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The routine had not been negotiated; it had been a silent agreement that had developed because of a sibling relationship that time and actions had eroded, distant from each other in tense silence and accumulated grievances, they preferred to avoid each other in the small two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment, where they were condemned to coexist until one of them moved out. Wilbur had dropped out of school to pursue music with a band he formed with friends from his music education program. Techno, three years younger, was in his second year of a bachelor's degree in history. Both brothers were privileged to be able to study in another city, but they were stuck with that apartment as their only option, and they had to take care of it because Tommy would also be studying there.
The independence of both boys was indicative of the shortcomings of an upbringing that was too welcoming and at the same time too inexperienced: dishes piling up in the kitchen, clothes that had been hanging for days and still hadn't been taken down, kitchen cabinets that only contained condiments and food, that the freedom to cook whatever they wanted, gave them the same opportunity to avoid them, and trash cans that filled up and filled up until the first one to overflow had to be taken care of.
If Wilbur was on the futon, Techno would lock himself in his room, and if Techno was in the kitchen, Wilbur would lock himself in his. If they crossed paths, it was only to go out, and at this point they didn't even say hello to each other.
Techno hated his brother because he didn't care about anything, and Wilbur hated Techno because he was too much like Philza, and since the space was five times smaller than the house where they grew up, with no referee or distractions to come between them now, clashes were bound to happen, but they didn't, and the accumulated grimace of restrained screams built a thick, impenetrable layer of ice between them.
It was a Saturday afternoon, with Wilbur's music filtering through under the door and Techno having the opportunity to carry out his routine: after completing his homework, he would take his console out of the closet and connect it to the only television in the living room. He made space for it among Wilbur's scattered collection of lighters and connected it with the care that only someone who knows how much it cost because they earned it with their own labor could give it. All he had to do was close one of the blinds on the window overlooking the balcony so that the orange rays of the sun wouldn't interfere with the screen. Then Techno would sit on the old, classic futon bed that small apartments had, where his large frame couldn't afford to settle down too comfortably without feeling like his butt was floating, and being at peace with all the cigarette burns and food stains that had been accumulating even before he moved here, he turned up the volume on the television until he could ignore his brother's music, immersing himself in the game and enjoying the little afternoon he had left to relax.
Little by little, night fell, and the light from the television reflected on Techno's face. Immersed in his thoughts, he didn't bother to get up to turn on the light or close the other blind. Dogs from other floors could be heard barking from the balconies, cars passing by on the street below, noises from a city that was too big and cold, one he still couldn't quite get used to.
If he had been the one to choose where to study, he would have preferred a smaller city, because he didn't need something to do every day, attend the most famous music fairs in the state, or study at the most privileged music school in the country, one he didn't even manage to get into, only to end up in an undervalued career as a teacher and then abandon it as if his father weren't too old to keep lending him money to continue giving him an allowance. And every time he lost, he felt more frustrated than usual, and on every loading screen where the music was too quiet to ignore the indie rock playing on the other side of the thin wall, he had to take a deep breath. Sometimes the light under the doorframe distracted him and its meaning infuriated him, and in the dim light that the TV couldn't illuminate, he tried not to recognize the silhouette of dirty glasses or the pronounced hole in the wall above the TV.
Suddenly, Techno's growls and the music that restarted every time he clicked the “try again” button were interrupted by a knock on the door. He paused the game and stared at the source of the disturbance. Still and bewildered, the light didn't reach the door, and with both the entrance and the kitchen in his line of sight, he wondered who would be disturbing him at this hour on a Saturday. They knocked three times again, not very hard, as if it were an expected visit.
A yellow light suddenly bathed Techno, Wilbur's door opening with a creak of hinges that Techno didn't usually hear with his gaze fixed on the source. Wilbur didn't greet him, disheveled and wearing his familiar pajamas, he walked slowly to the door. The light from the hallway was blocked not by the visitor's silhouette, but by Wilbur's, and his brother didn't need to move aside for him to know who it was, as a familiar voice made its way to Techno's ears.
“You look like shit,” Wilbur said first, leaning against the doorframe.
“Can I come in, please?”
