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Schlatt returns from the doctor's office with a grim look on his face.
It was half the battle just getting him there. He hated doctors, and had no interest in humoring Quackity with even a check-up. But eventually, Quackity wore him down, convincing him that his chest pain was worth getting checked out.
And here he is, back at the White House, chewing on his lip and glaring at the ground. Quackity looks up as he slams the door open and walks in, angry.
"Are you alright?"
"Do you think I'm alright, Quackity? The doctor just told me I'm not gonna make it to forty if I don't change now, of course I'm not al-fucking-right."
"Hey, woah, woah, woah. What's wrong? Are you gonna be okay?"
"It's coronary artery disease. Fuckin' heart problems make it worse."
Quackity knows Schlatt had been born with a malformed heart, but he didn't realize it had been bothering him. "God Almighty, Schlatt, I shoulda made you go sooner."
"Don't start with that bullshit." Schlatt sighs, sad but not angry. "It's my own fault."
"Hey, hey, don't say that. You said there's treatment, right?"
"Yeah," Schlatt replies, and tosses the booklet in his hands onto the table. "I'm gonna go lay down."
The prognosis turns out to be better than Schlatt made it seem. Access to the best medical care in the country meant that the issue had been caught quickly, and blood thinners and a better diet was likely going to be enough to hold off surgery for an indefinite amount of time.
The problem, of course, is the alcohol. He's been doing better, but he's going to have to completely quit drinking if he's going to be taking blood thinners.
That, and his stubbornness.
It doesn't take too much coaxing, at first. A little "think-of-the-nation" and a little "think-of-your-husband" and a little "think-of-how-embarrassed-you-would-be-to-die-of-a-heart-attack-before-35" and Schlatt is scared enough to actually start taking his prescriptions.
"I've got clogged arteries, Quackity, I'm not an invalid," he insists after Quackity's offer to take over presidential duties for a week. The first day, too, he seems perfectly in control. He fidgets some, but it's ok. He's fine, Quackity reminds himself, don't be a mother hen.
The second day without the bottle, it all goes to shit.
Schlatt's hands shake all throughout the morning. He takes a deep breath before every paper he signs, clenches his fists into balls every time someone enters their office. In their afternoon meeting, he's clutching the pen in his fist like a toddler learning how to draw.
It would be funny if Quackity wasn't so worried.
"...now, make sure this is written down..." Tubbo says, blathering on about some foreign minister that he has a meeting planned with, and Quackity holds his breath as he watches Schlatt tense his grip on his fountain pen. He grasps it in his fist, and with a shaky hand, puts the pen on the paper.
His hand slips. A line bleeds onto the page.
"Motherfucker!" Schlatt bellows. He flings the pen across the room.
The pen breaks.
Tubbo's eyes go wide.
A dark-blue pool of ink spreads across the wooden floor.
"Would you give us a minute?" Quackity asks, sounding more confident than he feels. People file out of the conference room.
"That means you, too, Tubbo."
"Oh, uh, of course, Big Q." Tubbo practically bolts from the conference room, shutting the door behind him.
Schlatt looks absolutely defeated. His face is in his hands, and he's breathing heavily, suppressing tears.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, voice trembling. "I wasn't... I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to scare anyone."
"It's alright," Quackity responds, soothing and kind. "They know."
"Did you see Tubbo's face?"
"He's easier to spook than a blind horse, Schlatt, he's alright."
Schlatt takes his hands off of his face and sweeps his hair back behind his horns with one hand. His hands still shake, and he feels warm, but at least he's let the anger out, Quackity thinks.
"Look at me, Schlatt, listen."
He obliges.
"We're gonna take a week off, at least. Put Tubbo in charge. It'll be shitty, yeah, but you won't have to talk to all of these assholes."
Schlatt contemplates for a minute. "You think Tubbo can handle it?"
"I know he can."
"...Alright."
Quackity is very thankful that they went home when they did. In the evening, the nausea starts, and they end up sleeping in the bathtub so Schlatt doesn't have to go far to throw up. It isn't comfortable in the slightest, but Quackity likes being needed, likes having the taller man curled up in his arms for a change.
He wakes up a few times. It's uncharacteristic, considering the fact that it takes the loudest possible alarm to wake him up. Each time, he softly whimpers for his whiskey, and Quackity soothes him back to sleep. He's sweaty and clearly running a fever, and his heart is beating fast.
Eventually, they both fall asleep for several hours, and only wake up when the sun from the skylight bothers them.
"What are you doing?" Quackity asks.
"I'm shaving, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"You're not going anywhere, pumpkin."
"I don't care. I'll feel shitty if I don't shave."
"You'll feel shitty if you slice your neck open. Come here, I'll do it for you."
Schlatt does not put up a fight. He sits on the edge of the sink as Quackity gingerly positions himself in between his legs. He spreads the shaving cream onto the areas of his face Schlatt usually shaves, and picks up the razor.
"Well? Get on with it," Schlatt mutters, impatient.
Quackity gently glides the razor across Schlatt's skin once, then again and again and again. Because of the chops, it isn't long before he finishes, and finds himself holding Schlatt's chin in his right hand and Schlatt's own hand in his left.
Schlatt meets his eyes, and, after a beat, cranes his neck up for a kiss.
Unfortunately, it doesn't last long before he jumps up, throwing up into the toilet, still grasping Quackity's hand and shaking gently.
They go on like that for the rest of the week. Despite having been married for some time, Quackity's never had this much time alone with Schlatt. He feels bad that he didn't realize how seriously Schlatt depended on alcohol.
The fourth day, in particular, is something awful. There is yelling, and crying, and screaming. But Schlatt is a changed man, and even in his state, he apologizes immediately, and Quackity can't help but to forgive him. And they triumph in keeping Schlatt away from alcohol for another day, no matter his protests.
On the fifth morning, Quackity wakes up to an empty bed. He walks to the bathroom and stands in the doorway, unnoticed by Schlatt.
Schlatt's hair is damp with sweat, curling more than usual at the nape of his neck. His face is pale. He's lost a couple of pounds, and his undereyes are purple from the fitful sleep.
And his nose is bleeding.
The faucet is running, and he's standing over the sink, dripping blood. His breathing is heavy, but his eyes are bright.
Even though he's at his worst, Quackity has never seen a man so handsome.
"Oh, hey, honey, I didn't see you," Schlatt says, voice changed by the position of his head. "The doctor said this was normal, but to call her if it lasted for too long."
"How long's it been?"
"Fifteen minutes, but it's dying down."
Quackity walks over to the sink and looks in the mirror. He's not looking so hot himself, sleep-deprived and in desperate need of a shower.
"I love you, you know," Schlatt remarks.
"I love you too."
Quackity walks behind his husband, snaking his arms around his waist, and buries his head in his neck.
They're going to be okay.