Chapter Text
Life was slow.
So was Multi’s progress.
The iodine proved itself to be unproblematic and quite simple to extract from the kelp and stabilise once Multi got the initial formulae down and figured out a faster, more efficient way. He could now practically give them out and materialise them from thin air if a person gave even the slightest peep about feeling ill from the radiation.
The cure was, however, more troubling a task, and after numerous tests he's done on himself and DNA extracted from the villagers in the Truman Project village, the amount of conclusive results was very slim to none. Multi supposed he himself has grown too immune to radiation to be a feasible test subject and the villagers’ DNA differed too much from that of regular people to yield any real effects.
But at least one of his projects finally bore fruit. And oh, how sweet and succulent the results of his hard work were. Multi was now one step closer to becoming a God and the prospect itself made him unhealthily ecstatic.
After all, was it not God’s domain to create life?
Whenever he allowed himself a short break to just stare at his brand new creation, hidden away from the world, only the watchful, unsleeping eye of Multi’s camera allowed to gaze upon it, all but one thought disappeared from his brain.
‘I did it. I am a God. I will become the God of a brand new world. My perfect world.’
But it seemed every time Multi got caught up in a vision of his perfect paradise, somebody would come in and interrupt his blissful daydreaming. Be it Graf with yet another report, be it Ewron simply to be annoying and a nuisance, or be it Nexe, asking about everything Multi was doing and eager to fulfil Multi’s bidding to prove his worth. His trust in Multi.
And yet, among all those people rolling in every once in a while, one person’s presence would become a more common occurrence than Multi ever planned on allowing it to be: Quackity.
Multi supposed that this was with good reason: he faintly remembered promising Quackity answers about whatever questions he had after figuring out about Multi’s unfortunate…condition. He'd promised him that somewhere around the same time Graf scolded Multi for using Quackity’s morbid curiosity against him and treating himself to some of Quackity's blood despite not needing it.
If only Multi remembered correctly, that is. Though granted, his and Quackity's little shared moment turned out to be weirdly unforgettable, and especially when Multi would recall the blood itself. After having a taste, Multi couldn’t help but…think about it.
Ever since he’d been turned, he treated drinking others' blood as an unfortunate necessity. An annoying chore, something which had to be done so he wouldn’t lose his humanity and so he would retain his intellect and intelligence, nothing more. But giving in to Quackity’s curiosity and drinking without needing it felt like…
…Indulgence.
A delicacy. A moment to be enjoyed and a taste to be savoured.
Unfortunately, it left little room for Multi to continue denying the growing affection he nursed for Quackity as so far his blood was the only one Multi allowed himself to…enjoy.
Graf’s blood tasted like futility and guilt, as if its flavour was a physical manifestation of Multi's personal failure to keep his oath to return the Polish Hussars’ kindness. Ewron’s was tart and bitter in the worst sense of the word, like his very body was rejecting the idea of helping Multi in any way, resisting even as blood was drawn from him. Nexe’s felt sickly on the tongue, like cough syrup, the sweetness of it was spoiled by the overeagerness. And the fur in Multi’s mouth.
This sensation, however, was new, electrifying, intriguing.
Dangerously so.
Thankfully, there was enough work that needed to be done that these things never had a chance of becoming more than a passing thought. So, as most of the time as of recent, Multi was submerged and entirely consumed by his work, sitting at his desk with the latest lab test results from the villagers in the fake village.
Though to say he worked in peace and completely undisturbed would've been an overstatement. His feet were bouncing off the floor, like he had too much energy to spare despite feeling like he was going to pass out and crash onto the desk at any given second. His head was killing him and an all too familiar pain began to settle deep in his chest.
Multi knew what this all meant. The brain fog that made all the tables and rubrics on the result papers bleed into an incoherent mess, the constant, high-pitched ringing in his ears serving as his personal torture device. The usually so normal, cold lights of his office started becoming more and more unbearable in spite of Multi having already turned their brightness down significantly. The itching discomfort of something being stuck, being wrong inside his veins, obstructing his blood flow, and the pain that followed suit. The feeling of his whole body betraying him as a consequence of him dragging out his already borrowed time.
Tormented from the inside by all the sensations, Multi tore away from his desk violently, his chair rolling away upon impact with a quiet rattle of its wheels. He planted his hands firmly on top of the desk, breathing heavily with unseeing eyes locked onto the lab results sprawled out in a frustrated mess. Faintly, he could feel sweat drip from his forehead as his whole body was wrecked by tremors and trembling. One of his knees buckled beneath him as a sudden weakness hit his limbs, and he almost fell to the ground, his hands on the desk being his only saving grace.
In truth, he knew that he brought this onto himself.
