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Schlatt laid awake in his bed. Hands folded neatly on top of his stomach, eyes wide awake, trying to make out shapes in the darkness that was around them. His sheets were thin, mostly because it was summer, and having heavy blankets would be the worst, but hated them. He hated the way that he laid around him. He hated the way that his shirt bunched up at his torso, but refused to fix it. Being angry at something was better than the static that seemed to consume his mind at all times.
It had been…. one day since he had overdosed on caffeine. Most of that time had been spent sleeping already, interrupted a few times when they needed to wake him up for Bad to do a physical on him.
He did not want to think about that physical. The way that the demon hybrid had poked and prodded at his body, asking questions that he did not like the answers to.
“How much sleep have you been getting?” Bad asked, holding onto Schlatt’s wrist, taking his pulse.
“Two to three hours.”
“For how long?”
“A few months.”
Bad glanced up at him, just for a moment before going back to taking his pulse.
He had a pounding headache. One that kept coming back every time he woke up. Like a hangover just much, much worse. So much worse. With a hangover, he could at least forget it when he was talking to someone. This was just intense. All of the time. It made him so tired. And angry.
And yet, when he was lying here, all he could think about was the thundering pulse in his ears, feeling it through every part of his veins, with no way to control it.
“How often do you eat?” Bad asked, placing the stethoscope on his heart, listening to it beat.
“About a meal per day. With some snacks in between?”
“Is it consistent?”
Why was he not liking any of these answers?
“No.”
He was sweating. And it was not just because it was summer. It was just something that seemed to be happening a lot recently. He had not been in a suit since they had stripped him out of his when he collapsed…
That was an odd sentence to roll around in his head.
The fact that he had passed out.
In front of people he was supposed to be protecting no less. It felt wrong.
It felt like he was a failure.
“Have you been drinking any coffee?”
Schlatt scoffed a little. It was a little hard since Bad’s cold hands were running down his sides, looking for….something, he guessed. No idea. He was not a doctor.
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“I don’t really keep track….”
“How much would you save on average?”
“Umm, eight? Ten….? I don’t know, whenever I feel tired. And feel like I need a drink.”
Schlatt ran a hand through his sweaty hair, avoiding the tips of his horns. He was so very tired, but no way he could fall asleep. Normally that would be a good thing, a chance to get caught up on work that he needed to do.
Now, his carbonite was doing all that they could to keep him away from his office.
His and Tubbo’s rooms were in the same hall in the White House, so the young ram hybrid had been put in charge of making sure that his father did not go anywhere without someone to go with him.
It’s not like he could get very far. Schlatt’s legs shook every time he stood up.
“How much alcohol have you been drinking?” Bad asked, busying his hands with something else, making sure that he was not looking at Schlatt as he asked these questions.
“Well, I’ll pour a little in my coffee when I am tired. Or...a little bit more as of recently. And having drinks throughout the day, just to have a good buzz on. So I would guess….five? Per day? Around, I suppose.”
“And you said that you have been trying to quit, when did you start that?”
“....the same day that I collapsed.”
“And you were drinking coffee every time you wanted to have an alcoholic drink?”
“...yeah…”
Schlatt hated the way that Tubbo would not look at him anymore. It was no longer in anger. Or at least, that was what Schlatt hoped it was not in.
Sure the boy was around him, a lot more than he had been recently. Schlatt could count on one hand the number of times that his son had left his side. And yet the teen would not look at him. He always avoided his father’s eyes, only intensely staring at him when he thought Schlatt was not paying attention. Those square pupils that were oh so much like his own darted to all exits at all times, eyeing every bottle, keeping an eye on the shake of his hands, the one that got in his way of trying to eat. The way that he held his head when he woke up, trying to subside the headache that bombarded him as soon as he woke up.
Bad had said that he had been lucky. Bad said that he should be grateful to be alive. To be in shock for as long as he was, and not have any internal damage. Schlatt did not feel grateful.
