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“And a’one two three, and a’one two three--”
“Whatcha guys doin’, huh?”
Two heads snap in unison to face Quackity, hands hovering, music tinny in his ears. It’s a bright day out, the sun shining through the clouds, the wooden path gleaming beneath his feet. Q’s hands are cool and fresh, the remnants of seawater sticky on his skin from washing off the residue of his prison visit. His shirt’s a little damp, but he’d kept most of the mess off of the fabric today and he’s lucky for it.
He can’t count how many shirts he’d ruined. He’s almost tempted to go dig out his old butcher’s apron just to spare his closet.
“Dancing!” Tubbo crows, glancing back down at their feet. Tommy’s hotel looms above, casting a shadow towards the prison, but the Bee ‘n Boo hotel is out in bright sunlight, casting dappled shadows through the scaffolding and bouncing bright light off the yellow accents. It’s gauche, but in a way Quackity can appreciate. Tacky in the most nostalgic of senses. “I never learned how to waltz. Ranboo said he'll teach me!”
Ranboo ducks his head, the faintest smile on his lips as he grasps Tubbo’s hand a little harder, shuffles his feet. “I’m not the best,” he admits.
“He’s stepped on my foot twice,” Tubbo says under his breath, but it’s still loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Man, I never learned how to waltz either,” Quackity says, letting the work of the day slide off his shoulders, moves to go prop himself up against a chest and lean as he watches the two kids in front of him shuffle around. The music’s soft, but loud enough that they’re both following along to the beat. Tubbo’s clearly got more rhythm than Ranboo. Quackity settles to watch for a little bit, leaning over to turn up the speakers on the communicator and laughing at quips, watching the shadows shift over the prime path.
Something buzzes halfway through the second song, and Ranboo slips out of Tubbo’s iron grip in order to pull out his own comm, grimacing.
“Tommy got into the basement,” he says with a sigh. “And brought Michael with. They’re stuck, because Michael won’t go back up the ladder.”
Quackity has no idea who Michael is, but based on the sigh Tubbo heaves and the fond look Ranboo throws at him, it’s someone close to their hearts. Q’s gotten good at noticing shit, he thinks. He’s picked up on how nerves can frame a face, how people can manipulate them. How you can get someone to slowly break apart if you try hard enough.
The affection he sees on their faces is genuine, at least.
“I’ll go,” Ranboo says, and a moment later there’s a trident in his hand. “Michael likes me better anyways.”
Tubbo whaps his arm, laughing. “He does not!” He says through snorting laughter. “Right, Q?”
“Hey, man,” Q says, holding his hands out defensively. “Don’t bring me into the marital squabbles. Congrats, by the way.”
“Aw, thanks!” Tubbo grins, and Ranboo’s giving him a thumbs up, even if he keeps his distance. Huh. “With everything else, it’s kind of…. y’know.”
“I know,” Quackity says. “Same here.”
“You guys should have the wedding soon,” Tubbo says. “We can all celebrate properly.”
“Right,” Quackity says, purposefully not thinking about how he has no idea where Karl and Sapnap have ended up this time. Last he knew, it had been in a flower forest somewhere, with mushrooms. Cottagecore dream, or whatever. He’d much prefer the sands of Las Nevadas, and the oppressive heat.
“I’m going to-- go--” Ranboo says, and Tubbo waves a hand.
“I want to talk to Q for a bit,” he says, hardly turning around, just hauling himself up onto the chest Q is also sitting on, landing with a thump and a whooshing breath of air. “You can handle them!”
“You’re making me handle both Tommy and Michael,” Ranboo says, but it’s not a question, he’s just repeating. And as he pulls the trident back, it’s clear he’s just giving Tubbo a fondly exasperated look. “Nice seeing you, Quackity.”
“You too,” Quackity says, and then Ranboo’s just a glint of purple netherite against the blue sky.
Tubbo sighs, leaning back on his hands, and Quackity can’t help himself. That feeling about Ranboo rears its head again.
“Does he make you happy?” Quackity asks, because there’s still something in his gut that makes him shiver when he looks at Ranboo. He’s not sure what it is-- maybe the Ender traits, maybe the height, maybe something else. But whatever it is, no one else seems to feel it. Maybe he really is bonkers.