It was discussed among the Hussars many times that whenever Multi would start to feel his bloodhunger coming on again, he would immediately inform Graf, Nexe or Ewron and they would arrange for a remedy for him. And yet again, Multi found himself nearing insanity because he refused to admit to his weakness and insisted before himself that he would power through it without bothering anybody.
Unfortunately it seemed like the situation from last time was doomed to repeat itself once more. Multi only wondered how long it would take for Graf to find him convulsing on the reactor floor this time. In his mind he could already hear the angry yelling that would come for him during the aftermath: ‘What were you even thinking, Multi!? Have you learnt nothing!? Why did you let it get this bad again, Multi!?’.
His breathing slowed and became more irregular, every burning inhale pressing his lungs down on his hurting heart, making the agony all the more unbearable. If he only could, Multi would've gladly died again if it only meant that he would be free of this forever torment, that the world would let go of him and allow him to rest in peace instead of torturing him for desecrating the ancient cycle of life.
It was a stupid thought. The world itself would never, ever allow him to feel the bliss of death, rendering it a fate far too merciful for the likes of him.
“Kurwa mać…” Multi cursed, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his lab coat, and swallowed thickly. The ringing in his ears was only getting worse and more intense with every passing moment, and he had to strain himself to even keep breathing. It was only a matter of hours before the sickness coming on would turn him into a brainless slave to his need for blood.
Maybe he really should message one of the Hussars and admit before them that he needs their help before he would become a danger to everybody and everything around him. He wasn't particularly giddy about returning to lucidity only to find in his mindless rage and hunger he'd ruined his lab results or killed his test subjects, especially since it'd happened before. In perspective, a momentary embarrassment was better and less time-consuming than re-running tests and finding new villagers.
Nexe would be a good choice: he would be too preoccupied asking Multi ‘are you okay?’ and ‘how much do you need?’ to ask him ‘why didn’t you come earlier?’. The only problem was Nexe was out on an expedition for more rare resources and wouldn't come back for some time. And as reluctant as Multi was to message Graf about it, he would rather chew concrete than ever come crawling to Ewron for help.
With a shaky hand he reached out towards the keyboard of his computer, and just as he was about to message Graf, his trembling finger hovering above the Enter key, an eerily familiar voice rang out.
“Multi? Everything okay, are you doing alright over there?”
Fuck.
When Multi turned his head towards the source of the voice, all his worst suspicions came to life right before his glassy eyes.
Quackity was standing in the entrance to Multi's office with his hands on either side of the doorframe, worry painted across his face and both his pairs of wings tucked close to his body to fit in the cramped space. He looked smaller than usual, unnaturally so, and the thought that his usually so energetic friend was rendered docile and unsure out of fear of Multi hurting him made Multi’s stomach churn unpleasantly.
Somehow, Multi had completely forgotten that he gave Quackity the privilege of being whitelisted for entry into his office after Multi had to fish him out of the traps one too many times. And with the ringing in his ears, the suffocating pain in his chest overwhelming his senses and the desire for blood clouding his every thought and judgement, Multi couldn't have even heard that Quackity was inside the reactor.
A combination which now endangered Quackity greatly.
“You need to leave right now,” Multi choked out, feeling the metallic, rotten tinge of his own blood on his tongue. Shit. This was slowly looking like the disaster of all time.
“What— leave? I’m not leaving, you look terrible, dude, you– you need help!"
"Don’t come closer!” Multi yelled when Quackity made a move towards the desk, the avian halting himself with one foot still in the doorway, the other already inside the room, hovering above the ground with uncertainty.
The air between them grew thicker as Quackity’s eyebrows furrowed in worry, retracting his leg backwards, remaining stood in the doorframe with the option to either stand there uselessly or leave to get help and risk Multi getting worse in his absence. Somehow neither seemed like a good course of action.
He tried to convince himself that making a run for it and getting any one of the Polish Hussars was a viable solution. But there was a slight issue with this idea: none of them were easily available. Nexe was out on an expedition, Ewron was busy with running Żabka and collecting materials for his new project, and Graf was away at the North, as he usually was these days. Quackity could message them for help, yes, but it would take a while for help to arrive given how long they sometimes took to respond to messages.
Conflicted, he watched in horror as Multi wretched, coughed and spat out thick, dark blood onto the ground, the white tiles making the goo appear almost black. Multi’s hand, earlier hovering above the keyboard, now returned to the edge of the desk as his legs threatened to buckle beneath his weight and he wobbled.
Quackity was ready to throw himself at Multi to help him keep his balance, but Multi only sternly repeated, “Stay the fuck away from me”.
Then, a sudden wave of confidence crashed over him, like adrenaline was taking over his body and mind, making him muster up the audacity he would’ve most likely never had otherwise. He straightened his back and relaxed his wings, face now turning from worried to determined and harsh.
