Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all people, of all things to happen, it had to be him standing at his door.

"Please, Escargoon, let me in."

The King was fidgeting with his hands as he spoke, eyes fixated on the floor, wearing his signature crimson robe over his pajamas. There was a stain on the front of the robe, a shade of purple-red that was so faded it was nearly unnoticeable.

"Escargoon, please..."

The desperacy in his voice rung in Escargoon's ears and resided in his chest. Like it always did.

With a sigh, Escargoon stepped out of the doorway and gestured for his boss to enter his apartment. "You can leave your robe on the coat rack," he muttered, shutting the door behind them.

The King removed his robe and his crown, leaving him in his pajamas. It was the pair that Escargoon bought him only a short year or two after he got the job. The fabric was soft and warm, and it had stripes of crimson and gold running across it. Dedede practically lived in those pajamas for the first couple weeks he had them; he had the Waddle Dees wash them every day so he could keep wearing them.

Escargoon took a seat at his couch, and Dedede took a seat at the chair perpendicular to it. Escargoon looked down at his coffee table, at the half-read newspaper and the half-empty mug that were laying on the mahogany. The room would have been silent had it not been for the rhythmic hums and whirs of the dishwasher in the other room.

"Majesty," Escargoon sighed, "what did you do this time?"

"I just wanted to see you, Goonie. That's all."

"No." He shook his head. "No. We're not doing this shit this time. Just tell me what's goin' on."

Arms crossed, Escargoon glanced at his boss. The King's dull blue eyes were fixated on his gloves. He made no attempt to speak, only sighing and burying his face in his hands.

"Sire, you told me you'd stop doing this."

"I know."

"You think I don't know you're drunk again?"

"I'm not."

"Oh, bullshit. You fucking are. You fucking are! You only ever do this when you're drunk." Hands on his knees, Escargoon leaned forward. "Sire, believe it or not, I fucking care about you. And I'm sick and tired of you coming over and acting like this because we both know I can't help you."

The King's cheeks burned crimson. "Don't say that. You can help me," he squeaked out. "You can."

His voice was like that of a lost child. Shaky, soft. Full of a burning, burning desperacy, the kind that engulfs you entirely and leaves you with ash in your heart and in your lungs.

Escargoon craned his neck away. To the wall, to the floor; anywhere to avoid looking directly at him. He took a quick, sharp breath and exhaled slowly, counting the wood grains on the mahogany table. One time, when he was really little, Escargoon was carelessly skipping around the house, and, just as he rounded the corner, he banged his hip on the coffee table and fell to the floor. It was a rainy summer day, and the house smelled of oatmeal cookies and a cheap floral perfume. His mother rushed over as soon as she heard his sniffling and sobbing. As soon as her boy could keep tears away, she gave him a freshly-baked cookie and a kiss on the head. "No more running inside, okay?"

The lavender fabric of Escargoon's pajamas clung to his skin. Flashes of hot and dry and itchiness, like a hundred-thousand bugs dancing and fucking under his skin. Tightness in his chest and in his throat, stinging on the back of his hands.

A slow, shaking sigh sounded from the King, cutting through the near-silence like a pair of pruning shears deadheading daisies. His face was buried in his dandelion-yellow gloves. Sometimes, Escargoon wonders what it is that draws the King to the colour yellow so much. Maybe it's just that it's such a violently happy colour, like feeling rays of sunshine after a cloudy day; like scribbling with a waxy crayon; like using honey to sweeten a bitter tea. There was a time when Escargoon could hear a golden-yellow in the King's voice. It would always carry over through the air, and it would always reside in his chest. It always, always would. But that was a long time ago.

Standing up, Escargoon took a slow breath. He looked at the King, then away.

"I'll go make you some tea."

Chapter Text

Escargoon couldn't count how many times he woke up on some dreary Blue Monday and swore to himself that it was finally the day he was done. He'd had enough, it was time for him to quit, time to move back in with his mother for a few short weeks while he'd find another job and another place to live. But it was just another empty promise to himself. No, he wouldn't put his mother through watching him mope through another melancholic slump another 20-some years later, that wouldn't make anything better; no, he wouldn't throw away the life he'd spent the past 4 decades building for himself.

But facing life meant facing Dedede, and that had been becoming more and more difficult.

He wasn't worse. That was for certain. But in the recent months, he just became different. And different is difficult sometimes. Escargoon had spent the past 2 decades learning about his King, then, out of nowhere, something happened and he just changed. They'd play the same games and live through the same days, but suddenly everything would feel different. Escargoon would bring the King his favourite dish only for it to be thrown away half-eaten; Escargoon would check in on the King at noon only to find out he never left his bedroom; Escargoon would try to get the King to do the things he used to love only to be told that he wasn't feeling up for it. He was never feeling up for it.

It wasn't all so bad. Dedede started to show a new interest in reading - or, rather, being read to. He'd find novels on dusty shelves in corners in the library and insist on staying up late with Escargoon and reading over a mug of lavender tea. Escargoon would read the words aloud and occasionally point out a word or phrase to ask the King if he could read it. It was never too long before Dedede would start to nod off and then snore softly as Escargoon laid next to him with one arm around him and one holding the book.

Escargoon would remove his reading glasses and flick the lamp off, then get more comfortable as he'd shut his eyes. But as he'd squeeze the King tight to himself, he'd wonder if it really was the same man he'd spent the past 20 years memorizing and loving, and his ribcage would spend the night gnawing at his lungs.

Sometimes, Dedede would invite Escargoon to stay at his place for the night. He'd even put some effort in to do something nice for his assistant. He'd make them some tea and make the bed all by himself. Sometimes, he'd even try to make dinner for him.

They'd sit at the bed and watch TV as they ate, and Escargoon would do his best to ignore Dedede's nonsensical ramblings and his loud, unsophisticated laughs that were so close to how they were before. He'd do his best to ignore the King's words bleeding into each other, and he'd do his best to ignore the feeling of his own heart falling into his stomach as the King would shakily pour another glass of wine as if he wasn't already swaying in his seat.

That's usually when he'd try to leave - right when he'd get the feeling that his chest would collapse in on itself if he stayed another moment. Sometimes, he'd make the mistake of looking Dedede in the eyes as he was leaving, and then it would. It would collapse in on itself, like hellfire being lit in his lungs and the ashes getting caught in his throat. They'd collapse again as him and Dedede would wrap their arms around each other and again as Escargoon would wake up to the sound of headache medicine being poured into the King's hand.

But that was just life. That was the life he spent 4 decades building for himself - a life revolving around a man he wasn't even sure he knew anymore.