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Quackity sat with his back against the wall, on the wooden floor of his house. Knees pressed up to his chest, and arms around his legs. More specifically, he sat in Tilín's room, or what was her room.
Through shallow breaths, he felt over the fabric of her ribbon in his hand. He held the thin material between his thumb and forefinger. He was crying again. Fuck.
Quackity's form shook slightly, his breath faltering. It had been a long time since he'd cried like this. Anytime he cried it was usually from alcohol. Seated on a stool at the bar, spilling dramatic and empty tears.
This felt so different. His heart was screaming at him, trying to claw its way out of his chest and make its way to the rotting corpse of his beloved son. The whole world crumbled around him, leaving nothing but his tears in an empty void.
A world without Tilín… Was there even any point in living without her?
He wiped frantically at his face, attempting to rid his vision of all the blur from the tears. They kept coming, like a waterfall down his face. Followed by choked sobs and occasionally interrupted by coughs and gasps for breath.
Shaky feet eventually managed to find their footing as Quackity took a second to lean against the wall once more, this time on his side. Shutting his eyes, he attempted to take a few deep breaths, but all he saw was Tilín. Crouching and jumping up and down. Smiling. Throwing bombs everywhere with not a care in the world. Hitting the wall with his fists as Quackity cheered him on.
His eyes shot open, mouth open in a silent scream. No. He had to make it stop, find a way to silence the raging storm inside of him.
Tripping on his way out the door, he eventually stumbled into the grass. He didn't make it far before he fell to his knees. More heaving, and more tears. They never seemed to end, no matter how raw his throat got, or how tired his eyes felt. His sadness was somehow endless.
Through the continued blur of the tears, he turned to look back at the house he'd been essentially trapped in since however long ago he'd been told the news. Such a pretty house. He wasn't one for building like Foolish, but his house felt homely, and more importantly it was theirs. His and Tilín's.
It was unfair. There hadn't been any warning, no way for him to know. How could Charlie take his son away? He hadn't even been there to say goodbye.
Quackity sobbed even harder. What was the last thing he said to her? His hands found the grass beneath him and he started pulling. He tugged chunks out wildly, getting dirt on his already soiled clothes. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't actually sure how long it had been since he'd put them on.
Quackity shook his head desperately. He had to do something. Quick. He looked around, blinking slowly. Has the world always looked this gray? Buildings loomed over him as he practically sprinted to the bar. He could have sworn a few people had tried to talk to him on the way but it didn't really matter since he ignored all of them.
With the all too familiar bottle finally in his hands, he started drowning. Faster than he ever had before. There was nothing he wanted to salvage from the wreckage of the storm. No. All of it needed to be gone. The only thing he'd wanted was his child, and with her gone, there was nothing left to take her place. Nothing could ever take her place.
His form slumped over; head hitting the wood and causing the edges of his vision to become fuzzy. The soft sound of the buzzing lights above him was almost nice. He scrambled towards the sound, a part of his aching heart wishing foolishly that maybe, just maybe, he would find Tilín there.
The alcohol flooded his senses, and he fell deeper and deeper into the void. As he fought with his consciousness to keep his eyes open, he felt a sudden familiar wetness on his cheeks. When had he started crying again?
Then there was nothing. Nothing but Tilín's beautiful existence that only existed 6 feet underground, and the far away, unfamiliar feeling of a hand rubbing his back.