"I'm not afraid of you, Multi"
Quackity's voice was stern, decisive, like he hasn't ever been this sure of anything before. Like if there was something that he could say with 100% conviction and faith, it was that Multi didn't frighten him. That Multi could never, ever, do anything that would drive Quackity away.
It was a dangerous promise.
And Quackity found himself loving the adrenaline.
"Maybe you should be," Multi retorted and turned his head towards Quackity, baring his teeth dangerously, clearly barely keeping himself from lunging straight at Quackity and sinking his teeth deep into his flesh, somewhere, anywhere, just to satisfy his vampiric quench. His arms were still trembling, his whole body was, like he was anticipating, like his entire being was shaking with excitement at the possibility of a tasty meal standing right in front of him in the form of none other than Quackity.
They were so close, too close in fact, despite almost half the room separating them, but to Multi this distance didn't exist. The sweet, sweet smell of Quackity's blood was as vivid as if the avian was standing right in front of him, like Multi's nose was pressed against his skin and he inhaled the sickly candied smell of Quackity's life force coursing through his arteries.
"Maybe I should be," Quackity shrugged ignorantly, slowly stepping past the threshold to Multi's office, and strolled further in, leisurely tracing the wall and glass pane with his fingertips. Every move was careful, deliberate, and so, so provocative. Quackity's eyes firmly locked unto Multi's, ignoring the fake village behind the glass, "but I don't think I could live with myself if I were too afraid to stay with you"
Multi felt like a million drugs got shot right up his veins and he felt his head dizzying further and further, straining his every last shred of sanity to not jump at Quackity and drink to his heart's content, until Quackity's cold, lifeless body would be the only witness to Multi's depravity.
Quackity finally stopped his stroll when he approached the desk Multi was still leaned against, breathing heavily and with his head hung low. His eyes, his brilliant, icy cold eyes, however, were still tightly following Quackity's every move from behind the curtain of the dreads falling on his forehead, like a predator sizing up its prey before pouncing. Oh and how difficult Quackity was making it for him to stay put. Every passing second was torture, every moment Multi feared that he was getting closer and closer to the edge of insanity, dangling over the edge with Quackity holding him over the endless chasm.
At that point Multi didn't know if he was moreso enticed by the my vision of potentially getting to drink Quackity's blood right from the source again or terrified that at any point now Multi could very quickly get even worse and turn into the blood-hungry, mindless husk that could express nothing more than agony and hunger.
But it seemed like Quackity didn't share this concern.
He sat down on the desk, planting himself firmly right next to where Multi's trembling hand was squeezing the edge of the counter with enough force for his claws to begin leaving indents in the wooden surface. Multi could do nothing but watch in horror as Quackity slipped the straps of his overalls off his shoulders and unzipped his jumper. He took it off slowly, as if he was dead set on making Multi's every sane thought get chucked into oblivion, leaving behind only the festering desire to sink his teeth into the veins on Quackity's neck.
"You have no fucking idea what you're doing"
"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing". The pristine white of Quackity's T-shirt felt blinding in the sterile, cold lights of the lab. Multi couldn't wait to see it stained with red.
"You can fucking die if you don't stop that. Leave and get the others before I do something we will both regret". Multi couldn't remember the last time he had said this to somebody in regards to himself posing a threat. Sure, to him Quackity would've been just as useful of a subject for testing if he was dead, but God did Multi for some reason need to keep him alive at every cost possible. "I don't say this lightly. Get out of here right now if you don't want to fucking die"
"I don't wanna die"
"Then GET the FUCK OU—"
"And I won't"
Quackity's smug smile could crumble mountains as he interrupted Multi's warning. Multi didn't even register that he was drooling until Quackity grabbed the sleeve of his discarded jumper and wiped Multi's mouth and chin with the fabric.
His senses were overwhelmed by the sight of veins shining faintly under Quackity’s skin, the smell of blood, the sound of Quackity's heartbeat, erratic in comparison to Multi's own painfully slow one, sharp pain bursting in his chest every time clots would pass through, worse and worse with every passing minute. Between the ringing in his ears that wouldn’t subside, the smell of Quackity’s blood and trying to not lunge at Quackity with murderous intent, Multi had entirely forgotten about the message to Graf.
It was a battle for the keeping of his sanity, and he was rapidly losing.
"I trust you, Multi. I know you won't kill me," Quackity's voice was oh-so gentle as he shuffled even closer to Multi and put his hand on his head, tangling his fingers into his dreadlocks. Multi wanted to explode right then and there. "Better do it now while you're still lucid than when you've lost your sanity, right?"
In all fairness, it was a sound argument. In spite of the agonising pain, the insatiable hunger and barely restrained responses, Multi still kept his own humanity. And if he gave in, it would only subside.
