Work Text:
Endling
Endling - [endling]; noun; a living individual that is the last survivor of its species and whose death means the extinction of that species.
The Black Rabbit spoke with the voice of water that falls into pools in echoing places in the dark.
‘El-ahrairah, why have you come here?’
'I have come for my people,’ whispered El-ahrairah.
The Black Rabbit smelled as clean as last year’s bones and in the dark El-ahrairah could see his eyes, for they were red with a light that gave no light.
'You are a stranger here, El-ahrairah,’ said the Black Rabbit. 'You are alive.’
'My lord,’ replied El-ahrairah, 'I have come to give you my life. My life for my people.’
The Black Rabbit drew his claws along the floor.
”Bargains, bargains, El-ahrairah,’ he said. There is not a day or a night but a doe offers her life for her kittens, or some honest captain of Owsla his life for his Chief Rabbit’s. Sometimes it is taken, sometimes it is not. But there is no bargain, for here what is is what must be.”
– Tales from Watership Down, The Story of El-ahrairah and the Black Rabbit of Inlé
Quackity found it at the back of Schlatt's drawer of books. Unlike the rest of the collection it was hard bound. A garish orange. Bright as the vests he’d seen some of the animatronics from Sam Nook's wear when they were commissioned for construction around the city. In the center of the cover was an etching of a rabbit in bright reds and yellows almost lost to the warm horizon, and its wide, searching eye reflected the heavy grass heads of the fescues bowed beside it.
Wild rabbit. Not the soft, floppy eared companions some had owned in El Rapids.
He'd never had one of his own. A rabbit or any pet like that. For a moment as he turned the book over he tried to picture himself with one. Back in El Rapids when he was the age to start library-hosted lessons he'd let rare bugs crawl on carefully held out leaves and sticks— and at the far places of the city where the walls were untouched by murals he'd chased the dwindling population of frogs and lizards. But he always released them. It was the same for the slowly disappearing birds kept in cages. He'd watch them, and listen, but if he ever got an animal into a bucket or onto the palm of his hand or if he reached up to toy with an iron latch— he'd always let them go.
He tried to imagine Schlatt with a pet. A rabbit or bird maybe. Not the ghosts that stalked the woods in animal form. Not whatever Schlatt hoped to catch in those snare traps he'd made. But a simple, devoted little animal, scaled or furred, clawed or winged— Quackity couldn't settle on what kind.
Would it roam the house? Would it sit by Schlatt's side? Stare out the screen door?
Would it stay?
He tried to picture it. Any kind. But nothing he could imagine fit within the frame of Schlatt's cabin home.
Behind him through the open bedroom door the signs of someone's presence crept down the hall interrupting his thoughts.
“Quackity?” said Schlatt, sounding close and far away at the same time. Quackity could picture him staring down the unlit stairwell waiting for the echo of a name to be responded to.
A few seconds later door hinges creaked like a held breath. Then there were footsteps across the floor before the bed's wood frame shifted, a weight settled on it.
Yet to look up, Quackity flipped the book to the front. Then the back. Then the front. Then the back again. The back cover was nearly unreadable. He swept his thumbs over it trying to conjure the split sentences back into meaning as he braced his forearms on the lip of the open drawer, sharp wood edge digging into his skin. Under his thumbs he felt the divots, the sunken ruptures, all cratered into the book board. Water damage, and puncture wounds, and fire scars— the words, the art— had all peeled away from the back leaving a mess of letters with gaps.
“Which one is that?” asked Schlatt, breaking the silence.
Quackity took a moment to reply. “I don't… I don't really know. I can't tell. It's all— fucked up.”
The bed frame creaked. Quackity could smell the thirdhand smoke that clung to Schlatt as he came closer and spoke. “Here, give me it.”
Quackity didn't look his way, he could easily picture the demanding hand Schlatt must have held out.
“Come on, man,” said Schlatt after a few more seconds of Quackity insisting on trying to decipher anything. “Quackity I'm serious I've read all of those I can tell you instantly what that one's about. There was some of ‘em got pretty fucked up so you're not gonna magically figure it out.”
Quackity began flipping through the pages. Randomly, he opened and then closed and then opened the book to a new section.
None of the names made any sense. Flowers. Flora. All names of plants. He tried to piece together any sentence, dialogue, and understand a fraction of what was to be expected of the story— but what he flipped to was the middle of the book. A bluebell and holly were talking. He only pictured plants, in detail, scientific illustrations, like one of the three encyclopedias he'd chronically checked out from the library and carried around as a kid. The plants were talking. A word in English he'd never heard before— Zorn? Zorn… All Zorn, all gone.
Before Quackity could read the footnote definition of the word Schlatt snatched the book away.
“Hey!”
Schlatt stood there, looking down as if he'd grabbed the last thing he'd expected to be in Quackity's hands. It was a familiar expression. Quackity had seen it before. The night Schlatt had found fresh cuts on his ankle magically healed by bloodvines. In the aftermath of a swinging strike that had stung Quackity's knuckles for hours after. Behind a screen of rain as Schlatt stood on the first porch step in the dark of night. At the top of a narrow run of stairs seconds before a heavy red door was slammed shut—
Quackity reached out to take it back. “I was going to read it. I don't need you to spoil it for me.”
Schlatt stepped away. Quackity matched him, he grasped it but was gently pushed away.
Quackity backed down but that didn't mean he wasn't pissed. “What the fuck are you doing? What happened to me being allowed to read anything from the book drawer?”
“I. Yeah,” Schlatt turned the cover page open. “I'm not going back on that.”
He closed it. Held it between them like a branch for Quackity to hold onto in the brief moment before it was let go.
“I'm not going back on that,” Schlatt said again. “I swear. Read it. Just— this one… I don't know. It's different.”
Quackity opened the cover. The spine folded around the once golden gilded words Watership Down. A message in faded graphite had survived on the yellowed page—
”To my Joan of Arc: Like Hazel, I believed you.
By the time Quackity looked up again Schlatt had already began to head out of the bedroom. He said something about checking the snares, fixing a step stool cause Quackity would need it to reach higher things.
Quackity checked the words again, a note from the past. He wanted to make sure it was really there. When he finally looked up again he found Schlatt lingering in the door frame.
“It's a good book, if you like rabbits,” offered Schlatt before he finally left.
—
For hours Quackity read. From when the primroses were over, to a new home under the Honeycomb, to the fall of Efrafa —he read.