And now he was here. Laying his bed. Wide awake. He had all of the time in the world to fall asleep, it was not like his cabinet would wake him up for work, he had been banned from doing any until he was better.
Not better from the shock.
Better from the addictions.
So, he was going cold turkey.
From those four days that he had been recovering had been dropped with desperate fallings into a bottle. It was not for a specific feeling. While it felt weird to be taken care of, he did not specifically dislike it. No, he drank to make himself feel alright. To make him feel….good.
It hurt to not have a buzz going. Coffee had been banned immediately as he had woken up. The headache that was starting to crawl into his brain was only combated by the alcohol. Sure, sometimes he drank a little too much, and he felt his vision start to go, and his speech slur together. But he would always fall asleep after that, in a deep warm bed, and wait for the buzz to rub off before he did not all over again.
“Obviously, you're going to have to stop drinking coffee,” Bad said, reading out the report in front of Quackity, Fundy, and Tubbo, with Schlatt sitting on the medical table. He felt small. Both the duck and fox hybrid had their arms crossed, eyes trained on Bad, while Tubbo looked to the ground. Schlatt was not sure why he felt so small but decided at that moment he did not like that feeling.
“And he’s going to have to get more sleep. And eat regularly as well. Just some things to keep your body healthy Mr. President.”
“Yes, thank you Bad,” Schlatt said, sliding off of the table. He was ready to get a drink. It had been a day.
“And I approve of your attempts to quit alcohol, and I definitely think that it is something you should continue.”
Schlatt froze.
The weight of the alcohol that he knew was just downstairs weighed on his mind. That check-up with the demon hybrid had been earlier that day, and his mind was still trying to process what had been said to him.
Sure, he had tried to quit alcohol that day. That day. A moment of clarity in life that was clouded by liquor. A brave moment that was nothing more than that. A moment. A single day where he thought “yeah, I can do this.”
He couldn’t.
Like actually. There is no way that he would be able to quit alcohol. A lifelong addiction was not so easily taken care of. Even if he had not drunk as much when he was raising Tubbo, it was still there. The nights where everything became too overwhelming. Those nights that Tubbo got put to bed early so he did not have to see his dad in such a sad state. Downing a bottle like it was air, dripping down his chin and staining his clothes, before he cried on the floor. Bringing himself to the very edge of alcohol poisoning, before passing out. Waking up and getting ready for a dead-end job, that only really existed to put a roof over their heads, and provide food for his growing son.
That’s why he had come to this server. Running for president had been a side effect, but he was not going to complain. The more power he had, the more he could use it to protect his son.
But to have people care for him was odd. To say the very least. Sure, Quackity had been a long time friend, and honestly, running into him on this server had not been intended, but Fundy? He had just met the kid. Hell, he was the kids boss. He was the president. And the way that the fox had looked at him when he had been laying in bed, groggy and just woken up, pounding headache and generally just feeling like shit. It made his heart almost melt.
And now he was here. Laying awake. Staring at the ceiling.
He was supposed to be sleeping. Keyword was supposed to. But over the past three days, he had been doing more sleeping than he had ever hoped to do and was not the least bit tired. Sure he had been awake for the last fifteen hours, getting yet another physical, having breakfast with his son, getting deterred from his office more than once, going on a walk, and a few other odds and ends around the house, until he was forced to bed, but he was not tried.
He felt restless. Tried? But not tried at the same time. But his eyes would not stay closed.
Water?
Water sounded good.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Schlatt dragged himself to his feet and started to make his way to the kitchen, as quietly as he could. The last thing that he needed to do was wake up anyone else in the White House. They would fuss over him, tell him that he needed to be back in bed and blah, blah blah….
He was a grown man. He could get a cup of goddamn water by himself. Hell, he was president.
A president that was neglecting his duties.
Schlatt pulled himself to his feet before he could think about it too much. A slight waver in his vision as he stood upright. A few blinks and it was gone. No problem.