“Super. He’s my best friend,” Tubbo says with a wide smile.
“I thought Tommy was your--”
“Oh my gooood, I can have two best friends, I have two hands. See?” Tubbo holds his hands out, frowning absently as he stares at his palms. Quackity laughs, leaning back and kicking his own feet up as he does.
“Okay, okay!” He says, snorting out laughter. “I get it. I got two fiances, man--” and oh boy does that send a lance of guilt through his heart-- “so you’re preaching to the choir.”
“Surely you get it,” Tubbo says, rolling his eyes and dropping his hands again. They’re already full of calluses, for a kid so young.
“I do,” Quackity says, not unkindly. “Keeps you busy, right? Both of them?”
“So busy,” Tubbo complains, but it’s not a true complaint. It’s one tinged with fondness, a quiet glee at being able to be annoyed by someone else’s presence. “With Snowchester and the motel, and Michael, and now Tommy too-- everything’s crazy. No time to rest. Ranboo says it’s like herding cats.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Quackity says, laughing, and he doesn’t miss how every time Tubbo mentions Ranboo, the kid gives him the side eye.
Fair enough. Quackity had, in a post-festival rage, suggested executing the guy.
Bad idea in hindsight.
“You’ve been going to the prison a lot,” Tubbo says after a bit, slowly. “You’re busy too?”
Quackity glances up from where he’s picking dried flakes out from under his nails, and then carefully, goes back to it. The tone of the conversation takes a slight turn. He can’t tell if it’s for the worse.
“Yeah. You know how it is, man. Business with Sam. Courtesy calls,” he says, and there’s emphasis on the end of the sentence.
“Every day?” Tubbo pushes, and Q sighs, shifting a bit. He doesn’t want to think about it when he’s not in there-- it’s not healthy , for one, and he thinks telling Tubbo wouldn’t be fucking responsible, either.
“....why’re you asking me this, Tubbo?” He asks, and it sounds snappish without trying to.
Tubbo’s gaze stays firm. “I was just-- I dunno. I noticed you going. I thought it was weird, especially since Tommy’s not so keen on anyone visiting Dream.”
“Right. Tommy. How is Tommy? He alright?” Quackity had known Tommy had asked that-- Sam had been relatively easy to convince otherwise, though. Just a reminder of Tommy himself, and, well. He’d crumpled like paper.
Tubbo takes the bait, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “He’s… no. He’s not alright. But we’re working on it, I think?”
“That’s good. He didn’t deserve what that green bastard did to him.”
Tubbo is deadly soft when he says, “...whatever you’re doing in there… it’s for a good cause, right?”
Quackity hesitates. It hangs over them, Damocles’ sword. “...It’s for a cause, sure. I’ve been having a hard time picking out what’s good and right, lately.”
“Huh. Me too.” And man, if that doesn’t unsettle him. Tubbo’s vacant look, staring out over the prison, well-- it strikes something into Quackity. For a moment he’s reminded of a line of different people, different hosts, comparing them all to Tubbo. In the end, he decides that nothing can be compared to Tubbo. Not here, not now, not after everything the kid’s been through. He holds his tongue for a second, and then decides:
“You know, Tubso, if you ever wanna come visit, I’ve built up a casino. It’s called Las Nevadas. Come play some games, gamble a bit with your husbando’s cash.” It’s a prod. A joke. A conversation change, for the most part, and it’s snapped up like they’re both hungry crocs.
Tubbo snorts. “I’m not good at card games.”
“No?”
“No. I’ve always been more of a tabletop kind of guy.”
“Right. Chess. I remember that big board you built outside L’Manberg,” Q says, leaning back.
“It’s still there! I don’t… really play anymore. Fundy was the only one I really ever played against. And he’s…” Tubbo trails off, and Q nods slowly. He hadn’t seen Fundy in ages, much less talked to him. Not since Doomsday. Maybe even before.
“....yeah.” There’s silence again, awkward and pregnant with tension. Tubbo swings his legs. They’re not long enough to reach the ground from where they’re hanging off the side of the chest, both of them sitting on the same one but not touching.
