Chapter Text
That evening, Quackity found himself lying wide awake in bed.
Listlessly staring up at the ceiling fan, he watched it spin in endless circles. Round and round it went, rotating tirelessly and without ever showing signs of slowing down. The faint electrical buzzing of its engine and the whirring noise of displaced air were the only sounds in the room. They were the only sounds in the entire house, which otherwise lay silent as a tomb – lifeless and dark.
And yet the ceiling fan continued spinning and spinning and spinning, unburdened by Quackity’s darkening thoughts.
It was exhausting.
Today had been exhausting in general, and the emotional toll his conversation with Tubbo earlier in the day had taken on him was only beginning to sink in now. He had tried so hard, had poured his heart out more openly and more sincerely than he’d thought himself capable of, had made himself vulnerable, had said all the right things, had apologized, and yet...
And yet he was still all alone in a house that was too quiet and a bed that was too big.
Tubbo still hadn’t come home. And Schlatt was still dead.
Quackity glanced over at his bedside table, reading the glowing red digits of his alarm clock to check the time. Too early to go to sleep. Too late to get up and do something productive. He sighed heavily.
Then his gaze drifted to the photograph of Schlatt he kept on his bedside table, still placed face-down from when Quackity had lost his temper the other night, unable to keep looking at Schlatt’s face.
Slowly, he reached out and gently picked the photograph up. He turned it over in his hands to look at it, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he whispered, his voice sounding loud in the relative silence of his bedroom. “I’m sorry I accused you of leaving me. I know you didn’t mean to. I know you’d be here, if you could.”
No response.
Quackity swallowed, trying to dislodge the large lump which had formed inside his throat. He murmured: “I wish you were here.”
Again, no response.
With a wistful sigh, Quackity placed the photograph down on his chest, letting it rest right over his heart.
“I miss you,” he muttered, returning his gaze to the spinning ceiling fan above. “You bastard.”
He lay there for a few minutes of silent contemplation, lost in his morose thoughts. Today had been a success and still he found himself wallowing in misery. It needed to stop. A scowl tugged at his lips and with a determined look on his face, Quackity impulsively reached for his phone. He found the speed dial shortcut he’d set up for Wilbur and pressed call before he could think twice.
It didn’t take long at all for Wilbur to pick up.
“Quackity, hey,” he greeted him when he did, sounding just a little bit surprised. “I didn’t expect you to call me again so soon.”
Embarrassment crawled its way up the back of Quackity’s neck, turning his ears pink. Instantly, he regretted acting without thinking. They’d already spoken that morning, when he had called Wilbur to tell him how his conversation with Tubbo had gone. He had no good reason whatsoever to be calling again the very same day.
(Clingy, he heard Schlatt’s voice sneer inside his head. Pathetic. Needy.)
“Mmh,” Quackity muttered, his voice nothing more than a quiet mumble. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of Schlatt’s photograph, suddenly feeling nervous. “Are you busy...? Is it a bad time?”
“No, no,” Wilbur assured him quickly. “Now is good.” He paused. Quackity could practically hear the frown he no doubt wore on his face when he said: “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“...I’m okay,” Quackity murmured in reply, entirely unconvincingly.
God, he felt so stupid.
For a few excruciatingly long moments, there was silence on the other end of the line as neither of them said a word. Quackity feared Wilbur would call him out on his obvious lie, but instead, the other man simply asked: “Are you in bed?”
It was Quackity’s turn to frown. “Uh, yeah?”
When Wilbur spoke again, his voice had dropped into something low and almost sultry. “What are you wearing, darling?”
The words sent a shiver down Quackity’s spine. Wide-eyed and caught off guard, all he could say was: “Huh?!”
“What are you wearing?” Wilbur repeated in that same spine-tingling tone of voice.
There was a long, awkward pause as Quackity tried and failed to process this unexpected turn of events. Heart pounding in his chest, he glanced down at his own body. “Um...” he replied hesitantly. “A pair of my husband’s sweatpants, and a t-shirt he got for running a 5k for psoriasis.”
“Mmmh,” Wilbur hummed appreciatively, dropping his voice even lower. In a husky tone of voice Quackity now recognized to be purposefully exaggerated for comedic effect, he added: “Slower.”
Quackity cracked a smile. The situation was just so bizarre that he’d instantly forgotten all about the dark thoughts which had plagued him earlier. Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, he asked: “Wilbur, are you seriously hitting on me right now?”
