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It has become a game of blood and sweat. Entertain the King, or die. The long finished casino is no longer a place for community and games, run by a man with hair the colour of the midnight sky and ambition tingling at his fingertips. It's a palace, an empty shell of marble and gold.
Stories are whispered of it, between children starving in the back-streets and hybrids walking the road with heads held high. It's impossible to exit once you walk in, they say, the doors always being open are a trick, a trick of having freedom so close but never quite in grasp.
The rumours never last long though, murdered by a man with nature embedded in his skin and a fabricated smile of warmth and honey. His mahogany eyes twinkle with the promise of safety, the vines winding around his arms reaching out to hug you, to help you to your feet, before wrapping around your neck and tugging.
The man's smile never falters.
He walks through the doors of hell with practiced ease, confidence reeking off of him in toxic waves as everyone looks up as he walks by. Not in fear, never in fear. The man is too beautiful, too pure, too innocent, to be alarming.
They choke on their virtues eventually, moral attempts at repenting to the God’s futile. The God's answer to George. Not morals.
The vines and the innocence, the warmth and the hugs are all formed by the hands of one after all. A God with an ego too large to ever be convinced that it's being manipulated by a meer mortal. It's doing it out of its own freewill, of course, unknowing of the way it's knees weaken as George walks by, begging to sink to the floor and bow.
The man of nature and honey has that influence on everyone, everyone but the King. But he doesn't need it, because despite the effortless beauty and the doe eyes, he has something with the King no one else ever will: friendship.
It wasn't formed on power and greed, on the fact no one else dares to speak to either – one out of fear and the other of awe – let alone laugh with them.
It's an old love, from when they were teenagers and bantering around with sex jokes and hugs when insomnia hit them both a bit too hard, when the nightmares twisted their minds into a mush of breathless pants and the want and need for comfort.
They went their separate ways, back then. Living through their own separate nightmares and holding themselves close at night, ambition entering their veins through their own separate ways and power flowing into their blood after different amounts of dedication.
But they had made their way back to each other, and despite the guards that flinched harshly when one made a sudden gesture and the people banging on the walls and begging for just a slither of food. They still informed the other of how much they wanted bang his mum through fits of giggles and sips of wine.
George was the King's sanity, without him he doubts the kingdom would be standing, he would be standing. He has no doubt he would have flung himself off of the roof if it wasn't for George's vines holding him down.
He goes out to the people and he calms them after whispers of revolution, mumbling about how great of a King Quackity is and how much the man of warmth and mahogany pleases them.
While the King slumps in his throne room and drinks himself blind. Long gone are the days of midnight hair tied perfectly into his crown, of Royal clothing and dazzling smiles with the promise of a better land.
Now, men stagger into the room, daring to enter the large doors for the prayers and begs for something to keep them going. And the King looks at them with drunken, half-lidded eyes, giggling at a joke that was never told before whispering to one of his guards to make them do something.
You want food? Want water, animals, fire, crops? For the God's to answer to your pleas and for the apple tree in your garden to finally grow something?
Then entertain the King.
Most freeze up, stare at the guard in perplexed fear so harsh that the room can practically hear their bones rattling before the King shakes his hand so the guard will step forward and he will finally be entertained as red splatters against his floor.
But some will try, they'll hesitate at first, before dancing with shaky limbs, or singing in a hoarse voice, or telling a joke that isn't funny at all but they'll laugh through a choke afterwards, hoping the King will do the same.
He never does.
He has everything he needs, but nothing that he wants. His heart aches with a hole that will never be filled and his laugh is vicious and filled with sharp edges.
He's as empty as the palace he resides in.
With his shirts with the buttons in the wrong holes and the limp – once golden, now a dull shade of brown-y yellow – wings behind his back. With the long healed scar through his eye and lip and the incessant, light shake of his rough fingers. He's vacant, hollow, worthless.
His only use is to cause others pain for trivial acts and provide George with comfort he probably doesn't need.
An echo bangs through the throne room and he doesn't even look up, vaguely aware of where it had come from. The door on the far left of the large, glamorous room. It's small and painted the same colour of the walls, probably invisible unless you're looking for it.
There isn't a handle, or a keyhole, and the only way to get through it is through pushing it forward on the other side, which is what had happened.
A man staggers out, legs weak and silver hair – despite only being late twenties at most – ruffled. His outfit is similar to a nurses, with a plain white shirt and cap with a red cross on it, matching her red and yellow mask.
They stumble over to the throne, barely getting up the first step to the pedestal before he collapses in a kneel, head almost completely lowered to the floor. “Your Majesty.. It's Karl."
“Is he dead?" Quackity asks in a moan, sounding almost bored, hopeful, despite the year's he had spent with the older man. The years of petty kisses and soft laughter, of laying together in the grass, gazing up at the stars, occasionally joined by a man they joked to be a “human furnace”.
“Lucid, sir." the silverette replies, avoiding his eyes.
