Chapter Text
Quackity is still barely waking up from the sounds of raised voices downstairs when he hears loud footsteps up the stairs, certainly from someone who’s pissed, like how Schlatt sounds when he moves through the house after stepping in Jambo vomit without seeing it. It’s a moment more before Schlatt comes back into the room, his body language tense in the dim light of the moon through the window, but closing the door carefully behind him anyways.
“Schlatt?” Quackity murmurs drowsily.
“Fuck,” Schlatt sighs quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Did you… did you hear any of that?”
“Barely,” Quackity yawns, sitting up against the headboard. “Just heard you two were talking. What’d he do?”
Schlatt crosses to sit on the bed with his feet still planted on the floor, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. Quackity reaches over to turn on the lamp on their bedside table, and immediately notices how distraught Schlatt looks.
“Fucking…” he shakes his head, bringing his hand up to rake back his hair. “I let him get under my skin. It’s stupid.”
“Hey,” Quackity says softly, moving over to put a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder. “He’s good at that. It’s okay.”
Schlatt doesn’t say anything for a moment, frowning down at their rug.
“I wanted to have a real conversation,” he says finally. “I went downstairs and he was eating, and tried to cover up how much he was eating, and I just wanted to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that. And it felt like he actually opened up for a moment, but then. I don’t know. I made the mistake of asking why he’s being so weird about my weight, and he basically said it was just because he doesn’t like that I’m different now, which I kind of assumed. And then it devolved into him pretty much telling me he preferred me when I was an alcoholic, and that you all are… how did he put it– y’know, drugging me with prozac and making me fat so I won’t be a threat, and insinuated that he could make me an alcoholic again if he wanted to. Which is just…”
“Not true,” Quackity finishes for him, firmly.
“Not true,” Schlatt agrees.
“He doesn’t even believe all that shit,” Quackity assures him, pushing down the white hot anger that bubbled up to his throat at the summary of the conversation. “He’s just saying whatever he knows will hurt you the most.”
“I know,” Schlatt groans. “I know. Which is why I feel so stupid for engaging with it.”
“You’re not stupid,” Quackity says firmly, scooching up further next to him and reaching up to cup his cheek. “He’s just actually the fucking worst. He’s a bully. He wants to get a rise out of you.”
“I know,” Schlatt sighs, leaning into his touch. “That’s the only reason I ended up not beating the shit out of him. Because I knew he wanted me to.”
“He’d get off on it, yeah,” Quackity snorts, completely serious. He blinks for a moment. “Did you actually almost beat him up?”
“Yeah,” Schlatt exhales, shaking his head. “I grabbed him out of his seat and everything. I really think I would’ve done it, too. It would be so easy.”
Quackity diverts his train of thought away from just how easy it would be for Schlatt– he’s never really seen him training, because he does it all at Techno’s place and Quackity has certainly not received the formal invitation needed to join him there, but he can still see the effects of the training working. He can feel the muscle his arms have underneath their soft exterior, and he knows Schlatt can easily lift him, as well as Niki, who’s taller and sturdier than he is. However, the subject of how hot it would be to see Schlatt rock Wilbur’s shit is a conversation for another day.
“You’d destroy him,” Quackity agrees, bringing his hand not on his cheek up to pat his chest. “But you were probably right not to.”
“I just…” Schlatt says suddenly, then trails off, glancing away from Quackity. “I don’t know. I think what I’m now worried about is that, like… that I’ve been so good for the past year, like mentally, and treated all the people I love like how they should be treated, and been sober, and everything, but that. That I’ve only been able to do that because nothing bad was happening? Like, I’ve only seemed to have gotten better because everything else has gotten better? And that if things were to get worse again, then. I would get worse too.”
Quackity frowns, not saying anything for a moment, just rubbing his thumb across the stubble on his cheek in what he hopes is a comforting way.
“For the record, no, you won’t,” he says softly. “Not in the way that you’re worried about. But I know me saying that doesn’t help.”
“No, it does, it…” Schlatt sighs, eyes glistening in a way that threatens he might tear up. “I mean, it’s good to know you don’t think so. I don’t want you to worry.”
