Chapter Text
The room is spinning, it's littered with vibrant and soft and gentle colors and Schlatt is fucking relishing in it. He isn't drunk, he wasn't, he was just…
God, what time was it? Where was he again?
He opens his bleary eyes and squints hard at the ceiling, and oh, that was right. He was in his office. The sky outside his window was a deep, pitch black, which meant… what? A few hours?
He pushes himself up and pauses a little at the crick of his neck, twitches a bit as he tries to massage the ache. The leather of his chair creaks beneath his weight, strained from the awkward position he'd fallen into, but that was fine. He was fine. He was great. The warmth that bubbles in his blood is more than enough to soothe the pain. He doesn't know when, but he starts to laugh. Soft chuckles morph into near wheezing cackles as he thumps his head back, and the door opens and he squeezes his eyes shut at the light.
"Wh... close th' fuc'n door," he sneers, pushing his sleeve over his eyes, "don't… eugh. Why?..."
He can't see who stands in the doorway, but he could guess, and he isn't in the mood, okay? He doesn't want to talk about anything, he doesn't want to deal with anything, he just wants more to drink, and oh!
There's another bottle stashed beneath the desk, and he nearly falls from his seat as he stretches and tries to grab for it. Someone grabs his arm and tugs him back, and he groans audibly as he tries to swat them away.
"Come on you old drunk," comes a grumble, and that wasn't what he expected. He cracks open an eye to peer at the new arrival, and he catches a glimpse of vibrant orange instead of piercing blue. Not Quackity.
"Fundy?"
"Yeah," the fox grumbles, tugging him upright and god, why was Fundy being such a buzzkill? Schlatt was having a shitty few days, he needs… he needs…
What did he need?
Drink. He needs his drink, right.
He reaches for the bottle again, but a gentle hand swats him away, and his lips peel into a grimace.
"Can y'u jus' fuckin' let me… can y'u go?"
He's slurring and he doesn't give a shit, it doesn't matter. He's exhausted and he's not drunk, he's just tired. Fundy sighs like he's weighed down by a ton, and Schlatt's eyes swim a little whenever the vibrant orange streaks across his vision.
"You can't keep doing this," Fundy lectures quietly, always quietly. Wilbur probably taught him that, and Schlatt feels a smirk tug at his mouth as he recalls the madness behind the other man's eyes. What a fucking wreck.
Fundy is still speaking, and Schlatt only just manages to tune back in to catch it.
"...ubbo isn't around to stop you right now, and Quackity is stretched thin enough as it is." Fundy's ears press flat against his head and Schlatt snorts, tilts a little farther back in his chair because he can. He has balance, he can handle himself just fine.
"'s not my prob… brob… problem." He stumbles over the word like it's made of soap, but he gets there in the end.
Maybe he's a little drunk. Just a little.
"You're shitfaced, actually. I'm shocked you haven't thrown up."
Fundy sounds exasperated as he pushes Schlatt upright again, once again nudging the new bottle away from his reaching fingertips.
"Fuuuck you," Schlatt drags out the curse, squeezing his eyes shut, "lemme jus'... Jus' one more. One... Shut up."
He needs it. He needs it like he needs air, if not more, because his brain is too loud and the pleasant soft blur is clearing up too much, bringing in too much of the sharp edges of reality until his vision doesn't look like a filter anymore. Still, Fundy refuses to let him go, and Schlatt's arms feel too weak and wobbly to fight him off.
"Y'ur'e… a dick," he says. Fundy huffs.
"Come on," he sighs, "Tubbo was enough of a mess. You need to go to sleep. You can't—"
("— just steal that!" His friend groans, trying in vain to drag him back by the collar of his suit, "c'mon Schlatt, really?"
"I do what I want, you prick!" Schlatt is laughing near manically again, throwing his head back and purposefully leaning all the way forward with his weight. The other man grumbles threats about letting him fall, but Schlatt ignores it. He knows he wouldn't.
"Schlatt?"
He blinks and there's a blur of white and pink standing in front of him, crossed arms and a bemused smile.
"What are you doing?"
"Nnnooothing?"
The unconvinced eyebrow raise makes him laugh all over again, and the other man still holding his collar sighs.
"Ty, your dad is a delusional drunk," he grumbles. The kid snorts.
"Not my dad, I'm just an intern," he reminds, not that anyone ever really seems to give a shit. Schlatt gave up correcting them a while ago, once they all refused to heed his repeated 'im not that old' ramblings.
He turns back to Schlatt, opens his mouth with fond exasperation.)
"Schlatt, for fucks sake man, let go of the bottle — how are you so strong only for this?!"
Schlatt blinks, long and slow. His vision blurs and focuses again, and there's that familiar smear of orange and black. That was normal, wasn't it? Why was he expecting something else?