Techno resumed his game, because Wilbur's friends were not his friends. From the sidelines, he saw Wilbur enter his room with Quackity behind him, and they both shut themselves in again.
—————
Wilbur's room had a yellow light bulb, an unmade bed covered with clothes that had been on the desk chair a few moments earlier, a dirty ashtray on the nightstand, and in another corner, a bass guitar and an acoustic guitar in a case, and lots and lots of things scattered everywhere: trash, dirty dishes on the floor, dirty clothes, loose papers, shoes, etc. The mess made him as uncomfortable as the extreme cleanliness he had escaped, but he didn't comment. He just settled into the small unoccupied space on the bed, rested his head on the pillow, and took off his shoes with his heels before curling up without completely closing his posture, all while Wilbur sat at the desk searching his laptop for another song to play.
“So what happened this time?” Wilbur asked, leaning toward Quackity but keeping his eyes on the computer.
“I told you, they kicked me out of the house.”
“I know they kicked you out, but why?”
Quackity shrugged.
“Stupid stuff.”
“Mhm,” Wilbur muttered, dissatisfied with the answer. “But you didn't listen to me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Quackity didn't respond. He looked at Wilbur, who continued browsing his library with a calm expression, even humming the song he was looking to change, morbidly curious about the cause but uninterested in the consequences.
Quackity was a mess, his cheekbone swollen, his jaw bruised, dried drops of blood from his journey here, and all the wounds hidden beneath his nice but ruined clothes, which he had chosen for what was supposed to be dinner at an elegant restaurant, and instead he found himself there, on a bed that stank of cigarettes, with a dirty sock stuck under his hip. Wilbur didn't look at him when he changed the song, instead standing up and walking over to the backpack at the foot of the bed, from which he took out a small case. Quackity frowned in annoyance.
“Are you going to smoke?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked, standing up and pulling a pre-rolled joint and a lighter out of his pocket.
“The smoke bothers me.” Wilbur shrugged as he lit up.
“Then leave,” he replied, exhaling a large cloud of smoke, which twisted under the yellow light, the smell filling every corner.
Quackity was perplexed by the insensitive response, his stomach tightened, and he stood still as if the blows were about to fall again. Wilbur continued smoking, sat back down at the desk while Quackity kept staring at him.
Wilbur stopped the player, another, much more primitive melody began to play, and he turned toward Quackity again.
“What do you think of this?”
Quackity looked at the screen, where a music editing program was playing a recorded piano, a recorded guitar, and drums created in the program.
“I like it,” he replied with the little information the piece gave him. Wilbur smiled as he took his third drag. “What about the song you showed me the other time?” Wilbur exhaled the smoke and looked at him confused.
“This is the song.”
“Oh.” Wilbur rolled his eyes in offense. “I thought you had already finished it.”
“I'll have it ready by the fifteenth,” he said, looking at his own work.
Wilbur had shown him the previous version two weeks ago. It sounded completely different, and he preferred to keep to himself that he liked that version better.
“How are things going with your band?”
“We lost our bassist.”
“What happened?”
“Lack of commitment.”
Wilbur swayed slightly from left to right, Quackity kept watching the screen, the song lasted about four minutes, and at 2:43 the piano stopped playing. The taller one smoked, watching the app with fascination. Then he played music again from the library and handed him the joint. Quackity raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn't move much from the bed.
“I don't like it.”
“Have you even tried it?”
“Yes, I told you I don't like it.”
Wilbur took another drag. A quarter of the joint remained, still smoking, and the room was already hazy with smoke.
“Come on.”
“I told you I don't want to.”
“Come on...”
Quackity exhaled, sat down with small groans due to the pain in his limbs, looked back at Wilbur who was smiling at him and holding out the joint. He took it carefully so as not to burn himself and leaned over so that the ashes would not fall on the bed. The drag was too deep, and a severe cough shook his entire body. Wilbur laughed and kicked himself back in his chair. Each cough reverberated between his sore ribs. Wilbur patted his shoulder, and Quackity raised a hand.
“It hurts,” he managed to say before continuing to cough.
“Come on, keep smoking, it'll pass.”