“I always worry,” Quackity says with a small smile. “But never that you’re going to do anything to hurt me, or anyone at all. You… you know what it’s like to not be bad, now. And I don’t think you’ve ever had that before. You have healthy coping skills, and a support system, and… I mean, something to lose. I know you, and I know what that means to you. You love to self-destruct. But you hate to hurt other people. And also, I don’t think you love to self-destruct anymore , to be clear, just that that’s–”
“My track record, yeah,” Schlatt exhales, chuckling a little. “Yeah, that’s… that helps, actually. I don’t know. I also know I probably don’t actually think this, it’s just fucking…”
He glances over at the clock on their nightstand.
“Two in the morning, and Wilbur’s in my fucking head, and so I’m spiraling.”
“It’s spiraling hour,” Quackity agrees, brushing some of his hair out of his face gently. “You know yourself now, Schlatt, like, really well. You’ve basically spent a whole year getting to know yourself. I one hundred percent believe that if you started to really get bad again, you know exactly how to recognize it and deal with it. Do you think you’re getting bad again?”
“No,” Schlatt sighs, and Quackity feels his shoulders relax a little. “No, I guess I don’t. I’m stressed, and it’s weird having him here, but. I feel pretty normal, I think.”
“You’ve done a lot of fucking work,” Quackity tells him. “It’s going to take a lot more than Wilbur being an asshole to undo that. And you getting upset doesn’t mean that you’re going backwards. It means you’re a human being.”
“Yeah,” Schlatt smiles, reaching up to wipe his tears. “You’re right. Well. Half.”
“Half a human being,” Quackity amends with a grin, getting up on his knees to peck him on the cheek. “Half a ram. It also means that.”
Schlatt’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and he turns to pull Quackity into a deep embrace. He melts into it, wrapping his arms around him– a much harder thing to do than it used to be– and nestling his head against him.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I love you.”
“I love you so much,” Quackity murmurs against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “We can go see Puffy tomorrow, if you want.”
“Probably a good idea, yeah.”
They sit like that for a moment, Quackity basking in Schlatt’s warmth, feeling the rhythm of his breathing.
“C’mon,” he says eventually. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
—
The morning goes how pretty much every one this past week has gone. They get up somewhere around ten when Jambo decides they need to get up and feed him, and Schlatt puts on a pot of coffee while Quackity starts making sausage and eggs. They don’t always have a full breakfast together like this, since they usually don’t get up around the same time, but since Wilbur has been here it’s nice to have some kind of a routine to everything. Once they’ve sat down and been eating for a couple minutes, Wilbur shuffles out of the guest room right on schedule. There’s a mug of black coffee and a plate with toast on it already on the counter for him.
“Morning,” Wilbur mumbles, which is pretty verbose for him before noon.
“Good morning,” Quackity returns politely.
Schlatt says nothing, dragging a piece of toast through his egg yolk. Wilbur heads over to the counter and picks up his mug and plate. Usually, this is the point where he’d take them back to his room and disappear again for a few hours. This time, he stands there for a moment, for long enough that Quackity starts to wonder if they’d accidentally burnt his toast or something. Then, he walks over to the stove and serves himself eggs and sausage. It’s not his usual portion, either– it somewhat resembles the actual amount a normal adult man would eat. Quackity doesn’t say anything, afraid to break the spell, and then Wilbur surprises him once again– he walks over and sits down at the coffee table with them, in the armchair next to the couch, starts cutting his sausage with his fork. Schlatt stands up, plate half-finished.
“I’m going to Tubbo’s,” he announces to no one in particular, and leaves, still tugging his shoes on by the time he shuts the door behind him.
“What’s his problem?” Wilbur asks through a mouthful.
“What’s his problem?” Quackity scoffs. “Take a guess.”
“Oh,” Wilbur says a little sullenly, corralling scrambled eggs onto his fork. “He told you about our little argument?”
“Yes, he did,” Quackity frowns, sitting back in his seat on the couch and crossing his arms. “Right afterwards. He was really fucking upset, man.”
Wilbur shifts a little in his seat, looking a little like he’d like to leave, but also like he’s committed himself to eating this meal here.
“He kept pushing,” he shrugs. “I told him I didn’t want to talk. I wasn’t in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.”
“Yeah, he probably wasn’t in the mood to psychoanalyze you, either,” Quackity shoots back. “But you act in ways that are very psychoanalyzable.”
“That is for sure not a word,” Wilbur mumbles.
It’s silent for a moment, except for the sounds of their silverware clinking against their plates. Quackity contemplates finishing the rest of the meal in silence and avoiding Wilbur for the rest of the day, but he knows he should take advantage of this uncharacteristic behavior from him. Besides, he wants to deal with him for Schlatt. Schlatt shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.