The sun had long since set by the time he'd reached Part III. He laid in bed- the glowstone jar set upon his shoulder as a lamp while he held the book obscenely close to his nose. There were only minute pauses between him reading a page and flipping to the next one. At some point Schlatt had entered, disappeared into the bathroom and ran the shower for half an hour before returning to pace up and down the length of the room. Schlatt changed clothes, brushed teeth, shoved a modified sweater at Quackity and demanded he put it on as he pulled the book down so Quackity would actually do what he asked him to instead of ignoring him in favor of that damn book.
Even when Schlatt climbed into bed next to him, Quackity kept reading.
At some point, after Schlatt had settled he sighed and spoke. “I'm serious, Quackity, either go to bed or move to the couch if you're gonna read all night. I've got to work early some tomorrow.”
Wordless and almost dream-like Quackity found his way to the couch, the glowstone light guiding him. He settled and immediately got to reading again after only a second of worrying and straining to listen as the winking glint of tapestries' wire embellishments stared back at him from the living room walls.
When the sun rose again he was woken up by Schlatt making a noise in the kitchen.
He shifted, slow at first before realizing where he was. He moved fast, too fast for the weird angle he'd slumped into at some point in the early morning. Everything hurt, wings, neck, back— thankfully he was quick enough to catch the glass jar before it rolled to the wood floor, but the book was not as lucky. It landed with a thud, page-side down, splayed open crudely. A panic overtook him when he saw what looked like a page had come loose.
The last thing he needed was to have borrowed one of Schlatt's books and then destroy it. (Well destroy more than it already was.) He slid to the ground beside it, ears ringing with the effort of moving too fast after waking up.
He scooped up the book, went to push the page back in place and stopped. He let it slide back out. There in his hand was a photograph.
He hadn't noticed it before. Hadn't seen it at all while reading. How the hell could he have missed it?
Just as quick as he had looked at it he shoved it back in, closing the book tight just in time for Schlatt to only see him kneeled and hunched over on the ground, book hugged against his chest.
“You finish it?” asked Schlatt.
“Yeah.”
Schlatt seemed to really look at him then. Behind him the solid door was open, the screen the only barrier against the waiting woods- soft sunlight spilled in, making the off white edges of Schlatt's long sleeves glow pale gold.
“So,” Schlatt started, “What'd you think?”
Quackity finally relaxed some. Shoulders uncurling, but he kept his hands tightly clamped.
He wanted to ask about the picture. But he'd learned by now what questions like that got him.
“There's a lot of rabbits,” He finally said. A less than stellar review but his head was full of what he'd seen slip out from between the pages— wooded trees, thick green canopies, someone facing away from the camera—
“Sure fucking is.”
Schlatt didn't pry for more of an answer. Instead he invited Quackity to stand up. Told him he looked like fresh hell— and put a glass of water in his hand.
Quackity kept a hold onto Watership Down even as a bowl was passed his way. He kept it close. Possessive hand atop the cover art. He ate. He pressed it down into the countertop.
—
Quackity looked at the photo in the privacy of the bathroom. The light seeping in blueish grey from the darkly screened window high above the tub washed over the details in front of him.
It was a picture of someone looking at a waterfall. A thin burst of water carved out of a shear but short rock face. Quackity couldn't really tell much about the figure in focus. The hair was brown, long, tied up in a loose bun the same way Quackity had seen Rockola favor. Some of the ringlet curls fell loose, smaller ones frizzed up along the crown no doubt from the spray of humid air. Their frame was boxed in by a large flannel, cargo pants of average work wear, something Sapnap would wear at Puffy's to dig in soil and monitor the growth of mushrooms in the dark, wet grow house. Whoever was in the photo stood tall, strong shouldered, hands hidden in pockets— the dense surrounding forest was so thick the trunks and canopies blended together so it appeared as tall crashing waves all around and stretching impossibly ahead, the whole land the trees were rooted in curved upwards, lunging, like it was reaching up to meet a wall-less skyline.
On the back only a few words read: Joan. The Doomsday Roadtrip..
A knock on the door made him hide the photo. Schlatt opened the door halfway. His eyes narrowed at the bright light. The bathroom was one of the only places in the cabin besides the kitchen that wasn't lit like a goddamn cave.
Schlatt spoke as he made his way to the sink. “I didn't realize it took nearly a goddamn hour for you to brush your teeth.” He searched it over, shook his head some before he turned and braced himself against the sink, arms crossed as he looked down on Quackity who was perched on the tub edge.
“Are you already re-reading it?” asked Schlatt. He reached out as if to take the book. “Maybe you should take a break.”
Quackity stood, guarding it in his arms. “I want to hold on to it. Just. I'll take a break— I will. But I want to keep it for right now. I'll put it back when I'm done.”
Schlatt rubbed at his eyes. “Whatever. Do what you want, just don't— don't come whining to me when you've gone another 12 hours without eating, alright. You're old enough to know better.”
“Holy shit— why the hell are you up my ass about this anyway? You're not my Dad—”
Schlatt grimaced at the cut off statement. “Up your ass…” he mumbled to himself shaking his head as if everything Quackity had just said was totally fucking foreign. “Look, first of all I'm not even going to get into that comment— you and the rest of this town's populace don't even know your parents. I can guarantee that. And just— just cool it with the book, okay. You're— hey, I don't like it either but there's some chores we have to do— I've got some laundry started, and then you gotta help me with the masa cause I don't know what the fuck I'm doing-”
“Alright. Okay,” said Quackity, interrupting him. “I'm done reading it for now. Are you happy?”
“Yeah. Yeah I am cause I wasn't finished, you didn't let me finish— you see this—” Schlatt held up a feather. Bright, yellow, unmistakable who it belonged to. “There's a lot more on the couch and in the bed.”
“Hey in my defense, one: it's natural, so I'm not apologizing for it and two: it's not usually this sporadic something's all— something's fucked up. And I don't know if it's the weather, or being expelled, or fucking goddamn everything or what.”
Schlatt twirled the feather by the quill, slowly, one way than the other- brushing a thumb along the vane. The sight crawled its way down Quackity's back with every slow stroke. “You think you need to see Ponk about it? I don't know how much of an expert he is on wings but I'll take you by there if you want.”
Quackity's stomach shifted. Sudden hunger pains and something else digging claws deep inside him.
The last thing he wanted was to go back to campus. He wasn't ready.
“No, I'll be fine. It always stops eventually.” Even as he spoke he reached a hand to itch at the spot where his wings stabbed into his back.
They were itching a lot more lately, something deeper than where the many quills hooked into the skin.
It was likely he'd start shedding even more soon. Possibly catastrophically. But this molt was more sporadic than usual. All the signs would disappear for a whole day or two then come back only to reappear when he thought it was just a fluke.