At once, Wilbur broke character. He started laughing, saying: “No, no. I’m not—”
“—into men?” Quackity guessed in a dry tone of voice, fishing for an answer to a question he’d been asking himself a lot these last couple of days. His heart began racing again as he waited for Wilbur’s reply with bated breath.
“I’m straight, yes,” Wilbur chuckled warmly, entirely oblivious to the way his words made Quackity’s heart sink. “I just wanted to make you laugh. That’s all.”
Straight, Quackity thought bitterly. Wilbur was straight.
(It shouldn’t disappoint him. It shouldn’t, but it did.)
(Mortifyingly enough, it did.)
“You are a very weird person, Wilbur,” Quackity said, forcing another laugh.
“Thank you,” Wilbur replied with a smug note of laughter in his tone, seemingly not picking up on Quackity’s disappointment. There was a little pause before he asked in a casual tone of voice: “So. Did your husband like running, or did he just really hate psoriasis?”
A sudden wave of shame and guilt crashed over Quackity when Wilbur brought up Schlatt. He didn’t answer Wilbur’s question, staying silent. Schlatt’s photograph burned where it still rested against his chest. It burned so badly Quackity had to lift it off his body and return it to his nightstand. He placed it face-down again, not wanting to feel Schlatt’s dead-eyed, accusatory, jealous stare on him.
Two months.
Schlatt hadn’t even been dead for two fucking months yet, and Quackity was already—
“...I’m sorry,” Wilbur suddenly mumbled, interrupting Quackity’s train of thought. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”
“Uh, no, no. You’re good,” Quackity replied quickly, regaining his composure. Ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, he finally answered Wilbur’s question. “He— He liked running. Liked to exercise, in general. Weight-lifting, mostly. Body-building, and all that. But he liked running, too.”
Wilbur’s throat clicked. He shifted, and for a moment, Quackity could hear the sound of cloth brushing against cloth before he said: “Bit of a health nut?”
“Mmh,” Quackity replied, rolling onto his side so he could curl up around Schlatt’s pillow. The action brought him no comfort. “Well, he celebrated his big Four-Oh last year. And he had some health issues, so...” Quackity shrugged. “He wanted to keep fit.”
(Not that it ever stopped him from drinking, Quackity thought bitterly. Or from popping pills like they’re candy.)
With surprise coloring his tone, Wilbur said: “Oh, shit. He was forty?”
“Yeah,” Quackity replied. “Well, forty-one, technically.”
“Huh,” Wilbur said. There was a moment of silence, during which Quackity could practically hear the gears in Wilbur’s head beginning to turn. With gritted teeth and tense shoulders, Quackity waited for the inevitable judgment he was no doubt about to receive. “So, wait. He was forty-one, and you’re, uh...” He trailed off, pausing. “How old are you, exactly?”
Quackity said nothing, darkly glaring at the wall. This always fucking happened, and he was so sick and tired of it.
“...Ugh, you know what? Nevermind, actually,” Wilbur said when he failed to respond, sounding sheepish. “It’s not really any of my business, is it? Forget I asked.”
Trying not to sound too bitter and failing spectacularly, Quackity let out a snort of ugly laughter and said: “It’s alright. Trust me, I’ve heard it all before.”
(The tabloids had put him through the wringer when his relationship with Schlatt had first become public knowledge and Schlatt’s mother had always, always made sure not to waste a single opportunity to let Quackity feel her disapproval.)
Seeming to sense he had misstepped, Wilbur scrambled to say: “I really wasn’t trying to come across as judgmental, Quackity, or imply you’re—”
“—a gold-digging whore taking a seat on a rich older man’s dick for an easy ride through life? For a slice of luxury pie?” Quackity cut him off, his tone biting and sharp. Defensive.
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, ringing loudly in Quackity’s ears. “That’s... That’s a very unkind thing to say about yourself, Quackity,” Wilbur mumbled quietly. “And it’s not at all what I think of you.” Beseechingly, he added: “Please believe me, Quackity, when I say I wasn’t thinking ill of you at all.”
The words ‘I was thinking ill of him’ went unsaid, but Quackity heard them still.
He sighed heavily. He hated when people judged him for being with Schlatt, but he was just as sick and tired of people giving Schlatt grief for marrying him. But he didn’t want to pick a fight with Wilbur over this. Not when it didn’t even fucking matter anymore, because Schlatt was dead.
Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath to soothe his anger, Quackity muttered: “...Sorry. Sore subject.”
“It’s okay,” Wilbur murmured softly in response. “Really, I feel like I should be the one saying sorry. That was awfully tactless of me. My apologies.”
Quackity groaned, hiding his face in Schlatt’s pillow despite the fact Wilbur could not see him right now. “Whatever, it’s fine,” he mumbled, his voice somewhat muffled. He wasn’t used to receiving apologies – not for something like this.
A long, awkward silence stretched out between them, reminding Quackity just how much distance lay between them at the moment.
He hated it.
When Wilbur stayed quiet for too long, Quackity decided he would be the first to speak up. He stopped pressing his face into Schlatt’s pillow, resting his head on top of it instead so he could be heard more clearly over the phone. Extending an olive branch, he said: “I’m twenty-three, by the way.”
“Yeah?” Wilbur perked up, no longer sounding quite as gloomy and apologetic as he had before.
“Yeah,” Quackity muttered, curling himself more tightly around Schlatt’s pillow. “How old are you?”
“Wanna guess?” Wilbur asked playfully.
Quackity rolled his eyes fondly. “No,” he said bluntly.
Wilbur laughed. It was a pleasant sound, one that soothed Quackity’s lingering displeasure. “Come on, Quackity,” he teased. “Guess?”
“Man, I don’t know!” Quackity groaned. “You’ve got that white streak in your hair, but you already told me that’s hereditary, so that doesn’t really tell me shit.” He closed his eyes, trying to picture Wilbur’s face in his mind. Much to his surprise, he was able to summon a mental image of him quite easily. “A couple of years older than me, maybe? Not a lot, I think. Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-six, yeah,” Wilbur replied with a quiet chuckle. “Well done, Quackity.”
Quackity scoffed and rolled his eyes again. The tell-tale sound of some sort of packaging being torn open on Wilbur’s end of the line made him pause. A moment later, quiet chewing noises followed.
“Are you... eating something?” Quackity asked.
“...Mm-hmm,” Wilbur replied without words, his mouth sounding too full at the moment to speak. With an embarrassed chuckle, he asked: “God, sorry. You heard that?”
Quackity snorted softly. “It’s fine, Wilbur,” he said. “Aren’t you in bed right now, though? Could’ve sworn I heard you shift on your sheets earlier.”
“...I’m in bed, yeah,” Wilbur admitted after a pause.
“You’re eating in bed?” Quackity laughed.
“Yeah, so what?” Wilbur replied, audibly taking another bite of whatever it was he’d decided to snack on while they were having a conversation. “What’s wrong with that, huh?”
“You’re gonna get crumbs all over your bed, that’s what’s wrong with that,” Quackity said, amused. “That’s so messy, Wilbur. You’re gonna have to change your sheets to get all the crumbs out, you know that, right?”
“Don’t care,” Wilbur said, clearly smiling as he chewed. “I wanted chocolate. So now I’m having chocolate.”
“You’re eating chocolate in bed?” Quackity whined, pulling a bit of a face. “Holy shit, that’s so bad. That’s the worst thing you can do. All the little chocolate crumbs, they’re gonna melt and stain your blanket. Wilbur, that’s disgusting.”
“There’s no crumbs,” Wilbur replied, defending himself with a smile still audibly on his face. “It’s not— I’m not eating a chocolate bar. I’m having chocolates. There’s no crumbs, man. I pick one out of the box, and then I put the whole thing in my mouth. No crumbs!”
Quackity snorted. “Sure, pal,” he said. “Whatever you say. That’s still gross, though.”
“You can just admit it, you know,” Wilbur said airily, popping another chocolate into his mouth.
“Admit what?” Quackity asked, amused.
“That you’re jealous,” Wilbur replied after a moment, sounding a bit muffled as he chewed. “You’re jealous I have chocolates and you don’t.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Quackity laughed. “I don’t even like chocolates, man.”
(Not true, technically.)
(He just didn’t like being judged for eating them.)
“You’d like these, I think,” Wilbur said. “They’re very good.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, what kind are they?” Quackity asked to keep the conversation going.
“Mmh, dark chocolate coating, orange filling,” Wilbur replied. “There’s nuts in some of them? Not all, though.”
Raising his eyebrows, Quackity asked: “Orange filling? Really?”