“Do you feel bad about it?” he asks after a minute.
Wilbur frowns as he puts his mug down.
“Feel bad about what?”
“What you said last night,” Quackity says, rolling his eyes. “The fact that Schlatt is upset. Being a dick to him in general.”
“Oh,” Wilbur says, reaching over to absently pick at the stitches on his arm. “Yeah, I. I guess I do.”
“Do you want him to be mad at you?”
“...Yes?” Wilbur squints. “Well, no, but. I mean, we’re always mad at each other. That’s just how it always works.”
“Does it work?” Quackity asks cynically. “I mean, there’s a crater thirty feet from our front door that says it doesn’t work.”
Wilbur laughs a little, stabbing his fork at the last of his sausage.
“Not how it works , I guess,” he amends. “But we’ve never been normal . Even when we were friends it was majorly fucked up. I mean, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do,” Quackity snorts, pushing down memories of Schlatt showing up to his old apartment in the middle of the night shaking and crossfaded and mumbling about how he can’t face Wilbur right now. “But you haven’t really been friends since, what, like, almost ten years ago? And you’ve both changed. A lot. Especially Schlatt.”
“You think I haven’t?” Wilbur asks, looking over at him from under the shadow of his hair falling in his face, and Quackity shivers a little, being reminded like he often is that he’s currently having breakfast with a corpse reanimated.
“Of course I do,” Quackity says. “I guess I meant… I mean, do you want to change? Like, from how you were right before you died. Like how you are now. Do you want to stay this way?”
Wilbur looks at him blankly for a moment, his brow furrowing.
“I… no , no I don’t,” he says, like it should be obvious. “I feel horrendous. All the time. I’m so fucking depressed.”
“Okay,” Quackity says. “So what are you gonna do about it? Schlatt felt the same way. And so he did something about it. And in order to not feel that way again, I think he might never want to talk to you ever again. I think a lot of people feel that way about you right now. Are you okay with that?”
Wilbur stares at him, opening his mouth as if to respond, then closing it again. Quackity finishes off the last of his eggs and drains the last of his coffee. As he stands up, he slides Schlatt’s half-finished plate over to Wilbur’s side of the table and takes his own empty plate and mug.
“Think about that,” he shrugs. “You can have the rest of that. I’m going over to Tubbo’s as well.”
He crosses over to stick his dirty dishes in the sink, then back over to the front door to slip his shoes on. Just as he’s opening the door:
“Quackity?” Wilbur asks in a small voice. “Is there… do you think I could talk to Tommy?”
Quackity feels his expression softening a little, somewhat in spite of himself. He closes the door again.
“If Tommy wants to,” he says. “I can ask him. And if he does, maybe… I mean, it might be nice for you to get out of the house. We can’t hide you in here forever, and I don’t think you want that. So maybe you could walk over to see him.”
“That. Maybe,” Wilbur says, sounding a little unconvinced, scooping up the last of his eggs.
“What, do you want to hide out in our guest bedroom forever?” Quackity asks dryly. “If you want to be a hermit, fine, but you can’t do it here.”
“No, I– I want to see people,” Wilbur says quickly. “You… Schlatt told me that. Niki wouldn’t want to see me. Is that true?”
“Probably not right now,” Quackity sighs. “I mean, she’s kind of hiding out at Techno’s to avoid you right now, man. I think when she wants to see you, she will.”
“Okay,” Wilbur says, seeming somewhat placated by that answer. “So, wh… so she and Schlatt fucked?”
Quackity laughs a little in surprise, heading back over to the couch, since clearly Wilbur is willing to engage in a real conversation, which is something neither he nor Schlatt have gotten out of him since the day they first saw him again.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks, amused.
He almost thinks Wilbur’s cheeks might go a little pink, but it’s hard to tell with the pale, decayed discoloration he has. He glances down and picks at his fingernails.
“I figured it out,” he says. “Schlatt is really bad at lying now, somehow.”
“He is,” Quackity snorts. “And yes, if you really want to know, they have fucked. Many times. And will continue to, I assume. They’re dating, really.”
“And you’re… okay with that?” Wilbur asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I feel like I’ve been very open about being polyamorous for, like, as long as you’ve known me,” Quackity laughs. “Yes, I’m okay with it. I love Niki. Not exactly in the way Schlatt does, but also not in a completely different way. I don’t know. I don’t think too hard about it.”
