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Quackity is entirely unsurprised that the place he's going down to is a cave. He is entirely unsurprised that somehow, despite everything and despite being dead, Schlatt still knows just how to control him. He's unsurprised that Schlatt still knows all of his fears and all of his weaknesses, all of his panic, everything that makes him shift on his feet in nervousness. Quackity is unsurprised, and yet he still can't help but wonder just how he knows, just how Schlatt still manages to do this to him, every single goddamn fucking time. He steps down the stairs, feeling his heart stick in the back of his throat, feeling his mouth go dry. Quackity closes his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets, careful not to misstep. He sees the clearing come into view, the stairs ending as they cut off into a large opening. He breathes out, swallowing back his nerves as he watches the opening get closer and closer and closer to him. Quackity steps off of the final stair, taking the knife off his belt, holding it in his hand, swiveling his head around, scanning the area. He takes another step into the clearing, breathing out, long and low through his nose, feeling his heart pound in his chest.
"You look good."
"Fuck you!" Quackity shouts, whirling around on his feet, holding his knife at Schlatt's throat, his chest heaving as he stares at the man behind him. He shakes his head, narrowing his eyes sharply, wishing to the god he doesn't believe in that he could fucking slit his throat. "You fucking bitch, you fucking.." he snarls at the ghost of a President, someone who he thought he used to love. Maybe he still does. Quackity shakes his head, clearing his mind as quickly as he can of those thoughts. No. He's not going to think like that ever again, not after the first time he tried to give Schlatt another chance. Never again. He's not going to let himself be weak ever again, not in front of Schlatt, not in front of anyone. "I got your fucking letter, asshole." Quackity puffs out his chest, standing as tall as he can, gripping his knife a little tighter until his knuckles turn white.
Schlatt grins at him, tilting his head to the side, almost unnaturally. "Did you like the little ending message I left you?" He giggles, taking a step forwards. Quackity takes a step back, cursing internally when he sees Schlatt's eyes light up. Any sign of weakness, any show that Quackity isn't in control, and Schlatt will pounce. He knows this, he knows Schlatt, he fucking knows him better than any other person. He knows better, and yet he still fucking does it. He still lets Schlatt win, he still lets Schlatt have power over him, and he doesn't know why. "You still look good, Big Q," Schlatt murmurs, taking another step forwards. This time, Quackity doesn't move, even though the alarms in his head are going off, even though warning bells are screaming at him to get the fuck out of here. "What happened to your face?" Schlatt smirks, taking another step forward, then another, then another. Quackity forces himself to not move, he plants his feet on the ground, refusing to let Schlatt win this battle of prowess. Not again. Schlatt is right against his chest before he stops moving, his face far too close to Quackity's. "Did you get a little fucked up, Q? Did you let yourself be weak, Alex?"
"Don't call me either of those things," Quackity sneers at him, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice, trying to keep up his façade, trying to keep eye contact with the man before him. "My name is Quackity. You can call me that," he crosses his arms against his chest, keeping his knife held tightly in his hand. "What do you want from me, Schlatt? Why did you call me down here, what do you want? You're dead, we're not friends, we've cut ties-"
"We are friends," Schlatt grins, reaching out to cup the side of his face. Quackity grabs his wrist, surprised to find his hand not going through the man. He tightens his grip on the ghost's wrist, digging his fingernails into his flesh. "You've gotten a little faster, haven't you, Q? You're getting a little tougher, aren't you? You're finally shaping up into something worthwhile," Schlatt smirks at him, twisting his wrist out of Quackity's grip. He takes a step back, reaching up to run his hands through his hair. He grins at Quackity, his eyes bright and full of something sort of like pride. That look makes Quackity's stomach flip, his chest tightening, his mind both telling him to get the fuck out, and to be happy that Schlatt is proud of him. Fuck. Fuck! Quackity fucking knows better, he knows better than to let Schlatt do this to him, he fucking knows better! What the hell is wrong with him? "Come on, now. Tell me what's going on in your head, Q."
Quackity breathes out, straightening his posture, squaring his shoulders. "Don't you ever fucking touch me again," he snarls, planting his hands on Schlatt's chest. He shoves the ghost back, watching as Schlatt doesn't even stumble - he just glides back, taking the push in stride. Of course he does. Of course he can't even let Quackity have that. "What the fuck do you want from me, Schlatt? You know damn well that I hate you. You know damn well that I don't want to see your stupid fucking face ever again. Why the hell did you call me down here? What do you want, Schlatt? If you don't.." Quackity breathes in, shaking his head. "If you don't tell me what you want from me, I'm going to leave, and I'm not going to come back."
Schlatt smirks. "You're doing better than I thought you would, Q. Look at you go!" He giggles, starting to walk around him, circling him like he's a piece of goddamn meat. "I'm so proud of you, Q. You've done much better for yourself than I ever thought you could. Maybe you're actually useful for something other than just sitting there and looking pretty, huh?" Schlatt beams at him, flashing his teeth. "You don't hate me and you know it, Q. You love me, don't you?" Schlatt raises his eyebrows at him, flashing him those stupid fucking eyes that Quackity could never say no to.
This time, however, is fucking different.