Hopefully.
"I genuinely hope that you regret this later"
"Trust me, I won— AARGH!!"
Multi's movement was just a flash, his teeth merely a glint in the harsh, fluorescent lights as a sharp pain tore through Quackity's exposed neck.
The grip was sudden, one hand squeezing his arm and the other firmly placed on the back of his head, fingers tugging at his hair as sharp claws threatened to break the delicate skin of his scalp. When Multi's lips closed around and he sucked in, long, reverently, Quackity could do nothing except whine and let him, his hands clutching at Multi's labcoat to find some reprieve from the pain, his own teeth already digging into his bottom lip so hard Quackity worried he would hurt himself.
As Multi drank straight from his neck, Quackity had to bite down even harder, almost entirely sure he was going to bruise himself, and gather all of his efforts just to not moan. Technically nothing new had happened: everything from the puncture to the drinking was the same, perhaps even rougher and more painful given Multi's bloodhunger after four weeks, but the placement made all the difference.
On his arm it felt strange, foreign, alarming, and most importantly, like Multi was doing exactly what he was doing: just drinking the blood that Quackity so graciously offered. This felt like Multi was sucking a lengthy, lethal, passionate kiss right over Quackity's heartbeat.
A familiar haze began enveloping his mind as his consciousness began slowly slipping away, his hands loosening slowly but surely on the white fabric of Multi's labcoat despite Quackity being sure he was holding on with all his might. All thoughts of intimacy and pleasure vanished within the blink of an eye as he began growing limp, a sudden dread washing over him as Multi only took more, more, not even noticing his friend's life was draining from his eyes.
Multi's only response was to instead move his hand from Quackity's arm to his waist to hold him up as seemingly all of Quackity's muscles went slack. The realization dawned on Quackity too late that this wasn't to protect him, it was to feed better, to keep drinking, to keep him still so his neck was perfectly vulnerable for Multi to drink, drink, drink.
Too late did Quackity realize what he had put himself into, too late did the feeling of terror settle inside his gut and too late did he come to the conclusion of why exactly it took three Hussars to handle Multi during the worst of his hunger. Now, as he lay sprawled out on the desk with Multi's rough, clawed hands needlessly keeping him still, Quackity was helpless with nobody to call for help as Multi succumbed to his animalistic instincts.
Everything was happening so quickly, even though Quackity felt like the world around him was put in slow motion, the sounds dampened and barely audible, all sensations dull and impossible to register. He could barely feel his head hit the flat surface of the desk, his vision far too blurry and his mind far too muddy to recognise where he was, what was happening and what Multi was doing. He heard his own erratically beating heart in his ears, his breath a distant echo in his mind, any sensation of pain or touch slowly fading away as his body began growing number and number.
Through a haze Quackity could almost hear his name be yelled, muffled as if coming from behind a thick insulation, the voice unmistakably Multi's despite the tangible panic in its tone. The last thing Quackity felt before his consciousness faded entirely was his own warm blood trickling out of the open wounds on his neck.
***
The evening was far from peaceful, and yet Graf found himself enjoying the commotion he had found at the Dutch Cafe. After having to deal with the North’s shenanigans, as per Multi’ bidding, Graf dreamed of nothing more than plopping face first onto his bed. It was almost as if his own soft cushions and duvet were speaking to him telepathically, enticing him to come lay down all day long, even though Graf had to admit saying it out loud it sounded a bit dumb. As it turned out, however, a few beers with the Dutch and a heated conversation were just as effective as a long nap in bringing his morale up high again.
Jeremy was testing out a brand new brew he had been working on for a while and it just so happened that Graf managed to catch the tasting event in time to join in when he was passing by. The beer itself was quite nice, a deep dark colour with a rich, soft foam that clung to his moustache, its taste carrying a certain sweetness and flowery notes that shone through the bitterness of the malt.
Maybe he could take Juan out to a beer tasting. Would Juan like that?
He was immersed deep in a conversation about his ambitious plans on the sołtys elections for the Polish Cave and about the requirements he should set for candidates to prove their Polish-ness when his communicator began buzzing frantically. He tried to ignore it, tuning in to Duncan’s monologue and the occasional comments from Shappo and Jeremy, but the intensity began growing harder and harder to look past.
“I’m so sorry, Duncan, I need a second,” Graf apologised and reached into his pocket, fishing out the tiny walkie-talkie like device, seeing the absolute spam from who turned out to be Multi.
“Oh, of course, don’t worry about it, if it’s important you should probably check it as fast as possible”
“Yeah, beer and politics can wait,” Jeremy added, idly polishing another pint glass with a clean rag.
