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“Just a smoke, that’s all I ask.”
Quackity stared, almost expressionless, at the ghost of a man who should’ve died a long time ago. And yet, there he was, standing on Quackity’s nice carpet, in an office that had never felt more suffocating. Suddenly he was aware that the door was closed. He debated calling Foolish to come and open it for him, but he’d ask why Quackity wouldn’t do it himself, and he wasn’t sure he was willing to address that head on.
But Schlatt still stood, waiting more patiently than he ever had before. Quackity was on edge.
“Just a smoke,” he mirrored, eyes locking onto Schlatt’s, a small smile growing on the man’s face.
“That’s it,” he said, taking a step forward. “Just to catch up. Things sure have changed, haven’t they?” Schlatt gestured to the room around them, an office he was familiar with in concept and concept alone. It wasn’t his, however; it was Quackity’s.
“One cigarette,” Quackity said, “and then you leave.” It sounded too much like a suggestion to him, rather than the command he would’ve preferred. Schlatt, ever observant of Quackity, must have noticed.
“And yet, you stay the same.”
Before he could say anything else, Quackity stood, pushing his chair back much harsher than he needed to. Neither reacted. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, fished out the lighter he had shoved to the back in his shitty attempt to force himself to quit, and turned to the glass doors. Schlatt only followed him in complete silence. The two stepped out into the cool night air, Quackity lighting his own cigarette before passing Schlatt the remaining one, holding the lighter out without sparing a single glance in his direction.
Schlatt was silent as he took them, and for a moment Quackity felt relieved. Perhaps this was truly all there was to his visit, he reasoned with himself. But his shoulders were still tense, and he still kept Schlatt on his right side. A few drags in, and Quackity even started to feel almost normal.
“How’s Tubbo?” Schlatt had to speak up, didn’t he?
It didn’t surprise Quackity that his first thought was Tubbo, he supposed. But somehow, despite the time that had passed, and the love that Quackity held having faded into something akin to resentment, it still stung.
He came to you to ask,
he’d told himself.
“He’s good,” Quackity took a long drag before continuing. “Kid’s married now.” That seemed to take Schlatt off guard.
“Is he?” Quackity nodded.
“Ranboo,” he said. “Nice guy.” His eye was locked onto the casino, watching as a light flickered, dimmer and dimmer. It would be burned out by tomorrow.
“And you’re not,” Schlatt said, coughing slightly as the smoke lingered in his throat.
“Excuse me?” Quackity tore his eyes away from the casino’s lights, turning to glare at Schlatt with a vigor he had been trying to excuse.
“You’re not married,” Schlatt spoke, and everything was familiar once again. His voice was harsh; matter-of-factly. And suddenly Quackity was 19 again, scanning Schlatt’s face for any hint of anger, careful of the scent of alcohol that lingered in the air between them. But no, Schlatt hadn’t been drinking, had he?
He must’ve noticed Quackity’s shift in demeanour, rolling his eyes. He gestured to Quackity’s hand, holding his cigarette so lightly it would slip between his fingers had Schlatt blown on him.
“You aren’t wearing a ring, Pumpkin.” His voice sounded laced. It might’ve been.
This was a bad idea, Quackity knew it. He should’ve never let Schlatt onto his balcony, smoking his cigarettes, using his lighter, all to criticize a life he’d lead him to. Schlatt held no power here, and he certainly wasn’t about to let him think he did.
“I’m not,” Quackity cleared his throat.
“But you almost were,” Schlatt grinned, eyes locking onto his chest. He reached forward, brushing past Quackity’s collar and grabbing the makeshift necklaces he’d held onto, far past their use. His touch was cold, burning against Quackity’s throat as his breath hitched.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” He grabbed Schlatt’s wrist faster than he could react, nails digging into his rough skin as he waited for Schlatt to let go.
“They’re pretty rings.” Schlatt dropped the necklaces rather swiftly, but Quackity was not so fast, letting the sting set in. If he was lucky, he’d draw blood and Schlatt would let it scar, tearing at the scab any chance he got. If he was lucky, Schlatt would look at the scar and think of how it hurt to receive. If he was lucky, it would make him think of Quackity.