"No," Quackity whispers, the word being ripped from the back of his throat, making him feel like he's going to be sick. He feels terrified, he feels his heart pounding in his chest, he can hear the blood pounding in his ears, feels his mind spinning, watches as his vision starts to swim. He feels like he's going to cry, and he forces himself not to. No way in hell can he cry in front of Schlatt. Never fucking again. Never fucking again. "No. I hate you," he keeps his eyes on Schlatt as the man continues to circle him, refusing to look away, trying his best to keep the tremble, the shaking, out of his voice. "I fucking hate you, and nothing you can ever say or do is going to convince me otherwise," Quackity stands taller, feeling like he's going to collapse. "Schlatt," he raises his voice, hating the fact that Schlatt just looms over him, acting like he's some stupid, petulant child that's just acting out. He's not. "Tell me what you want from me, or I'm going."
"No, you're not," Schlatt giggles, ducking his head. "If you planned on leaving soon, then why haven't you?" Quackity stiffens. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He's right, of course he's right, he's always fucking right every single time, every fucking time that it comes to Quackity, Schlatt is always right, he always is. "Come on, now, Q. Don't lie to me. I thought that you and I agreed to do better than that, didn't we?" Schlatt smiles at him, sick and twisted. "I want you to sit down and talk to me, Quackity. Come on!" Schlatt beams at him, throwing out his arms. Quackity pretends like he doesn't flinch back, but judging by the way Schlatt tilts his head to the side, his pretending wasn't good enough. "Take off your shoes, throw up your coat! No need to act like a stranger, lover."
"We're not fucking lovers!" Quackity shouts, feeling rage boil up in his chest, his terror being replaced with raw anger. "We were never fucking lovers, you piece of fucking shit. You..we weren't.." he feels like he's going to cry all over again, and he hates that, he hates it so much. Quackity thinks that when he was still under Schlatt's command, when he was still stuck in Manberg, stuck with Schlatt and his honey-laced words, maybe he fell in love with him. But it was never real love - after all, how the fuck can you love someone who made you love them? It wasn't real, it was Quackity trying ever so desperately to get on Schlatt's good side. Nothing would ever make that happen. He knows that now. He knows that better than anyone. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Seriously, dude," Quackity reaches up, adjusting his beanie. "Fuck you. I hope to god that you spend the rest of your stupid fucking life down in this goddamn cave. I hope you choke on your goddamn alcohol."
Schlatt's smile drops off of his face. "Don't say things like that, Q. They might just happen," he takes a step forwards. The game they were playing only a few minutes ago is very obviously over. The game they were pretending to play is gone. Quackity refuses to step back, because although they've stopped playing one game doesn't mean that they haven't started to play another. "You know better than that, don't you? It's kind of rude to tell me you hope that I die all over again," Schlatt tilts his head to the side, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the cave. He's dangerous, sharp, imposing. Threatening. Terrifying. Everything that Quackity isn't, Schlatt is. "But since you'd like to think that you've got some sort of control here, since you're playing pretend, let me just tell you what I want," Schlatt leans forwards, his mouth right by Quackity's ear. "I want to come back, Q. And guess what? You're going to help me."
Quackity's heart drops the bottom of his stomach, his whole world spinning around him, his head screaming at him.
"No," Quackity says again, grabbing Schlatt by his stupid fucking tie, flicking open his knife. He presses it against his throat, watching as red springs from under grey skin. "I'm fucking not," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and leveled, refusing to play this game with him. He's got control now. No matter how many times Schlatt says that he doesn't, he does. He knows better. He knows better, Quackity knows better. "I'm going to leave this place, and you're going to stay down here and rot, Schlatt. You're going to be stuck down here forever, and no one is ever going to come and see you again."
"You'll come back," Schlatt grins at him, moving closer to him. The knife presses harder against Schlatt's skin, and Quackity wishes that he could move his fucking fingers. They're death gripped around the knife's handle, refusing to let go. "You always do, don't you? You always come back to me, because that's what I told you to do. Even when you didn't have to," Schlatt leans forwards, a disgusting smile twisting its way onto his lips, "you still did. You still listened to me, didn't you? Kind of funny how you tell me that you hate me, and then you come down here and give me exactly what I want. You know this isn't going to end, Q. It never will-" Quackity jams the knife in Schlatt's throat, watching as blood pours from the new cut. Schlatt sighs, reaching up, placing his hand on Quackity's as he pulls out the knife. "That's not going to work on me. Did you really think that you'd be able to kill a dead man, Q? Come on, now."
Quackity breathes out, feeling like he's dying. "I'm not coming back," he whispers, forcing his legs to move, forcing himself to start to walk. "I'm not fucking coming back," he doesn't look back, moving past Schlatt, taking the first step onto the staircase that leads to his freedom. But can he ever really be free? No matter what he does, Schlatt always finds a way back to him. Schlatt always finds a way to fucking haunt him, to ruin his life, to keep in living in perpetual fear and hatred and terror. Quackity turns his head, watching as the ghost behind him holds a hand to his throat, watching as the blood pours from the wound. Schlatt just grins at him with blood-stained lips, raising two bloodied fingers to his forehead, mock saluting him. "Have fun taking care of that cut, asshole."
Schlatt giggles, his laugh coming out warbled and fucked up. "You'll be back, Q. I look forwards to our last visit, lover."
And as Quackity walks up the staircase and away from a man he thinks he might have loved, he cries. He cries because he knows that Schlatt is right, he knows that he isn't ever going to be free.
Quackity will be back, and he knows that.
But maybe next time, maybe the next time they meet, maybe that time will be the final time they see each other. It's disgustingly hopeful, but Quackity has to believe it, he forces himself to, he makes the words sound right in his head as he moves. If he doesn't believe it, then Schlatt will just keep winning.
And Quackity isn't going to let that bastard win their game any longer.