Reading the messages, Graf's heart grew heavier and heavier with unease and his brilliant, strictly logical mind began to veil with catastrophic suspicions. Even his wings slumped behind his back, the brown-gray feathers plopping on the floor and dragging behind him as he sat on the high bar stool. His concerned expression and posture drew the attention of Jeremy, but he said nothing to Graf.
Multi was never one to spam Graf. His messages were usually short and casual, if he wanted something from Graf he would say it all in a single message and only follow up when Graf wouldn’t respond for a long while. Nexe and Ewron, especially the latter, were the ones most often filling up his inbox, never Multi.
message from Needyourblood: POMÓŻ MI [Help me]
message from Needyourblood: DO REAKTORA TERAZ ZARAZ [To the reactor, right now]
message from Needyourblood: MOJE BIURO [My office]
message from Needyourblood: GRAF BŁAGAM [Graf, I’m begging you]
message from Needyourblood: COKOLWIEK ROBISZ MOŻE POCZEKAĆ [Whatever you’re doing can wait]
message from Needyourblood: GRAF PROSZĘ PROSZĘ PROSZĘ [Graf, please, please, please]
message from Needyourblood: POSPIESZ SIĘ [Hurry up]
“Multi, co ty znowu odpierdoliłeś…” [Multi, what the fuck did you do again…] Graf muttered to himself under his breath, his stark change in demeanour drawing the attention of the three Dutch men sitting by the bar with him. Shappo gently nudged Graf’s side with his elbow in a friendly, bantering push.
“Ah, yes! Some, uh, some trouble in paradise, I see”
“More like trouble in hell,” Graf mumbled in response, his brows creased deeply in concern as Shappo chuckled nervously at the lackluster response from the usually so easygoing Graf.
“Need one to go?" Jeremy offered, placing a bottle of IPA on the bar and slowly moved it towards Graf across the wooden counter. Graf almost mindlessly grabbed the bottle by the neck, fishing out the payment from his satchel and placing it on the counter before he stood up, ready to storm out.
Graf paid half a mind to thank everybody for the company and beer and apologise to all his friends about leaving them so suddenly and on such short notice, shoving the beer into his bag before he made a run for the waypoint. Frantically, he searched for the ‘Reaktor’ waypoint among the plentitude of positions listed on the device and prepared himself for the jump and the unpleasant swirling of teleportation.
At that point his mind was rushing with all manner of dark scenarios: knowing Multi, this desperate cry for help could only mean absolute disaster struck and the world as he knew it was about to end. In Graf’s mind Multi was either being dragged away by the Feds right that very moment or the reactor was going to explode in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.
When he opened his eyes after the jump and the purple particles and nausea subsided, though, nothing about the entrance cave to the reactor chamber showed any signs of struggle or disaster, the muffled hum of the reactor and the rumbling of machinery being the only noise. Somehow, this only further agitated Graf’s anxiety instead of calming him down.
After checking every possible inch of the entrance cavern and still finding nothing, apart from a slight increase in size of the radioactive growths on the stalactites and stalagmites, Graf rushed through the decontamination, hurrying the process along as much as he could.
He stormed out of the small capsule, the door closing behind him with a hiss, but to his genuine surprise (and even greater worry) nothing about the reactor seemed to have changed either. The test tubes, the main core of the reactor, the equipment and machines were in perfect running condition, just the way Multi liked them. There were no signs of struggle, no alarms were blaring and the iron golem Multi kept for security was as calm as ever.
Pushing up his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose, Graf felt the anxiety slowly subside and gradually turn into anger and frustration. He was about to yell at Multi to come out and stop fucking with him, but the a loud bang and a deafening crash came from the direction of Multi's hidden office. Now that was a reason to worry.
He went straight for the stairs to the balustraded pier along the wall and almost flew up it, his wings stretched wide in urgency, Graf’s mind too agitated to worry about keeping his wings close to himself. Banging on the wall until he heard a hollow thud of an empty space, Graf yelled out for Multi, but there was no answer.
Finally, the wall budged, revealing the secret entrance and Graf threw himself at the keypadded door, banging on it wildly, as if brute force could break through the immense security measures Multi applied to his whole reactor. The turret by the entrance watched him intensely with its red eye, but Graf couldn’t have cared less about it right then.
There was frantic clacking and banging on the other side, and the doors suddenly stood wide open, all traps and locks disabled as the potential danger alert started pinging from inside the office. Graf practically flew inside and he was ready to yell at Multi for uselessly calling him in and scaring the soul out of him all for nothing, before the scene in front of him punched the breath straight out of his lungs.
Blood was everywhere.
It was staining the window overlooking the Truman Project village, it dripped down from the edge of Multi's desk, it was smeared and pooling on the pristine white tiles on the floor. The overwhelming crimson swallowed everything on the right of the office and dragged towards the left in long smears and messy footprints.
