Chapter Text
Schlatt fucking hated it. He spent day after day with his mind preoccupied, one nagging thought constantly at the back of his mind, screaming and screaming until he silenced it with whatever alcohol he could find spare.
Thing is, he was used to dealing with persistent thoughts, like that one item he’d accidentally taken from the shop but dropped on his way home out of guilt at 23 that had never been paid for or retrieved and oh god did that make him a criminal and that one homeless person he walked past back when he was a teen who he couldn't afford to give spare money to because his pockets and his bank were completely drained and HE was homeless too but oh god they looked much sadder than he was and-
He shook his head, swirling the shining glass bottle in his hand, the warm golden liquid spilling up the sides of the bottles, a few drops launching into the air. A bitter laugh fell from his lips, a hollow, emotionless sound. There was no joy behind it, no slight tremble in his shoulders, no quirk at the corner of his lips, nothing but anger and hatred.
Not to anyone around him, no.
But to himself.
The decision he’d made while intoxicated and distraught at the age of 22, the cardboard box left on the side of the street, abandoned immediately as he turned tail and sprinted.
His son…
Schlatt sniffled, picking up the frame in front of him, tears spilling onto the image.
It showcased him as nothing more than late 16, terror painted onto his features. The twisting horns were considerably shorter, instead, sticking up into the air behind him, almost fully straight, not even curled yet. His hair was dark golden and short, poking up in all directions. Violet tinted his under eyes, the eyebags heavy and obvious. His clothes consisted of a poorly fitting, long sleeve, grey shirt tucked into black shorts, matching his raggedy shoes.
Despite all of that, a smile graced his face, pure joy mixed with the fear in his eyes. In his arms was a newborn, barely bigger than his hands, legs kicked in the air, one hand wrapped around Schlatt’s thumb, the other stuck in his mouth, drool covering his bee-themed onesie. His ears were almost identical to Schlatt’s, resembling a ram's ears, fur coating it. But Schlatt made a promise, no matter what, he’d never let his son get the bright yellow, unremovable, cattle tag clipped to his ear, not like how Schlatt did.
The man smiled down at the photos, remembering how terrified he’d been then, when he had the newborn shoved into his arms along with an hours worth of baby food, a shitty, torn up white blanket and a declaration that it was his and that there was no way in hell she was taking care of it. Fuck, he’d been so scared, he was a hybrid with an estranged family, no money, an alcohol addiction, and a shitty education, but the moment the kid had looked up at him, giggled and grasped at the sharp end of his left horn, he knew he’d protect the kid with his life. And god, if he didn’t…
Schlatt remembered the times when he’d go starving and without sleep just to make sure that no one broke in and harmed his kid. He couldn’t afford to buy locks for the home for the first week of his sons life, so he stayed up, never even closed his eyes, sitting by his sons side the entire time, watching the doors and the windows hastily.
The moment he’d heard that click of the lock he’d almost sobbed out of relief, knowing he was able to finally sleep for over two minutes without being paranoid to death that his son would die.
Schlatt stared down at the frame clutched tightly in his hands, tears burning his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what he’d done, no, no he didn’t, no thank you. The frame clattered to the floor among the hundreds of others, Schlatt instead grabbing the shiny bottle of liquid and downing it, the burning in his throat tugging his mind out of the railway of memories of his son, the one he left, the one he-
“Schlatt? What the hell are you doing, man?”
His head snapped to the side, eyes meeting the swirling brown hues of one of his presidential team.
Fundy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. A burnt orange sweater covered his torso, black pajama bottoms hanging loosely off of his frame. Confusion was painted onto his face as he glanced between the tears, the frames and the alcohol. He glanced behind him, making sure no one else was there before slipping in silently and shutting the door, moving to sit by Schlatt’s side.
Everyone who lived in the white house had a familial relationship, the government running like a family business rather than a stone cold presidency. Fundy viewed Schlatt as a father figure, and the ram hybrid knew that. So seeing him so...broken felt wrong.
The image he grabbed happened to be the very last one Schlatt had taken right before he left his son there, he left him he left him he-
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, taking in the image. He recognised Schlatt immediately, but he looked exhausted and on the brink of death, skeletal and sick. Despite that, he was laughing, holding the camera out to show a kid no older than 6 sat on his shoulders, matching sunglasses sat on his face, cheering, arms thrown into the air. “So, who’s this?” He asked, tilting the frame to show it to the drunken president.
“My son,” Schlatt answered, not even hesitating.
“You have a son?” Fundy struggled to control his volume, thankfully able to keep it quiet enough that no one outside of the room would hear. The shock that was on his face made his eyes widen and his jaw drop.
Schlatt was struck with realisation, and suddenly all the alcohol had melted away, leaving him stone cold sober and stumped. “No, not son, I said someone, shit, that’s just someone,” he fumbled over his words, clenching and unclenching his fists, fear trickling down his spine. God, his reputation was already in shambles, he didn’t need to be known as the teen whore who abandoned his kid for dead and never turned back. Plus, they’d go looking for his son, and Schlatt would rather die than have to face what he’d done,
“You have a son?” He repeated, not falling for the hastily rushed out lies.