“No one you know will see you,” Schlatt said, picking up too easily on Quackity's hesitation. “Well I guess Ponk knows you and will see you but you're not gonna see Karl freaking Jacobs hanging out at the clinic— or your other manhunt friends.”
“Yeah, I. It's not about that. I just don't want to waste Ponk's time alright.” Quackity fixed Schlatt with a hard stare, waiting for him to challenge the lie. “What is he going to say? Oh yeah, molting that's natural, nothing to worry about, okay. And then he'll probably prescribe me goddamn lemons or something as remedy—”
“Lemon tea isn't a bad idea actually.”
For a moment Quackity didn't speak at all. Schlatt had once again taken a shape he hadn't expected. If someone had paid him in lecture to guess what soft habits Schlatt had, what he drank besides disgusting protein mixes and alcohol out of metal flasks, what chores he did, how he folded his shirts or held a fork and knife— he'd draw only blanks, he would say Schlatt was simple. That anyone could see exactly what he was. How Schlatt was only cigarette stained teeth, metal lighter always in hand, flecks of blue, nice dress shirts and a jacket he always wore at the start of lecture but took off ten minutes in, smug jokes, always a come back, always staring a little too long in Quackity's direction—
But there were things about Schlatt which Quackity would never have been able to guess just by being a student in his lecture.
None of Schlatt's other students would ever know he liked to fold his shirts in thirds and quarters. And how he hated, no— fucking lamented over, Quackity's habit of rolling clothes up before lining the drawer with them. And they didn't know that when Schlatt's hands ached, old scars with fresher pain, he wouldn't voice it outloud. He'd nap midday, add Blue to some small portion of his skin, stare at the ceiling or ask if Quackity wanted to go for a walk around the woods. He would never say his hands hurt, they'd return and Quackity would talk as Schlatt stared at his hands, quietly. And they didn't know that he'd never ask for it but Quackity would go down to the basement, throw towels in the dryer and then bring them back up and Schlatt would say nothing but he'd take them. And they didn't know that on the days when Schlatt's hands were better he'd sometimes pick up a needle and thread and weave new scraps into a tapestry carefully taken down from the walls, wielding it all like it was something to guide rather than something to tame, a power Quackity could not replicate when he was offered the chance to try. They didn't know that Schlatt had stopped smoking inside, and when Quackity would find him on the porch right beside that empty space where a wind chime made from old garden tools and utensils and twirling glowstones had once been Schlatt would tell him cigarette in hand that this kinda thing wasn't good for him.
They didn't know that Schlatt liked tea. Or reading books. Or fixing things mechanical and carpentry and cooking even if he wasn't the best at any of those things. They didn't know he could paint or knew a lot about gardening for someone who didn't have a plant alive around his home besides the leafless trees. They didn't know that when he was lost in thought he chewed on the ends of pencils and pens but then got annoyed if Quackity did the same. They didn't know he was weary of the deep water of the Crater Lakes and the sinkholes of these outskirts of Manberg. That he hated the cold and was obsessed with keeping warm. They didn't know about the snare traps. Or a bunker basement. Or photos and files turned to ash outside.
They didn't know what it was like for Schlatt to boil water and labor over a few lemons and for him to pass a warm mug he'd made into their hands.
—
The rabbits had no pictures of their Sandleford warren before its destruction. Yet it was real, was their home, and then it was gone. Quackity could understand that. And he had to admit that when he thought of the photos he'd seen in Schlatt's basement, and the one he kept hidden right then under his elbow, he felt a stab of jealousy. It grew to an uncomfortable itch as he watched Schlatt flip through that goddamn planner he kept, reading glasses perched on his nose, none the wiser to Quackity's thoughts.
Quackity had no pictures of his home before Manberg, and as he held onto the freezing sides of the warm mug he'd been sipping from he tried to picture himself in Schlatt's place— so eager to burn up the only proof of the past. He couldn't imagine himself ever doing the same. He'd do everything in his power to keep his photos archived, conserve them so they never decayed, he wouldn't shove them in books to be forgotten about. His photos would be the endlings, the last of their kind; without them the places, the people, the cities he had known— would be extinct to those who did not carry it within their hearts and heads.
The rabbits who'd trusted Hazel and followed him through the wilderness were the endlings of Sandleford.
Quackity an endling of El Rapids.
Schlatt an endling of a world before walls.
“Okay,” said Schlatt once he was done writing what he needed to. “So the book has a lot of fucking rabbits, right? So which one's your favorite?”
Quackity paused before he tried the name. “El-ahrairah.”
“I've never heard someone say that name out loud like that.”
Quackity's face burned. He mumbled, looking down into his mug, some lemon seeds had made their way to the bottom. “You say it then.”
“No, fuck no. I like the way you said it.” Schlatt tried to imitate it but couldn't get the r's to sound the same. “I uh— it's not like I've talked about that book with anyone really, haven't had a chance to actually say the name out loud too much.”
“Who's your favorite?” asked Quackity.
“That's a hard ask.”
“What the hell? If I have to choose, then so do you. Unless you're lying and you have never actually read it.”
“No, I've. I've read it. Read every book in that fucking drawer, don't start thinking otherwise, big guy.” Schlatt fell into a quiet contemplation. “Favorite. Just one?” Quackity nodded. Schlatt drummed his pencil on the table for a few seconds. “Bigwig,” he eventually answered leaning back in his chair.
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
“What's that supposed to mean? What you uh you want me to psychoanalyze your choice of fucking El-hrairah?” Quackity noted how Schlatt said the name, El-uhrareraw. “The prince of rabbits? Yeah how humble of a choice, Quackity.”
“I'm just saying you and Bigwig, you're both kind of similar.”
Schlatt crossed his arms, a tug at the corner of his mouth. “You think I'm big and strong?”
“I was thinking more of the anger issues but sure whatever you want to think, man.”
“Hey,” Schlatt tapped at the remainder of the yellowed bruise under his eye. “I'm not the only one with a short fuse here, don't forget that shit you pulled at the White House. Might want to check yourself first before you start making assertions.”
“Look, whatever,” said Quackity, setting his drink aside in favor of the novel he'd been keeping safe. He continued before Schlatt had a chance to add anything more to the conversation. “I— I actually had another question about the book. That game Dandelion tells the story of— the one against the Black Rabbit when El-ahrairah’s warren is losing the war.”
“Bobstones,” said Schlatt before Quackity could name it.
“Have you ever played it? Or tried?”
“Why?”
“Have you? Played it I mean, like with literal actual goddamn sticks and stones?”
“Yeah. Yes. I have. I—” Schlatt rubbed the back of his neck, pausing before continuing. “I know a version of it. But what about it?”