Fundy is tugging at the bottle in his hands, and oh, when had that gotten there? Whatever, Schlatt isn't one to question good things, so he makes to bring it to his lips. Unfortunately for him, Fundy takes the opportunity of his shifted grip to snatch it away. Schlatt gasps, reaches for it in sweeping slashes that miss by a mile. Fundy holds it out of his grip like he's a toddler, and Schlatt puffs up like an indignant child. At least there's this — there's the bit, and it doesn't abandon him when he needs it.
"Yer'... yer' a piece of shit," he grumbles, "stupid… fuckin' furry." Fundy rolls his eyes again.
"Yeah yeah, come on. Let's get you out of here before you puke on your carpet again."
Fundy scrunches up his face in disgust, and even Schlatt can admit that the memory is unpleasant. It was most of the reason he'd gotten more wood flooring in the whitehouse instead. Fundy pulls him up and slings an arm around his shoulders, pushes Schlatt to uneven feet and adjusts his hat.
"Next time I'm making Tubbo do this, now that he's actually here to stay."
Fundy's voice is a distant mumble, but Schlatt is too close not to hear it. Fundy, quiet as he is, says it with a hint of incredulity and Schlatt tries to stifle his laughter, because welcome to the fucking club.
"This is a pretty shitty club, Schlatt." Fundy's voice is dry, and Schlatt snickers even as a distant part of his heart drops. He has to shut up. He has to. Careful, careful, cautious. Fuck.
The bit. Find the bit. Find it.
"'s perfect for y'u then," he taunts, "aaaall in th' same… er. Same place, y'know?"
Fundy gives a suffering sigh and turns his head away, and something terribly fragile behind Schlatt's smile solidifies again, an old masked friend. Good.
Fundy guides him back to his room, tugs off his suit jacket and nudges him toward the bed. Schlatt collapses onto it, not because he wants to, but because his legs refuse to work.
At some point his eyes close. That's fine. He'll be fine.
He'll be…
.
.
.
He's awake. He's awake, and he has never regret anything more in his entire fucking life, because his head throbs and everything aches. It feels like even his horns are in agony, rippling with pain as he pulls himself upright. When he manages to crack open his eyes for longer than a split second, light streams into the room, beaming across the bedroom and brightening the colors like a lightshow from hell. Schlatt wishes they'd just go fucking muted already.
"Jesus," he murmurs, pressing weary hands to his eyes. How much had he drunk?
There's a knock at his door.
"Fuck off," he calls. The knock sounds again, not even a second after. Smartass.
He grumbles and hisses but he pushes himself up, steadies his balance against the wall when he nearly lurches forward all at once. His vision swims, but he stuffs it back and swallows down bile. He shoves a hand through his hair, pastes on a sneer. When he opens the door, his gaze is forcibly sharpened to a glare.
"What?"
He's looking a bit too high apparently, because he only catches a glimpse of the top of someone's head. He has to actually look down to peer at Tubbo, wide eyed and visibly nervous.
"... Um. Good morning, Schlatt?"
Tubbo's voice is incredibly small, and he flinches away when Schlatt's hand rises to flick some of his hair away from his horns. He's certain he looks like a wreck, but he also knows that isn't why Tubbo looks close to bolting.
Last night was a fucking blur, but he remembers what happened before he began to reach for the glass cups and heavy bottles just fine. He remembers Tubbo's sobs, his heaving breaths. His wide eyes and panicked gasps.
He remembers the confession of guilt. The one that burns holes into his pockets, whispers messages of traitor that he'd already marked read a month ago.
Schlatt stares at Tubbo, and he doesn't know what he's about to do. He feels tension build between them, a heavyset wall that makes Tubbo sweat and shift like he's being burned alive. The fact that the kid was still here meant one of two things; he thought he'd gotten away with it, or he thought that Schlatt didn't care.
"... Good morning," he says eventually. It's far too late to pretend there wasn't a pause, but it seems like Tubbo was less focused on that than the words themselves. At the lack of a screaming match or direct accusation, his shoulders, visibly relax as he gives a shaky smile.
"Um — Quackity said… he said you have coffee? In the office?" Tubbo's voice is high and anxious, and Schlatt pretends he doesn't hear it, just as he had for weeks beforehand. The difference burned him though; before, he had a plan. Now he was fucking floundering, and this was all he had.
"Thank fuck," he grumbles instead, slipping out the door without bothering to change his shirt, "I knew he was good for something. Better not have put a bunch of stupid shit in it."
He walks right past Tubbo, and he pretends not to see the way the kid's shoulders slump almost immediately as soon as he thinks Schlatt can no longer see him.
It's a good thing Schlatt is never, ever honest, not even with himself. Because if he was, he'd have to admit that he still didn't know what the hell he was going to do about this.
Yeah.
Good thing.