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Formal dinners were almost as bad as meetings, in Schlatt’s opinion. Worse even. With formal dinners, you had to make small talk, and act like you were invested in these rich snobs' lives when both parties had an unspoken agreement that they were trying to screw over each other. In meetings it was strictly business, dinners it was business with a mask of personal connection.

At least for Schlatt that was the way it was. No one wanted to interact with a hybrid. It was ironic considering this was an event to show off all of the accomplishments that hybrid’s had pulled off. A political gathering to try to prove the worth of such glitches in code. That’s why he was here. President of a nation. Was he going to do anything? No. He was a figurehead. This event was not even put on by hybrids, but humans with hero complexes who felt the need to do “good” when most hybrids did not want anything to do with this. It wasn't going to change anything, and they would just become more of a laughing stock than they already were.

So why was he, J Schlatt, President of Manburg, at this stupid political party rather than doing literally anything? It’s not like he had time to spare, Technoblade had just joined the server, and there was no doubt in his mind that the warrior was going to be helping his brothers. And that was a slight problem. Just in general there was a lot of work to be done. He had only been back at his position as president for a week. Almost a month of bed rest had almost killed him.

The fever had raged every day for much too long. He had been bedridden, even if he was not going to admit it. Groaning anytime he had to move to, even if it was just sitting up to take medicine. Hunching over a bucket, and throwing up his guts, taking deep breaths, looking at the water he had just drunk sitting admits a gross mixture of stomach acid. Tears gathering in his square yellow eyes, stomach spasming again, before forcing him to purge his guts again.

Tubbo had not left his father’s side the entire time, always snuggled up to him, or sitting on the chair they had moved next to his bed, bringing his work with him to have something to do while he anxiously waited for Schlatt to open his eyes.

Schlatt had struggled to keep his temper under control during this time. He tried, he did try to keep it under wraps, but there were a few times where everything was too overwhelming, where his body cried out of the soft embrace of alcohol, the only thing that would echo in his mind. There was a time when he threw a lamp to the ground, shattering it every which way, before yelling in frustration.

He would never forget the fear that was in Tubbo’s eyes.

He had apologized almost immediately after doing it, sinking in on himself. His son was quick to tell him that it was alright. That there was nothing wrong, and that he understood that the older ram was just stressed, and trying to break an addiction.

That did not stop the crushing guilt that threatened to suffocate him late at night when the very same boy clung to him.

This was not the first time he lamented that he was Tubbo’s father. Not that he did not like the boy, he loved the young ram with all of his heart, more than willing to burn the whole SMP just to see a smile on the boy's face. No, he regretted the fact that his little boy was stuck with such a deadbeat father. An alcoholic who could barely function without a drink. While he should be protecting his son, Tubbo was taking care of him, making sure that he was eating enough, and staying hydrated, especially with how much the ram threw up.

It had been a horrible few weeks. Even after the fever had broken, and he slowly started to eat more and more solid foods, his entire cabinet refused to let him work. Which left him bored out of his mind. He had created a schedule of everything that needed to get done near the beginning of his recovery, but after that, they did not let him so much as look at anything that was going on, or the work that needed to get done.

Sometimes he would try to ‘visit’ them in their offices, bringing snacks and drinks, trying to catch a glimpse of what they were working on. It never worked, and always ended with him getting pushed out of their offices.

He had read novels, played chess versus himself, went on a few walks, but other than that, there was nothing to do. Schlatt had always been busy, and never had time to pick up on any hobbies. After a while, he started to cook, the White House always smelling wonderful the better he got. Then he did have an excuse to be in offices when he delivered his cabinet their lunches and various pastries that he made.

Schlatt made sure to always ruffle Tubbo’s hair, letting his son know that he was very proud of the young ram.

It was quiet and domestic and made his chest blossom with pride whenever he interacted with his cabinet. A break that he did not realize he desperately needed.

But that did not mean that he did not jump on the opportunity to return to work the moment it was offered. As much as it was nice to have a break, working gave him a sense of purpose that the ram needed in his life.

It was slow at first, but he quickly picked up momentum, breaking out of the restrictions that had been put in place over him, and working the same amount of hours he had been before. In secret, most of the time. While Quackity, Fundy, and Tubbo had done an amazing job keeping the country not blown up while he was away, that did not mean that there was no more work to be done.

And now he was here. At this stupid fucking formal event. Eating dumb tiny horderves that cost more than the expensive suit that he wore, and sipping in drinks that had been saved in basements for years.

Or, in his case, trying to keep himself from taking a drink.

That had been a slight oversight in tonight's events, he would admit. While he had been getting ready, it had not even crossed his mind that there would be alcohol, and people actively encouraging each other to drink. When Quackity had offered to go with him, he had declined, telling the duck hybrid that he deserved a night off, saying that everyone could get off early, and he would be back later.