Quackity did so, or at least tried to, but the smoke escaped him between coughs. He took four puffs before giving up, handing what was left to Wilbur and returning to where he had been sitting a few moments earlier.
“Hold your breath, you're making a racket.”
Wilbur took one last drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray on his bedside table, leaving it there. Quackity held back his cough, and the impact on his chest increased, his throat dry as Wilbur got up and threw himself onto the free side, trapping him between his body and the wall.
“This sucks,” he exclaimed when he could finally speak, his hand on his throat, his eyes teary, and his face hot.
“Do you want some water?”
Quackity nodded, and Wilbur turned around, picking up a bottle from the ground. It tasted like dirty water, disgusting, but it soothed his throat.
Quackity lay back down, Wilbur was on his back, smiling and clearly high. He listened to the music, choosing psychedelic rock; the mood was clear. Little by little, the effect kicked in, his heartbeat could be felt from his chest to his feet, the scene seemed unreal, and the melody more textured. It didn't seem to stop. The combination of all the bad puffs he had taken and the smoke that had already accumulated in the room were overwhelming him. He stroked Wilbur's sweater, staring at the pattern of the wool, listening to the rustling of the fabric, and feeling the uncomfortable material with his fingertips. Wilbur turned toward him, his red eyes fixed on his face. He said something, but Quackity couldn't understand him behind all the stimuli he was receiving.
“Quackity.”
“Huh?” he asked, looking up, noticing how close they both were.
“Why did you fight?”
Quackity thought for a moment, and Wilbur continued to stare shamelessly at the mess they had made of him.
“He told me I'd gotten fat.” Wilbur raised his eyebrows in surprise, and the effects of the marijuana caused him to lose control, speaking his thoughts and thinking what he said, revealing what he didn't want to remember. “He told me these pants were tighter than he remembered.”
“And what did you say?”
“That he had gained weight too.” Wilbur laughed, his shoulders shrugged and his eyes narrowed, his sweater tugged at by Quackity, who looked on without a hint of amusement.
“Really?”
“And he told me that since I was the one who cooked, it was my responsibility to keep us both in shape. I told him that he was the one who complained and asked me for heavy meals, and so...”
“And why did he hit you?”
“Because he can,” he muttered.
“And did you defend yourself?”
“I tried, but there's a forty-pound difference between us. I wasn't going to win.”
Wilbur didn't ask any more questions, and Quackity went back to concentrating on the sweater, or trying to, with a sad look on his face. Wilbur moved over to lie on his side, facing him, and his hand fell on Quackity's waist, catching his attention. Quackity, deprived of the sweater, put his hands on his chest.
“You're not fat. I'd say you're thinner than the last time I saw you.”
“Because I'm not eating” he thought.
Wilbur's hand rose and fell slowly, a slower but intense song began to play, and Quackity was caught up in recounting the events. And in the depths of his drug-induced state, he found himself missing the same man who, completely sober, had attacked him so viciously that he thought he was going to be killed.
The rustling of fabric joined the melody, the grip on his hip went from a caress to a settling, trying to pull him closer as Wilbur clumsily approached, making the worn springs of the bed creak. Wilbur placed a kiss on the corner of his lips, and Quackity hid his face in the bed with a whimpering protest. Wilbur changed course, placing kisses on the definition of his jaw, on his neck, on his ear. Quackity listened to his heavy breathing as the other nibbled his earlobe. It felt too intense. The hand on his hip tried to pull his shirt out of his pants.
“I'm crying,” he thought. “ I'm crying. Why are you ignoring it?”
He couldn't hear himself over the music and Wilbur's actions, who was now reaching under his shirt and caressing his sensitive skin, skin that was covered in bruises and protested at the touch. But Quackity felt his hiccups in the impact on his diaphragm, because they hurt too. Wilbur changed position, as if his lust ignored the drug's clumsiness—or perhaps it was excitement giving him sudden impatience—he positioned himself between his legs and plunged back into his neck. Quackity had his hands on his chest, breathing heavily. The music was too loud.
“Stop!” he exclaimed, pushing his chest away when the first thrust rubbed crotch against crotch, and even through his clothes, it felt too intense.