Tubbo’s voice is quiet when he pipes up again. “...if you ever saw Schlatt again, Q, what do you think you would say?”
The question nearly makes Q spit out his drink-- or at least, it would if he had a drink, and was in the middle of drinking it. But instead it just chokes him up a little, makes the spit in his mouth disappear, tongue heavy like cotton as he tries to come up with an answer that sounds convincing and not incriminating. He licks his lips, sandpapery.
“I’d probably argue with him,” he admits after a second. The sun is tipping toward the horizon, the days stretching like taffy as true summer approaches. “Yell. Swear a bunch, about what he did to us. Tell him how shitty of a person he was. Be angry.”
“Hm,” Tubbo says, and he’s not looking at Q when Quackity glances over at him. His eyes are also on the horizon, squinting a bit. “I think I’d be sad.”
“Sad?” Q’s not one to pry, but. He’d practically asked for it.
“Yeah,” Tubbo says, nodding slightly. His hair bounces, honey-brown against his horns. It reminds Q more of Wilbur than Schlatt, the way it falls over his eyes. “He was a bad guy. He did bad things. But in the end, he was just… sad, you know? Never happy.”
“I don’t think I ever saw him happy,” Q admits quietly. Tubbo shakes his head.
“Me neither,” he says. The silence lingers for a moment.
“I used to go to his office,” Q says, and he’s never told anyone this. “After… after the sun had gone down. And he’d be asleep. And I thought I loved him, so I’d pick up his mess and comb through his hair and just… sit with him. While he was asleep. He never woke up, as far as I knew. Passed out drunk.”
“Making sure he didn’t throw up and suffocate himself,” Tubbo says sagely, and it pains Q to think they’ve both had to actually think about that in any form.
“Recovery position,” he says, with as much irony he can manage. “Yeah.” It’s quiet again, and then Q sighs. His chest feels just as heavy as it did when he first stumbled upon Tubbo and Ranboo, but maybe his head’s a little lighter. “I think those are my favorite memories, maybe. The quiet. Where I could pretend.”
“Mine are the festival,” Tubbo says, and Q’s head snaps to look at him so sharply he sees stars.
Tubbo’s scars catch his eye as he does, accusing.
“It sounds silly,” Tubbo says, “but I thought during the first bit-- not the end bit-- that maybe I’d actually made him proud. That he’d pat my head and say good job, like Wilbur had done and Tommy--” He cuts himself off, steels his teeth visibly in the set of his jaw.
Something snaps a little in Q’s heart. He’s reminded of sitting on the beach like this, with Fundy, with Tubbo, by himself. They’d been warriors together, an odd sense of brotherhood stemming from the hatred of the man whose fist they’d all been under. They’d all suffered under his hand, the stench of cigarettes staining their clothes but despite it, they’d laughed.
It’s just Q and Tubbo now, and even then, there’s a divide. Distrust, sitting just under the skin like a botfly that Q just can’t get a hold of to pull out.
“You’re better than he is,” Quackity says after a second. “I hope you know that.”
Tubbo ducks his head, runs his upper lip between his teeth, smiles.
“I know,” he says. “Thanks, Big Q.”
He doesn’t return the sentiment. Q shuffles in his seat for a moment, then drags himself up and straightens his spine. Shakes out his shoulders, loosens up. He’s got a trek back to Las Nevadas if he doesn’t want to stay in the SMP overnight, and now he’s got something to think about on the trek back. Tubbo ducks his head, sinking lower into himself as Quackity pulls himself higher, and he tries not to let the symbolism of that sink in.
“Well,” he says. “I’m gonna head out. Keep up the good work, man. Hotel’s lookin’ fine. Tell Tommy-boy I say sup, and whoever Michael is too.”
“I will,” Tubbo promises, glancing up as Q slips off the chest and snaps his suspenders, shooting a finger gun Tubbo’s way. “Bye, Big Q.”
“See ya, little man,” Q says, and then promptly turns on his heel.
Alex Quackity is a self-proclaimed coward, a man who’s learning to be made of steel. Key word: learning.
Sometimes, he’s allowed to run away from a conversation.