Wilbur laughed at his tone. “Oh yeah, I forgot, you don’t really do that here, do you?” he replied. “Not commonly, anyway. Orange chocolates are pretty big in the UK. They’re everywhere. Have you ever had any?”
“No,” Quackity said, “but I think Schlatt brought a box home, once? Got it as a gift. We never opened them.”
“You should try them.”
Quackity laughed, rolling over to glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was almost eleven, at this point. Way too late for chocolate, in his opinion. “What, right now?”
“Yeah, yeah!” Wilbur replied, a grin audible in his tone. “Right now!” There was rustling on the other end of the line, along with the sound of Wilbur retrieving another chocolate from his box. “Come on, Quackity. I promise you’ll like them. And if you don’t, well, then at least you can say you tried, right?”
Laughing again, Quackity released Schlatt’s pillow and got out of bed. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, straightening out the t-shirt he wore as he stood. “Hold on a minute.”
With Wilbur still on the line, Quackity headed down into the kitchen.
“Mmh, you were right, Wilbur. They’re good,” Quackity said, slowly savoring a piece of orange-filled chocolate. He had taken a seat at the kitchen island, a box of far-too-expensive chocolates before him. “They’re very good.”
“Told you,” Wilbur replied, sounding smug.
“Can’t believe I’m having fucking chocolates this late at night,” Quackity laughed. “I shouldn’t be eating anything at this hour, but especially not chocolate.”
(Schlatt would have a fit if he could see him now.)
“Think of it as a reward,” Wilbur said, chewing on his own chocolate. “You faced your fears and went to go see Tubbo today, didn’t you? I think you’re allowed to spoil yourself a bit. Besides, what’s the point of living if you’re not going to indulge in the little things from time to time?”
“Alright, yeah, fair enough,” Quackity chuckled, banishing any thoughts of Schlatt’s disapproval from his mind. He selected another fancy-looking chocolate and popped it into his mouth. “I guess you gotta do something to keep yourself sane, when life decides to kick you in the teeth.”
“Mmh, exactly,” Wilbur replied. A comfortable silence settled over them for a few moments. Then Wilbur spoke, his voice quiet and oddly hesitant. “Quackity, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Quackity replied easily.
“What was he like?” Wilbur asked in that same careful tone of voice. “Schlatt, I mean.”
Blinking in surprise, Quackity lifted his gaze off his box of chocolates and looked up, staring into nothing. He swallowed, a sudden lump in his throat. “Oh, he was...” he began to say after a few moments had passed. “He was a really charismatic guy. Bit of a dick, sometimes, but very charismatic. Very persuasive. He could talk you into agreeing to anything, and make you thank him for it, too.”
“Yeah?” Wilbur said softly.
“Yeah,” Quackity replied just as softly, a warm feeling of nostalgia warring with bitter resentment inside his chest as he remembered the numerous times Schlatt had talked him into things he was hesitant to do. Some, he had ended up enjoying. Others, not so much. He shrugged and added: “I guess it makes sense. That’s a skill you need to have, in politics.”
“He ran for mayor last term, didn’t he?” Wilbur asked, catching Quackity off guard. “Your husband. I, um.” With the sound of fabric brushing against fabric, Wilbur shifted nervously on the other end of the line. “I looked up his name after we met and found his obituary. I put the pieces together on who he was from there.”
“Mmh, yeah,” Quackity muttered, eating another piece of chocolate. “Schlatt did run for mayor. But he didn’t get elected. Too controversial of a candidate for the general public, you know? And he lost a lot of his loyal voter base when the press got wind of our engagement.”
“Because you’re so young?” Wilbur asked.
“Well, I mean,” Quackity replied. “That, too, I guess. But mostly because I’m a man.” He chuckled bitterly. “His voters sucked ass, man. His own fault, I guess, for cultivating that sort of base. So, yeah. The press found out, and he lost the election.”
(Schlatt had been furious that day.)
(And he’d blamed Quackity for it – even though Schlatt had been the one to fuck up and drag their relationship into the limelight.)
Wilbur made a thoughtful noise, not saying anything for a few moments. Finally, he said: “Didn’t you also run for office?”
Hating the reminder of his own failed political career, Quackity sighed, loudly and in exasperation. “Yes, I ran for deputy mayor, but—”
“I knew it,” Wilbur cut him off. “I knew I’d seen you on a billboard somewhere. Youngest person ever to run for deputy mayor, that was you, wasn’t it? Why did you withdraw your candidacy? I thought you had a decent shot at winning.”
