Chapter Text
The night had been half of the battle. After getting the drunk president to his bed, they had to make sure that he stayed alive. Waking him up every fifteen minutes or so, just to make sure that he could. Sure it would have been a smart move to bring him to the hospital, but with the tensions as high as they were in the nation, there was no guarantee that they would not run into issues. Schlatt’s alcohol problem was not especially public knowledge.
They took shifts, one person staying up for a few hours before they changed. Qauckity watched the slow rise and fall of Schlatt’s chest, the way that the ram clung to his pillow, burying deep under the covers. The duck’s wings twitched with irritation every time the man took a breath, having to stop himself from doing something he knew he would regret.
It was a likely story. That Schlatt conveniently forgot alcohol was going to be at the party, that he would just so happen to run into some buddies and go to a bar after already being wasted. After everything that had been sacrificed, working themselves to the bone, the weariness of those weeks still clinging to Quackity. Watching his co-workers basically fall apart before his eyes, only to watch the man who was supposed to be running the country make the same mistakes over and over again.
But at this point, where are they really mistakes? An ugly, angry part of Quackity told him that no, they were not mistakes. What was he really expecting? The cruel, ruthless businessman somehow grew a heart? Greed had skipped over a generation, Schlatt missed a lecture on how to screw people over. Sure, like that was realistic.
He should have been expecting it; that was what the duck was kicking himself over the most. The fact that he had been fooled. That he had thought that things were going to get better, that a good president was finally running the country, and that they were going to be ok. That they could fix the country that was doomed to fail from the start, that he could do some good. Gods, what a fool he had been.
They were all the same. Greedy and heartless, Quackity was sure that he would not be able to hear the man’s heart of he tried to, that the dead space in his chest would be filled with the clink of money, the only thing he really cared about.
Fifteen minutes had passed. It was time to make sure that Schlatt could still be woken up.
His joints creaking and aching as he rose out of his chair, Quackity walked over to the side of the bed, placing a hand on the ram’s shoulder and roughly shaking him. Schlatt startled awake, tired, and drunk mumblings before rolling over and shoving his face back into the pillow.
Quackity sneered at the sight of the man. And to think that he once believed that this man would be the one to bring their country to great things, the one who would make them powerful. He had begged the ram to join the country, to run for president, an acquaintance from long ago, and the only one he knew that was charismatic enough to win the people over. Even if it was just by one percent. And the more he looked, the more he regretted his decision. The more he hated the man under him, the more he wished he had chosen someone else.
The vice president returned to his chair before he did something he was going to regret and let the rage roll around in his head for a little longer. A little angrier with every breath the president took. And thinking of all of the things he could have done differently.
***
JSchlatt swirled the liquor in the crystal glass, looking out at the city below. He was home, having just put his son to bed, and was watching the world go by for a while. After long days, he liked to take it easy before going to bed, just watching the world slowly move past, smiling at how things gave the illusion of slowing down during the night. Their suite high above everyone else made it easy to watch the world go by without admitting the chaos.
It was a good life. More or less a good life. He was successful, tired but he made money, and his son was doing well in school. Schlatt did not have much in the way of friends, but it was not like he had time for friends as it was; he barely had time to spend with Tubbo, his son, which he hated himself for. But his company thrived, and they had money to spare, a far cry to the humble, almost starved beginnings.
Another drink. He gulped down a mouthful of the liquid, letting it burn the sides of his throat, used to the way it felt.
Everything was good. It had been burdensome, there were times where he was not sure that he was going to make it, but he had made it. Schlatt had survived, and he finally got to a place where he was alright. The memories of a painful past were ignorable on good days and drunk away on bad ones. Tubbo was ok and was actually doing well. Sure, they did not hang out as much as they had used to, but that was alright. They were both busy, and these things just happened. Especially when he was the president of a whole country, they would get a little swamped, but at least they could still work together.
Wait--
“Dad--?” there was a small, squeaky voice of Tubbo, and Schlatt turned to face him.
He looked at the form standing at the swinging door of the bathroom stall, his back pressed painfully against the wall. Tubbo was there. Face twisted, and his lip downturn, looking down at his father with disgust. He sneered, and Schlatt tried to stop his chest from caving in on itself.
“Tubbo?”
The ram looked at him, his teenage body so much different than the toddler Schlatt was sure he had put down to bed. The hate that was in Tubbo’s eyes was too familiar. It looked like his own, staring back at him every day, every time he looked into a mirror and hated what he saw. Expect this hurt more. Hating himself was easy; hearing the harsh words echoing around in his head was natural and comfortable. But seeing it in other people made it a little too real for the ram to handle.