Quackity leaned towards him, book clawed under his hands, tea forgotten. He had an idea. He just couldn't let Schlatt in on it yet or else he'd definitely say no, so instead Quackity said, “Show me.”
And Schlatt stood, set down his glasses and told Quackity to grab a bucket. He'd go get the dice.
—
“How the hell is this Bobstones?” asked Quackity, staring down into the bucket he'd grabbed from the strange walk-in pantry Schlatt always kept hidden. A pair of dice sat at the bottom.
Across from him Schlatt sat on a rough-made wooden stepstool while Quackity remained cross legged on the floor.
“I told you it was different. Hand me them,” demanded Schlatt.
Quackity passed the dice over.
Schlatt kneaded them in his hand, rolling them back and forth. The red plastic of them was scratched up rough and deep, the color foggy and blurred around the white dots. He suddenly clasped them tight and propped his elbows upon his legs, fingers laced together, somewhere in the middle, hidden, the tools of the game.
“You know the point of Bobstones in the book, right?” asked Schlatt.
“Yeah,” said Quackity, tapping at the rim of the bucket with his thumbs in a random rhythm. “To settle disputes, wager things, make bargains.”
“So why do you want to play Bobstones? And don't give me any bullshit, Q cause I know there has to be a reason.”
Quackity looked up, leveling with Schlatt's gaze. Upon the stool with the distant screen door behind him, backlit by the sunlight spilled over floorboards, Schlatt's features had become oddly shadowed. His eyes burned yellow.
For a second the floor under Quackity felt cold. Like that of a stone warren El-ahrairah had sought out in desperation.
“What if I just wanted to play?” tried Quackity.
Schlatt didn't buy it. “What do you want?” He pressed.
“Alright, well first of all I don't even know how to play. Shouldn't I know how the game works before I tell you what I want to play for? How the hell can I do that when I don't know?”
“It’s like— you toss some dice. It's not that complicated. I make some guesses about them without looking and if I'm right I win the round and And then it's your turn. It's not the same as the book but if you want to go dig around the woods out there and find some stones, be my guest.”
Quackity thought over Schlatt's description. He made it sound easy enough. At least it wasn't like other games. ToonBlocks, while multifaceted, really wasn't that complex, many computer games practically held the user's hand when it came to learning the featuees and controls. It was still a lot to keep track of, a lot to memorize. And card games, especially the ones Dream liked to spring on everyone during stormy nights spent in a cramped apartment, often featured too many special terms, and too many rules.
“So it's a short game?” asked Quackity.
“Hell no, it can be multiple rounds. As many as you wanna make it or can stand.”
Quackity sat up straighter. He knew exactly what he wanted. He'd been waiting for the perfect time to say it. “Then if I win a round you have to answer any question I have. No limits.”
“No limits?” asked Schlatt.
Quackity nodded, “No limits.”
Schlatt immediately shot the idea down. “Not happening. My house rules still apply. And just to be clear before you try and get something out of this that you shouldn't; you get only one, hear that, one question with one answer every round you win.”
“Fine. It's a deal. And your house rules right, Schlatt? Don't give shit to ghosts, don't mention the Dream SMP—” Quackity trailed off.
For a long moment Schlatt just stared until Quackity yielded and said, “I'll follow your rules.”
“Okay, and for every round I win—” Schlatt began to laugh before he could finish his sentence. He wiped a hand down his face, hiding his mouth for a second, “Holy shit.”
“What's funny?” Quackity crossed his arms instantly guarded.
“No, it's, it's just— you ever actually gambled before? Like actually.”
The question wasn't what Quackity expected. “I've played games before. Cards. Dice. Stuff on the computer. Nothing for-for credits ever but for things sometimes.”
“Well,” Schlatt said. “It's like that. Playing for things. You— god I cannot believe I'm about to ask this—”
“Just spit it the fuck out come on! Are you— holy shit are you scared? You're scared to play against me in a game of pure goddamn luck.”
Schlatt’s brows furrowed at the accusation. “No, god no, I'm not a fucking pussy, okay. Afraid of what? Having bad luck? Who the fuck can control that shit? Plus the way I see it, if you believe in that kind of shit then we've both got pretty equal shit luck, so I guess that kind of evens the playing field doesn't it?”
“You definitely have worse luck than me,” said Quackity, defiant, both arms crossed over the bucket's mouth. He'd rested his head on top of them, languid and waiting for the game to finally start as he looked at Schlatt and the world all sideways.
“Really? Do I?” Schlatt challenged. “Look at where you're sitting right now and then re-evaluate that statement for me.”
Quackity sighed. He tried to make it as loud and as fed up sounding as possible. “Just tell me.”
“No, let's just play. Give me the bucket—” Schlatt said, reaching for it.
Quicker than Schlatt could, Quackity slid a pace back, bucket kept safe in his arms. “Hold on. Hold on.” All the languidness had left him. He was fully alert. “No, we’re not playing. Not yet. I want to ask you questions. That's what I want, so what I want to know is what do you get out of playing against me?”
Schlatt looked him up and down, kneading the dice under a thumb. When he spoke it was with a rare show of hesitation. “You uh when you weren't playing computer games or footsie with Karl in your dorm when you hung out with those manhunt friends of yours, did y'all ever uh play a game where- every time you lose a round you gotta take something off?”
It was as if as soon as the words left Schlatt's mouth he realized how they sounded because he rubbed at his eyes mumbling, “Whatever, whatever. Forget about it. 'm serious, let's just play.”
Quackity's expression shifted, scrunched up nose to something tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, tilting closer into Schlatt's space as he spoke, rough plastic rim digging into the middle of his palms. “You wanna play fucking strip poker? With me?”
Schlatt practically tripped over himself to ask, “Who'd you play it with? Who uh, who was it with in the past?”
Both of them sat there in a stunned stupor for a few beats of time. If the light wasn't at such an unfortunate angle for Quackity he would have better seen the flush on Schlatt's face.
Quackity moved first. “Do you like picturing that kind of thing?” he asked, softly at first. Then bolder, he shifted onto his knees, let his legs open more and more, bucket pushed aside. He toyed with the hem of his loose shorts. “Me. Newly moved to manberg- with my friends- losing and taking off my shirt? And then my pants and then,” A hand found his waistband, began to slid down past as he spoke— “Losing again and taking off my—”
One of Schlatt's socked feet lightly kicked at a knee prompting Quackity to take his hand out of his fucking pants.
“Alright,” Schlatt said. “Sit the fuck up. Now you're making me sound like a fucking pervert, and you know what? I don't appreciate that.”
