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It’s been so long since Quackity last felt this safe, even before the end of the world happened. Laying down in the arms of someone new, someone safe and warm, a steady heartbeat saying we’re alive we’re alive we’re alive, Quackity can’t help but to think of the apocalypse as a blessing in disguise.
Before The End, Quackity was miserable. Lost in dreams of pride and ambition, bitter from past relationships, lonely in more ways than one. He was losing himself, because he believed it was better than being alone. Who needs company when you can be rich? Who needs friends when, at the end of the day, you'll die alone? Doesn’t matter if Quackity forced himself into a relationship, tries to force feelings that will never exist, because it will never work.
Prime, he has tried. Tried being in relationships, tried sleeping around. It never worked out. Either the other wanted more than Quackity could offer or they didn’t care enough to ask what Quackity wanted. And the most common scenario, but the worst one out of all: they never believed him when he said he couldn’t experience love. “You’ll change your mind,” he has heard all his life, “You just need to stop being afraid.” He wasn’t afraid. He craves a relationship so much, he burned for it. But you can’t change what you can’t control, can’t fix what’s not broken. He wants to be loved, and to love back, if only he could find someone who understood what he meant by this.
He thought he had something with Sapnap and Karl. Not love, but something equally as indescribable, something equally as desirable for everyone involved. They were one of the most supportive and healthiest relationships Quackity has ever been in, and as a consequence, one of the most soul crushing.
Not soul crushing in the way that Schlatt was; a different kind that echoed his mothers fears for his future and reflected his worst aches. Schlatt broke him, at the end of their relationship, and Karl tried fixing him. Tried gluing him piece by piece until something resembled Big Q again. But Big Q wasn’t the same Big Q as before, and where Quackity needed support, he found distaste. He became unlovable, but that was fine, because if he could force himself to fit into what Karl and Sapnap wanted, then everything would be fine. He would be wanted, and he would have people who cared for him as he cared for them. He wouldn’t be alone, as destined by whatever created him with the absence of a heart.
But then came the proposal and then the lying became rampant. He loved them, truly he did, but not in the way that they wanted him to love. Not in the way that mattered for either of his partners. He tried so hard to be the person others wanted him to be: a good son, a good boyfriend, and a good soon-to-be husband.
But that wasn’t Quackity. That was a puppet who wanted to please, that had to kiss and swoon as if it wasn’t revolting to its very core, that had to say “I love you” as if the silly words themselves cemented his devotion and care to those he called his own, as if his actions and sense-of-self meant nothing.
The day of the wedding, he ran. He ran and never looked back, not even when Karl rang and rang, voice trembling through his tears, and not even when Sapnap appeared at his door, demanding to know what happened. Demanding answers to questions Quackity already answered, but they never believed because they idiotically thought he would change. “Just one day," they would whisper, thinking Quackity wasn’t listening, “Just one day he will realize it’s not normal to be this withdrawn.” One day, that’s all they asked for. For him to be normal, and yet kept reassuring him that they adored him as he was; that they understood what he meant when he kept saying he can’t love in that sense.
He tried, but Quackity was not fit to love. Not in the way that matters to others, not even to those who swear they understand.
He left the city the following week.
The apocalypse happened four years after he disappeared from his old life.
Meeting Charlie had been an accident. He was opposite to Quackity: where a lifetime of loss and mistakes made Quackity bitter and tenuous in way only disaster can stick as a second skin, Charlie looked to the good of others.
“Everyone makes mistakes when they’re scared,” he told Quackity once, voice soft as he looked out a dusty window. It was nighttime, bearing intolerable as summer gradually approached, and yet from where he laid in a clean bed, Quackity was struck by how ethereal Charlie looked. Quackity forgot how gentle someone can look when they truly care. “I can’t fault others for being human.”
Quackity met Charlie as he was losing his left eye. He wishes he could say he lost it in a cool battle, that he lost it in the mist of bravery and hubris. In reality, he lost his eye to an infection caused from an animal tearing near the area. Quackity, months of being on his own and trying his best to avoid large groups, didn’t have anything to clean the cut, not even water to wash off the grime and filth. Combine this with Quackity’s nervous habit of rubbing his eyes, it was no wonder an infection spread rapidly.
Before, Quackity considered himself lucky the young stag’s antlers didn’t take out his eye entirely. This quickly changed as a fever built beneath his skin, making him stumble and pause as reality shifted beneath his feet. Disoriented, not only from the chilly fire encasing him from inside-out, but also from the loss of depth perception.
His eye wouldn’t open, stinging anytime he attempted to lift the delicate lid. He was loosing time between blinks, and a nearby gurgle reminded him of why he needed to hide.
He stumbled his way through the abandoned neighborhood of an old town, and started to make his way toward a relatively small house. It looked abandoned in a way that not many houses did after the apocalypse, blinds undisturbed and a door still open wide prove that the chances that someone has been through here is very low.
Deliriously, he wondered how Sapnap’s and Karl’s apartment looked after the apocalypse. Were the plants shriveled up, was the bed left unmade? Was food still rotting on the kitchen table, ready to be eaten that same day, with the TV left on as Karl used it as background noise? Were they still alive, somewhere Quackity could never hope to find them again? Never to be seen again, never to apologize too.
He blinked away tears, a choked sob making escaping his lips as he collapsed against the front door, an audible stumble alerting anyone and anything of his presence.
He didn’t care because, Prime, he missed them so much. He missed them so much and he threw them away. If only he could make himself feel the same things, force himself to love the way they wanted—no, deserved, they would still be here, with him. Alive, they would be here to hold his hand and be here to comfort him and he would be able to laugh at their dumb jokes and life would be good again. And if dead, well at least they could rest together. At least he wouldn’t be alone.