“Schlatt proposed to me,” Quackity murmured in reply.
“So?” Wilbur said, a frown audible in his tone.
“So he didn’t want his fiancé running for office,” Quackity said through gritted teeth, “and we agreed to focus on his career, not mine, since he already had connections and was much better established in the scene. I withdrew my candidacy and started working for his campaign instead. I was good at it, too. Being a campaign manager, I mean. I just wish—”
“—he’d let you run your own campaign,” Wilbur finished his sentence for him, sounding sympathetic.
Quackity sighed heavily. “Yeah,” he muttered.
“That sucks,” Wilbur replied quietly. “That he was so against the idea. That you didn’t get that opportunity. That’s bullshit, actually.”
“Eh, it is what it is,” Quackity said, trying to play the whole thing off as no big deal even though a part of him was still bitter about it. “It made sense at the time to withdraw, and besides, I’m over it. Politics isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway.”
“Mmh, if you say so,” Wilbur murmured, although he sounded not entirely convinced.
“Yeah, I say so,” Quackity insisted stubbornly.
Falling into a sullen silence, Quackity reached for another piece of chocolate. Wilbur seemed to sense he needed a moment, not saying a word.
“If I tell you something really embarrassing,” Quackity murmured eventually, “will you promise not to laugh?”
“Of course, Quackity,” Wilbur replied softly. “I promise.”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be President when I grew up,” Quackity shared, mumbling the words quietly.
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line before Wilbur said: “What, of the US?”
“Yeah,” Quackity chuckled. “Man, I was crushed when I realized I couldn’t. Because, you know. I was born in Mexico.”
“Mmh,” Wilbur said, listening.
“I moped for ages,” Quackity laughed. “Then I decided that’s a stupid law and I should just change it. Get into politics, work my way to the top, and change it.” With a tiny huff of self-deprecating amusement, he added: “Mind you, I was a kid at the time. I didn’t know any better. I really thought if I worked hard enough, I could change the world. Which, in hindsight... that was a pretty naive thing to think.”
“You’re an idealist,” Wilbur commented gently.
“Was,” Quackity corrected him with a sigh. “I learned pretty quickly that’s not how the world works. You can’t make real change with just your words. You can only do that with money. Lots and lots of money.”
“Hm,” Wilbur said, sounding as if he disagreed. But he kept quiet, letting Quackity continue speaking.
“And then once you have money, the desire to change the world and make it more fair for everyone suddenly doesn’t feel so urgent anymore,” Quackity muttered, thinking about the expensive house he lived in and his luxury car and all of Schlatt’s money, sitting pretty in his various bank accounts. None of it had ever gone to a good cause – even Schlatt’s donations to charity had been made in the interest of looking good in the eyes of the public, not out of any genuine desire to make a difference.
Some days, it sickened him.
Other days...
Other days, he did not give a fuck about other people and their suffering, as long as he never had to pinch pennies and go hungry ever again. As long as he was able to live comfortably, he didn’t care if other people couldn’t.
“That’s what I wanted to do, as a kid,” Quackity muttered. “Become President and make the world a better place for everyone. I wanted to make sure no one has to ever go hungry again, or worry about not having a roof over their head.”
“That’s very sweet,” Wilbur murmured.
“It’s stupid,” Quackity spat, scowling down at the half-eaten box of chocolates before him. “Because it doesn’t work like that. Because once you have money, you become selfish and you just...” He shrugged, even though Wilbur was not there to see him do it. “You just stop giving a shit,” he finished his sentence bitterly. “At least I did.”
There was a very long pause before Wilbur spoke again, in an unbearably soft tone of voice: “Seems to me like that’s not quite true. Seems to me you still care.”
Quackity scoffed, stuffing a piece of chocolate into his mouth and chewing on it angrily so he had an excuse not to talk.
“You can still make a difference, you know,” Wilbur pointed out. “Pick a cause and support it. You don’t need to be President to start making a difference, and you don’t need to change everyone’s lives to make the world a better place – you can help in small ways.”
“How?” Quackity said through his mouthful of chocolate and through gritted teeth.
“In your case? Money,” Wilbur replied dryly. “You said so yourself, didn’t you? Lots and lots of money. That’s one way of changing lives, because that’s the society we live in. You’re a wealthy man, Quackity. Surely you can figure something out.”
