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Enjoy yourself.
I hope to see you back here soon.
Good luck.
The cloying embrace of the Inbetween holds him gently, firmly, in place.
"Heya, bud. You okay?"
Is he, in fact, okay? Instead of answering, Karl peels his cheek from the table and rubs the sleep from his eyes. It's a real nice table too, whorls and knots all sanded down and waxed to a golden sheen. He glances up and Helga Cletus Drew Jack Quackity looks down at him, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.
"Weird to see you from this angle," he snickers instead of saying what he wants to say, and it is a mark of how wrecked he must look that Quackity doesn't take the bait, just rolls his eyes. "You're short? Actually kind of super embarrassingly short? Grow?" It's working already. Whatever nightmare had scared him into wakefulness is already clumping and falling apart like wet sand in each synapse. For the best. Undoubtedly, this is for the best.
"Any askers?" comes the impassive reply.
Heh. That's funny. One of their jokes. "You didn't answer my question, dipshit." Rolling his shoulders once, twice, bedhead untamed, Quackity glances at Karl's latest notebook but does not pry. "What's gotten into you lately?" It's softer than before, almost dancing on the edge of concern. Lately means more than once, oh dear, oh no.
"I'm fine," Karl lies too quickly, head pounding as he stands and tries to make leaning on the chair look like a choice. Based on Quackity's expression, his face is as ashen as his hands. "Might beg a health pot from Robi-rob, I mean, rob one from Sam, but then I'll catch up. Meet you at the chopping block?"
"The what?" No, Karl agrees with the confusion. Exactly, the what? Chopping block? Maybe he'd been dreaming of Technoblade's failed execution. That was less a chopping block than an anvil block, all things considered. A crushing block. He shakes his head to clear it, groans at the resulting stab of nausea.
Cotton wool wadded into the roof of his mouth. Expensive, aged wine that tastes like bile and bitter sin. Prime, he's going to throw up, but he swallows it down long enough to correct himself.
"I was going for, uh, 'down the block'. Wanted to start work on some houses. Nothing bomb-worthy, no revolutions or anything," and Quackity twitches, "just. Space for people to stay who don't want to be a part of the Dream SMP anymore. The kids are working on something similar. A hotel."
It is cruel to say this. The new kingdom already has a church and a town hall and a sense of homeliness. But he doesn't want to be the one to tell Quackity that El Rapids is over, and so he does not. Selflessness has never been Karl's area.
Stiffening somewhat at the mention of Dream, Q shrugs on his coat and beanie. Although his fiancé doesn't like wearing armour unless he has to, Karl privately thinks the hat reassures Quackity of safety in a different way. He reaches out to tug it down over his fringe and gets a middle finger to the face for his trouble.
"Alright. See you there, you awful, awful man."
"Wuv yoo toow, Awex-"
"Go fuck yourself, asshole." When Karl raises his eyebrows, he softens the harsh tone somewhat and pats him on the shoulder. "See you there." In the end he doesn't even ask Sam for the potion. By now he knows it wouldn't help.
As he props up a flagpole and hangs the silly flag that no longer means anything, he considers being honest.
It does not appeal. On a base level, he's aware that El Rapids was more of a joke than a country. A claim staked by three fiancés and a charismatic narcoleptic, a last-ditch effort to grab back some semblance of the organisation and power Quackity holds so dear. The anarchists never counted it as a threat, and nobody else seemed to mind one way or the other. But does that matter, when the joke was so funny and so happy and so nice? Yesterday, Las Nevadas was officially dissolved. Today, he feels no different. It is the tenth day of the second month of 2021. Karl is, distractedly and incrementally, happy.
Blood spatters against the flag and Karl stumbles forward to wipe his mouth. The stain is too vibrant, too bright a crimson, as if the very animation of his being was soaking into the thick fabric. For a fleeting moment, he is horribly scared, and he does not recognise its pattern.
Soon enough Q comes over with the materials, and he must contain his growing disorientation. They build companionably. Although he has never held much of a personal grudge against Dream and Technoblade, it is odd and lovely to see Quackity feeling safe for once in his life. Maybe, albeit somewhat indirectly, those two behemoths of violent influence have done a little good.
"We can go fishing after this, if you want," he suggests, through a mouthful of screws and with more of a dreamy lilt than he'd like. They were supposed to go fishing yesterday, but the exploration crew had found- No, he was building a house out of mushrooms- No, he was... His head hurts so fucking much. Honking much. He doesn't swear. Karl never swears.
Quackity gives him the worried stink eye again to an almost professional degree, which is impressive as he's currently nailing a plank to a ceiling whilst balanced on a beam thinner than his ankle. "And get slimy-ass fish gunk all over our fuckin' hands? You'd hate that even more than I would."
Oh, yes. That's true.