Reluctantly Quackity went back to sitting normally. “You're literally the goddamn definition of a pervert,” he said under his breath.”
“Yeah, and what does that make you, Quackity?”
Quackity held out a hand instead of answering. “Shut up and give me the goddamn dice.”
“Hang on, I haven't come up with what I want yet.” Schlatt assumed an overdramatic thinking pose, muttering to himself, rubbing at the facial hair that swept along his jaw.
It went on long enough to piss Quackity off. He said the first thing that came to mind, “I'll I don't fucking know— jerk you off or some shit if you win.”
“What the fuck? Who's the pervert now, huh?”
“Can— can you just show me how to play Bobstones.”
Schlatt reached over for the glass he'd set beside the stool's uneven legs. He took a sip, grimacing as he sat it back down. “Alright,” he said. “Always wanting to move everything along. This isn't how they play it in the book anyway you know that right? This is like. A bastardization- some shit I uh- some shitty equivalent unless you wanna go outside right now and pick up some stones and sticks.”
“Yeah but it's the same premise.” Quackity had resumed his former sitting position. Legs crossed. Arms too. All focus. “That's what matters.”
“Mmhm,” Schlatt nodded with a hum. He paused. Head tilted, eyes fixed to the dice he asked, “So, is it like you're gonna get me off for every round I win or like an overall winner thing… or?”
“I'll—” Quackity hesitated. It took him a second to settle on something that wasn't a joke. “I'll learn to sew,” he offered.
“That's what I win?” Schlatt asked. “That's not exactly a great reward… cause I gotta teach you. Seems like something good for you ‘stead of me. Personally man I think your first offer was great-”
Quackity held up his hands to get Schlatt to stop. He needed him to just listen. “Think about it. Just think about it, alright. I'm serious. I need to learn. It's like — it's useful alright. Otherwise you'll always have to mend my things. So I'll learn. I will, but only if you win.”
With that said, Schlatt stood up.
“Wait, where are you going?” Quackity asked after him trying to think of what he could say to possibly fix the situation.
“Had a thought,” Schlatt said from the kitchen. Quackity heard him open a drawer. Close it. The buckles on the messenger bag Schlatt took to campus unclipped, things moved. Schlatt came back with a paper that looked like a student's in one hand, a pencil with teeth marks in the other.
“So was that a good deal I offered or?”
“Yes,” Schlatt answered with no further comment. He drew a chart on the back of the last page. “I'll erase it after,” he said as he drew a simple T-chart. Q on one side of the line and S on the other. Schlatt set the pencil down when it was done. “We'll keep the rounds won here. Until you learn the script I'll guide the game.”
—-
Bobstones moved fast. It moved fast in the book, El-ahrairah quickly losing pieces of himself to the Black Rabbit after every round. And it moved fast by Schlatt's rules.
Listen up, cause I'm only gonna say this once. It was a line Schlatt often used in lectures. Zone out and miss it and it was always something said that would be the difference between failing a test or passing one.
Objectives of the game. Schlatt explained them, holding up a finger for each one he named.
“Let’s say I went first. I cast the stones. Step one, guess if the sum of the numbers I rolled are odd or even. If you are correct I'll ask the next question. Part two, guess the sum of the roll, if you are correct I'll ask the next question. Part three, guess the two numbers which make up the sum of my roll. If you are correct you win the round. All three parts must be satisfied to win a round and you must guess in that order anytime you are wrong it automatically becomes the next player's round. Understood?”
Quackity nodded.
Schlatt smirked. “Listo?”
Quackity didn't know it, but in that moment Schlatt wished he had a mirror on hand. Just so he could show Quackity what he saw. Because Quackity had that look he'd sometimes worn in lecture, or when someone told him he couldn't or shouldn't; it was intense focus, not quite anger, but all determination, like whatever obstacle he would meet next he'd find a way to push through— big, dark eyes, narrowed staring only at the dice held in Schlatt's fist.
"Yes," said Quackity.
“You or me first?” asked Schlatt.
“You,” Quackity answered. The bucket was slid over to Schlatt.
The cast dice made a loud crack sound where they struck. It seemed to ring in Quackity's ears, a waterless cavern echo before everything was still and quiet again like a held breath. From where Quackity sat he ouldn't see anything except for Schlatt looking down into the plastic mouth at the numbers that waited there.
Schlatt looked up. “Is the sum odd or even?”
“Even,” Quackity answered without hesitating.
“Correct. Now, what is the sum?”
Quackity faltered. “I- I don't know. Eight?”
Schlatt took so long to respond it made Quackity practically twitch. He almost told him to get the fuck on with it and tell him but just a moment before he did Schlatt said so damn quiet, “Correct,” that Quackity nearly missed it.
Quackity's face split with a smile. “No way! Holy shit. I was right.”
“Can you see the dice from your angle?” Schlatt asked. “I—I know you're fucking short but-”
“Hey I'm not fucking cheating asshole just ask the next question-”
“What are the two numbers that make up the sum?”
“...3 and 5.”
“Wrong!” Schlatt said too enthusiastically.
Immediately Quackity gapped the space between them, crawling over he looked inside. “I don't believe you,” he said. But sure enough, a 4 and a 4 looked up at him.
Schlatt shoved the bucket at him. Inside the dice made a sound like rolling waves, back and forth at the impact.
“You know it's rude to assume I'm lying, right?”
Quackity hugged the bucket to himself with a scowl before he scooted back to his original spot. “Whatever,” he mumbled.
Dice in hand Quackity made his cast. 2 and 1. “Odd or even?” He asked Schlatt.
“Even.”
Quackity was warm with satisfaction. “Wrong!”
“Okay I don't believe you either.”
“Fine, asshole, want to see?” Carefully Quackity slid the bucket over. And much to Schlatt's dismay the dice didn't magically change their roll when he looked inside. Quackity could see the disappointment all over Schlatt's face.
“Trust issues, Schlatt?” Quackity asked.
“For good reason,” Schlatt growled before he cast. “Odd or even?”
“Even.”
“Wrong.” The bucket was passed to Quackity.
“Odd or even?”
“Odd.”
“Wrong.”
The bucket was passed to Schlatt. “Odd or even?”
“Even,” Quackity said. He wasn't hesitating anymore or giving a damn if he was wrong. Eventually something he said had to be right.
“Correct,” Schlatt replied. “The sum?”
Quackity thought it over.
“The sum?” Schlatt asked again.
“Holy shit can you give me five seconds.”
Schlatt started to count on his fingers slowly, like he was talking to a child. “One...two….three… four—”
“Six,” Quackity blurted out.
Schlatt sighed. “And the two numbers?”