He lost consciousness as low thumps drew closer, incoherent sounds flooding his ears, leaving nothing but fuzzy static. The last thing he is aware of are hands on his face, and a rasped, “Please,” escaping his cracked lips.
He doesn’t know what he was begging for.
Everything following becomes a hazy mess. He’s briefly aware of his surroundings, and he is vaguely able to recognize something cool on his forehead and dabbing near his eye, to someone carding their fingers through his hair as he sobs feverishly, and softness which he curls into as shivers threaten to drag him into a dazed awareness. Often, liquid is coaxed through lax lips, an unknown hand gentle as they massage his throat, trying to remind him how to swallow. Sometimes it’s bitter, and often it makes him hurl what little was previously in his stomach.
As his body tries to recover, he feels his mouth move, pleading, but he does not know what he calls for. Perhaps he is calling for his previous partners, or perhaps he is begging for someone to stop his suffering, whether through death or a miracle. Once, he thought he called for his mom, but he stopped calling for her years before the apocalypse happened, so he’s not sure why he would seek her comfort now.
He’s not sure how long this torture continues, not sure why someone begs him to fight nor why they don’t give up on him. It would be mercy if they do, on both of them. His suffering could end, and they wouldn’t waste all their materials.
He tries telling the stranger this, but they only shush him and murmur as he cries himself to sleep once again.
Their hands stay gentle.
Quackilty blinks awake with a groan, and he turns his head at the sound of fabric rustling. A man rests in a chair beside where he lays, chin digging painfully into his chest as deep, even breaths continue, and his glasses look close to falling off his face from where they have slipped.
For being in the apocalypse, he seems to be doing fine, if the way his shirt is just shy of hugging soft muscles indicates anything. Still, Quackity can see deep underbangs and wonders when was the last time this stranger has fully slept. A bucket of water sits besides him, where a towel lays, forgotten. His fingers barely rest above the pitcher, if the man shifts he’ll get them wet.
Quackity huffs at the sight.
The man blinks at the noise, mumbling as he stretches his neck. “Oh,” he mumbles, “You're awake. That’s good.”
“That I am,” Quackity responds, pausing at how rough his voice sounds. He hums discontentedly and tries to sit up with shaky arms.
The man shifts forwards, helping Quackity. “Here,” he leans over to grab a cup from a small table, handing it to Quackity. “You must be thirsty.” He continues as Quackity eyes the bottle distrustfully, not willing to get poisoned with the unknown water source, “I have a system to purify water I collect, if it’s any consolation.”
Quackity hums, and decides his thirst overpowers any skepticism he has. He watches with a half lidded eye as the man grunts, lifting the bowl outside the room to who knows where. He returns with an “Ah,” stopping Quackity before he messes more with the bandage wrapped around his head.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It’s still healing,” he says with a nervous smile. It’s nice, Quackity thinks. Charming, despite the obvious fatigue that seems to cling. “I didn’t have anything to stitch it, sorry about that.”
“What’s one more scar in a world like this,” Quackity shrugs. “What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Quackity. I’m…” Quackity shifts nervously, now painfully aware that he lost his bag at some point while stumbling around as if he was still in his party days back in college. “I’m afraid I don’t really have anything to pay you back.”
“That’s fine,” Charlie is quick to soothe. “I had the materials to help, y’know.”
Quackity did not, in fact, know. Kindness was rare these days, those willing to give up materials for strangers practically unheard of. He narrows his eyes, but it must not be as intimidating as he hoped based on the poorly hidden smile. “You must want something.” People don’t just help strangers with expecting nothing in return, and based on how the man—Charlie, avoids his eyes, he knows this too.
“How about,” Charlie hesitates, nervousness flashing in his eyes before long bangs hide his expression. Head still titled down, it muffles his words a bit, but still audible. “How about a partnership?”
Quackity can’t help the laughter in his voice, a tad squeaky as he says, “A partnership?”
The man nods, sitting back down with a tired huff. It’s still night time, and yet the chill doesn't reach them as the windows say shut. The warmth of the silence gives an illusion of safety, and Quackity can’t help the way he sinks back down into the covers.
“It gets lonely, having no one around.”
Quackity knows what he means. “So you want to be friends,” he raises a brow at the other man.
Charlie smiles bashfully. “Or whatever. Friend, business partner, survival buddy. Whatever fits best.”
Quackity hums tiredly. The promise of company during these unpredictable times sounds reassuring, and Quackity finds himself agreeing. “Sure. That sounds nice,” he whispers. Eyes languid as they blink, even as the man laughs.
“I’m going to let you rest now. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Charlie shifts the blanket to sit more firmly on Quackity, hand sweeping sweaty hair strands off his forehead. “And a bath.”
Quackity can hear the way the man wrinkles his nose in disgust, and he sticks a middle finger to where he imagines him to be. He startles as the voice seems to be right by his ear, and cracks open his eye again to watch as the man walks away, laughing softly. The moon seems to follow him as he goes, blue light shining on brown strands to illuminate a silver halo.
Quackity drifts as the door closes shut, and falls into deeper rest as Charlie shuffles around. He’s never felt this safe for months now, not since his time with Karl and Sapnap. Distantly, he hopes Charlie doesn’t expect anything more of him. That he is a kindred soul like Quackity, and all he craves is companionship and nothing more.
He falls asleep to the memory of wedding bands on his fingers, of a bruising grip around his arms, and the hope of something different, something soft once again, developing despite the hardships of the apocalypse.