Now he was standing in the middle of the overly modern, and metal-coated dining hall, awkwardly holding a plate, and waiting for something to start. Completing a single favor that he owned the organizer of the event so begrudgingly, and bitterly, wanting him to be sure that he knew Schlatt was having a horrible time. Bored out of his mind at a patronizing, pandering event that he could not care less about.

He did not give a fuck about what he wanted to start, a boring ass speech, talking about all of the accomplishments that hybrids had made with the organization's help, which was a lie. Hell, he did not mind if one of them got up and started talking about their sex life, he just wanted something, anything to take him to mind off of the liqueur that tempted him.

“Schlatt? Is that you Johnathan Schlatt?” a voice startled him out of his stupor, blankly staring at the wall. He whipped around, coming face to face with the fox smile of Percy Lionscross, an old college buddy that he had known. And a massive prick when Schlatt had known him. Mildly racist and the kind of kid that came with money and thought they knew what hard work was when everything had been handed to them on a silver plate. But he always had the best kind of liquor and drugs, so Schlatt had no problem acting friendly just to get his hands on some. It had been years since they had seen each other. “How have you been! Was not expecting you to be here.”

Another reason that Schlatt hated fancy parties. Backhanded insults that were casually thrown. And it was unacceptable to start throwing punches here too. Schlatt flexed his hooved hands, curling and uncurling them into fists, trying to keep his temper under control. Percy wanted a reaction, and he would be damned if he gave the bastard one.

But the ram had a leg up on the rich kid.

“Yeah, thought I could take at least a little time out of running a country to attend. If it betters all hybrids, I am willing to help,” he said with a smirk, looking the man right in his deep blue eyes. He wore a tight-fitting suit that showed off his physique, with red accents scattered around the clothing. Hair slicked back, and a too white grin on his face.

Percy’s face stretched in surprise, raising an eyebrow at the words. Schlatt had been right. The man had written him off without another thought. Just another hopeful hybrid that wanted to make something of themselves in this world. With no actual talent to get anywhere, to just be crushed under those with much more privilege. That was all Schlatt had heard when he had been in college. That he was nothing and would amount to nothing.

He had Tubbo at a young age, barely in his twenties when the little ram had been dropped off at his doorstep. That had only increased the doubt that everyone had in him.

His son had only further motivated him to succeed, all to provide the good life that he never had gotten to the little ram that called him father. There had been a company under his name in the past. Hell, it was still there in his absence. After he got Manburg under control, he was planning to return to it, running both at the same time. Would it be hard? Yes, but he was confident that he could do it. With his cabinet, he was maybe a little too optimistic about their ability to do everything. It was probably the need to one-up this piece of shit in front of him.

“And you're little….boy,” Percy saved, Schlatt’s blood boiled at the unsaid word, “how is he? Still, the little guy that I last saw?”

“Yeah, he’s doing fine. He’s taking the night off of being the secretary of state.”

Any other parent would have seen how problematic it was that Schlatt had his sixteen-year-old son in a state position. Except these were capitalists. And the younger that someone started on the career, the more they were to be looked up to. Most of the rich kids were tagging along with their parents since they were in middle school, and that was always a point to brag about. That their parents let them go to the big office, and skip school, sitting in on meetings, and learning how to make big decisions.

And Tubbo was unlike any other kid out there, and Schlatt was not just saying that because the boy was his son. It was true. Tubbo had been to war. He had fought in wars, and was in the center of a revolution, and pushing back against the power that Dream held. Schlatt had tried to make the boy step down, to give him a normal childhood, for as long as he had left of it.

But the boy was restless. And while he had more of a childhood now, he still needed to do something with his hands, and brain. So, state work. And none of it was too strenuous, and Schlatt had made sure to keep track of how many hours his boy was working, never letting him get above thirty hours per week. And even despite all of that, after the older ram had had his…..problem, that had all gone to shit.

He did not bring it up, only because he knew that there was nothing that they could do about it. With him out of commission, it had left eighty hours of work left to be done by the other cabinet members. They acted like it was fine, but he saw the dark circles under their eyes growing every day. He saw how their limbs were getting heavy and how Tubbo would fall asleep while they watched a movie after a long day.

Shame and embarrassment burned in him every time he saw them in the halls. Because he knew that they were working hard to run the country that he was supposed to be the president of, and yet he was supposed to be “resting,” leaving them with exhausting amounts of work to be done. It made him almost sick how he had to leave them with that. And yet, every time he would try to stand up, it became very obvious why he was resting, head spinning with withdrawals and skin clammy with a fever.

“Well, let’s drink to your boy,” Percy said, snagging a glass of champagne from a tray that was passing by, “I’m surprised you don’t have something in your hands already. If I remember our college days correctly, there was not a time where you were not wasted out of your mind.” he placed the glass into Schlatt’s hand. The ram tried to cringe back, but his hooved hand was already wrapped around the cold glass. “Oh, the things that you would do. Well, I suppose after you make a whole kid as a mistake, you start to slow down a bit. Ah, those were the days. Anyways, cheers!”