“Wait, I was right?”
“Yes. Guess.”
“Uh- four and two.”
Schlatt looked down into the bucket like it was a night he'd drunk too fast and ate too little and was seconds away from tasting his bad fucking decisions. “Correct,” he said. “Your question?”
Quackity didn't reply.
“Your question,” Schlatt pressed, not making eye contact. He slowly drew a tally on the chart. “You won the round. Ask it.”
Quackity could ask a thousand things. Fuck, he should. He wanted to. But there were Schlatt's house rules to contend with. And everything it seemed he wanted to ask circled back to some violation in Schlatt's mind. He could ask anything. But only in theory. In practice he really could only sit there and think about a book he'd left on the couch, a photo tucked between the pages.
He asked it while Schlatt kept tracing the line he'd made. Darkening a tally mark unnecessarily. Over and over and over—
“Who's Joan?”
The pencil stopped. “What?” Schlatt sounded far away.
And it was like the single small syllable opened a floodgate of thoughts Quackity had been keeping to himself. Suddenly he was talking. Talking and explaining. Because this wasn't, couldn't be related to the house rules. What he'd found was something else. He didn't know what yet. But he needed to know.
So Quackity said, “I thought it was just random, like you know all those books you have look burnt up and ruined because they're from an incident where people couldn't keep them anymore or care about them. Before the walls or shortly after. Could be either one. You- most of these books are fished out of some places in Manberg, right? Like all the homes no one lives in. But then it wasn't just the note at the start there's a- let me find it-” He leaped up, lunging for where he'd left Watership Down on the edge of the couch. Always close. He'd been keeping it within reach since he'd read. Since the photo had fallen out. Near obsession. He flipped the pages. He'd tucked the photo into a page he'd deliberately folded- a triangle towards the seam of the pages from the bottom and another from the top like a little sleeve. He turned the lamp on and sat back down close to Schlatt. The warm light made Schlatt look small, his shadow too. Schlatt clutched the pencil like he was going to snap it in half any second.
“Here,” Quackity wanted him to take it. Schlatt just stared.
“This was in the book?” Schlatt asked, finally taking it.
Quackity leaped back up, scooped up Watership Down and held it open for him. The front cover. He pointed to the note.
“Quackity,” Schlatt started. “I-”
Quackity wouldn't let him speak. “So who is Joan? I know I'm not a fucking idiot alright, I know you've uh well trust me you can deny it all you want but I know you've got Wilbur goddamn Soot as an ex right—”
Schlatt choked out a laugh like he didn't know what else to do. “What the fuck-”
“And so there's probably others or whatever.”
Schlatt rubbed at his eyes. “Hey—hey— hey What happened to one question at a time, man?”
Quackity continued. “I'm just saying like- I was thinking that maybe it's actually a photo of someone you knew but then you don't keep stuff like that… or you did but then you kept it all locked in your fucking basement and then you threw a goddamn fit and burned it after I found it- so it's not someone like me or you… or Tubbo. Nothing related to to the Dream SMP. And I know that's a rule holy shit I can't fucking word it in a way you'd like okay alright but someone not like related to all of that. Otherwise you'd you'd have burned it cared enough to lock it up but it was left in this book with a note like it didn't even matter.”
Schlatt reached for the book. “Quackity- stop stop what are you—”
Quackity pulled it away from his reach. Eyes wild. Wide.
Schlatt held the photo out. “It's me,” he said. “It's me.”
Instantly Quackity felt his heart drop to his ass.
His face burned remembering a question he'd had a few days ago upon the porch. “I like the name,” he said with sincerity as his prior question echoed in his head.
What was your name before?
Embarrassment quickly turned to betrayal. He remembered Schlatt's response. How he didn't remember his old name. And once again Quackity had believed him.
“Why the hell did you lie?” Quackity asked. “You said you didn't know. That you didn't remember it. But you— you fucking knew- that's so fucking rich you always do shit like this every god damn time- you say you don't know something but you actually know it—”
“Look, that's- okay. I did. I did know the name. I'm not lying about all of it though it's hard to remember like really fucking hard to remember things before the walls I wasn't kidding about that. But- yes I know my I know the fucking name I was given. How the fuck could i forget that?”
Quackity took a second to reply. “So what? Are you saying I'm stupid? A fucking idiot for believing you?”
“Hey! cool off there, big guy. I I forgot about the picture… I really did. I—Shit. I'm shocked it was still jammed in there after everything, believe me.” Schlatt grabbed onto the book in Quackity's hands. He shook it for emphasis. “Why do you think this thing looks so beat the fuck up?”
Quackity didn't reply at first. He looked between the book and Schlatt and the photo. He let the book rest on the ground and scooted back to where he'd sat to play Bobstones. He hugged his legs. He felt foolish and drifting and untethered. Eventually when it came to Schlatt he'd end up there. He wanted to somehow go back, correct his assumptions with knowledge he only had now in the aftermath. But he couldn't go back. And he knew that. And so after some time Quackity eventually muttered, “It's a cool name by the way.”
Schlatt pushed the book towards Quackity. A nudge. It slid close to a socked foot. Quackity hugged his legs tighter, stared down at it.
“I'll level with you here,” Schlatt said. “I don't mind it either, it was kinda cool, and you could call me Joan right now and I wouldn't give a shit. But. I just don't use it anymore…”
Schlatt's email address, Schlatt's ID. Quackity had seen both. The name was just a J. One letter. Nothing more, nothing less.
Quackity could relate to that. He could. Going by another name. He went by Quackity now. Just Quackity. But unlike Schlatt his ID and his registration all said something else. He didn't need to tell Schlatt the name he'd been given, as his former professor he'd already seen it.
Quackity kept his eyes down on the etched rabbit. An orange sky. Swaying grass.
Schlatt spoke as if to mend the silence. “I miss it sometimes. The long hair. A bitch to take care of though- curly hair- you wouldn't know your hair is straight as a fucking arrow-”
Quackity laughed and finally looked up. “Shut the fuck up— Rockola- I- I she had curly hair like uh like—” He pointed and Schlatt held up the picture as if he understood. “She taught me how to help with her hair. Made me help her to be honest but I didn't mind. You could grow it out again… if you wanted. I could help.”
Schlatt passed the photo back over. “Put it back in the book,” he said.
Quackity tripped over his words. “I… I didn't mean that in like a you should kind of way or anything —”
“Look I know,” Schlatt sighed. “Just put it back.”
Quackity held it. The green. The forest. Land that rose higher than any wall he'd seen. “Why?” He asked.
