beautiful that you would read about in poetry or some cheesy romance book, but no less gentle. He'd dream about kissing Karl softly and being loved in turn.

It was something that kept him going; Karl's company brightened him, breathed life back into a burnt-out consciousness and kissed with summer-sweet adoration. He relished in the knowledge that he and Karl were friends, even if his fantasies of love were fruitless.

Those fantasies often included the dismay of Sapnap; watching his face burn hot in anger or crumple in betrayal as Quackity swept Karl away and into a world of better affection. He had imagined his got'cha moments at Sapnap thousands of times, but never once did he think it would end up with Karl as the betrayal-ee.

As much as he hated Sapnap and Karl's relationship, he never once blamed Karl or ever wished hurt upon him. He was always aware that his prayers of downfall were stupid, but he justified it with he only prayed the downfall of Sapnap, never Karl.

It was a perfectly crafted world. It was simple: He was in love with Karl, but Sapnap got in the way, so he and Sapnap would fight for Karl's affection, and in turn he and Sapnap despised each other.

It all came crashing down, though, when he wound up in bed with the very same man he swore to abhor, the hand prints of lust forever tattooed on skin. The scariest part of it all, however, wasn't the truth of he had sex with Sapnap, no—

It was the reality that, despite it all, he hadn't hated it.

That in his world where Sapnap raged on in an eternal inferno, and Quackity was determined to be the rain cloud that poured and snuffed that fire out, he found himself—god forbid—craving the ache of the flames.

He wanted Sapnap to touch his body again; to run heated fingers down his chest and drag swollen lips down across his neck. He wanted to be kissed with fervor and all the warmth of a thousand suns. He wanted the spiced intensity that Sapnap brought, all rushing winds and flickering embers of desire.

If Karl tasted like candy—sugar sweet and cloying in a way that was overwhelmingly colorful (or at least, how he'd imagine Karl tasted like)—then Sapnap tasted of spiced meats and warm hot cocoa; Karl was honeyed, while Sapnap was savory. It was a strange comparison, he knows, but he can't figure out how to articulate the roiling emotions that simmer restlessly in his chest otherwise.

It's like he craves both sweetness and savory; yearns for the balance of red-hot smolders and the cool, sweet dew that soothes it.

He doesn't know how exactly to choose.

He doesn't know if he even got to choose in the first place.

—

The next day at school feels like a fever dream.

He walks the halls and doesn't talk to anyone, only offering weak smiles to those who call out to him. People seem to notice his exhaustion, eventually give up on trying to converse with him and pass by with quick glances.

He especially avoids those who try to talk with him about the party, spurring on memories he definitely doesn't need to be thinking about in school.

He avoids Karl like the plague, always ducking his head and speed-walking past him in the hallways. Anytime he sees Karl's alight face or sweet smile, he feels like throwing up, anxiety-spurred nausea building in his throat. He wonders if Karl knows yet; if Sapnap told him. What would Karl think? Would he hate Quackity? Were they still even friends?

He wants to think that Karl would understand. Understand the alcohol in their systems and the decisions that followed in fault, but it's a tricky situation all around—how could you ever be okay with the love of your life giving that love to someone else, intentional or not?

That thought stops him dead in his tracks, hands freezing where they were mindlessly writing notes.

Love. Love. Is that what it was? Did he and Sapnap make love that night?

Of course not, you dumbass, he scolds, shaking his head lightly and refocusing back on the paper in front of him, although the words don't seem to actually register in his mind. You were both drunk and horny. It was nothing but lust.

His pencil stills. He knew lust—most of his experiences with intimacy were rooted if not exclusively in lust, as comes with your typical high school party. He has kissed strangers he had no feelings for, flirted with boys with no real intention other than sex, even indulged in his own pleasure surrounded by hopeless fantasies.

But this—this was new. This was scary.