“Tubbo?” he tried again, starting to walk over to where his son was standing, “what’s wrong? Why do you--”
Something shoved his chest, and his legs tripped over each other, his back slamming against a wall that he was sure had been further away, looking up at the vexed eyes of his son.
“You promised that you would be better!” his scream echoed off a small space, and the walls were right next to them, surrounded by people of the SMP, adorned in armor and weapons pointing at him. Schlatt put a hand down to sit himself up more but slipped on something cold and slippery. Bottles surrounded him, all empty. “You promised that you were going to do better, and now you are just back to where you started! You have not changed at all; you never change! You’re just as weak as you always have been.”
“Tubbo, wai--” his head spun with alcohol, the familiar feeling of rawness in his throat burned with the drink that made him a slave to. His tie was undone and sloppy, his shirt’s buttons all over the place, and the discomfort of his dirty skin, oily and gross from nights of not being washed. People kept looking at him. He recognized a few of the faces. Wilbur, Quackity, Tommy, Fundy.
Schlatt’s arm gave out on him, a searing pain that he had never felt before ripping through the muscle like it was getting peeled off of the bone, wracked through with sharp claws. He could not stop the yelp of pain that escaped him, falling back down the rough ground of the cramped van.
“Why can’t you do anything right?” Tubbo shouted; tears of anger started to stream down his face, contorted in betrayal; he could not look his father in the eyes. “Why can’t you just be better? Why can’t you just be a good father?”
Confusion was becoming an ocean around him, seeping into his ears, making all of the voices around him so far away. But he had heard that loud and clear like there was a funnel right to his brain. Everything was spinning, and there was a burning in his chest. Breaths became gasps, and there was so much noise around him.
“Why do I even bother?” Tubbo was walking away, the boy was walking away, and Schlatt tried to go after him, talk, and just say fucking something to get him to stop. To get him to turn around and just look him in the eye. Schlatt thought that he had been doing a good job, he had the boy in school, and he had friends. Sure, the ram was not around a lot, but that was because of business, and--
And--
Alcohol. Percy.
There was a brace on his chest, contracting in, crushing his fragile ribs like they were twigs, the shattered bits of bones puncturing his lungs, letting the air leak out to the rest of his organs. Gasps became choking, and he collapsed, clawing at his shirt because it was suffocating him. He was going to die, and there was still so much he needed to make up for. So much that he had to do.
Bugs crawled out of his eyes and started to bite his skin, crawling in the spaces in between his muscles, eating them away.
Schlatt screamed, the violation of his body revolting against him, refusing to let him take in another breath to cry again, choking on the air that was supposed to fill his lungs. He was being eaten, consumed by the things around him, and the people just stared as their president writhed on the ground. Schlatt was watching himself, but the pain was so gut-wrenching, it almost felt like he could not see the bugs crawling through his hair, drilling into his skull and infecting his brain.
People started to laugh. Point and laugh at his suffering while his son was walking away, a void of darkness all around him. The chewing was bleeding into his ears, his jaw vibrating at every bite that was taken out of him, agony silencing him until he was just a blubbering mess on the ground. Tears lazily dripped from his eyes as his vision started to narrow, the laughter starting to become background noise to his own suffering, the numbness of the infection starting to feel so distant. Drool dripped from his mouth, his brain taking its last thought before nothing.
The bugs started to evacuate the corpse, and the people stopped their mockery, turning and leaving without another word. And Schlatt watched as his body was abandoned, alone in the middle of the dark void, cold and alone. And he cried.
~
Waking up from the dream should’ve been more dramatic. Schlatt should have been startled awake in horror, sweating and hunched over, someone concerned standing over him, a crease in their brow because of worry, hearing his cries from down the hall, and wanting to help. Not wanting to see him suffer.
No, when the president woke up, it was slow and agonizing. His soul slipped right into his own body, settling right into space in his rib cage, and his eyes silently started to open. Aware of the colors dancing behind his closed lids and following them until he was aware that he was looking at a blank wall in his room at the White House. His breathing was labored and heavy, wracking his chest with each and every one. There was a pounding headache in his brain, like when his horns first started to come in, only worse. It was laced with guilt as well.
His stomach turned with dehydration; Schlatt was reminded of what he had done, of the promises he had disregarded. Of the trust that he had broken. Of how weak he was.
It was numb in his brain. The insults whirled around in his head, disgusting, useless, failure that had not changed. But they did not have the impact that they normally did. Usually, there was a sense of comfort that he took in the berating that the ram did to himself, like armor that he was putting on. If he could punch himself before others did, then it would hurt less. It did not hurt when you were told something that you already knew. If he knew he was a piece of shit, deadbeat father, alcoholic, then it did not hurt when others told him those same things.