Items were strewn about on the floor in disarray with bloody handprints plastered all over the previously so clean, metal shelves, laboratory glassware no longer pristine and sterile, some even laying on the ground, shattered into pieces with dark blood decorating their edges. Boxes were dismantled, their contents spilling out in a frantic search for something, one whole cabinet even toppled over and everything it held on the ground, presumably what the loud crash was when Graf entered the reactor.
Among the chaos sat, nay, kneeled Multi, holding the completely limp, unconscious body of Quackity. Multi's labcoat was thrown into a corner and tattered, some of the torn pieces adorning Quackity's neck in a makeshift attempt to stop the massive bleeding. Quackity's soft, fluffy wings, always so bright and yellow, like they were made from sunshine itself, were now stained a deep red with his own blood.
For a few critical seconds Graf was frozen in place, eyes fixed onto Multi's, who was looking up at him like a scared child.
Graf could swear that he had never seen Multi look like that as he was panting heavily, his every quick, sharp breath a high, whistling wheeze. There was blood smeared all over his face, his hands, his clothes, his eyes were blown wide and tears were shining in the corners as pure, unbridled terror twisted his features.
In all his years of living and knowing Multi Graf had never seen him this genuinely afraid.
His eyes were panicking, begging. Please, do something, anything.
Help him.
Any questions that Graf wanted to ask were immediately disregarded as all his senses blared for alarm when the fabric around Quackity’s neck was still taking on more and more blood, the liquid dripping as the material overflowed. He ripped Quackity out of Multi’s trembling arms and laid him down on the floor as gently as his panicked arms allowed it, Multi following him like a kicked puppy.
“Dawaj mi łapska” [Gimme your hands], Graf demanded roughly and grabbed Multi by the wrists. He pressed Multi’s hands deep against Quackity’s neck, and watched with relief as the blood started seeping ever so slightly slower. He shot Multi an angry glare as he took off his backpack, “NIE WAŻ SIĘ ich stamtąd ruszać, rozumiesz?” [Don’t you DARE move those hands, got it?]
Multi nodded frantically, not taking his eyes off Quackity for even a second as Graf searched his backpack furiously for a first-aid kit. Graf’s hands began betraying him, shaking from the stress and adrenaline, and in a fit of frustration he dumped everything in the bag on the floor and scrambled on his knees to find the kit, not caring if blood was getting on his things. Time was of the essence and only God knew how long Quackity has already been bleeding out for.
When he finally found the red satchel, he fought with the zipper before ripping the whole thing open with his pocketknife. The contents of the kit were spilled onto the floor, and Multi’s eyes closely watched Graf fumble to open a pack of gauzes, conflicted on whether he should help Graf or listen to him and keep his hands on Quackity’s neck.
Finally freeing the gauze, Graf tore apart the blood-soaked, mangled remains of Multi’s labcoat from Quackity’s neck, began shoving it into the two tiny puncture wounds and pressed down on it, sparing Multi the snappy comment about the wound matching his teeth. For now anyway.
“Bandaż, TERAZ” [Bandage, NOW], came another command from Graf and he tilted his head towards a roll on the ground. Multi hesitantly took his hands off Quackity and followed Graf’s demand, dressing the packed wounds carefully to not trap Graf’s hands underneath it. “Ciaśniej” [Tighter]
When Multi’s shaky, bloody hands weren’t stable enough to dress the bandage to Graf’s professional liking, he rolled his eyes, shoved Multi away and grabbed the bandage himself, securing it more snugly around the gauze. Multi’s eyes were following Graf’s every move, watching his hands make round and round, and round around Quackity’s neck, until the blood finally stopped seeping through and the bandage was secured with a clip.
They sat in silence, staring at Quackity for a long while, both their breaths heavy.
Neither of them dared to do anything, like moving in any way would kill Quackity in an instant. Only after a while did Graf work up the courage to lean over Quackity, with his ear to the avian’s mouth and his head turned towards his chest. After hearing and feeling small puffs of breath and seeing the ever so slight rising and falling of Quackity’s chest, Graf straightened up again and allowed himself a relieved breath.
“Czy on…” [Is he…]
“Żyje” [He’s alive]. Graf’s voice was dark when he said it, making Multi jerk backwards a bit when Graf’s heavy, furious gaze settled on him. “Masz pierdolone szczęście. Chodź, nie powinien leżeć na zimnej podłodze bez świeżego powietrza” [You’re real fucking lucky. C’mon, he shouldn’t lay on the cold floor with no fresh air]
Having said that, Graf gently slipped his hand underneath Quackity’s knees and armpits and picked him up, cradling Quackity close to himself, and he stood up from the floor, leaving the mess he created to clean up later. Getting Quackity somewhere more comfortable for resting was more important. Multi nodded energetically, following Graf closely like a lost puppy, his facial expression doing a large part in creating this impression.