There was a drink in his hand.

The alcohol shined in the light, reflecting it in such a way that it almost looked like gold. Shimmering, so brilliant and beautiful.

He knew what was going to happen the moment he took one drink. The moment that he did, it would all be over. All of the sacrifices that Quackity, Fundy, and Tubbo had gone through would be down the drain. They would all be right back to where they started. He would be back to square one, and it would be his fault.

Again.

The four weeks of being sober. Tubbo hugged him every day, telling him that he was proud, Fundy giving him a proud clap on the shoulder when they were in the kitchen together for lunch; looking at the shine in Quackity’s eyes every time they passed each other in the hall.

Why had he not asked the duck to come with him?

He wanted to drink it. He really really, fucking wanted to. He wanted to put the cold glass to his lips and let the liquor down his throat. It would feel so good. He could finally relax, for the first time in weeks. he could finally feel like himself.

“Schlatt? Earth to Schlatt?” Percy shook his shoulder. The ram flinched back from the touch. “Are you just going to stare at that, or are you going to have some fun?”

Schlatt shook his head. The voice was getting louder. It was not just that he wanted it, he needed it. He fucking needed it. And that was starting to get too loud.

“I quit drinking,” he said with a tight smile, but still held onto the glass with an iron grip. He needed to put this down. He needed to get his mind off of it.

Percy stared at him for a moment. For a second, the ram thought that he would be a decent person.

And then he burst out laughing. An annoying rich person laughs, that would not be too loud to disturb the other people around them.

“Oh yes,” Percy wiped a tear from his face. Schlatt felt like crying but forced his eyes to stay dry. “Everyone has ‘decided to stop drinking,’ and then end up crawling back to it after a couple of weeks. Days. Hell, it was always a miracle if they lasted an hour. Come on, you can’t be serious?”

“Percy, let it go.” Schlatt pushed the glass back into the other man’s hands, before turning heel and walking away.

There were sounds of shoes following him. Percy snaked his arm around the ram, and placed a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He pressed the glass close to Schlatt, making it impossible to avert his gaze from it.

“Schlatt,” he said, almost hissing his name. Snake in the fucking grass. Just like college. “Come on now, it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. You can’t even drink to that? That’s kind of rude of you. Can’t even drink with an old friend?”

Oh, how the insults burned in the back of his throat. Seething under the skin anger that was only growing the more he looked at Percy’s face beyond the glass that was right in front of his face. He could smell the alcohol. He could tell that it was old, and expensive, and was going to have that earthy taste that only aged liquor had. Like so many of his bottles had, before he had binged all of them, and had to resort to cheap alcohol to keep up with his habits. It would taste good. It would taste so fucking good.

“Percy, stop,” he growled, really trying to keep his voice from pleading because that was what he was doing at the moment. He was a weak man. Schlatt knew that. He knew that he was a weak man, and he knew that he did not have the willpower to keep that alcohol away.

He was not strong. Tubbo was strong. Quackity was strong. Hell, Fundy was strong. He was a weak, weak ram, who was fighting to keep himself clean.

“Schlatt, come on now. Just one drink. One, and I’ll leave you alone about it for the rest of the night.”

Schlatt grabbed the glass more desperately and needily than he would have ever wanted to admit, and practically poured the drink down his throat, not leaving a moment to enjoy the taste. If he could not taste it, it was not there, and it was just one drink. He would be fine.

But the way that it burned down his throat, the comforting way that left tingles behind. All those nights flashed before his mind all at once. A time where he was both the happiest, and most depressed. Depressed until alcohol had replaced most of his blood, and he was able to finally relax and sleep.

It called to him. Beckoned. And he knew that falling back into those habits would feel so good, and he would finally be able to leave behind this weight that he carried on his shoulders.

He handed the glass back to Percy with a glare, swallowing thickly to try to get the sensation off of his throat.

“There,” Schlatt growled, “Now if you were to excuse me…”

Headache. Headache that was pounding against his temple. His head was stuffed full with liquid, and his hooves shook under his weight. Turned weak and uncoordinated with alcohol. Schlatt pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to keep the churning vomit in his stomach while shaking his head to try to see straight.

It was that time when everyone was wasted, stumbling out to cars, and chauffeurs, or continuing the night with a pub crawl. And Schlatt? He was left at a table in the main hall with a few other people, while they chatted among themselves. Alcohol was heavy in his stomach, infecting every vein and slowing his brain to a crawl.

He was so tired, his limbs felt like they were going to slip right out of their sockets if he moved them too fast, and his vision swam anytime he moved his head too fast. His horns were too heavy on his head, weighing it down. But there was one constant as he tried to figure out exactly where he was: it was the very painful, hellish burn of shame that roared in him. Every drink had been so smooth down his throat, and every time he drained one glass, another appeared in his hand, and it was too tempting to leave behind.