If he used the wall to balance himself a little on the way to the kitchen, that was his secret. Slowing down a little when he passed his office. The doors were closed. Most likely locked. That was supposed to keep other people out and let him concentrate. Not keep him from running the country.
He stumbled to the kitchen, leaning on the counter, grabbing one of the glasses from the cabinets with uncoordinated hands, and turning on the tap. Leaning against the counter while he took tentative sips of the lukewarm water, letting it run down his sore throat.
Schlatt felt his eyes drift to the alcohol cabinet. A dull ache in his chest started to take hold. He knew that there was going to be nothing in there, he knew it. And yet a small part of his desperately wanted there to be something, anything. To take the headache away, to let him sleep, gods to just let him function normally really. He felt like shit all of the time. Sure, he still felt like shit when he drank, but at least it dulled the edges. Now he was left with the broken body of his coping mechanism.
“Dad?” a tried groggy voice shocked him a little, jumping out of his thoughts to see his son standing in the hall of the kitchen. Tubbo rubbed his eyes, irritated from the sudden and harsh lights of the room. His hair was a mess, sticking every which way, with his two horns poking through the mess. They were starting to get bigger, as it was expected. He was in his growth spurt. Schlatt could only hope that he could instill a sense of pride for his horns into Tubbo. Not the crushing shame that had weighted Schlatt down when his own horns had started to grow.
“What are you doing up?” he asked, painfully aware of how his hands shook.
“I heard noises.”
Made sense. It was not like Schlatt was the most steady on his feet, and actually picking up his legs was too hard, so he would often just drag his hooves on the floor.
“What are you doing up?” Tubbo asked.
It was hard to ignore the concerned tone. Schlatt started to berate himself for making his son have to worry about him. He was supposed to be a rock, unshaken, and therefore his boy, not the other way around.
“Just getting some water,” he said, raising the glass, before taking another sip, as if to prove a point. “I have been sleeping for a long time bud, it’s not like I can sleep more.”
“Your body needs the rest. Especially after….”
“I know Tubbo.”
Yikes. He had not meant to make his voice that snappy. The flinch from Tubbo made his heartache, mentally chastising himself. But he revered his eyes to stare at the cabinet in front of him, taking another sip of the water. His pride was going to be the death of him. But he really, really did not need to be reminded of the state he had been in a little more than twenty-four hours ago.
An awkward silence settled over the two. Schaltt refused to look at his son as he felt the boy drag his eyes across his face. The older ram did not want to imagine what he looked like. Because he was sure that it was bad.
“Come on bud, let’s get you back to bed,” he said finally, draining the rest of his cup, and placing it into the sink.
He pushed off of the counter he had been leaning on, putting all of his weight onto his feet.
Whoa, ok, bad idea.
His whole vision swam, dipping with colors and black, as his head went static for a moment. His hands flew to his head, grasping desperately for something to hold onto as he felt himself sway was unsteadily.
Something caught him, pressing up against his chest, holding him steady while his mouth hung open, a pained groan as he started to find his precious on the ground again.
He hated the fact that Tubbo had caught him. The boy was too kind to be of the same DNA as himself. How had that happened?
“Come on dad,” Tubbo said, slinging his father’s arm around his shoulders, as the two started to make their way back to his bedroom.
It was slow going, at least to Tubbo, trying to keep the much bigger and heavier ram upright, knowing that if he fell, there was no way that he would be able to get him up again. For Schlatt, it was a messy wave of in and out, blinking in and out of consciousness. One moment they were starting down a hall, the next they were at the end of the hall, and the next he was being sat down on his bed.
His legs swung around, before being tucked under the covers, all of the energy he had before completely drained out of his body.
Burying his head under the blankets, Schlatt could hear the soft shuffle of hooves against wood, as Tubbo started to exit the room.
“I love you, Dad,” the young ram whispered, before gently shutting the door.