Except for that mantra that he had gotten used to, weak, whore, incompetent, had lost its sting, its magical power to keep him safe. They were just words at this moment. A language made up of millions and millions of years of trial and error, and they did not mean anything. They, loser, idiot, waste of space, meant nothing. Just a part of a routine that he was so tired of being in.
There was someone else in the room. The slight rustle of pages being turned made his ram ears twitch.
Schlatt did not want to get up. His stomach starting to lead a revolution against him, rolling at the thought of moving, and his head was pounding with sledgehammers. He wanted to turn over and forget everything that had happened. Forget what he had done. Maybe if he shut his eyes tight enough, then sleep would take him once again, and he could fall again and just avoid the conversation he knew was in his future.
With any luck, he would not wake up.
There was a roll in his stomach, flipping and folding in on itself before vomit started to rise in his throat.
It was a dash to the bathroom, hoove shaking under his weight as soon as they touched the ground, but quick adrenaline carried him all the way there, sliding to a stop in front of the toilet, before stomach acid and chewed fancy horderves started to pour out of his mouth.
His throat burned with the acid, tears welling up in his eyes, keeping himself up with shaky arms, begging the universe to be over. Sides cramping with every new spew of punk, retching into the dirty, disgusting bowl, having to close his eyes at the sight. Memories of a week of this, sweaty suffering, throwing up, and constant irritation that was just under his skin floated into his mind. Schlatt had already been through this, already suffered the consequences of a lifetime of mistakes, and now he was right back where he started.
Except, this time, there was no soft hand rubbing his back up and down, whispering sweet things to him, telling him that he was alright to keep his mind for spirling, and making sure that he did not pass out hanging onto the side of the bowl. There was no feeling of someone being there, with small touches and words. He was alone, sitting on the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom, purging his guts of everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours, getting rid of the last bit of evidence that the party had even happened, the alcohol long since worked its way out of his system. Tired despite having just woken up, shaking under the weight of cold and sickness, his body was trying to catch up with what he had put it through.
And the painfully obvious and stabbing knowledge that he was alone.
The vomit slowed down, allowing him a moment to wipe his mouth, flush, and rest his head on the cold seat of the toilet, a moment to get air back into his aching lungs.
“You should drink some water,” the voice caught him off guard, nowhere near to collecting himself, when his head snapped over to the entrance of the bathroom. Quackity was there, his wings framing him, his arms crossed, and leaning against the frame. A colder expression than Schlatt was used to on the duck’s face. “You’re going to be dehydrated from throwing up and the drinks last night, so you have to start replacing your fluids. It’ll help you get better.”
He was walking away; the vice president had turned his back on the ram and was walking away. Schlatt had to say something, panic grabbing ahold of his weak heart. He couldn’t just let them walk out; he had to fix this. It did not matter if they did not accept his apology; they just needed to know how truly sorry he was.
“Quackity,” he choked on his sore throat, wincing at the way it felt, but refused to stop, “I-I’m sorry.”
His confidence and bravo had been stripped from him; pride lay in tatters on the floor of a woman’s bathroom where he begged his son for forgiveness. For the first time in a very long time, Schlatt was defenseless, vulnerable against his own will. Painfully fragile on the floor of the bathroom, at the mercy of those around him.
And he knew that he did not deserve their mercy.
“Sorry?” Quality echoed, his back still turned to the ram. “You’re sorry? Gee-whiz, I guess everything is fixed now, and everything can go back to the way that it was.”
Schlatt flinched at the tone, too tired and worn to stop himself, his eyes downcast to the floor.
“Quack--”
“No, Schlatt!” the duck turned to face him, anger was written all over his face, his hands balled into fists like they were a moment away from punching the ram, “you screwed everything up, and I don’t even want to know why. To relive your glory days, to just get a kick out of destroying all of your progress--of our progress! We were doing so well, and then you had to go off and pull that stunt; Jesus fucking Christ, what were you thinking?”
Schlatt’s ram ears were pressed against his head, his tongue twisted to knots. Thankfully the duck did not give him a chance to respond.
“I’ll tell you, you weren’t thinking; you were just doing things and not considering how they are going to affect other people like you always do! And I am fucking done; I’m sick of it. You’re on your own. Fuck this, and fuck you.”
There were sounds of shoes disappearing into the distance, but he could only barely be able to hear them over his own heartbeat. A blank mind, worthless, burdon, unlovable, to accompany his numb body. And the overwhelming feeling that he was truly alone.