“Cause it doesn't matter,” Schlatt replied. “Whoever's in that picture that's not me anymore. Not really. Like. It is me, but it can't be you know. Not anymore. And this isn't cause of this—” He gestured to himself. “Horns, or my voice, my fucking eyes, and all this other body shit right- and it's not about the name. I never minded the name but it's like that's someone who knew everything before- before it all… before everything got fucked up and nothing made sense and seeing it, it's like seeing someone else entirely. Like they don't even exist anymore.”
Quackity held it up as if he was examining the differences between the two. As if trying to piece together what Schlatt had said.
“Put it back in the book,” Schlatt said once again. “Let's just keep playing.”
“It's beautiful there,” Quackity said, not obeying. “I mean wherever this is. It's so-”
“Green?” Schlatt said before Quackity could. “It's- it was a place that felt like a whole nother world. Ancient too. Really fucking old. Older than anything you could picture I guarantee. Taller too.”
True, thought Quackity. He'd never seen something so tall.
When Schlatt named the place it left him like an afterthought. It sounded odd to Quackity. The word for the tall land and trees and mist fog. In his head he tried to spell it out but it came out as Apple-latch-uh everytime. He didn't want to admit he had no idea what that meant or was or how it was meant to be written down. He always had no idea about something around Schlatt. Too much the longer he lived inside his home.
“Yeah,” Quackity settled on saying. He traced the canopies. He wished he had pictures of El Rapids. There were places as green as this- not as tall- not mountains like great slope capped waves gently reaching for the sky. But green nonetheless. A waterfall too. Wider. Shorter. More industrial than the one pictured. Something someone made. He wanted to show them to Schlatt. Put the images side by side. Prove he could imagine, that he had been in a place so green too. His own Apple-latch-uh.
But he had no photos of his own to offer. So he spoke as he finally slipped a world he'd never known back into the book. “I get that. What you said about not existing. I think I understand. It's like the me before Manberg. The me before you.”
Both of them were quiet. Watership Down rested between them.
Schlatt spoke first. Tone entirely different. “I had pierced ears in that pic you know.”
“Really?”
Schlatt pinched at his septum. “Pierced nose too. A big ol’ ring.”
“I’ll admit it, man. That's kinda hot.” Quackity learned in. “Anywhere else?” He asked.
“And you called me the pervert,” Schlatt shook his head. “Fuck no not anywhere else. And all of ‘em are out now too. Been out for a long time. Kind of a shortage of piercing talent these days you know.”
Quackity was offering before he could even think it through. “I can pierce your ears,” he said.
Schlatt looked around as if someone else would bear witness to what he'd just heard. “Do you hear yourself right now? Says the guy- says the guy who can't even sew… and you want me to trust you with a needle?”
Quackity held up a hand. “In my defense. I did it before.”
Schlatt snorted out a breath. “On yourself? Well obviously you failed astronomically Q cause I don't see you wearing earrings-”
“On Karl dumbass not myself. He coached me through it,” Quackity said and regretted it immediately.
God, that did not make him sound like an expert.
“Holy shit…” muttered Schlatt. “Are you kidding me?”
Quackity grabbed up the bucket. Dice already in hand. “I want to change my wager.”
“What you bored with twenty questions already?”
“We play-” Quackity started, “Just hear me out. Ten more rounds. Only ten. And whoever wins the most out of ten gets what they want. So I- I want to pierce your ears-”
“Whoa hold on there hotshot have you considered my feelings on this at all?”
“Fine,” Quackity gave in. “Can I pierce your ears? If I win,” he tacked on.
Schlatt breathed in. Long deep. Exaggerated. Annoying. “If you're seriously asking me I'd rather get jerked off to be honest-” he said holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence.
“Oh my god,” Quackity said, “Yeah of fucking course.”
Schlatt continued. “But fine. Fine. I've got some old stuff in a box… it was for Fund-… from someone and I just had it for a long time now some small studs and hoops. I'll let you pierce me. And I'll even let you choose. But you have to win first.”
Eagerly Quackity rolled the dice between his palms. He lunged as if to make a cast but Schlatt spoke up before he could.
“You know I don't mind the teaching you to sew reward.”
“Really?”
“Yeah I like when you get angry. It's cute-”
“Oh my god. Whatever, whatever, alright. Okay. You or me?” Quackity gestured between them. “Are you feeling lucky, Schlatt?”
“I am. Yeah. You cast first.”
—
Schlatt became skittish the second Quackity re-entered the bathroom with the rest of the supplies.
“I regret this,” Schlatt said as soon as Quackity held the safety pin up to the light, inspecting the needle end.
Quackity wanted no rust, or bends, nothing that'd catch unnecessarily on the skin or cause trouble.
“This is fucking horrifying you look like you're about to lobotomize me or something.” Schlatt spoke as Quackity cleaned his hands. Sterilized the space. Set out the safety pin. The earrings. Alcohol. Swab from a half supplied Sam Nook official first aid kit with expired bandages Schlatt kept under the sink.
“You know I'm I'm 6 foot tall right you're 5 foot nothing.” At this point Schlatt was just talking to talk. His arms crossed protectively.
“162 centimeters,” Quackity corrected him.
“The fuck is that in feet- I didn't grow up like y'all—”
Needle sterilized with alcohol, jewelry too, Quackity turned to him. He shrugged. “Five foot four I think.”
“Yeah right those 4 inches really matter.” Schlatt gestured to all of Quackity. “I'm gonna need to fucking hunch over even while sitting.”
“Why are you so fucking nervous right now?”
“I'm not nervous. I'm not.”
“Just sit on the fucking tub edge.”
Schlatt immediately shut up and did what Quackity said.
Quackity tried not to look in Schlatt’s eyes while he was so close but he caught his gaze. It was just watchful, too trusting. Schlatt kept a light hold on Quackity's wrists as Quackity looked back and forth from lobe to lobe while holding his head as he tried to determine where the best place to pierce was to make the jewelry as even as possible.
“You can just do one,” Schlatt offered.
Without replying, Quackity stopped his planning and fished for the lighter he knew perpetually lived somewhere on Schlatt's person at all times. He didn't even ask, just sank a hand into a sweat pants pocket. Schlatt jolted, “hey—”
But Quackity already had it. He flicked it open. Tested the feel of it. He went back to the sink. Sterilized it too. Washed his hands. As he picked up one of the earrings he'd picked out- something with a tiny hoop clasp, encircled birds on branches in silver— he asked, “Why Schlatt?”
Schlatt's leg jumped up and down. A nervous twitch Quackity had seen before. “Why what?” Schlatt asked back.
