Work Text:
Sand in his shoes was something Quackity had grown accustomed to, living in Las Nevadas.
The familiarity of it didn't make it any more bearable.
Particularly, when he was also forced into a conversation with the one and only Charlie Slimecicle, who had happily followed him into Tubburger.
His brain unhelpfully longed for the earlier days of the construction of his country, back before he had recruited anyone, back when he could be miserable in peace.
Working with Tubbo, although good leverage against Wilbur, was simply another added stressor to his days. The kid was a fine cook, but couldn't clean the kitchen up after himself for shit.
Quackity throws his rag into the restaurant sink, frustratedly storming away from Charlie, despite knowing that he could never truly walk away from the slime.
The capitalist enters his building and ascends upon the staircase towards his room, disgruntledly ripping off his futile-looking apron and tossing to a chair, already piled with clothes as he enters his dimly lit bedroom. He doesn't bother with raking open the thick drapes that cover his ceiling-to-floor windows, instead choosing to simply fall face first into his bedsheets.
He groans when his necklace digs atrociously into his collar bone. He sits up bothered, pulling the jewelry out from under his shirt.
The gold chain is lined with his two fiance's rings. One obsidian encrusted with diamond and the other made from iron with blaze powder mended in.
Quackity rolls his eyes at himself. Why does he even wear it? They probably don't even care anymore.
*****
A sob rips out of Sapnap’s throat as he tugs at the thick hair on his head, desperately trying to make himself be quieter for George who sits next to him, half asleep.
Or at least he’s pretty sure that's what George is doing. A butterfly with green and black wings sits on his finger, near-silent delirious giggles fall from the older’s lips.
Sapnap scrunches his brows up and wipes at his eye as he leans closer to George.
“What’re you doing?” His whispering is harsh and broken but the question must be understandable because George is turning to him with half-lidded eyes.
The brunet lifts the butterfly closer to his ear, eyes still dreamily focused on Sapnap. “Hm?”
Sapnap sniffs and rubs under his nose. “Are you talking to that butterfly?”
George’s head heavily tilts forward, a giant dopey grin spreads across his face.
“This butterfly…” He laughs a sweet musical laugh when the insect seems to communicate something to him. “Is DreamXD.” The older then turns completely away from Sapnap to continue his conversation with XD.
Sapnap doesn't bother with a response and instead turns his attention to the rings wrapped around his fingers. He pulls them off to look at their engravings. They both read as 11/17.
Sapnap puts a hand to his eyes as he feels his face scrunch up and tears begin to re-leak off of his eyelashes.
*****
George smiles to himself as he turns aways from Sapnap, who always looks so heartbreakingly sad lately and instead refocuses his attention to DreamXD who looks so pretty in his butterfly form.
In his head, George hears XD thank him for the compliment.
That was a recent thing about DreamXD, he can hear George’s thoughts now.
It was better this way George decided.
XD flutters his wings and George shifts to lay on his stomach in the dirt.
He whines in discomfort when the grass is wet and cold, then politely demands XD to turn into his human form so he can lay in his embrace, strictly to be of a heat source for George.
Through his delusions and dreaminess, George chooses not to realize how similar his human form happened to look a bit like an old friend.
*****
That old friend who is now nothing more than a lump of mold stuck in the prison, sits with his back pressed against the boiling walls of obsidian behind him. The silence that Dream is so numb to, continues to ring a violent, never-ending scream in his ears.
He can barely tell if he’s breathing, for some reason, he wishes he wasn't.
A single finger curls around the half-rotten potato that sits limply in his hand.
He tries to recall back to when he had last bitten from it. He can't decide if it's been moments or days. He feels like he can still taste the starches but then again, he can’t remember a time since he's been in here that he hasn't tasted that.
And he knows.
He knows he's done this to himself. It was his ego and spitefulness that built this prison but it was also his malition and hatred that put him in here, he's come to accept that now that Techno disappeared and he is truly alone. Come to accept that he is never getting out of this place.
*****
11/17, 11/17, 11/17.
Six hundred thousand blocks away, in the grass, paces a man who can't stop repeating numbers to himself.
11/17, 11/17, 11/17, 11/17.
He can't remember what the numbers represent or mean but he knows he can't forget them like he's forgotten everything else.
The ground is dewy beneath his feet, he knows because he woke up in it. A flash of white from behind his eyelids and there he laid in the wet grass next to a red mushroom.
11/17, 11/17, 11/17, 11/17, 11/17.
He feels glimpses of the stuff he’s supposed to remember at random.
He looks in a mirror and for a split second sees a strong hand with black nails stroking down his cheek or he closes his eyes and feels a brush of pretty, yellow feathers around his arms but nothing more than that.
11/17, 11/17, 11/17.
That’s why he can't forget these numbers, he's sure that one day, once he remembers what they mean, he will remember why he has all these books written by a man named Karl with him.
11/17, 11/17, 11/17. Don’t forget.