Quackity blinks, sitting forward slightly in his seat and gaping at the small man. Before remembering his place and adjusting to be sat more regally, powerfully, and clearing his throat.
“Then bring me to him, Ponk."
Past the door is nowhere near as nice as the main room, rushed cobble stairs and holes in the wall patched up with random dirt and wood. Quackity had been very clear in his instructions to Foolish to make this area quickly, but the man had been executed before he could ever pretty it up.
The King of midnight hair couldn't even bring himself to be sad about it, George had clapped with a wide grin and exuberant laughter.
The stairs are so steep and wobbly that Quackity almost requests for Sam, who had been forced to follow them – and had not stopped pinning Ponk with his green gaze – to carry him up, but musters up his last shred of dignity to walk.
The door at the top does require a key, and it's old and rusting, the lock looking more brown than the gold it had originally been made out of.
Ponk fumbles for the old key on his belt as Quackity looks on with a bored and impatient expression.
The door bangs open and Quackity pushes the nurse aside to stride in, the smile on his face fabricated from the vague memories of how happiness works, eyes twinkling with something that could have been mirth and adoration, but also could have been pity.
The room is considerably nicer than the stairway up, the walls themselves not being the nicest but filled with gold and other gems, frames scattered around filled with pictures of three men. A brunette and two black-haired men usually bickering, but all with fond grins.
Quackity’s smile doesn't compare to the one on the walls, but the brunette on the bed lights up at the sight of it anyway.
“Karl." the King breathes, taking in his fiance with wide, adoring eyes that he doesn't dare show anyone else.
The older is rumpled, sure, with tired eyes and pale skin, but his eyes haven't lost the pure love they had always been filled with around his lovers, and his smile isn't constructed through broken thoughts and prayers.
“Quackity!" the man giggles, a sound that the King knows is only audible due to ignorance, but he can't help but love anyway. “There you are, they won't let me leave you know." he gestures to the various other exhausted nurses that Quackity hadn't even noticed scattered around the room, all bowing.
Quackity only offers a stuttered laugh.
Karl dismisses it, gesturing to his side on the large bed, and letting the other crawl up next to him on weak knees. “Hello, love."
“Hi."
“How's George?" Karl is so happy and innocent in a way that George could never be that Quackity almost wants to choke at the name coming out of his mouth at all, but he offers a smile anyway, tentatively opening up his arm to let the other snuggle into his grasp.
“He's grown up." he replies, “like people tend to do. He misses you… I miss you."
Karl shakes his head against Quackity's chest, laughing. “I'm right here, Q.”
But the man of hair the same as the sky at midnight and so much blood on his fingertips he could drown in it only shakes his head, a tear dripping down his cheek that Karl will never see.
“I miss the bluebells in full bloom, walking hand in hand-”
“I remember." Karl interrupts with a soft smile, “like when you said we were dancing on a cloud when strolling through the fields, and we would talk and talk for hours."
“We were dancing," Quackity breathes, “through the flowers."
“Oh!" Karl sits up with a soft giggle. “That reminds me, I forgot to ask. How is dear Sapnap?"
Quackity freezes, “Karl… Dream got to him a long time ago."
Karl's shakes his head slowly. “No… He came to my room but a fortnight ago, did you not see him?"
Quackity can't help the anger that bubbles in his chest at that, because Karl hadn't seen Sapnap a fortnight ago, Karl hadn't been awake a fortnight ago. Karl hadn't been awake in months. And Quackity had promised himself, after weeks upon weeks of crying at the very bedside he was now sat in, he wouldn't let himself get his hopes up again.
And now here he was.
“Karl." Quackity stands on shaky legs, words harsh. “Sapnap is dead."
Karl blinks, brown eyes no longer representing warmth and wood on the fire, but narrowing into a forest burning down, unable to save itself as the fire goes from tree to tree, licking one dry before going to the next.
“Have you.. Have you done something?"
Quackity takes a step back, Sam takes a step forward.
“What did you do?" Karl gasps as Quackity stumbles as the brunette attempts to rush forward but is blocked by Sam's hands on his chest. “No! You come back here, someone get him this man killed my fiance!"
Quackity chokes, then. He chokes on air and spit and on tears that can't fall, because he had let himself hope, he had reached out to the fire for warmth and burnt himself alive.
And God does it burn, as Karl thrashes against a strong grip until a syringe is entered into his side. As he goes limp, brown eyes burning out into cinders and ash, falling into a slumber that Quackity hopes for his own selfish reasons he never wakes up from.
He feels the fire that had once soothed him, that he had once relied on to get through a night, that he had leant against in the bluebells, and had groaned into after trodding onto another foot after failed dancing lessons, wind its way through his veins and arteries, pushing his blood aside and curling it's way into his heart and push.
He feels it attempt to tear his very soul apart, to bounce against the walls of his heart until the entire thing self-implodes, filling his chest with so much blood that it runs through his body and chest. Flowing to his fingertips to pull them apart and up to his ears and mouth, to set off an incessant ringing sound and cut off his airways and choke him until it's staining his teeth maroon.