With Multi holding open every door for him, disabling every trap and alarm and not letting Graf get further than a single step away from himself, they went through decontamination and made it out of the reactor. Graf opted to take their dingy elevator up to the cave, afraid that the toil of teleportation would endanger Quackity’s already bad state.
The sun was still shining outside, Multi could see the warm orange light of the sunset through the opening that led to the elevator, and his heart dropped when he heard familiar voices talking in the main alcove of the cave. Nexe and Ewron were back.
Their conversation died down and ceased completely when they saw a distraught Multi enter their shared space alongside Graf with an unconscious Quackity in his arms, all covered in blood to some degree. Without a word, they passed by Nexe and Ewron towards the Liege Wie area, where Graf knelt before Quackity’s bed and gently settled him there, tucking him in.
Graf mumbled something about a wet rag and Nexe immediately left to fetch it, and Ewron barely suppressed a chuckle when Multi rid himself of his sweater before taking off Quackity’s blood-soaked T-shirt. He waited until Nexe came back with a wet cloth and until Graf was done wiping the blood off of Quackity’s skin before putting his own sweater on Quackity.
After Quackity was finally clean and carefully tucked in, the silence that fell was deafening.
They were all gathered around Quackity, watching him slowly breathe in and breathe out, like his chest rising and falling was pulling them all into a hypnosis. Especially Multi. Ewron was under the impression that if Multi stared any harder, his eyes would’ve fallen out of their sockets.
Finally, with a sigh, Graf stood up with his fingertips pressed against the bridge of his nose, his face lost deep in thought, like he was trying to recollect himself before deciding on the optimal way to beat Multi’s ass into next month. Multi, though standing right above the foot of Quackity’s bed and staring at him intensely, would every now and again glance at Graf, awaiting his inevitable punishment. At any moment he expected Graf to plunge his sword into Multi’s torso as a reminder how cruel he could be, ignoring how counterintuitive it would’ve been to make Multi bleed.
Instead, a loud smack reverberated across the Polish Cave, maybe through the whole river valley, as Graf's hand met the back of Multi's head in a powerful strike. Multi wasn't given time to massage the hurting spot before Graf grabbed him by the undershirt and pulled him down, now towering above him with both his pairs of wings spread wide, even more domineering than before. Nexe and Ewron shuffled further away, afraid they might get caught in the crossfire.
"CZŁOWIEKU, ROZUM CI ODJĘŁO, TY CHCIAŁEŚ GO ZABIĆ!?" [Have you lost your mind, did you want to kill him!?]
“Ja nie—” [I didn’t—]
“Kazałem ci ZARAZ sobie mówić kiedy będziesz potrzebować krwi, a ty jak DEBIL wolisz spijać życie z nieszczęsnego Quackity’ego!?” [I told you to tell me you need blood THE SECOND you feel it, and you, like a MORON, prefer to bleed the life out of poor Quackity!?]
“Powtarzałem mu, żeby wypierdalał, ale on mnie nie słuchał!” [I told him multiple times to get the fuck out, but he didn’t listen!]
“To trzeba było zamknąć mu drzwi przed nosem, do ciężkiej cholery!” [Then you should’ve shut him out, for fuck’s sake!], Graf finally let go of Multi, sending him falling over to the ground, and grabbed his own head while groaning loudly in anger. Finally, he looked back at Multi, disappointment and anger painted on his face as his hands rested powerlessly on his cheeks, “Tyle razy trułem ci dupę i prosiłem, żebyś mówił nam o głodzie zanim będzie za późno, a ty dalej swoje” [I bothered and asked you so many times to tell us about the hunger before it’s too late, and you still don’t do it]
Multi wanted to mumble something about not wanting to bother them or about waiting for their help was a waste of his time, but he bit himself in the tongue before he could comment. He already fucked up royally, there was no need to dig an ever deeper grave for himself.
Meanwhile Graf was staring at him with the same, unyielding expression, his hands now on his hips, as his wings folded finally and the long feathers on the tip settled on the ground behind him. They stared at each other in silence, both breathing heavily, as Nexe and Ewron were exchanging small, understanding glances. With this, the context of the blood on Graf’s hands and on Multi’s mouth and arms was made clear and less worrying.
“Naprawdę nie masz mi nic do powiedzenia?” [You seriously don’t have anything to say for yourself?]
“Nic za co nie rozwaliłbyś mi głowy o ścianę” [Nothing that wouldn’t make you bash my head against the wall]
“Na pewno?" [Are you sure about that?]
Tense silence settled between them as they eyed each other with greater and greater intensity. Nexe was almost sure that Graf was going to throw himself at Multi and strangle him any second. But instead, he sighed again, shook his head and began walking away, his pace fast and carrying the anger and irritation that swirled inside him.