Momentary glance back, Quackity grabbed the safety pin too. The lighter. The jewelry he put at the edge of the sterile field he'd made. Karl had told him how. He had no idea who the fuck had shown Karl any of this. He'd probably never know.
Flicking open the lighter and holding the needlepoint to the flame he said, “The name. Did you choose it before the walls?”
“Yes. Believe it or not I did. I'm not lying either so don't start with that.”
The needle darkened. “Why did you keep it after?”
“After what?”
Quackity flipped the lighter shut. “The name Schlatt, did it come before or after you knew.”
They both didn't say it. House rules. But Quackity knew Schlatt was onto exactly what he meant.
“What about you?" Schlatt asked, eyes a little wide and fixed on the sharp thing in Quackity's hand. “Do you still want to be Quackity now that you know?”
Quackity had expected Schlatt to say house rules and force him to move on. Instead Schlatt’s eyes met his and Quackity said to him what he couldn't share with anyone else in Manberg. Not then. Not yet. He had no idea how the fuck it would go over or if any of them secretly knew. That there was a them in a parallel fucking universe. And shit, maybe there was even more than just one parallel reality. More than just the DreamSMP. Maybe there was many. Maybe there were places completely different but alike. Even more goddamn Schlatts and even more goddamn Quackitys and everyone who was unlucky enough to be mirrored on some alternate plane of existence like a sick fucking joke.
And so Quackity spoke what he shouldn't. “I think it's not fair why the fuck should I change my name just because of someone who doesn't know I fucking exist? I'm Quackity. And maybe in some other universe some other asshole is Quackity too and maybe he's a piece of shit or maybe he's way fucking better than me in every way, but why the fuck does any of that matter? I'm still me. I'm still Quackity. I don't want to be anyone else. And I know— that if you go by Schlatt still if you chose that name and found out that some other asshole in some other universe looks like you and shares the same fucking name and you still keep it then I know you don't want to be anyone else but Schlatt either.”
“House rules,” said Schlatt with barely any bite, he was watching the light on the ceiling.
“Yeah, house rules,” Quackity repeated. But he wanted to keep going. Provoke Schlatt enough to pry something out of him. About dimensional doppelgangers and insane shit, ghosts and parallel timelines and blood-filled vines full of the past—
“Are you ready?” Quackity asked instead, moving closer.
Quackity was so close he could see the sharp edges more box than circle of Schlatt's dilated pupils.
After a breath, Schlatt closed his eyes. “Okay.”
Quackity moved fast. The pop of skin as the needle sank through. Pin out. Jewelry in. Closing a hinge back. It was rough. The only indication Schlatt felt anything was a twitch of his fingers where he'd held onto Quackity's sides like an anchor.
For a second nothing. Then blood. It rained down from the spot a little. Then more.
“Shit.”
“What?” Schlatt asked, obviously not feeling it.
“You're bleeding,” Quackity answered. He said it once then again. Then again in a whisper.
“Yeah no shit I just got stabbed.”
“...No,” Quackity's tongue was heavy. Everything numbed. The light above seemed to pulse. “Like a lot.
“Shit really,” When Schlatt laughed it sounded like it was coming from above water, like Quackity had sunken down. Down. He could feel Schlatt shift, hands unmoored from his sides setting him even more adrift as they went to touch and came up red. Red.
It was like Quackity was digging down again. Wet Earth turned over attempting to mend the past. Tommy by his side explaining as they uncovered a vine, slick pulsing thing. It beat and beat and beat. Heartbeat rhythm, louder when he'd stabbed it. The smell of it. The spill. The blood.
He moved before he thought it through, hesitant at first, holding Schlatt's head in place by the tough horns. He smelt red. It tasted red too.
It was the same sensation as cutting his hand and holding it out to a bleeding vine. The magnetism between his open wound and another.
Quackity dragged his tongue over the spilled blood in swipes that built until he was lapping, saliva slick like some hungry dog— he couldn't stop. Iron taste and the rough sandpaper scratch of stubble when he trailed higher towards Schlatt's jawline. He breathed hot puffs of air into a jugular vein, nose pushed into the side of a bared throat. Blood and saliva smeared over his lips. He opened his mouth breathing hot over goosebump skin, teeth and all ready to bite down and draw up more— pulling Schlatt's head to the side, more and more by a rough grip in short curls.
“Quackity—” Schlatt started to say. He had stiffened under the touch, unmoving, but yielding— he only held onto the edges of Quackity, a hip, the side of a rib cage, his fingers loose but grasping, no intention to push away.
Quackity took it as permission.
A heartbeat, his own, Schlatt's— one that tunneled through the deep earth of Manberg's underground he couldn't parse which one it truly was that pulsed between his ears, everything blended together. It drummed through his extremities with every new swipe of his tongue keeping a rhythm for him as he continued.
Eventually Schlatt guided Quackity away from his neck. It was just enough to get Quackity to stop until they both remained, staring across the gap breached between them panting and flushed. Quackity's fingers trailed up the slick spot he'd cleaned with his mouth. More blood had begun to trail downwards.
“Shit. It's bleeding pretty bad,” said Quackity. He could still taste it.
Although Quackity was still very much in his space Schlatt finally stood up. Quackity backed away, watching as Schlatt swiped at the spot wet with more than just blood.
Schlatt looked at his hand for a long moment before he said, “I'll grab something for it.”
In his absence Quackity remained. Blood on his lips. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Heartbeat roaring between his ears.
—
It was nighttime when Quackity stepped out onto the porch. The screen door swung shut behind him, the boards creaked under every new step. In his hands he held the glowstone jar from the bedroom. The halo of light it cast was dim, but it was just enough to cut at the dark as he went to stand by Schlatt.
An ember ended cigarette in one hand, Schlatt glanced at him before looking back out at the dense line of trees.
In that moment they said nothing to one another.
Only the wind made a sound. It pushed through the trees, making the branches scratch against one another in a rough symphony.
While the light and the angle was still good and while Schlatt stayed out there beside him, Quackity chanced a look over.
The piercing looked much better. Blood finally coagulated. The little bird swayed lightly every time Schlatt moved.
Quackity wanted to tell him it looked better, but he swallowed the thought before he could say it aloud.
Below the railing space they shared, the glowstones’ light spread outward from between Quackity's fingers. It stretched over the short gap of tire tracks and never decaying leaves and kept going, reaching for the trees. And for a moment Quackity imagined it forever expanding, spilling outward like the portentous field of blood from Fiver's vision. A vigor that grew like a hungry fire. One that would burn past the forest— past the collapsed maze rows of once homes, past an abandoned baseball field and once ravine society further and further still, until it reached a city and all its sleeping inhabitants.