"Huh. Guess you're right. Force of...habit. Or something. You're good at this, y'know," he adds earnestly.
"Ah'm jus' strong like that, baby," Drew giggles, flexing. Karl almost falls into a ditch and can't even remember what shocked him. Quackity steadies him by the hip, wittering nervously about heights. Something about Texas. Sapnap, maybe? He lets it go.
Strolling down the Prime Path, listening to Quackity hum-titter-sing, the afternoon is kind to Karl's headache and he is content. All is well. His muttering mind is placated, a still glassy lake, until he tastes smoke. Someone's old magma installation has set the nearby shrubbery alight. Logically, Karl knows it won't get far past a little smoke in the wet grass. Terrified, Isaac sucks in a preparatory gulp of air and tackles Cletus out of the way. Not again. Not again, he's not going to burn again.
Then Karl blinks. They're halfway down the bank, nose to nose in the greenery. For a moment Quackity looks almost charmed, but then he shoves Karl away and begins the regular routine of complaining loudly, brushing clippings from his tracksuit bottoms.
"Shit. As much as I'm flattered, it's like, one bush. I can look after myself, big guy." He chuckles and reaches up - far up - to wipe some mud from Karl's forehead. The touch feels alien, wrong. It all goes wrong about there.
"No," he brings down his heel to grind out the embers with far too violent a motion, "you," he yanks Alex away from the bushfire by the wrist with all of his strength, spins him away from the pathside copse like they're only waltzing, "can't!"
There's a harsh burst of noise that sounds like misaligned teeth clacking together. It's him. "None of you can! Not one!" When he can breathe again Quackity's just gawking at him, twisted mouth agape in horror and fear. Oh, Prime, he looks...small. Like he's retreating into his own head. It is a familiar and poorly-veiled horror. Immediately Karl claps his other hand over his mouth and lets go, reeling backwards into a fencepost. He tries to apologise four times. They walk the rest of the way home in silence.
"Wanna stargaze on the roof, cariño?" Although Jack's voice croaks as they shut the front door behind them, it offers him an olive branch. He takes it gratefully by shrugging in consideration. "It's a clear night, I can call Mason-"
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wrong names, wrong time. He needs this to stop, he needs to focus on what's important and what's real and what's actually literally happening. Helga raises her eyebrows in barely-concealed worry as Karl shakes his head. Vigorously, and obviously. No. Rather a bizarre woman she might be, but she doesn't deserve to die looking at the stars again. He doesn't want to have to watch that again. No more death. No more.
Every time, Karl dies. It's the only way to escape. It's the only way to get out. Maybe this is a Tale, in and of itself. Maybe, if he accepts the offer of the roof, he'll find out.
"Please can we all just go to bed," he asks without asking, monotone. It doesn't sound like him, although he's not entirely sure what that implies. The boy in the beanie looks at him for a long second before blinking, slowly. Karl remembers that's as good as a nod, but not how he remembers or where from.
Obviously he needs to sleep. "I promise you we'll talk about this in the morning. I'm...I'm really sorry, Alex. What was it, carry-nyo." Quackity scoffs, a wince tempered by affection. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You still did," he snaps dully without even attempting a second laugh, rubbing at his temples in the long-suffering way of a man who aches. "But it's okay for now. We'll talk it out tomorrow when your brain's back from wherever it goes. For now, yeah. Sleep."
It's too early, really. Karl puts something tuneful on the jukebox, and curls up by the fire to rest with his eyes wide open. After a while he is implored to, "Sit the fuck down like a normal person, Jacobs," and tries to dull his migraine with the gentle susurrus of Quackity's ever-shifting wings.
Remarkably, he does not forget anything about himself for hours. In the dusty living room mirror, he surreptitiously stares at Quackity as he reads a book. Inevitably, he gets caught, and sheepishly pretends to start a staring contest with himself. His jawline feels a little bit wrong. His eyes are a dishwater brown. Inevitably, he catches his fiancé staring at him.
At some point they migrate from the couch to upstairs, a tangle of loose limbs and wordless camaraderie after the grueling work of the morning and the mental gymnastics of avoiding each other all evening. Maybe normally he would apologise, but he's so fatigued. Every second blink the world loses all its hues, lacklustre alabaster with the blinding exception of sunset. Something about the flat spectrum of whites and greys is infinite. Lovecraftian, eerie, yawning. Something about the vibrant orange sky is worse. Karl turns away from the sky's searching gaze and yanks the duvet to his neck.
"He's been really out of it today," Quackity whispers over his head as someone else shoulders the door inwards. "Bad day again. Almost really hurt me, but I don't think he, like, meant to. Give him some space?" The end of the bed dips as he rubs at his eyes, watches the pretty colours dart around on his eyelids. Teal and plum, spiral sparks of tired lightning, they soothe and stress in equal measure. Another portal, so soon. That would just honking suck. Someone starts carding a hand absently through his hair.