With a bitter laugh, Quackity said: “I’m not, though. Schlatt is a wealthy man.” He paused. “Was a wealthy man. Tubbo is going to be a very wealthy man, once he turns eighteen in a year or so and receives his inheritance. Me, though?” He scoffed. “I don’t own shit, man.”
Wilbur paused. “Your husband didn’t leave you anything?”
“I signed a prenup,” Quackity replied through gritted teeth. “Schlatt’s ex-wife took him to court when they divorced and gutted him financially. She ended up with more than half of his assets. He didn’t want the same happening with me – hence the prenup. All I’ve got is my car. Hell, I don’t even own the house! My name isn’t on any of the paperwork. Technically, Schlatt’s mother owns it now.”
“He co-signed the deed with his mother instead of you?” Wilbur asked incredulously.
Quackity laughed bitterly. “I know, right? His ex-wife really did a number on him, I guess,” he said. “She gave him massive trust issues, let me tell you. And I guess at the time, I didn’t really care about the prenup.” Sullenly, he ate another chocolate. “I just wanted to marry him, because I fucking loved him. And since I wasn’t planning on leaving him, ever, I didn’t think the prenup would matter one day.” He sighed. “And then some asshole hit him with their car.”
For a long time, there was silence on the other end of the line. When Wilbur spoke, his voice was soft. “Quackity,” he whispered. “I am so sorry for your loss. So very sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” Quackity said dismissively, shrugging his shoulders. His throat felt tight and his eyes stung, but he refused to cry again. “I’m sorry for yours, too. Doesn’t change shit, though, does it? My husband is gone, and so is your wife. And now we get to deal with the giant pile of shit they left behind. Lucky us, huh?” He sighed. “Lucky, lucky us.”
“It’s not his fault,” Wilbur said gently. “It’s not Schlatt’s fault he’s dead.”
“I know,” Quackity replied, staring morosely into his box of chocolates.
(It’s mine, he thought. It’s my fault.)
“I blame the bastard that killed him,” Quackity went on to say, his mournful expression replaced by one of anger. “It’s their fault. Whoever that person is... I hope they feel guilty. I hope they’re suffering. They ruined my life, Wilbur. They ruined Tubbo’s life, and I hope they go to hell.” He scowled darkly. “Sincerely, whoever you are? I hope you die and go to hell.”
A heavy silence greeted Quackity, suffocating like being buried alive by an avalanche.
Eventually, Wilbur spoke. “Would it make you feel better?” he whispered quietly, his voice barely audible over the phone. “If you knew the person who killed your husband was dead, would that help you? Would that make you feel better?”
Quackity took some time to think his answer over. Then he sighed loudly. “...No,” he admitted finally. “It wouldn’t. I don’t want them dead. Not yet.” His upper lip curled into a nasty, vengeful snarl. “I want them to live a long and miserable life, and I want them to regret what they did every fucking day. I want the guilt to eat them up inside. Wilbur, I want them to suffer.”
There was a tiny hitch on the other end of the line as Wilbur’s breath caught in his throat.
“Death is too good for them,” Quackity said with conviction, hatred burning inside him so hotly he could feel his blood beginning to boil inside his veins. “Death is too easy. And I don’t want them to get off easy. I want them to fucking suffer for the rest of their shitty-ass life.”
Wilbur audibly swallowed. “They deserve it,” he whispered after a moment. “Leaving him to die like that... Not even trying to help... It’s evil. It’s sick and it’s twisted, and they deserve to suffer. They deserve to go to hell. They do.”
“They really do,” Quackity muttered, still clenching his hand so tightly his fingers were starting to ache from the strain.
For a little while, neither of them said anything.
Then Wilbur cleared his throat. “Do you, um,” he said. “Do you need help? Financially, I mean. I know you have your business and all, and I assume that’s going well, but I could—”
“No, no,” Quackity was quick to cut Wilbur off, pulling a face. Unclenching his hand, he added. “Fuck no, man. I don’t need your money, Wilbur.”
“Are you sure?” Wilbur asked. “Because if I there’s anything I can do to help, then—”
“No, shut up, Wilbur,” Quackity said, not letting him finish his sentence. “I’m not a god damn charity case, okay? I’m not rich, or anything, but I’ll be fine, alright? My real estate business is starting to take off, and I can cover my own expenses. Schlatt’s mother is covering the mortgage on the house... and there’s an account I can withdraw from in case Tubbo has a medical emergency I can’t afford to pay for. I have to go through a lawyer and prove the money is for Tubbo to get access to it, but it’s there if I really need it. So relax, alright? I don’t need your help.”