A weak, weak man. That was who he was.

Tears were prickling at his eyes, lifting an empty bottle to his lips, and grumbling when he found nothing in it. He hated himself. He fucking hated himself. If he had just been a little stronger, if he had just been able to resist, he could be home right now, in bed, sober, but now he was terrified of going back.

The warm glass was taken out of his hand. Schlatt was slow to follow the arm to the wolfish grin of Percy, the man who had stayed by his side the entire night, chatting his ears off, while making sure that his hands were never empty.

Schlatt’s entire body swayed, even if he was using the back of a chair to keep himself from completely slumping over, groaning at the lights that were steadily starting to irritate his eyes.

“Now that is the J Schlatt that I knew from college,” Percy barked, slipping his arm around the ram’s waist, and heaving the drunk man to his feet. He groaned at the movement, weakly pawing at the man’s chest, trying to shove him away. His butter limbs fell loosely to his sides, and he whined in annoyance. “You haven’t changed a bit! Now you just have to get a girl knocked up, and it’ll be like old times.”

The president of Manburg’s body bowed under the weight of himself, even with the help of Percy. His tongue tried to form words. For the man to let him go, to set him down, he was going to be sick, to call someone, to get him out of here. But it hung loosely in his mouth, too uncoordinated to make a noise, much less form words beyond a gargle.

“Come on, ‘Mr. President,’ I know you can drink a lot more than that. A few of us are going to do a pub crawl, just like old times! Let’s get caught up with them.”

Oh.

Oh, that was not good.

“No,” he groaned, finally getting a hoof under himself and completely standing up, twisting his way out of Percy’s grasp, and standing on his own, albeit shaky, legs. His hand was already running down his face, trying to make out where he was, or where he needed to go. They were no longer in the gathering area where the party had been, but in the hallway right outside of the place. The same red carpet on the floor, with cylinder, modern lights hanging from above. One wall was completely made out of windows, the nightlife of this place streaming in through the gaps. Schlatt did not want to be here anymore. He did not want to be in this place. “No, I need to get back. They need me.”

“Oh come on,” Percy’s voice was sickly sweet, and tempting, taking steps towards the man, predatory and slow. “You know you want to. It’s just going to be me and the guys, there’s no reason not to. And you can take a night off, your little country is not going to explode without you there. Come on, it’ll be fine.”

It was not fine.

Nothing was fine.

Schlatt sat slumped against a booth, trying his damndest to take deep breaths and trying to calm the wave after wave of nausea that was berating him. The people around him were being loud and rowdy, making advances at the waitresses that clearly did not want any of it, glaring at their table when they were sure no one was looking.

He had been dragged here. No matter of excuses or explanations were stopping Percy from leading the man down the street and to the nearest bar. Schlatt had gotten too absorbed into trying to give a coherent explanation on why he could not go, that by the time he blinked his eyes, he was getting high fives and greeted by a lot of people. All in suits, all people he did not know.

They ordered drinks and talked to him. Numbers and stock markets, how little they were paying their employees and getting away from it, or what politician they are lobbying to get favor in the government.

Occasionally, they had turned to him, asking how he was running his country, how he was tailoring the system to fit his needs, or lamenting that they did not have the same opportunity, revealing repulsive, disgusting plans to put themselves over others that relied on them to make good decisions. The very citizens that they would have been in charge of protecting.

And the constant of ‘I’m surprised that a hybrid could do such a thing,’ or ‘it’s surprising that they found such a--smart person to get the position. Who were you opposing, some idiot farmer?’ or ‘if you ever think it’s too hard, calls me up, I would love to take over.’

Racist fucks.

That, and alcohol. So much alcohol. There was always something at their table, strong and sugary cocktails that no one was sure who they belonged to, and somehow they always ended up in Schlatt’s hand. And he drank them. And everyone around him cheered at every final slam of the glass.

His tie was undone, trying to get the clamminess off his skin, his stomach rolling with alcohol, revolting against how empty it was. He was confused and hot, and the chills of nausea were not helping.

Slipping out of the booth, and grumbling a response as someone protested to him leaving, Schlatt started to stumble towards the bathroom, his belly sloshing with the disgusting liquids, and wet, painful burps just making everything worse.

The bathroom had that slightly used ting of a bar bathroom, but, tiles floor, with posters covering all of the walls. He did not get a chance to look very much, before collapsing next to a toilet, breathing so heavy that it hurt his lungs, gagging, but his body refused to bring anything up with them.

Tears were rolling down his face, rubbing his aching stomach with one hand, while resting bracing against the toilet with the other. He wanted to throw up, to get some of the poison out of his body, and stop feeling like he had eaten straight gasoline that was eating him from the inside out. Another gag. Nothing.