Tears started to fall out of his eyes, digging his nose into the blankets. Why was this all so hard? Why were they being so nice to him? He did not deserve that.
Self-doubt and hatred lulled the president to sleep, bunching the blankets as he weakly held onto them, holding them close to his body, trying to forge comfort that he did not believe he deserved.
***
Tubbo was worried. He wrung his hands together as he made his way back to his room, occasionally looking behind him at his father’s door. He knew how prideful Schlatt was. He had lived with it his entire life. But at this point, the ram’s pride had almost killed him.
The image of his father laying so still was stuck in his head. Eyes rolled back in his head, mouth slightly open in a gaping, silent scream. The way that his chest shook with each breath until the breaths stopped. How Tubbo had screamed when that had happened, holding his father’s head close to his chest, begging him to open his eyes again, to start breathing again. The way that Quackity had pulled him away from his dad while he fought against the duck hybrid, hysterical as Fundy broke his father’s ribs to get him to breathe again.
Curling up in the corner while Quackity and Fundy tried to save his life, unable to help, but knowing that he could not get in the way, tears still streaming down his face, with a firm hand across his mouth to make sure his violent sobs did not disturb the two cabinet members.
That first breath he had taken, Tubbo’s sobs got harder, but out of relief, pulling his legs in close, and shutting his eyes, not opening them until he started to hear movement. They were taking his father to his room.
Tubbo followed close behind, shoulders still shaking from the occasional cry. They laid him oh so gently into the bed, only a second passed before Tubbo crawled into bed with his father, lifting his arm and wrapping around himself for comfort, snuggled up to his chest, continuing to cry.
He had fallen asleep like that. Desperate to make sure that Schlatt kept breathing, and refusing to leave his side.
It was not until after they had the check-up with Badboyhalo was he finally pried away from his dad’s side. Even tonight, it took everything in Tubbo not to curl up with Schlatt. Just to make sure that he was still breathing. To make sure that he was not going to go anywhere.
Before Tubbo would have liked to think that he was grown up, or at least on his way. That he could handle most things on his own and did not need his father as much.
That night had proven how wrong he was.
Catching the sight of his almost dead father. Imagining the moments after he was pronounced dead. What would have he done? Would he have curled up with the corpse, begging and pleading with the universe to bring him back, while trying to keep the body of his dad warm? How would he have been pulled away? Would Quackity and Fundy have waited for him to fall asleep from exhaustion, or would they have gently cooed him away with soft words and condolences? Who would have taken care of the country after he was gone? Who would have taken care of him? He was almost certain that Tommy’s family would be more than happy to accept another child, given the blonde’s father’s track record, but would Tubbo even want to join their family?
A critical, cold part of him told him no. He would have not. He would have stayed at their house, sure, but he would have never been a part of their family. Waking up in the middle of the night crying, begging for his dad, only for a stranger to come to his call. His horns would have grown in without Schlatt to tell him how to take care of the appendages, and how to take pride in them.
Tears were falling down his face, and before Tubbo knew it, he was turning around, heading right back to Schlatt’s room.
As quietly as he could, he opened the door, peeking in. Still dark, with the soft, labored breaths of the sleeping ram.
Tubbo tip-toed across the room until he was next to the bed.
Schlatt’s face was scrunched up in pain, cuddling blankets close to his chest, but was asleep nonetheless.
As carefully as he could, Tubbo lifted the covers, untangling his father from them, before slotting himself in, feeling his dad put his strong arms around him. He was pulled in close, smelling coconut butter shampoo that his dad used, as well as the quickly fading smell of alcohol and coffee.
He was up against his dad’s chest. Tubbo could feel the heartbeat, and lungs expand with breath.
Schlatt was alive. He was alive and was going to get better.
Tubbo grabbed a fistful of the older ram’s shirt, and cradled it, falling asleep to the gentle breathing of his dad. Everything would be ok if he kept living. He had to keep living. Because, otherwise, Tubbo had no idea what he was going to do.