“...Alright,” Wilbur muttered after a moment, sounding unhappy. “But if you change your mind—”
“I said I don’t need your fucking help, Wilbur, holy shit!” Quackity suddenly snapped, getting angry again. Wilbur’s insistence on offering him financial aid was humiliating, and he wished he had never told him about the prenup. “I can take care of myself, alright? And I can take care of my son. I don’t need some— some fucking knight in shining armor to come into my life and sweep me off my feet and fix all my stupid god damn problems for me, I—”
“That’s not— That’s not what I’m trying to do, I’m not trying to, to be your knight, or sweep you off your feet, or—”
“It’s just an expression!” Quackity said, feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment. “It’s just an expression, dude, you don’t have to get all bent out of shape about my wording, alright? It’s just an expression, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Okay,” Wilbur replied, sounding chastised and perhaps a little spooked by Quackity’s outburst, as well. “I didn’t mean anything by it, either. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Quackity groaned, burying his face in his free hand.
“Then I’m sorry for making you angry,” Wilbur said, and he sounded so genuinely apologetic that it made Quackity grit his teeth.
Once again, he was being ridiculous, over-reacting to the slightest little thing.
(Bitchy, he heard Schlatt’s voice say in his head. Melodramatic. Emotional.)
(Crazy.)
Quackity sighed in defeat, letting his shoulders slump forward as all his anger abruptly drained out of him. “...I’m not angry, either,” he muttered tiredly. “I’m just... being stupid.”
“You’re not being stupid,” Wilbur murmured gently.
Quackity grimaced in disagreement even though Wilbur could not see his expression. “Ridiculous, then,” he sighed. “I’m being ridiculous. I shouldn’t have gotten so offended. It’s just— man, I don’t even know...”
“It’s okay,” Wilbur said. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
“...I think so, yeah,” Wilbur muttered. “You, uh. I made it sound like I’m— like I’m implying you’re incapable of taking care of yourself and your stepson. Like I’m implying you’re... incompetent, or something. Um. Helpless. Which I wasn’t, by the way. I wasn’t trying to imply that at all, but I guess it came across that way, maybe, and I get why that would offend you.”
“Yeah,” Quackity muttered. “I think that’s it. It just hit a nerve, I think. I hate feeling like I’m... financially dependent on anyone. I hate feeling like I owe people. Like I have to rely on them. Like I— like I have to be a certain way, act a certain way, or the money will stop coming in.”
He hated feeling helpless.
And he’d spent a lot of time feeling helpless, with Schlatt – both financially-speaking and just in general.
He had spent the first few years of his marriage to Schlatt without an income of his own. He had been forced to rely on the monthly allowance his husband gave him because Schlatt had staunchly refused to let him rejoin the workforce – something about how it went against his pride as a man if others thought he wasn’t providing for his spouse.
It was both fortunate and unfortunate, in a sense, that somewhere over the course of their marriage, Schlatt had stopped giving a shit about what Quackity did or didn’t do while he was out of the house.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Wilbur said quietly. “It would— There wouldn’t be any conditions, if you needed help from me. No... no strings attached, or anything. Just a helping hand, from one friend to another.”
Quackity swallowed thickly. Something inside his chest fluttered gently, hesitantly, like a trapped bird carefully flapping its wings to make sure they still worked after being released from its cage. At the same time, a sinking pit opened in his stomach.
“Is that what we are?” he whispered, his voice sounding a little strained – a little choked up. “Friends?”
“Yeah,” Wilbur whispered back. “If you would like to be?”
Tears pricked at the corners of Quackity’s eyes and he wasn’t sure whether they were happy tears or sad tears. Either way, they had no business being there, and he swiftly blinked them away.
“...Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Friends. I’d like that, I think.”
“Okay,” Wilbur replied, just as softly.
Quackity closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed down the lump in his throat.
“...Okay,” he said at last.
Silence descended over them for a little while until Quackity broke it.
“Hey, Wilbur?”
“Yeah?”
“What did you want to be, as a kid?”
There was a huff of bitter amusement on the other end of the line, followed by a tired sigh before Wilbur replied. “...Promise not to laugh?” he said, echoing Quackity’s earlier request.