When he had kissed Sapnap, it wasn't just yielding to another's desires in the name of boredom, or to just "have fun", it was—it was rancor. He felt overwhelmingly rageful, like he was destined to destroy him. Why these feelings led to kissing and… further escalations, he doesn't know.

He buries his face in his hands, silently screaming. He was so sick of not knowing. He was a smart guy, he was usually able to figure things out, but this—

He has no fucking clue what to do.

He doesn't hear the bell ring, only dimly registers others raising from their seats and follows suit, throwing his bag over his shoulder and shuffling out of the classroom like a zombie.

His head still hurts.

When he gets to government class, his head is pounding. He checks to find his water bottle missing from his bag, just his luck that he left it at home. His boss wont stop blowing up his phone trying to get him to come in on his day off, the florescent lights keeping burning holes into his eyes, and worse yet, Karl waltzes in with his color block backpack and that damn purple hoodie.

It makes him emotional, because god does he look beautiful, hair a bit ruffled and in his eyes. Quackity keeps his eyes down when Karl moves to sit in his usual seat behind Quackity, dropping his bag to rest beside the desk. He doesn't say anything to Quackity when he sits, just settling down into the seat and silently taking out his notebook.

It feels like a stab to his heart, because normally Karl greets him with a cheerful smile and a little wave, chatting with him until their teacher starts class.

Today, though, Karl is quiet, and he's never quiet. Quackity squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stave off tears, but he feels like crawling out of his skin and Karl is right behind him and probably knows.

Oh god, He sucks in a very, very shaky breath. He probably knows.

He's rising from his seat then, dashing over to the teacher and asking with a trembling voice to go to the nurse. She pauses, scanning over his face with concern before nodding, telling him to check Google classroom when he can if he's not back.

He leaves the classroom as quickly as possible, feeling like he can finally breathe when he's away from the class. From Karl.

He doesn't go to the nurse, and he definitely doesn't go back to class.

—

By the time the final bell rings, Quackity is ready to keel over. He lugs his back over his shoulder again, pushing through crowds of people in the halls. He stops by his Gov. class to pick up any work he missed and possibly apologize, but his teacher brushes him off, tells him that she could tell he needed the break (There's a reason she's his favorite).

On his way out, he's feeling a bit better—a friendly conversation with a teacher lightening his mood and reassuring any anxieties he had over skipping the class. He's thinking about ordering takeout tonight and laying in bed with his cat all day when he's stopped by the person he wants to see the least.

He's stopped dead in his tracks, standing frozen and appalled outside his Gov. classroom, because Sapnap's there. He looks no less better than Quackity, probably a little worse, and he can tell he's been crying. It opens something aching in his chest; longing he doesn't understand.

"Sapnap," he chokes out, voice a bit strained. He doesn't know why he says it, but he does, if not to just say it.

"We—" Sapnap swallows rough, "Can—can we talk?'

The phrase locks his body up, anxiety roiling over him in waves. God, please no.

He's about to say no. Decline and walk away, go home and order food and snuggle with his cat like he wants to. He wants to shove Sapnap away or laugh meanly in his face or scream at him or break down crying. Sapnap looks so impossibly soft, vulnerable in a way Quackity's starting to realize (with horror) he finds sweet.

It's like something new bloomed in his chest as Sapnap looks at him with sad, sad eyes. In the midst of his perfectly crafted world falling apart, new life sprouted in it's wake—scary and all consuming, but frighteningly, welcome.

He's starting to realize that the bright Mandela of color that he accepted to be his "one and only"—a boy he'd chase after until he drew his last breath—wasn't as perpetual as he originally thought. That maybe, just maybe, that "one and only" wasn't just one.

With a rapid pulse, shaking hands, and a heart too full with too many feelings he can't unravel, he says, "S-Sure—yeah, lets talk."

The Mandela of color burns bright in shades of oranges and reds he's never imagined he could allow himself to like.

(And if he dares, maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself to love them—him—, too.)