And he's alive, he's living but he's barely surviving. The life that had once filled him, that had once forced his mouth to laugh at “that's what she said” jokes and make his own “deez nuts” comments. The life that had forced him to confess to Karl and Sapnap on a cold day, and had accepted their soft hugs and sweet kisses. The life that had made them breakfast in the morning, pancakes; one with syrup and bananas, one with chocolate and strawberries and his own with lemon and sugar. Is gone.
It had been gone when Slime – Charlie – had toppled over the edge, it had been gone when Sapnap had come back with tears in his eyes and limp flowers in his grasp, begging Quackity to come back to them, it had been gone when the same man had been stabbed in the heart by someone he had once called a friend, locking eyes with Quackity before toppling to the floor, it had been gone when Karl fell asleep for the first time, making the first chill enter Quackity’s bones and scaring him to no end until the man had woken up a week later with tired sleepy eyes and an ignorant smile.
Suddenly something in him snaps and he's aware of his breathing and the hands gripping his skinny biceps. Of the carpet under his knees and the voice in his ear repeating “Quackity breathe, Quackity-”
He gulps and locks his gaze with mahogany eyes, not filled with its usual playful flirtiness and instead something Quackity wasn't sure the man in front of him could even feel anymore: fear.
He copies George's breathing tentatively before he's engulfed in a hug – not quite warm, but not cold – and he's only half aware of the mumbles in his ear saying, “thank you, thank you. Prime, XD thank you.”
He waits for a second before lightly pushing the man of nature and honey off of him, squinting his eyes at the tear-filled mahogany eyes opposite him.
“George?" he croaks.
“Gee, Q." the Brit chuckles weakly, using a vine to wipe his eyes and reapply his signature white mascara and mushroom blush. “You were like that for a solid few minutes, I had to get XD to snap you out of it."
Quackity blinks, taking in the room, pointedly ignoring the lump on the bed, before nodding, stone in his throat growing by the minute.
“Right.. Sorry.” he coughs.
“Whatever." George mutters, standing up to brush himself off and use the stem of a mushroom to give Quackity a hand up. “Just don't do it again, you know I hate the affection stuff."
“Right.." he repeats, still only half-aware of what was going on around him.
George rolls his eyes and huffs, striding out of the room and clicking his fingers so the sunflowers he had dragged in with him follow afterwards, hopping like excited puppies.
Quackity hesitates before following after, albeit a lot more slowly, ignoring the way he can feel Sam trailing behind him like a shadow.
It's almost embarrassing how long it takes him to get down the stairs, but he honestly can't bring himself to care. He lets himself stumble and trip, waving Sam off when the guard steps forward to offer a hand until he eventually makes his way to the bottom, thankfully without landing on his ass.
After half-heartedly straightening himself out – barely improving his disheveled appearance, but he let's himself dream – he strides through the push door, accidentally, though not apologetically, slamming it straight into Sam's face.
He keeps his head high and back straightened, though it's too no avail, as as soon as he's in slumping-distance he's a mess on his throne, back arched against the hand-rail uncomfortably in a way that's so familiar it's almost comforting, and head tilted back against the velvet cushioning that does nothing too improve the seats overall comfort level.
It's at moments like these he misses Foolish.
“Your Majesty." Sam speaks, and Quackity almost jumps because he knows they all know to never address the King unless it's an important-
A man is leaning against the door to the throne room. Tall, brunette and a cigarette dangling out his chapped lips.
Wilbur Soot.
The man looks so effortlessly comfortable as he leans there, half his face is messed up from the many times he had been revived during Dream's brief reign and hes too skinny for his own good. His coat is torn and dirty and his jeans have a hole in them so large they are barely jeans at all.
But Quackity smiles, and barely spares a look to Sam. “Dismissed."
Sam doesn't bother protesting, knowing he would much rather leave than stay anyway, and walks out of sight.
Quackity stands on shaky legs and staggers down the few steps of his pedestal, the smile on his lips making him look drunk.
“Wilbur Soot." he greets, watching the man stub the cigarette under his foot, not sparing a thought to the polished floors, and begin his own wander over to the shorter man.
“Quackity.” the other grins, manic, running a finger across the duck-hybrid's cheek.
Quackity shivers at it, letting the man wipe away the tear tracks adorning his cheeks. He's sort of proud of them, in a way, they seem like a statement of “yeah, I don't need you to feel things."
Even though the statement is probably true.
His finger is cold, a sensation that has Quackitys grin widening, cold like the dead, like snow that'll freeze you to your core and bury you six feet under.
He's not crazy, he tells himself as Wilbur takes a step closer, his sanity may be circling the drain, holding on by the thread of the rope to a bomb, but he's not insane.
But, if anyone were to make him deranged, it would be Wilbur Soot. And honestly? The man with hair the colour of death’s cloak and fingers that have killed hundreds and would do it again doesn't think he'd mind.
“Welcome home love." he mumbles.
Wilbur smiles. Wilbur leans down. Wilbur kisses him.