God knows Schlatt was lucky.
“Where’s mine?” Schlatt asked, almost accusatory, not a single ounce of acknowledgement to the pain Quackity had been trying to inflict. Maybe that’s all it was; just an attempt that would yield no results. Quackity dropped his hand.
“In the ground,” he paused. “Although, maybe not anymore. I still don’t understand revival.” He took another drag, and his lungs burned.
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Quackity turned, blowing the smoke in Schlatt’s face as he grinned.
“It means you might have it,” he said, raising his fist to lightly punch Schlatt’s chest, right on the blood stained fabric and a wound that would never fully heal. Schlatt just scoffed.
“How creative,” he rolled his eyes. “Poetic even.”
“It wasn’t meant for you.”
Silence fell between them, and Quackity no longer felt normal. With every shift in Schlatt’s movement, he was alert, waiting like prey in open waters. And Schlatt had to have been lying in wait.
“Whose fault was it?” Schlatt asked. Strike.
“No one’s,” Quackity spoke too fast.
“So you broke shit off for no reason,” Schlatt scoffed, disbelief written in his face. “Power isn’t what makes someone undesirable, Quackity. You should know that better than anyone, right?” It was nothing more than a mock; a reminder of something Quackity would rather forget, but would never be permitted to.
“I don’t need what you had,” he sneered.
“You seemed so,” Schlatt paused, thinking, “smitten then.”
But he was, wasn’t he? Head over heels, ignoring any red flag that popped up. Infatuation gets you nowhere. He learned that once, and then again. And then once more. It was ingrained in his skull and burned behind his eyelids, but cycles are cycles for a reason, and he always knew where it would end; but never when.
“So why didn’t you settle down? I thought that was what you wanted.” It had been. Schlatt was right, not that Quackity would ever admit that nowadays.
“That’s not what this job entails, right?” He glared, an echo of an argument long ago reverberating in both their minds. “So, unlike you, I don’t need someone to be my little lapdog.”
“Ah, so that’s all you were?” Schlatt asked, expression hard to read. Quackity hated it.
“You know what I was to you,” he growled. And he decided he was done, pushing his cigarette into the railing until it died its quick, painful death. Maybe he would’ve felt bad for it, a metaphor lying in its ashes. He didn’t.
“I know that you weren’t fit for the role then,” Schlatt said, following a long, suffocating drag. Something clicked; a gear turning in Quackity’s mind before he could stop it.
“Do you fucking know whose office balcony you’re standing on? Do you know where the fuck you are?” Quackity couldn’t help taking a step back, glaring knives into Schlatt’s skull and wishing now more than ever that looks could kill. Could maim.
“I said ‘then’, Pumpkin.” Schlatt spoke in an all-too-familiar tone, condescending and pitiful. It was a bait; his words usually were.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Quackity snapped, and his teeth felt sharp. For once in his life, with Schlatt standing tall, exuding the confidence of a deluded man, his teeth felt razor sharp. “My cigarette is out.”
“You put it out.”
“It’s out. So I’m done.” Quackity turned to the glass doors, “And according to our terms, it’s time for you to leave.”
If Schlatt protested, Quackity didn’t care. And it felt good. The door to his office was still closed, but there was no urgency in it anymore; no need for escape. And that’s what it was earlier, wasn’t it?
“If you leave now, I won’t bother kicking you out,” he said as the doors shut behind them, Schlatt’s cigarette still in hand, sure to leave a horrid stench in the room.
“And if I don’t?”
“I have more people willing to get rid of you, than you ever had in your cabinet.” Quackity sat in his chair, turning to his desk and grabbed his communicator, waving it tauntingly. “It’s your choice.” And now he’s 21 again, studying Schlatt once more, not for anger, but for resentment, a feeling he had been hoping would become mutual.
But Schlatt’s expression didn’t change.
Instead, he turned to the door, taking one final drag of his dying cigarette, before flicking it onto the nice, white carpet and crushing it beneath his shoe. The door opened and shut gently, and Schlatt still had Quackity’s lighter.
He supposed it would be easier to quit now.