“Right,” Wilbur says, and Quackity can see his jaw working and his leg bouncing slightly. He continues to methodically work at the dirt under his fingernails. “So do you watch?”
Quackity shouldn’t be taken aback, knowing Wilbur, but he still somehow is. He can feel heat rising to his own cheeks, but he refuses to shy away from the question.
“Yeah, I do,” he says as evenly as he can manage. “Most of the time. And I don’t just watch.”
He doesn’t get into the details, of course, that the majority of the time the three of them fuck, it starts with he and Niki stuffing Schlatt until he taps out, then proceeds into some variation on Schlatt and Niki fucking while he gets off, or Schlatt and him fucking while Niki gets off, or occasionally, one of them fucking him and then the other, but frankly, especially when he’s stuffed, that’s a lot to ask out of Schlatt. Wilbur doesn’t get to know any of that. Wilbur can use his imagination to come up with his own wet dream material, if he wants it that bad.
“Ah,” is all Wilbur says, and from the somewhat faraway look in his eyes Quackity wouldn’t doubt that he is using his imagination.
He suddenly feels somewhat protective of Schlatt and Niki, that while he knows Wilbur has probably been trying to conceptualize the two of them together ever since he learned about it, he doesn’t feel he has the right to think of them like that in this current moment.
“Okay, no more questions about our sex lives,” he grumbles.
“One more.”
“Didn’t know that was how this worked, but okay.”
“When did this start?” Wilbur asks, finally looking up, gazing slightly over the rims of his glasses. “Before or after he got fat?”
“You’re being mean again,” Quackity frowns, straightening up.
“How?” Wilbur scoffs. “It’s a question. I want to know.”
Quackity stares at him, trying in vain to read his expression, which is impassive and casual despite the slight lingering blush high on his cheekbones.
“After,” Quackity answers after a moment. “During, I don’t know. He was already fat when it started. If that’s funny to you.”
“I never said it was funny,” Wilbur says. “Just trying to get the timeline straight.”
“Right,” Quackity says, rolling his eyes and standing up again. “Well, that was invasive! I’ll stop by Tommy’s while I’m out to ask him, but you have to do something for me. For all our hospitality.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Wilbur groans. “What?”
“Apologize to Schlatt when you get the chance,” he says as he crosses back to the door. “And really fucking mean it. Because I know you do feel bad, so make it sincere.”
“Fine,” Wilbur sighs. “I will.”
“And,” Quackity says, on a weird impulse. “Finish the rest of the food.”
He gestures to Schlatt’s leftover plate from where he’d pushed it to him earlier.
“What,” Wilbur intones, barely a question.
“You’ve been eyeing it for the last five minutes,” he shrugs. “And we both know you don’t eat enough. Do yourself a favor.”
“Whatever,” Wilbur snorts. “Sure.”
This is weird. Quackity’s being weird. He figures it’s the correct time to abscond from this interaction.
“I’ll be back later,” he says, which provides no helpful information, because of course he will be.
He at least has the sense of victory that comes from seeing Wilbur pick up the other plate as he’s leaving.
—
That night, Schlatt comes home later than Quackity. He hears muffled voices downstairs, not loud enough to worry him, and after a pretty decent amount of time, he hears Schlatt coming up the stairs, then coming into the bedroom with a puzzled expression, closing the door behind him.
“Wilbur just apologized to me,” he says, sounding baffled. “In a pretty passable way. What the hell did you say to him?”
“I’m glad,” Quackity grins, looking up from his crocheting, because he’s rapidly becoming an old woman. “I don’t think I said anything special. I just laid out the facts, and made some suggestions.”
“It’s the law degree in you,” Schlatt says affectionately, starting to unbutton his shirt and shrug it off his shoulders.
“You know I never technically graduated,” Quackity says dryly.
“Yeah, but you did most of the important shit,” Schlatt says, waving him off as he finds a t-shirt to pull on. “Anyways, I was sitting on the idea of kicking him the fuck out all day, but he just bought himself some more time. He actually, like… asked me for advice. I mean, kind of, in a dick-y, Wilbur way. So. We’ll see if he follows any of it, I guess.”
Slowly, over the course of the next week, Wilbur really seems to start putting effort in, bit by bit.
He’s generally less belligerent in conversation, although still characteristically snarky, and he doesn’t hide out in the guest bedroom quite as much. He still insists on wearing his threadbare old clothes that they’ve recovered from his old house, which are dusty and moth-eaten but at least don’t have bloodstains and the lingering smell of decay on them, over anything Schlatt or Quackity offer him. This includes getting new clothes from Eret, which he balked at on the basis of it being Eret– so perhaps they should be on the list of people he should work on reconciling with.