His head swayed without his permission, letting his mouth hang open to try to get something, anything to come out.

The door opened.

“What are you doing here?” an outraged, feminine voice erupted behind him, making the ram flinch, gagging again, and whining when there was nothing, another knot grabbing onto his stomach.

His head lulled, looking behind his shoulder at a woman in a waitress uniform, looking down at him with a look of disgust, her arms crossed.

Schlatt would have felt a flash of embarrassment if another roll of nausea did not grab him and force his head back to the toilet, only to dry heave again.

“Sorry,” he slurred, trying to shift his hooves under him. His vision tilted, and he collapsed to the ground again, barely catching himself on the toilet to keep himself off of the dirty ground, “must have--missed the men's--” a painful burp forced his face to twist, groaning as he got hotter under the skin.

“Hey, are you ok?” the woman kept her distance, and he could not blame her at all. But a new, fresh look of worry crossed her face, her arms crossed over her chest loosening a bit, almost like she was ready to reach out and catch him if he started to fall.

Schlatt whined, unable to understand what she had said, closing his eyes, trying to get the room to just stop spinning.

“Oh--ok, just breathe ok,” she was next to him, bracing his forearm with her hands, keeping her distance a bit, making sure that he did not fall.

Out of his peripheral vision, caught a look at her face. Makeup that looked like it took hours for her to put on, slightly melty from hours of work, her dark hair pulled into a bun, and out of the way of her darker face, the brown skin covered with a layer of sweat from all of the heat in the bar. She was their waitress.

“I’m sorry,” Schlatt choked out focusing on the water in the toilet, rather on her, feeling her hands pull away from him slightly, “they--oh fuck--” his stomach cramped again, leaning against his the sides of the stall, unable to keep himself upright, desperately waiting for the spell to pass, “they should not have been talking to you like that.”

He was not sure how much of that had been coherent, but he was breathless after the thought, burping again with a miserable groan following close behind it. He was having such a hard time actually catching a breath, his lungs feeling so full, and yet completely empty at the same time. Schlatt had been struggling to stay conscious for at least an hour now, and a creeping through was starting to make more and more sense: alcohol poisoning.

“Oh, yeah, that,” she looked away a little.

Schlatt gagged, and finally, finally, something came up. And it fucking hurt. He panted heavily, still feeling so heavy and confused, and he just wanted to go home.

“Ok, I think you have alcohol poisoning, “ the waitress said, “I am going to go get you some bread. Is there anyone you want me to call?”

Panting, the inebriated ram reached for his communicator, passing it to the woman, as another gag forced more vomit up and out, trying to force himself awake.

He didn’t want them here. Deep, deep down, if his brain was sober, he would have felt the shame of weeks of work and he had destroyed it all. All of the hours of sleep that had been lost because of him did not matter anymore. He had taken the sacrifice that they had made for him and thrown it away.

And deep down, Schlatt knew that. And he was consumed by self-loathing, and hatred, berating himself in his pounding head when he could form a thought. But before that, he just wanted to go home. The sooner he was there, the sooner that he could be away from these horrible people, the sooner he could just stop.

“Here,” there was something soft getting pressed into his hands. A piece of sliced white bread. “Eat it, it’ll help you sober up.”

Giving a shaky nod, he nibbled on the edges of the bread, completely leaning against the side of the stall, just breathing deeply. Nausea had died down, and now he was just feeling tired. So tired. And his wrinkled shirt seemed like the most comfortable thing in the world snuggling deeper into the garment, his suit jacket and tie long forgotten.

“Hey, stay awake,” the girl said, giving his shoulder a rough shake. Her eyes were brown. They reminded Schlatt of Tubbo’s eyes. “I called the first person on your recent calls, they should be here soon.”

Schlatt nodded drunkenly, still biting at the bread, slowly swallowing the pieces and trying not to throw it back up again. He was focusing on not falling asleep. Not entirely sure why not, but he knew, no matter how tired he got, no matter how much it felt like he was getting dragged down, or the hard, disgusting floor of the bathroom felt like the most comfortable bed ever, he needed to stay awake.

He needed to.

He needed to.

He needed to.

He--

Quackity had been having a quiet evening. The first one since they had first taken over Manburg. He was home by six, which did not seem like a lot, but when his normal time to get off work was sometimes one am, it was a huge thing. Looking forward to a lazy evening making some pizza and lounging around, all of the things that he was normally too tired to do during the week.

Rolling his shoulders, he tried to get rid of some of the tension that had built up in the muscles. It had been a stressful last few months, to say the absolute least. Long nights had been stretched out to be even longer, a never-ending stream of paperwork to be done until he could barely see straight, or hold the pen in his shaky hands. Even with Schlatt’s work split up between three people, it had been too much. They had all struggled to even just keep up, an uphill battle that they were always losing.

