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He remembers a pulling in his chest, though he’d be hard-pressed to call it affection, at the realization of what this all is.
They’re throwing him a party.
He can’t be sure how he knows, but it’s his birthday today, and he hasn’t seen anybody yet. But that could be because he’s had a hard time getting up off the floor. He’ll blame the stupid party hat he hasn’t figured out how to take off yet.
Schlatt takes a deep breath in through his nose, better to let the alcohol wear off, he doesn’t want to be drunk when all his friends show up.
Maybe he should practice for when they arrive -it’s rude to know about a surprise.
“Really? A party for me?” he tries. A puddle of whiskey he doesn’t remember pouring betrays that he’s not very good at feigning surprise. His hand’s prod at his face, poking into the lines around his mouth that betray the bit.
Light coming in through the windows makes it hard to see the clock, but it looks like it’s almost noon. It’s hard to tell if it’s a 45 or a 55. They should be here soon.
He should get up, pretend he wasn’t waiting around for someone to come get him.
The room spins when he tries, joints creaking as he rests weight on his hands. He’ll give it a moment and try again.
Torches flicker on the walls halfway burnt; he’ll have to replace them tomorrow. There should be time as long as he doesn’t have any speeches he needs to give.
A speech!
The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He should give a speech. Lots of his friends put aside their various duties, some more glamorous than others, to celebrate with him. They should be thanked.
Quackity needs to be first, all his hard work. Picking Schlatt up, sometimes off the floor, when he can’t carry the nation by himself. Letting him share his dreams, keeping him going.
Tubbo next, the bright-eyed kid he loved like a son. Even after his betrayal -Schlatt blinks. No, Tubbo didn’t betray him. Where did that come from? The kid was the most loyal, the fiercest protector. He didn’t hear about his importance enough.
He checks the clock, squinting into the light. Everyone still has at least five minutes to get here; he’s got time to practice his surprised face some more.
“What, is this a party?” his voice sounds hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again, “you didn’t have to go to all this trouble; of course, I love it.”
The whiskey puddle is dried into the ground, so he pours another, taking a swig to calm his pre-party jitters. His face is better, he looks more alarmed than surprised, but he’s on the right track.
Standing up needs to be next on the agenda, he realizes. They’ll know something is up if he’s just sitting on the floor like he’s expecting them.
This time he braces his forearms against the floor and slowly rests his weight on them before straightening his legs out. It takes too long, but he manages to get himself upright.
Something hits his leg as he stands, and he realizes that he’s still holding the empty whiskey bottle.
Better put it away. He’s supposed to be sober for this. They’re all probably leaving their house right now, only living five minutes away from your friends has its perks. Like timely surprise birthday parties.
He throws the empty bottle into the cabinet; he can ask Tubbo to clean it out tomorrow.
Maybe he should bring one out, offer to share it with his friends when they get here. It’s the perfect combination of normality and high-class occasion. Then they can spring the surprise on him.
He grabs one off the top shelf, old and dark, something he’s been saving for a special occasion. One he’d put there himself when his term started, confident that he’d know the moment when it arrived.
It’s light. Too light.
He looks down at the bottle in his hand. Empty.
His eyebrows furrow. This one was the one he’d be sure to remember drinking. This morning he’d seen it, the full bottle standing out amongst all the overflowing others in its intricacy and splendor, and remembered his birthday. He would know if he’d drank it.
Something sets in, but the jingle of keys outside the door breaks him out of it. It doesn’t matter; he’s celebrating with friends today. And a glance at the clock shows they’re five minutes early too.
oh well, he’ll just get another bottle, he thinks to himself and grabs the next one on the shelf. A little newer but with the promise of overtones and undertones that taste heavenly.
The three drops at the bottom of the bottle will hardly do.
He stares at the shelf; the only full bottle left is the very last one, cheap shit. That won’t do. No alcohol, then.
Opening the door doesn’t reveal any of his friends, just a wind chime off in the distance that he didn’t know about.
But he’s not about to feel upset. They’ve still got time to arrive.
A memory takes hold in his mind. Fundy yesterday had asked about his favorite type of cake. Surely he’s planning on bringing one for the party. Hopefully, the ice cream doesn’t melt before they get here.
He’s nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous on his birthday. He cracks open the bottle in his hand, taking the last few sips from it.
Something seems off, but there isn’t anything wrong because it’s his birthday and he will be surprised with a party today. Besides, he notes the time; everyone still has five minutes to arrive.
Connor walks in and hands him a book, “Surprise!”
He smiles but can’t get a word out before Connor wraps him in a tight hug. Then he steps back and tilts his head in a follow me motion.
Connor’s going to lead him to the party, then.
They step outside, but its night time. A breeze quietly blows through the grass, the only sound he hears other than their footsteps on the path.
When they arrive at his house, he prepares to be surprised at the interior. Behind the other’s back, he practices his surprised face, pleased to feel that he’s got it down.
The door swings open to a dark and seemingly empty room. He flicks the light.
No one jumps out. Nothing happens.
“Well, I have to go for today, but I’ll check in on you tomorrow.” Connor hugs him again, “it’s good to have you back, Schlatt.”
And then he’s alone.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
He didn’t spend enough time practicing to be that good at acting surprised. The liquor. They were all supposed to be there soon.
The calendar on the wall is the only thing void of spider webs, each day marked off with an x. Someone else has been doing it. Schlatt marks them off with a line straight through two corners.
He flips back. Stomach-churning as month after month show nothing but x’s over the days until he gets to today’s date. Or what he had thought it was.
It’s the first day marked with an x.
Frantically he flips back and forth between that and the most recent. Truth clawing into his skin like the strap from the party hat.
A year in a room. Five minutes in a room.
All the memories seep back in from whatever dimension they’d been banished to. A year of staring at the clock, knowing but unable to think that time wasn’t passing. Understanding that no one was showing up but somehow never able to stop expecting them.
His own emotions bleed back in, horror at the inability to comprehend what he knew to be true. Bottle after bottle to wash it all away and the next moment back to manufactured bliss. He couldn’t even taste it.
Talking to himself. Over and over.
It echos in his head.
What is this a party? what is this a party?
His throat was sore, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Repeating the same sentence over and over and always it was the first time.
He remembers crying, begging to be let out, then the next moment wondering why his face had tears streaming down it. Happily waiting for his friends to arrive.
Trapped in his own mind.
Someone’s screaming. The noise is jarring after the quiet of hell.
One of his hands comes up to cover his mouth, and the noise stops. He doesn’t know if he meant to move his hand.
He’s on the ground. He doesn’t know how he got there.
Someone stands him up. He doesn’t know if it’s him. Stares at him at today’s date.
It’s no longer his birthday.