Chapter Text
El rapids was in shambles. Nothing but the dirt and gravel of the mighty soil that Quackity ruled with an iron fist. That’s the first thing he realises when he gets up from the makeshift tent that he’d built with the skin of the beef that he’d cook. The mirror (the pool of mildly clear water) reflects a stranger of himself. Half- lidded eyes, blue and purple like the blackberries that line his plastic silverware. The way his fingertips were layered with the callus of blue collared men, it scratched at his face whenever he wiped the sweat off his brow bone. The blisters that formed along the skin that were exposed to the sun too often and others. He took the time before the sun fully rose to preen at his feathers, softening and flattening some of the pale yellow in between his fingertips, but he never could get those that resided on the backs of his body, not when his arms feel like they were filled with cement, and his shoulders felt like pins and needles more than half of his waking hours.
On most days, Quackity worked with a shovel and a will to survive. After all, He did have the stubbornness of an eight - year old child, and the energy of one too. But on other occasions, he would soar from the skies above, and look down to the progress that he’d made all by himself in the past few months. Occasionally, he feels prideful, even when the only thing he can hear is the buzz of the afternoon’s gaze, and the thoughts that bubble in his mind while he eats on his overcooked lunch.
Admittedly, Quackity had never been the type to care for his health all that much. He stuck with the ideology that being in constant motion always meant being healthy, despite all the muscle cramps and exhaustion that plagued his body in small bits. Sometimes (being most of the time), He’d wake up with excruciating amounts of pain, and feel like his whole body was set on fire. But he was fine, he would go to Nikki, or Sam, because they had the plants and herbs and potions that were supposed to help him feel less like he can't breathe. Which, speaking of, Puffy had given him a bedazzled inhaler, because his over exposure to raw materials gave him asthma of some sorts. Quackity would hold onto it at night, more out of instinct than anything else, and press it with his calloused palm l against his cheekbone. His wings were getting worse, and Quackity blamed it on the abuse that he faced when working under the Schlatt administration. But he already knew what the grey, pigeon like feathers that started spreading amongst his golden yellow meant.
Sometimes, he thinks about all the things that he could have been doing in place of this. He lets his mind wander to the endless universe that’s been floating amongst his imagination while he works on the earth. Sometimes, he’s eating freshly made bread, other times, he’s picking oranges from the pavilion outside his house. But Quackity finds himself, more often that not, dreaming about the two people he tries so hard to forget. All those nights of warmth and soft flesh, giggles that seem to echo in his head, and take up all the existing space that had been left in his brain. Mumbles of sweet nothings, and the soft glow of pale freckles that illuminated onto the ceiling above them.
It’s this thought that he brings over to the morning after, and the morning after that, and so on. With the stinging of the morning sun, and the pit that dug itself into quackity’s heart, as hollow and fragile as it’s always been. Quackity stares down at his fingernails, brittle and yellow from over exertion. He feels disgusting, as he bathes in the lake for the second time this morning. There are red marks that line his back, and thighs, and face, and he looks down at his reflection in the mirror once again. Instead, now all he sees is red, and he notices how the smell of metal fills his senses as he raises a finger up to his nose.
This is fine, you are fine He thinks as he feels a stinging pain jolt through the back of his skull. There’s a whisper from his delusional voices, telling him to go to bed. But of course, his eight year old stubbornness forbids him to, and he works on until he sees the sun take its leave through orange peel skies.
Quackity never wants to admit what’s obvious, what’s face value and so plain to see. It fucking hurts. Not just one specific bit of him, it’s everything. He’s… confused, angry, worried, nauseous. He misses his friends, he misses not giving a damn, he misses laughing, he misses-
He- he misses-
He-
Fuck
Misses their hands, their voices, their faces. God, does he miss their faces. He misses it so much that it hurts sometimes to know that he can’t see them again.
Literally.
And it’s not like a “stubborn stomach flu” kind of hurt. No no, it’s like a “I’m going to throw up even though I haven’t eaten in a day” Kind of hurt.
Then again, he could always just-
No, but they wouldn’t want-
Maybe he could stop by or-
What are they going to do for you? Huh?
It’s been 2 fucking months, and not one of them has even bothered to show up. This isn’t some fairytale bullshit that you’re living in, you know?
Well yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt to try-
Try? God that’s fucking pathetic. What an absolute shit show you turned out to be. You’re trying to forget how they look like, and now you want to see them again. Hell, you can’t even think about their names without breaking down! Are you hearing yourself man?
Quackity
Quackity-
“Quackity”
And the man jolts out from the leather that sits below him. Oh yeah, It’s Wednesday already. Huh, he must have forgotten. Niki looks worried, or is it sad? Quackity doesn’t have the energy to really bother about being an empath at this point. Either way, she still looks fucking disappointed, which means that she’s definitely been talking about something important.