Wilbur pulled away, frowning.
“What's wrong?”
“What the hell are you doing?!” he asked, overwhelmed, and Wilbur intensified his stupor.
“What was that for?”
“I don't want to fuck you, I'm not going to fuck you.” He tried to pull away, his limbs clumsy from intense trembling and the firm grip on his waist.
“Quackity, be quiet, there are people in the house,” he said, tightening his grip where there was another bruise under the fabric.
“Is that what you drugg-!?”
Wilbur suddenly covered his mouth at the raised voice, and with a grim expression, he got out of bed without letting go of Quackity's face, who remained still with his eyes wide open.
“I didn't drug you! I offered it to you and you accepted it,” he snapped through clenched teeth. “Then you come and play with my sweater, talk about your appearance, and then act like I started it.”
He released his face with a slap of his arm, and Quackity sat down against the wall, trying to tuck his shirt back into his pants.
“I'm married!” he replied angrily. “I love my husband, and you know it!”
“Who understands you, you lunatic?!” he exclaimed over the music, spreading his arms wide. “They beat the shit out of you, and you justify it!”
“I don't justify it!” he exclaimed through his sobs. “I'm not unfaithful!”
“Then why did you come here?” he asked, stunned.
Quackity didn't have the strength to respond to what he assumed was obvious: he came because Wilbur was the only friend he had left, the only one who hadn't abandoned him during this breakup and reconciliation with Jschlatt, the only one who stopped telling him to leave, and supposedly the only one who understood that Quackity was deeply in love with Jschlatt.
Quackity covered his eyes with one hand and tried to relax. Wilbur exhaled and sat down at the desk with his back to him. The music stopped, and the song Wilbur was putting together started playing again. Suddenly, Wilbur looked at his phone and dropped it on the desk, and in every moment of silence, the noise from the console in the other room could be heard. Quackity bit his lip, holding back tears. He tried to understand what had happened. Wilbur hadn't drugged him to have sex; he had just given the wrong signals, and that had led to a misunderstanding.
“I'm sorry,” he said in a whisper, having lost count of how many times he had said sorry that day. “I just wanted to vent, I didn't mean to give you that impression.”
Wilbur didn't respond. Quackity pressed his lips together without looking up, terrified that his last source of support was angry with him.
“Please don't kick me out, I have nowhere else to go.”
“I'm not going to kick you out.”
Quackity looked up. Wilbur was still facing the computer, his back to him.
“I love you very much, Wilbur, you're my best friend.”
“Okay.” Mumbled in response.
Quackity remained silent, understanding the silent treatment he had earned. Wilbur picked up his phone one last time before closing his laptop without shutting it down and getting up. Quackity looked at him from where he was crouched as small as possible.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm going out,” he replied curtly, changing his clothes without shame and picking up items that were lying next to Quackity, who was trying to look him in the eye, showing his surprise and sadness.
“Wilbur, I need you here,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling.
But Wilbur didn't listen. He shrugged and grabbed the same backpack as before, leaving the room and turning off the light without a second thought, leaving Quackity with the sound of the console on the other side of the wall. Another wave of helplessness hit him, and still under the effects of the drug, he began to cry.
—-—--—--—---——
Techno didn't take his eyes off the screen when Wilbur hurriedly left his room, turning off the lights and music and leaving the visitor inside. He tried not to jump to conclusions, assuming that the visitor had fallen asleep. After all, there wasn't much else to assume after half an hour of the music volume preventing him from immersing himself in the game.
Quackity was a frequent visitor, yet he knew very little about him. He knew he was his age, that he had been married and that his husband was a piece of shit, and that he was just as crazy, that he only came when they were fighting and was looking for a distraction before leaving the residence to return home of his own accord. He knew all this from his brother, from that time when they tried to get it out of each other. Techno was angry with Wilbur because he did nothing to help the boy, and Wilbur was angry with Techno for defending him, given that everyone in that story was a sinner.
Quackity didn't greet him every time he came over, which gave him the idea that Wilbur was somewhat right when he referred to him as not a very good person, and it was true, life wasn't black and white, no one was totally saintly or totally evil, and that misunderstanding on Wilbur's part was indeed a source of conflict, because this house was visited by devils who, because they got along well with his brother, were saints, and redeemed souls who, because of one bad deed, were hurt by him, as was the case with his father.