And that had been made worse that Schlatt had to be taken care of. Not that any of them minded, they all cared about the thick-headed, overworking old ram, and wanted him to get better, but that did not mean that it had not been hard. The older man was a wreck, shivering with a fever, and sickness clinging to his skin, coloring him an unearthly pale, his hands shaking whenever he lifted them. Even when he slept, his face was twisted in pain, mumbling in his sleep, whimpering when things got too intense. There were too many times that he had rubbed the man’s back while he hunched over a bucket, throwing up everything that he had eaten, sputtering out apologies, embarrassment dusting his face.

Because when Tubbo collapsed out of exhaustion, it was up to Quackity and Fundy to make sure the man was still breathing. It was an odd situation to see someone’s boss in such a vulnerable spot, someone he looked up to as a mentor. It sees Schlatt gasping for breath, getting shocked out of restless sleep with a nightmare, the unnatural anger that had taken him over but seeing the instant regret that washed over the man whenever he hurt any of his cabinet members.

And now he was back. And that was directly seen by the amount of paperwork he immediately started taking up. Back to eighty-hour weeks, the president did not waste any time. And while Quackity could not be more grateful that he did not feel like he was going to collapse because of stress anymore, he did not miss the dark bags that started to deepen in Schlatt’s face or the way that Tubbo waited for hours outside of his father’s office, wanting to have dinner with his father. Plate in hand, and another on the floor, while Schlatt talked in an important meeting that could not wait. No work thing could ever wait.

There were times where Quackity wanted them all to step down. To just say ‘fuck it' and leave. Take Fundy, Schlatt, and Tubbo with him, and find a better place to live where they all were not on the edge of a breakdown all of the time.

“Why do you have pineapple juice?” a voice said from the other room, Fundy poking his fox ears around the corner, looking at where Quackity lodged on the coach. The duck hybrid had developed quite the fear of being alone since he had started working in the White House, inviting both Fundy and Tubbo over for pizza and a movie night.

“What? It’s good for your immune system,” he replied, getting up from where he was choosing a movie to make sure that his apartment was not getting burned down by the two hybrids in his kitchen.

It was small and decorated in the oddest way possible since he mostly picked things off of the side of the road, and thrift stores, but it was his. One bedroom, one bath, cramped, leaky shower, his. And he loved it to death, second-hand furniture and all.

“Oh you would be one of those kinds of parents,” Tubbo said from the barstool he sat on, folding his arms and resting his head on them, looking tired but as happy as he could be. They were all still in their work uniforms, but shed their jackets and ties, not willing to make another stop to pick up some comfy clothes before getting to eat. They all might regret that decision later, but at the moment it was the best one that they had ever made.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Quackity asked, spinning to face the ram boy.

“You know, the ones who give their kids herds and homemade medicines and stuff instead of taking them to the doctor.”

“Yeah, and then I would leave them to die if they ever got a cold,” the duck joked, grinning wickedly.

“‘Are you sick son? Here eat this leaf, you’ll feel better soon’” Fundy mocked, pulling out the pizzas that had just finished heating up in the oven. Sure they could have ordered in, but there was something just so good about the oven-made ones that Quackity had been craving recently.

“My kids will be raised on leaves only, and the weak will die.”

“Oh god,” Tubbo giggled.

“It is the way that the world works young Tubbo.”

“We literally work together!”

“And? I’m still above you in rank. Meaning you are still just a child.”

“Oh god, not this.”

“It’s true! Better be careful, I might just start giving you leaves.”

A comfortable silence settled over the coworkers, waiting for the pizza to cool down so they could all snuggle up on the couch and just pig out for the evening. The work of tomorrow was so far away, a night of fun and a good night's sleep away, so it did not exist at this moment. And a part of Quackity wished that Schlatt could be here.

There was a buzz. It was Quackity’s communicator, vibrating on the granite countertop where he had placed it and then forgotten about it. Dread started to crawl in him, and the room felt so cold, all of the heat sucked out as soon as the ringing had started. He was frozen for a moment, just staring at the device, before shaking the thoughts out of his head.

It was fine. It was just a phone call, and honestly, it was probably spam. He had nothing to worry about.

The caller was “Schlatt.” The dread deepened in his chest.

“Hello? Schlatt?” he answered, the name immediately drawing the attention of the other two, feeling their eyes on his back, drawing his duck wings closer to his body. “Is everything ok?”

“Hello?” a feminine, scared voice was on the other side, and Quackity jumped, his heart racing running a hand through his hair, and immediately assuming the worst, “is this Quackity?”

“Yes? Who is this? Where is Schlatt?”

There was a scraping of wood against wood as Tubbo got out of his barstool a little too fast, his hooves hitting the ground with a click. Quackity turned to face them, met with the concern that only a family could give. His hand tightened around the communicator a little and started to beg whatever god he could think of.