Speaking of, Tommy does agree to see him, and Quackity chaperones him on the ten minute walk to Tommy’s house; Wilbur in his old, tattered clothes, looking exceptionally pale in the light of the day and walking with his hands in his pockets and his gaze downcast, Quackity with his head held high and making an effort to smile at the couple of passersby who see Wilbur and understandably gawk at them. It’s less so that he feels the urge or the need to protect Wilbur, and more so that he’d prefer to keep down any national hysteria over the reanimated ex-president walking the streets.
A piece of Schlatt’s advice on his own redemption journey that Wilbur really seems to take to heart is the idea of the letters that Schlatt had sent to the people he wanted to apologize to. Quackity remembers receiving his own letter from him, three long pages of shaky writing– Schlatt had apologized for it in his first paragraph, the first of a long list of apologies, explaining how nicotine and alcohol withdrawals made it hard to hold his hands steady. Quackity also remembers crying for what could’ve been hours after reading it, then burning it, then getting drunk on shitty wine and calling up Sapnap for a messy hookup that he almost certainly cried during and most certainly avoided moaning out any names at all during so as not to say the wrong one. The letters seemed to have gone over well with everyone else, though, so there’s that. Schlatt had sat down with Wilbur and helped him make a comprehensive list of people he should write to.
The thing with Wilbur and the letters, though, is that he seems to never be satisfied with them. Since he’d set out to write them, he’s absolutely covered their kitchen island in half-finished drafts and crumpled up rejects, since there’s not really a suitable writing location in the guest bedroom. When he’s awake, he’s usually writing. Quackity fears he’s going to give himself carpal tunnel.
“Have you finished any of them?” Schlatt asks one day as he’s passing by the island, picking up a tossed aside page, which Wilbur promptly snatches back.
“Some of them,” Wilbur says defensively. “I have Phil’s, Tubbo’s, and– well, Tommy’s is kind of finished, but I might change some things. I’m doing it right. I’m not just writing fucking anything.”
“I did all mine in one draft,” Schlatt says as he opens the fridge.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Wilbur grumbles, crossing out something he’s written with frustrated pen strokes.
“Is there anything you want for dinner?”
Quackity straightens up in his seat on the couch, glancing over to see Wilbur’s answer. He stops writing and looks up near incredulously.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Schlatt snorts, shaking a handful of shredded cheese out of the bag. “I’m cooking, and I don’t know what I’m gonna make yet. Anything sound good?”
“Uh…” Wilbur seems to be hesitating more than he’s thinking, scratching the back of his neck. “...Mac n’ cheese?”
“I can do that,” Schlatt grins. “But I’m not doing boxed. I’m gonna make real shit.”
Schlatt can make incredibly good mac n’ cheese, and that he does, with all the different types of melted cheese and herbs and seasonings he usually uses, and he makes quite a large portion for the three of them. They tend to work in large portions in this house; if there’s leftovers, great, and if Schlatt finishes it all, greater. Quackity tries to remain nonchalant in both his countenance and his internal dialogue as he watches Schlatt and Wilbur go nearly bowl for bowl over the casual pace of the dinner, none of them saying anything whenever any of them get another serving, instead having a seemingly genuinely productive conversation about how to write the letters effectively.
“It’s an apology, and an invitation to start to make up for it,” Schlatt explains at some point. “Don’t justify. Don’t qualify. And don’t expect anything from them. Prove you actually know what you did wrong, admit it was wrong, explain that you care about them and want to earn their forgiveness, and let them tell you what that means to them. And you have to be okay with the fact that they might completely ignore it and continue hating you. It’s not about you, it’s about them. This isn’t a get out of jail free card, it’s just opening an avenue for them to take.”
“Remember when you used to write that self-help column?” Wilbur chuckles after a moment, stabbing a fork into his bowl. It’s his third.
“Fuck off ,” Schlatt snorts, near the end of his third bowl himself.
“You just reminded me of that,” Wilbur says through a mouthful. “Of the fact that you can actually give halfway decent advice sometimes.”
“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” Schlatt grumbles.
“I don’t think I ever heard about this?” Quackity laughs, glancing between them.
“It was anonymous,” Schlatt groans. “I was really young, like, 19 or 20, I think. Wilbur only knows about it because he saw some of the old drafts in my apartment a million years ago. It was just a little side hustle.”