"Naturally. I've been worried about him, lowkey."
"I'm still awake, yanno." He feels, uncharacteristically, satisfied. When he opens his eyes to the lamplight there is no green-swallowing fire. The world is pale and still in ways he knows it should not be. There are no stars. There is no crushing, churning water beyond the curtained windows, just the comforting feeling of being at home. Of course most of that's a lie, home being one of the gentler delusions of his book-addled brain, but he has never been a strong man. It's so, so much easier to pretend. It's so tempting to relax into the love of two kind protectors.
He notes, distantly and clinically, that he does not know these people's names. They like him, though, anyway. They like him enough to let him pretend.
The broad-chested guard in the doorway reminds him of a beach, somewhere. Of waves lapping at the shore. He laughs like it too, as the other character, um, the other, ow, the other boy keeps patting him worriedly on the head. Were he not what he is, he really would quite like to get to know these people properly. Ah, well. Can't be helped.
"Course," concedes the pirate with fond grogginess, ambling over past them. James isn't dressed right anymore, why isn't he...who...what? "Course you are." All at once the lights dim, sputter and go out. The night is quiet and calm and good. "Night, Quackmeister." Yawning, the silhouette topples onto his own bed and murmurs, "G'night, Karl."
At that the time traveller smiles, dopey. The Inbetween awaits.
"Who's Karl?" he asks. It's probably just the name of whoever he's inhabiting in this timeline, but his mouth fires off faster than his brain in a moment of inevitable faux pas. The hand in his hair stills. The question hangs in the air like a second blanket as the room slips into silence.
No matter. If an answer comes, he's asleep before he hears it.
--
Karl Jacobs wakes up all at once, and finds himself inside a mushroom. The ceiling has cute little spots. It all comes flooding back. There are no gaps in his memory. He is a whole person. He is delighted and beloved and full of colour and so, so himself.
Sunrise is just over. Karl catches the tail end of it, a careless final splatter of yellow on the horizon, and it is indescribably beautiful. It's as if the very world, he thinks to himself inexplicably, had wings.
Everything feels so real. He brushes his teeth quickly and runs his tongue over each one like an old friend. A late addendum to the memory problem; he had forgotten that his eyes were such a striking golden colour. For some reason, he'd always thought they were brown. They aren't. He quite likes it.
It's been a very, very long time since time took up Karl like a branch in a river. With all the certainty of gravity, he knows it will come soon. Maybe next week. Maybe even tomorrow. Still, he can be grateful. It has given him so long to recover, to remember, to forget. By now, anything forgotten stays that way, and he does not hurt. There are no jagged edges. It is one of many mercies the Otherside and Inbetween have bestowed upon him. Neither entity has been in contact for a long time. Maybe they're getting bored of Karl altogether, and weren't sure how to say so.
Heh. That's funny. One of his jokes.
Naturally, next door, George is sleeping. He almost always is. Sometimes Karl shifts him around so he won't get a rash, but Tina's been doing more and more around the place lately. It's good for Sapnap, Karl privately thinks, to have a bustling demon in his life again.
Speak of the devil. His bridegroom-to-be is sitting on the fountain, staring into the water with an unreadable expression. He looks tireder than George, so it's the least Karl can do to sidle up and snake his arms around his shoulders. For a moment, his bandana flutters against his face in the cold breeze like some kind of improvised masquerade mask.
"G'morning, Sap."
"Hullo," he says after a beat. He hugs back, even if its tentative. "Are you still angry?"
This should set alarm bells off ringing. It does not. Prime, no. He's just so incredibly joyful today. Happy to be alive, for one, and happy to be around his fiancé in the country they built. In this little corner of apolitical paradise, the impossible happy ending has arrived. Karl Jacobs, the weak and frenzied man who wrote down everything about the Tales in barely legible chickenscratch, is gone. Karl Jacobs, the happy and successful owner of Kinoko Kingdom's prettiest flower garden, is a million times more prepared for time travel than he could ever be. And this time? Karl's not going to be a little bitch about it. He remembers everything important. He remembers only his golden eyes, the place he lives and the man he loves.
What more could there possibly be?
"No, no. I could never be, with you. Sorry if it came off that way. Fucking hell, this is a monster headache," he adds, stretching. "Okay, jeez, weird question time. What day is it again, my dearest darlingest sugarplum?"
It is not a weird question. Sheerly by percentage of things he says nowadays, it is probably the least weird question he could have asked.
"Tenth of the second month," Sapnap says, lips drawn back in a pained grimace, eyes downcast. It is such a shame, Karl notes idly, that not everybody is as effortlessly happy as he is. "2022."