He sighed and settled himself as best he could on the futon, grateful that he could finally continue playing in peace and, if possible, finish the game that very night.
—————————
Jschlatt did not answer his phone or return messages.
If he had kept quiet, he would be on his way home, with the taste of some exotic dish on his palate and the playful banter with his husband. He imagined his deep voice, his exquisite laugh, and how secure it made him feel. They would arrive home wrapped in kisses and forget all the problems in their relationship, all the problems he brought with him. But that was not the case, and there he was, in a dark room, with a dry throat and an empty stomach, regretting having angered the only two people who loved him, who put up with him, but sometimes he became so unbearable that the only thing they wanted to do was shut him up with a blow, and Jschlatt, who acted with absolute honesty, heeded that urge so that Quackity would understand that not everyone would have the same patience as him to put up with him.
He thought about going home, apologizing with his husband's favorite dish, the house spotless and his mouth shut. He wouldn't talk or eat until he proved to him that he loved him so much that he understood that if he disliked his characteristics, it was because they were truly bad.
But Jschlatt didn't answer, and perhaps his last chance had already passed. He had finally grown tired. Quackity sighed, slowly got out of bed, and left with two urgent needs: to go to the bathroom and to get something for his sore throat.
He walked in the dark, the murmur of his failures still in his head, still not quite sober. He opened the door and found Wilbur's brother in the same place he had been when he arrived. He paused the game and looked at him with a blank expression, probably annoyed. Had he heard the screams?
Quackity walked with his head down straight to the bathroom.
————————————
He was a wreck.
Techno couldn't get back into the game; he couldn't. The light from the television had finally hit Quackity's face, revealing dark circles, tousled hair, and a poorly fitted shirt, overly thin for the cold night. And his eyes, absurdly swollen from crying so much.
Wilbur wasn't good at providing emotional support; the man was like a psychopathic problem with legs, and the boy's expression showed no sign of comfort anywhere. In the silence, he heard him wiping his nose in the bathroom, and Techno got up.
————————————
He didn't look in the mirror, relieved himself, drank an excessive amount of water to quench any discomfort such as thirst or hunger, and carefully wiped his face, removing the traces left by his tears.
He left carefully, opening the door just enough to let himself out. When he looked up, he stopped in surprise. Techno, Wilbur's brother—whom he perceived as a misfit, a geek, immature, a virgin, and unpleasant, according to the brown-haired man—was standing between him and the door to Wilbur's room, holding a coat.
“Hey.” He greeted him in a deep voice that matched his monumental height and thick build.
“Hello.” He muttered in a raspy voice.
“Here.” He held out the coat. Quackity looked at it and looked up, searching for an explanation. “Your outfit... It's not suitable for the temperature...”
“It's cold” Quackity thought of the shortest way to communicate it, caught off guard by the unusual language and monotonous tone.
“It's freezing and you could get sick” Techno thought of the shortest way to communicate it.
Quackity smiled, small but sincere, and took the coat from his shoulders, letting it fall, revealing how large it was.
“Thank you...”
Techno sat back down on the futon and picked up his controller while Quackity settled into the large garment, its sleeves swallowing his fingers, realizing that up to that point he had been trembling not only with grief but also with cold.
He hugged himself, still standing in the middle of the room, captivated by the noise that resumed from the screen, but looking at Wilbur's door, at that filthy room, reeking of marijuana and an unpleasant feeling of unwanted hands and lethal danger. He turned to see Techno over his shoulder, who was once again immersed in the game. Quackity turned around.
“Can I come with you?” he asked timidly.
Techno looked at him, noticing the plea in the question, which was unnecessary, as he had already received the request he himself wanted to make.
“Sure.”
Quackity looked for a moment before tiptoeing in front of the television until he reached the empty side of the small futon, leaving about twenty centimeters between them. Techno closed his legs so as not to take up so much space, and Quackity put his still bare feet up on his chest.