Schlatt was silent for a moment, taking the image from Fundy's hand, gulping and whispering, “It’d be more of a had than a have.”
Fundy was silent in response, taking a deep breath as the information sunk in, choosing to ignore how young Schlatt was in the images before him. He’d seen one photo of Schlatt from when he was 16, and he looked identical to how he did in the frame that he’d just picked up, “What happened to him?”
“I don’t even know if he’s alive, Fundy. Actually, I’m 99% certain he’s dead,” Schlatt confessed quietly, the guilt suffocating him, reducing his voice to be quiet and shaky. He was silent in return, and Schlatt continued, expecting himself to say a few things and then go quiet, but once he started he couldn’t get his voice to stop, “I think I killed him. I don’t know for sure though. I don’t think I ever will. I was 16 when I had him. Actually, he would be 16 now if he survived,” He wiped at his eyes, “God, I hope he didn’t turn out like me.”
Fundy placed a hand on his shoulder quietly, a small sign of comfort. He knew what having a kid young was like, not directly, but Wilbur had told him enough to know vaguely what the struggle was like.
“D’y’know what I did to him? I left him, Fundy. I didn’t want to, but god, I was 22, I lost my job, got evicted, there was nothing for him there, I couldn’t look after him. So, I- I- I shoved all of the things we had in a box, his blanket, that stupid fucking bee keyring he found on the ground, his clothes, everything. There wasn’t much, but I put him in it, and left him on the side of the road. And I walked away.”
He inhaled shakily. “It was mid december, I remember that. I left him on a fairly busy road, there were a lot of houses there, and I hoped and prayed every fucking second that someone had left their house and had mercy on him. It snowed the next day, 4 foot tall snow, and all I could think was ‘oh god I left him out in that he’s dead now and I did it I killed my son he was only 6 I did it I left him to freeze I-‘“ He faltered, breaking off into quiet sobs. “Every fucking time it gets quiet all I hear is his screaming and his crying. Every time I go to sleep all I see is his half dead body begging me to come back to the box and not leave him there to freeze and-“
“Schlatt, listen to me, right now,” Fundy forced him to look at him, “It was not your fault. You did what you had to, gave him a chance at a better life. And shit, if that didn’t work, then you tried, right? You still helped him as much as you could. You were younger than me when you had him, it wasn’t your fault, you gave him the best life you could as a kid yourself. The fact that you’re still worried about him after, what, 10 years proves you’re a good dad. You did what you could,” Fundy kept his voice steady, the words flowing out easily.
Tears streaked Schlatt’s cheeks, and he wiped furiously at them, laughing bitterly, “God, Fundy, you’re a fucking child, you shouldn’t be dealing with this-“
“Schlatt, shut the fuck up for five seconds. It wasn’t your fault. Listen, we’ll look for him, okay? If you want us too, we can find out everything we possibly can and see where he is now. You know it’s possible,” he suggested, eyes scanning the hundreds of photos littering the floor.
Schlatt considered it. If he was told he could reunite with his son and he was brought to a fucking gravestone Schlatt knew he’d gladly drink himself into an early grave. But god, if his son was alive he didn’t want to see that he’d turned out just like him, an unstable alcoholic who made impulsive decisions who hurt everyone he could and- Fuck, what if his son had a tag like him? What if he’d been put into the system and treated like a wild animal as he was passed from home to home? What if he had one of those fucking dehumanising cattle monitors clasped around his neck? Or if his horns were misshapen from dickheads trying to ‘turn him human’ like they’d done with Schlatt? Or-
“Hey, snap out of it,” Fundy said, but there was no venom behind his words, simply doing the first thing that came to mind to stop Schlatt zoning out. He didn’t want to imagine what thoughts were cycling around inside of his father figures brain. “Would you want us to try and find him? I wont say a word of who he is to Quackity and Tubbo, just that we need to find him.”
Schlatt finally looked over to him, “I think- I- Yeah, yeah, okay,” he nodded slowly, scrubbing at his eyes, a grateful expression sat on his face. He was silent for a moment, breathing in slowly.
“What was his name?”
Schlatt bit his lip harshly, “I...I don’t remember. It started with a T, but that’s all I know.” He was terrified he’d come across as a bad dad, but the moment he’d seen the snow and assumed his son's death, he’d drank himself into the hospital, the alcohol mixing with the emotions and creating a wall around anything that could lead to finding his son. The hospital had demanded he see a psychiatrist, his alcoholism growing severe enough that it began leading to huge memory gaps. He denied it, and that very night, he'd snuck out of the window, and ran.
Fundy didn’t judge him in the slightest, “That’s okay. I’ll see what we can do anyway.”
“Thank you, Fundy. Seriously.”
Fundy smiled sincerely, taking the bottle from Schlatt’s trembling hands and placing it on top of the desk behind them, “And that’s enough for you. I bet you’re not going to be able to sleep after this, so c’mon, got any funny stories about your kid?”