"Muszę się przejść” [I need to walk it off], Graf announced before placing his hand on the waystone and disappearing in a purple mist, leaving only a half-amused Nexe and Ewron and an abashed Multi, who was still sitting on the ground.
Once they were left alone, silence fell between them again and Multi got up and moved from his spot to stand beside Quackity, watching over him and staring at every tiny movement from him. A twitch of his brow, a slight flip of his earwing, a small tighter squeeze of his eyelids, anything that was proof Quackity was, indeed, alive.
Multi’s eyes clung to Quackity’s unconscious form as his mind swirled, imagination spiralling into darker and darker territory as he wondered what would’ve happened if Graf hadn’t read Multi’s messages in time and came just in time to help him. The realisation slowly settled in Multi’s mind, twisting his guts and tying his stomach into a tight knot, if it wasn’t for Graf, Quackity would’ve been dead.
Quackity would’ve died and it would’ve been all his fault.
The blood drying around his lips and on his hands, earlier so sweet and blissful, suddenly became disgusting and Multi couldn’t bear the perspective of having to face himself in the mirror when he would wash himself. His mind burned at the memory of his claws, usually so very careful around his friends, squeezing Quackity’s body to the point of bruising, almost wounds, not to protect but to devour.
Multi didn’t even realise when his breath quickened, his heartbeat picked up the pace and his eyes refused to blink, tears shining in the corners. He felt that the trust Quackity once gave him had waned and weakened on a few occasions, just like he could feel it with the Polish Hussars.
The tiny glances. The small, unsure movements when they didn't know whether to stay unguarded or prepare to fight. But why would they? Why would Multi in sound mind ever attack them? He was only trying to help. He was trying to make them better. He never wanted to hurt them: that’s not what deities are meant to do.
What kind of gentle, loving shepherd would ever cause harm to his sheep just because they went astray? What kind of merciful father would raise his hand against the children who are only misbehaving because they are lost?
What kind of God would ever kill one of his angels?
“Michał,” began Ewron in a giddy tone of voice, placing his hand square on Multi’s shoulder and ripping him out of his own thoughts.
“Zamknij się” [Shut up]
“Masz przejebane” [You’re fucked]
“Mówiłem ci, żebyś się zamknął” [I told you to shut up]
“No sorry, to nie ja prawie zabiłem swojego chłopaka” [Sorry not sorry, I’m not the one who almost killed his boyfriend]
“Ostatni kurwa raz ci to mówię, to nie jest mój chłopak” [For the last fucking time, he’s not my boyfriend]
“Cokolwiek sobie wmawiasz żeby lepiej spać w nocy” [Whatever helps you sleep at night]
“Będziesz następny jak nie przestaniesz” [You’re gonna be next if you don’t cut it out]
“Nie odważysz się” [You wouldn’t dare]
Multi didn’t answer, only giving Ewron a warning look that promised he was indeed going to murder Ewron in his sleep if he didn’t drop the topic. Ewron indeed shut his mouth, but his shit eating grin conveyed more than any of his words ever could, making Multi groan in annoyance and roll his eyes.
Walking away, Ewron grabbed Nexe by the hood of his hoodie and dragged him away from Quackity’s bed on the edge of which he had been sitting so far. Multi could faintly hear Ewron mutter some nonsense to Nexe about giving the lovebirds some space, but he didn’t have enough energy in him to run after them and whack them in the head for saying such stupid things.
Left alone, Multi allowed himself to sit down on the edge of the bed, eyes searching for the wet rag Graf abandoned somewhere near the headboard after he was done cleaning Quackity up. Upon finding it, Multi wiped his hands and his mouth somewhat clean, throwing the dirty cloth aside for the time being and his gaze returning to Quackity again.
Multi would have to make him iron pills again so he didn’t end up anemic for months. He should also go and grab some nutrient-dense IV drip and hook it up to Quackity’s veins so he would recover more quickly. Maybe get two, just for safe measure: one to get Quackity back on his feet faster, and the other to strengthen his immune system for the recovery period.
As Multi pondered what would be the best course of action now, his eyes drifted from Quackity’s arm to his face again.
He looked so peaceful.
It was almost as if he was just in a deep sleep, dreaming about something pleasant and nonsensical as he surrendered all his safety into the hands of those around him.
For the first time since maybe forever, Multi had no clue how he was going to look Quackity in the eyes; those brilliant, dark, intoxicating eyes, and tell him in his face that he almost killed him. That if it wasn’t for a stroke of luck and Graf reading the messages immediately, he wouldn’t be able to hear this confession.
That Multi, the person Quackity placed so much trust in, had almost killed him.