He began to watch the game, listening to Technoblade's rapid tapping on the controller, and now when he lost, he didn't grumble, he just tried again.
“Looks difficult,” he said. Techno paused and looked at him as he finished his sentence.
“Do you want to try?” he asked, holding out the controller. Quackity looked at him without moving his chin.
“I'm going to embarrass myself,” Technoblade shrugged.
“It doesn't matter.”
Quackity thought for a moment before carefully picking up the controller, which was pleasantly neat, showing signs of heavy use, but compared to the apartment he was in, it was a device that showed care. Technoblade leaned over to point at each button.
“Melee attack, ranged attack, special attack, special item, dodge, parry...” Quackity shook his head with a small laugh escaping his lips.
“Whatever works.”
Techno stepped back and looked at the television.
Just as he had said, it was terrible, the controls were too sensitive, and the game was already at a difficult stage. Quackity was taking objects that had taken the whole game to obtain without even knowing what they did or when to use them, but Techno allowed it.
“Shit” he muttered when he was hit.
Techno watched with an amused smile, enjoying the pleasure of realizing the difference in skill. Then he turned his gaze, observing Quackity's profile.
The blue light fell on his face, and from his point of view, he could see the bruise on his jaw, the swelling of his eyes, and how he clenched his teeth and buttons as if the controller had a sensitivity reader.
It was the first time he had seen him closely, and while the boy was distracted, he devoted himself to observing the details: the small moles he had, the waves at the end of each strand of hair peeking out from under the hat of the coat he had lent him, his features, the depth of his eyes, and the way the screen reflected in them, their redness subtle under the dim lighting. He was cute, very cute. And well, all the people who hung out with Wilbur with the intentions that he assumed Quackity also had were extremely cute, not knowing if his brother was picky, charming, manipulative, or if it was just luck that had favored him over Techno, who, with a snub nose, pink-dyed blond hair, and large build, always had low self-esteem. Which he didn't usually care about. But next to Quackity, he became extremely conscious of his appearance.
Quackity bit his lips as he concentrated, and when he let go, they looked spongy. And Technoblade, who lived with his head buried in books and video games, wondered how much of life he had missed.
Quackity looked at him for just a second, then turned back to the TV with an even bigger smile. When he lost again, he exhaled and threw his head back in frustration.
“Are you hungry?” he found himself asking Quackity. Who looked at him, lowering his chin.
“A little,” he replied. He was starving.
Techno nodded and took out his phone. Quackity looked at him expectantly.
“You can keep playing,” Techno told him, and he nodded and continued playing. He was terrible, but little by little he was getting into the rhythm.
Then they began to take turns, and Quackity, gradually understanding the rules of the game, laughed when Techno failed, and Techno, distracted, allowed himself to be mocked.
“Nah, you're doing it on purpose,” he joked as he took the controller.
“You talk a big game for someone who couldn't last more than four minutes alive,” Technoblade commented, looking more at Quackity than his game.
“You wouldn't understand the tricks of a master.”
The bell rang and Quackity lost again.
“I got distracted!” he defended himself fervently, leaning toward Techno. “That's not fair! I got distracted! My turn again!” Techno laughed as he got up.
“You can play again.”
Quackity gave him a mean laugh and tried again while he got his food.
Quackity paused to watch Techno take several small boxes of Chinese food out of a bag. Quackity put the remote control aside and bent down to smell it, his mouth watering. Techno handed him a fork and a box while the other one served drinks. When he tasted the explosion of flavor, it was no longer the effect of the drugs, because they had already worn off. It was the genuine effect of not having eaten anything since breakfast.
“Thank you” he said in a wave of pleasure, devouring the noodles and meat from the box as best he could.
Techno nodded, taking his own food.
He waited for the same pose, Quackity now sitting more freely facing him, the music from the menu filling the silence between them with a comfort that neither of them had possessed an hour ago.
Techno didn't comment when Quackity stopped his frenzy and stared at what was left, knowing how to accompany him, knowing that words were not his strong suit.
Quackity had stopped when the bottom appeared among the food, realizing how much he had gobbled down, wondering if continuing would throw away all the effort it had taken to endure hunger all day. His smile had faded, he was moving the noodles back and forth, and in his mind was the memory of Jschlatt pointing to the pants he was still wearing, and of Wilbur, whose memory completely ruined his appetite.