“So you got paid?” Quackity grins.
“Uh, no.”
“Sounds like a pretty bad side hustle,” he teases, and Schlatt playfully kicks him under the table with his socked foot. Quackity kicks him back harder. “I want to read these sometime.”
“There’s no way in hell they survived,” Schlatt says, scraping up the last bite of his bowl. “I got out of that server with the clothes on my back and my net worth, baby.”
“Didn’t we all,” Wilbur snorts, followed by a hiccup. He looks down at his own now empty bowl, almost in surprise. “Oh.”
What Quackity is pretty sure he watches, surreptitiously, is Wilbur seeming to process how much he’s eaten, and how it feels. He shifts slightly in his seat, bringing a hand up to muffle another hiccup, or maybe a small burp. Schlatt’s gaze meets his for a second, and he immediately feels incredibly found out. Schlatt gives him a barely noticeable smile and grabs his bowl.
“Any objections to me finishing the rest?” he asks, heading over to the stove.
“Nope,” Quackity answers, pleasantly full from his own two bowls.
“No, I’m– I think I’m going to bed,” Wilbur says stiffly. “Night.”
He’s disappeared back into the guest room before Schlatt is back with the rest of the mac n’ cheese. Quackity immediately cuddles up next to him once he sits back down on the couch.
“He’s getting a lot better, I think,” he says, keeping his voice soft to avoid Wilbur hearing from down the hall.
“He has moments,” Schlatt shrugs noncommittally, his mouth already full. “Give it twenty-four hours, he’ll be back to calling me a fat bitch.”
“You are a fat bitch.”
“Yeah, but he’s not allowed to say it,” Schlatt snorts.
Quackity laughs, resting a hand gently on the divet between Schlatt’s chest and his belly. Schlatt burps softly at the slight pressure.
“It’s hearty mac n’ cheese,” Quackity chuckles.
“Very,” Schlatt agrees. “That’s why I like it. Sticks to the ribs. I don’t know what the hell that means, to be honest, just felt applicable.”
There’s a moment of quiet where what they must both be thinking remains unsaid: if Schlatt is full from three bowls, it’s impressive that Wilbur kept up.
“You’re so easy to read,” Schlatt grins after a minute.
“I am not,” Quackity scoffs. “You can just read me well ‘cause we’re married , asshole. Shut up and finish your dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’ve got ice cream in the freezer.”
“Do you ever think about how lucky I am that I’m not lactose intolerant?” Schlatt hums through a mouthful. “I don’t know what I’d do without dairy products.”
“I’m not sure you’d survive,” Quackity laughs, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
It’s not long before Schlatt finishes the rest of the bowl, giving a contented sigh as he does, and Quackity immediately sets the bowl aside on the table and climbs halfway into his lap, his legs straddling one of Schlatt’s thighs. Schlatt puts his hands on Quackity’s waist and moans softly as Quackity puts his more fully on his belly, rubbing slow and methodical circles. Schlatt leans down to kiss him, and Quackity smiles into it. He lets one of his hands wander to slightly rake up Schlatt’s shirt, sliding his fingers up against the soft surface of him.
“What d’you say about taking that ice cream to the bedroom?” he murmurs once they come up for air.
“That sounds like a great idea to me,” Schlatt chuckles, and Quackity pats his belly affectionately.
Quackity’s leaning back up for another kiss when he hears a slight cough, and both of them freeze. He takes his hands off Schlatt immediately and slips out of his lap before he even looks up to see Wilbur awkwardly standing at the end of the hall, his hands in his pockets and his sallow cheeks giving their best impression of a blush.
“Uh, I was just getting some water,” he says, slightly holding up his empty cup like they might not believe him otherwise. “...Sorry.”
“No, you– go ahead,” Schlatt says quickly, having gone a little pink himself, and Quackity has no doubt his own cheeks are flushed.
None of them say anything as Wilbur quickly fills up his cup from the pitcher in the fridge and briskly disappears back down the hall. After a moment, Schlatt lets out a strangled laugh.
“It’s not funny ,” Quackity scolds, giggling.
“Oh my god,” Schlatt snorts, letting his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Any combination of the three of us have fucked several times, and here we are all skirting around…” he gestures vaguely. “I don’t know.”
“Yep,” Quackity agrees, burying his face against Schlatt’s shoulder. “Yep.”
“I still want that ice cream.”
“We can arrange that.”