She sighs.
“You’re going to have to soon, you know?”
“Going to have to do what soon?”
The room smells like oven baked bread and poppies, and it vaguely reminds him of a warm welcoming hug. Which, to be fair, was probably the right option considering the fact that niki was a baker and everything.
“To see them.”
He knows she doesn’t like to talk about them, and she knows that he doesn’t want to either. But it always comes back to it anyways. No matter how hard he tries to fucking get away from it.
“But what if I-”
The muffled sound of wood against carpet rings along his eardrums. She’s gone to get something from the kitchen although Quackity can’t really begin to tell what it is she’s getting until a shiny red shape appears out the corner of his eye.
“You know what Quackity? If you can get this down then I’ll never bring it up ever again.”
It’s an apple. A fucking apple.
My god, who does she think he is?
“But if you can’t, I’m going to make you see them because I don’t know how much longer I can deal with watching you fuck up your body every single time I see you each week.”
Quackity feels the weight of the fruit in his palm, and he looks up wearily to meet Niki’s own eyes. Soft blue now a sharp lapis under the warmth of the fireplace. He brings it up closer, observing the way it’s crimson skin reflected his own, warped reflection. Now that he thinks about it, its been a while since he’s eaten any fruits, maybe there’s some enzyme here that’s going to make him feel ten times better than he does now, because god knows he needs any help he can get.
His canines pierce into the flesh first, and the first mouthful was pleasant. It tasted like an apple, not like those excuses of fruits that they gave out during the presidency. He was going in for a second before he felt something. It had the sharpness of an iron nail (rusted like one too) and it clawed at his insides.
Then, suddenly, he was on the floor.
Quackity couldn’t really focus on anything, watching as the yellow flame licks away at the walls. I mean, he did focus, but all his attention was brought to the seeping pain that’s starting to make its way up his spine. Niki was watching from the chair, eyes solemn as Quackity felt his eye meet her gaze.
And then, he’s frothing at the mouth, feeling a viscous liquid pour out his mouth haphazardly. By instinct, he rushes his palm over his mouth to try and stop any unnecessary spillage, that’s when he sees it.
A singular orange blossom, covered in a liquid Quackity could only begin to assume was gold.
___________
Kinoko kingdom is shining from the comfort of their balcony. It’s raining, and Karl focuses on the splashes it makes against the tin roof. His head is rested against Sapnap’s chest, the warmth of the other’s body radiating off in a way that reminded him of fireplaces in the autumn. Things have been slower, now with everything being done and what not. He’s spent more time collecting flowers, something that he hasn’t been able to do in a long while.
Maybe he just hasn’t gotten used to being so free, but the days always seem so empty and quiet (or quieter than he was used to). Sometimes he’d catch himself in the pavilion, staring at the orange groves with an ache in his heart and a sorrow he can’t begin to explain. Sometimes he catches Sapnap there too, just as he’s about to leave. They never really talk there, because there’s nothing that they could say which the other doesn’t already know. Sometimes, he catches Sapnap’s gaze and spots the same emptiness that he sees in the reflection on early Tuesday mornings. But they never talk about it, just pretend like everything is okay when he knows that it isn't.
(they really should talk about this, but a few nights ago he saw Sapnap crying in an all too familiar hoodie. He hates it when Sapnap cries)
The bed feels empty, even as he watches Sapnap's chest rise and fall across the moon’s pale glow. He uses the restless nights to think, and sometimes mourn.
(mostly mourn)
Karl likes to play with his engagement rings, feeling the metal in between his fingertips like it’s worth a million dollars. He rests his lips against the band and imagine that it’s him he’s kissing back.
Until, of course, he remembers that he’s not there with him anymore. And then he wills the night to pass over so he can’t feel empty anymore.
He’s broken out of his trance when he feels Sapnap’s thumb trace circles onto his shoulder blade, humming a tune he’s heard on the radio before.
“Karl” The raven mumbles, voice deep with exhaustion. He lets out a mumble of affirmation, although he feels himself drift further into another daydream.
"When do you think he’ll come back to us?”
Karl sobers up instantaneously. He feels his posture stiffen, and he knows the younger senses it too.
“... I- I don’t know.” He whispers, muffled by the rain pouring overhead. “I miss him though.”
“I miss him, a lot.”
His voice breaks off near the end of his sentence, all he wants to do is hide under his blanket and cry.
“I do to baby, I do too.”
And he pushes his head further into the raven’s chest, trying to drown out his sadness with the raindrops that fall onto sturdy tin roofs. Kinoko kingdom glows distantly from a wooden balcony.