Technoblade respected him, looking straight ahead, enjoying his own food, knowing that a second helping awaited him, knowing that on the table was a promotion for a family of five, even though there were only two people, one much smaller than the other.
“Techno?” The man named only looked at the person who had addressed him when his attention was requested.
“Mhm?” he asked, not before swallowing and wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Could you lend me a pair of pants?” he asked with sudden caution.
Techno didn't question it, didn't mention that they would surely be huge on him. He just nodded and left the food on the table to go straight to his closet, which contained all his clothes except for the dirty ones resting in a basket in the bathroom.
Quackity changed in the bathroom, tightened the drawstring as much as he could, and held them by the seam for safety in case they fell off. He walked, stepping on the excess fabric, and returned to his place with a smile.
“Can you pass me my box, please?”
Techno came over, thinking about how things looked normal to him and Quackity, who was swimming in his clothes, looked damn handsome.
Quackity stirred his food a little, accepting how much fun he was having, how calm he felt, and took advantage of eating without knowing when he would feel this happy again. He didn't eat the second portion because he couldn't anymore, and went back to playing while Techno ate his.
“It's attack, attack, parry, you take too long to dodge to avoid the second blow,” Techno complained.
“Lies, lies, everyone's stupid except me.”
A laugh shook Techno's shoulders as he continued eating.
————————————
Quackity slept on the futon, Techno gave him all the blankets he had and took two from his own bed, sacrificing himself to the bone-chilling cold that night. It was two in the afternoon and Wilbur still hadn't shown up, a thought that didn't bother either of them.
Techno was sleeping when Quackity woke up to the sound of his own phone ringing, announcing an incoming call. He sat up quickly and leaned over the table that had been left without food boxes yesterday, picking up his phone from his folded pants and answering without needing to read to know who it was.
“Hello.”
“When are you planning on coming back?” asked Jschlatt from the other side, his voice thick with anger. Quackity stumbled over his syllables before managing to respond.
“As soon as you answered the phone,” he replied softly, digging his index fingernail into his thumb with his free hand.
“Did you even call me?”
“I was sleeping...”
“Yeah? Sleeping like a baby?” he asked, and even though he wasn't shouting, Quackity's ears were ringing anyway. “You know yesterday was your fault, right?” His voice rose and his anger grew with every word.
“Yes, I know.”
“And?”
“I'm sorry...”
Quackity held his breath as Jschlatt let out a heavy sigh.
“Liar, you're not sorry.”
“Jschlatt—”
“I want you here in five minutes. The kid and I are waiting for lunch.”
Quackity swallowed hard, nodding and pressing his lips together. It was impossible to get there in even twenty minutes.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Jschlatt hung up. Quackity dropped the phone in his lap, breathing deeply, the fear making his whole body ache. Jschlatt was just as angry as he had been yesterday.
“Are you leaving?” Quackity nodded.
He got up, not forgetting to grab the hem of Techno's pants, and entered the bathroom with his own pants in his other arm.
Techno stood in the doorway, staring at the door through which Quackity had disappeared.
“There are problems whose solution does not depend on us, but the important thing is always to give what you can,” he remembered Phil's words. He sighed and went back to his room to look for a pen and paper.
Quackity came out of the bathroom, having combed his hair with his fingers and with his shirt wrinkled. He quickly entered and left Wilbur's room with his shoes in his hand and dropped onto the futon to put them on. When he picked up the phone from the table to leave, Techno had reappeared with a small piece of paper. Quackity took it carefully. It was Techno's phone number.
“For anything you need...” He began to speak, and Quackity looked up at him in amazement. “...For anything, don't hesitate to call me.”
It took Quackity a couple of seconds before he smiled gratefully and bowed his head.
“Thank you so much, Techno, really.”
He hurriedly left the apartment, leaving Techno standing there, helplessness running through his veins, two faces etched in his mind, a beautiful smile and a terrified look. He didn't care about the situation, but he begged every omnipotent force to see Quackity alive again.