Please let him be ok. He just was starting to get better, I don’t know if we can handle something else at the moment. Please just let him be ok.

“Good, good,” the voice said, “umm, do you know where the Dualistic Dip is? On the Lex server?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do, now where is Schlatt? Has something happened to him? Can you put him on?” he was starting to panic, his hands shaking and a sick feeling in his stomach, starting to make his way to the door, Fundy and Tubbo close behind.

“He’s here, and he’s alright, but he might have a bit of alcohol poisoning. And the guys he’s with--I don’t think that they are the best people for him to be around at the moment.”

Quackity stopped. He stopped in his tracks, trying to grab his mind around the information that he had been given. Schlatt had alcohol poisoning. He was probably close to being blackout drunk, and he was drinking again. Everything that they had been through, all of the late nights, and making sure that the stupid old ram was still breathing and everything. It was all for nothing. It had been shoved off to the side like it was nothing. Another, much more unpleasant emotion started to grow in his body, pure, unbridled anger.

He hung up.

“Schlatt’s drunk,” he muttered, storming out of the apartment his shoes just pulled on and moving down the dark hallways of his apartment building.

“What?” Tubbo’s voice cracked, running to catch up with the duck's fast pace, and Fundy close behind, his ears pinned to the side of his head.

“Schlatt’s fucking drunk again!” he yelled, shoving the door open, the cool air of Manburg greeting him, as he stormed to the portal. He was fucking pissed.

Tubbo had no idea what was going on. He had no idea what--what?

One moment, they were joking around in Quackity’s kitchen, making some pizza, ready to spend the night inside and watch a movie, and now they were getting into the president cab, instructing the driver to take them to the Lex server.

The vice president was angry. His face was twisted to an unpleasant scowl, looking straight ahead, and refusing to avert his gaze from anywhere else than right ahead. Fundy twisted his paws around in his lap, his fox ears pinned close to his head, and keeping his gaze on his lap. And Tubbo? He did not know where to look. What to do. How to even really move. What? What was going on?

Schlatt was drunk. That was all Quackity had said. That and a location. That was all that he had. And Tubbo did not want to believe it. He desperately wanted to believe that he had just misheard what had been said. But from the other two cabinet members' reactions, that was not right.

He didn’t know if he should be bursting out in tears, or if he should get angry, script out what he was going to say to his father when he saw the ram, or if he should just--sit there. And be unsure of how he should react. Mind swimming with emotions that berated him on all sides.

The coldness of the portal took him over. There were direct links to the major cities, allowing smaller servers to jump right to them, but because of the way that Dream had the server set up, they would have to go through the main hub to get back to Manburg. But that was the furthest thing from the young ram’s mind at the moment because he was still trying to process what was going on.

Loud honks of traffic berated his mind, and the lights of the much larger server attracted his scattered mind, watching them pass just outside of his window. It was the longest car trip that they took before their driver let them out on the sidewalk, telling them that he would circle around and pick them up.

His hooves clicked on the concrete sidewalk, taking quick steps to keep up with Quackity, bursting into the bar, and making a beeline to the back of the place. A group of loud men, in formal dress, was off to the side of them immediately as they opened the door, shouting over at the waitress to bring them something. It was loud, and that was hurting Tubbo’s head more than it already hurt.

The group stormed to the back of the mostly wood-decorated bar. Right before a little hallway, with a sign that said “bathrooms” over it, was a woman. A waitress from what it looked like, nervously looking around, twisting her hands around each other. Her face relaxed as soon as she saw them, meeting them halfway.

“You must be Quackity,” she said to the vice president, breathing a sigh of relief, “thank god you came. Normally we would have just gotten him a cab, but--I don't know. I’m sorry, follow me. I gave him some bread, and it worked a little, but he was still very drunk.”

Quackity was the first in the door, swinging it open and marching in, with a tension in his shoulders that Tubbo found hard to ignore. He was close behind the duck, turning a corner a little sooner than the latter, looking frantically around the bathroom, trying to spot the ram.

There he was. Sitting on the floor, slumped over and loose, chewing in the last remains of a piece of bread, looking paler than he had in a while. His hair was a mess, and his collar was undone, even his horns seemed a little less bright and shiny than before.

This was wrong. Tubbo immediately knew that something was wrong. Not just because his father was drunk for the first time in weeks, but this was not normal. Tubbo had seen Schlatt drunk, he had seen it up close and from afar, even if the ram liked to think that he was good at hiding it, there was not much that could be hidden from his son's sharp gaze. And this was not normal. Schlatt got loose when he was drunk, but there was still a sense of pride that seemed to be perpetually attached to the man. And he knew that his father would rather die than be seen in public with his shirt and hair in the state that they were, much less on a bathroom floor. The ram was a proud man. And he did not let go of the pride easily.

Something had happened. Something bad.