“Promise,” Quackity agreed.
“I wanted to be a world-famous musician,” Wilbur said dryly. There was a wistful, sad undertone to his voice. “You know. Be part of a band. Go on tour. Travel the whole world. Be a rockstar.” He raised his voice into something theatrical and painfully self-deprecating. “Become a living legend and be adored by millions of fans all across the globe! Achieve greatness and immortality through my music!”
Heaving a heavy sigh, Wilbur dropped all pretenses of grandeur. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet – tired.
“But it just wasn’t meant to be, I guess,” he muttered. “I’ve long since stopped chasing that dream.”
“What happened?” Quackity asked softly, curiously. “Why’d you quit?”
Wilbur sighed again. “Man, I don’t know,” he said. “I wrote a couple of songs, even performed some of them locally when I was still in school, but it just never really worked out. And then, you know, I met Sally. We got married and settled down, and it didn’t feel right to go chasing some pipe dream when I had a lonely wife back home waiting for me, so I just... stopped.”
Cloth shifted against cloth on the other end of the line as Wilbur presumably rolled over in bed.
“It just wasn’t ever the right time, I suppose. And it made Sally unhappy, me pouring all my time and effort into something that wasn’t gonna work out anyway, so I guess quitting was for the best.”
“You gave up on your music because your wife told you to,” Quackity summed it up, sounding unimpressed. All he could think about was Schlatt pulling him aside and telling him he needed to withdraw his candidacy now that they were planning on getting married. “Because she didn’t want you to go after your dream. Because she was unsupportive.”
“No, man, it wasn’t like that,” Wilbur hurried to defend his late wife. “It wasn’t like that at all. She was— Sally was supportive.” He paused, audibly shifting in his bed. “...I mean, at first. But it’s like... eventually, you reach a certain point, right, a point where it’s selfish to keep chasing something that’s just not gonna happen. A point where you’ve got to stop wasting your time and do something with your life that’s actually, you know, productive.”
Quackity remained silent for a few moments, blood boiling. “She had no right to ask that of you,” he said eventually, voice low. “No right to control you like that. None whatsoever.”
“She didn’t control me, Quackity,” Wilbur protested softly. “We decided together. It was for the best, given the circumstances – we both agreed on that.”
“Sounds familiar,” Quackity scoffed. He put a piece of chocolate in his mouth and chewed it violently. The sweetness of it wasn’t potent enough to chase away the bitter taste in his mouth.
Wilbur paused. “She wasn’t like that, man,” he murmured at last. “She wasn’t like Schlatt. She never forbade me from doing anything.”
“Yeah, well, Schlatt didn’t, either,” Quackity shot back, mouth twisting into an unhappy frown. “I agreed. I always, always agreed. He never made me do anything I didn’t want to do. Never.”
A beat of silence passed before Wilbur spoke, quiet and careful. “...Yeah?”
“Yeah!” Quackity snapped, angrily enough he could practically hear Wilbur’s breath hitch in surprise over the phone. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Sorry. Just... Schlatt was great, okay?” At first, at least. “He was so great, and I just... I just...”
“You miss him,” Wilbur finished his sentence for him, his tone soft and sympathetic.
Quackity took a shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice breaking just a little bit. “I do. I miss him so damn much.”
Wilbur took a little while to respond, seeming to gather his thoughts and choose his next words carefully. “Do you want to— um. Do you want to tell me about him?” he asked. “Or do you want to—” He cut himself off, sounding unsure. “I don’t know. Should I drop it...? You, uh, you sound a bit—”
“No, no,” Quackity was quick to say. “It’s fine. I just... I haven’t really talked much about him, since he died. It’s...”
Painful.
“Oh,” Wilbur said. “I mean, we can stop? I don’t want to pry.”
“No,” Quackity replied, reaching up to rub at his burning eyes. “It’s... it’s nice.”
It was painful, but cathartic.
“Okay,” Wilbur said softly. “So tell me more, then. Tell me about Schlatt. What was your favorite thing about him?”
Quackity laughed. “My favorite thing about him? Alright, let’s see...” he murmured, smiling through his tears as he leafed through his memories, going all the way back to when he first met Schlatt – back when they first started dating.
Back when they were still in love. Back when they were happy.
He picked a memory, and with a wistful look on his face, Quackity started telling Wilbur all about the man Schlatt used to be.