Tubbo slid to a stop next to his father, grabbing onto his hand, and allowing the man’s square eyes to shift over to where he was squatting. There was a gaze over them, his mouth open and taking in large breaths, chest shivering with each one like they were physically hurting him.

“Hey dad,” he muttered, rubbing the back of Schlatt’s large hands, hoping that he knew that he was here.

Tears started to coalesce at the edges of his eyes. Oh, this was so wrong.

“Hey Tubs,” Schlatt slurred, the words heavy in his mouth, slowly picking an arm up and cupping so softly around Tubbo’s face. And he could not help but lean into it, trying his damndest to keep his tears away, a shuttered breath shaking him to his core. “I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry.”

There was a moment of silence where Tubbo just soaked in the smell of his father, of the cologne that he wore, and the smell of paper that seemed to cling to him no matter what. This should not be happening. Things should be getting better, they deserved to have things get better, and now--now--

“Let’s get you home dad,” Tubbo said, hoping that it did not sound as sharp as it had felt on his tongue. He did not want to be angry at the man. He really did not. But that was so hard when he had broken the one promise that he had wanted his father to keep.

Ignoring the distraught and hurt look on the drunk man’s face, Tubbo moved forward and started to swing the man’s arm around his shoulders.

A hand was on his back, pulling his gaze to where Fundy was holding him. A saddened and forced smile on his face. Quackity was behind him, arms crossed and looking down at the scene in front of them. From his face, they all had come to the same conclusion as Tubbo, that something was wrong. Most of the anger had melted away from the duck, but not all of it was completely gone. And there was no blaming the vice president.

“Let us do this,” Fundy said dryly. “You can help lead the way, but he needs someone steady to keep him upright.”

Tubbo nodded tightly and stepped aside for the other two hybrids.

With more gentleness than would have been expected, Fundy wrapped his arm around Schlatt’s waist, and Qauckity got the space across his broad shoulders, and they lifted the man onto unsteady hooves. The ram groaned at the movement, his head rolling to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. It looked like he would have said something if his mind had allowed him to say any thought his drunken state came up with.

They slipped out of the woman’s bathroom, Tubbo holding the door, and thanking the waitress that had helped them so much. He made a mental note to come back later and give her a big tip.

Tubbo could see where the driver was parked and breathed out. It was going to take a few hours to get back to their server since they had to drive through the main hub highways, but there was not a lot of traffic into the Dream SMP, so after a certain point they would have no other cars to compete with. He was ready to just get back home, get his father to bed, and worry about the answers to the mounting questions that he had.

They passed the same table that had been so loud as before, paying no mind to them, more or less just stuck in his head of everything that he needed to do before he could sleep for the night.

It was a man who grabbed onto him and stopped him in his tracks.

“You must be Tubbo!” the man said, his face red with intoxication, holding onto his arm a little too tight. The ram jumped, immediately trying to free himself, but the man just tightened his grip. The man's hair was slicked back, red accents covering his expensive-looking suit, with a wicked grin pressed to his mouth. The man looked beyond where Tubbo was and saw the nearly passed out Schlatt in between Fundy and Quackity. “Aww, why are you taking him? We were having such a wonderful time. Come on, he’ll be fine.”

Oh. Oh.

Tubbo tried to pull his arm out of the grip again, now properly struggling against the man, a few of the other men at the table chuckling at the scene in front of them, drinking their drinks as panic started to settle into the young ram. He wanted to get away. Everything in him was screaming to get away, to run away and never look back. He needed to get away.

There was a hand on his wrist, grabbing it loosely and gently, and a much harder grasp on the man’s arm, forcing him to look up at the pissed expression of the vice president of Manburg. With a single harsh pull, the two were separated, and Quackity ushered Tubbo behind his wing and stared right at the man.

Without a word, lingering his gaze a little, the duck hybrid turned and guided his cabinet members out of the bar, dead silence seeing them out, and into the car.

With Schlatt nestled between Fundy and Tubbo, the drive back started. Lights danced across the president’s sickly face, one hand in both of theirs, shaking him awake every once in a while to make sure that he could still be woken up.

They pulled in front of the White House, helping Schlatt out, and up the steps, depositing him into his bed, barely taking anything off before letting the man fall into plush covers and pillows. He muttered some words that did not make sense before completely passing out.

“What should we do now?” Fundy asked, twisting the hair at the end of his tail in his hands.

“We go to sleep, and make sure he does not die in his sleep,” Quackity said bluntly, disappointment lacing every word he spoke. “Then, we demand answers tomorrow.”

And they followed. Tubbo felt awkward moving to his room when Fundy was here, so they both decided to sleep in the living room on the coaches, pulling blankets up close to them, and forgetting the hunger that clawed at them, because eating did not seem possible at the moment.

And they waited. And they slept. And they tried to grapple with the sacrifice that had been put to waste.