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His house was empty. Terribly quiet and empty. Ever since Quackity moved into the North Mansion, he had almost constantly heard someone through the walls, unable to find a place where he could truly quiet down. There was always someone in the background like Tina, Foolish, or Juan.
But his own house, the one he had built ages ago, was cluttered and oppressively silent. Hardly anyone knew about this place. Well, at least very few people had a waystone leading here, almost none. Here, he could finally think in peace, without forcing himself to talk to others.
He didn’t remember how long he had been there. Maybe days had passed, maybe weeks. At some point, he had stopped checking the time, he didn’t feel the need to bring himself down with each passing hour. The only things marking the passage of time were the growing need to use the bathroom and his hunger, which he satisfied with toast. The air in the room had grown stale, but he didn’t particularly care.
A few times, someone had messaged him, but he didn’t even check the communicator. He just stared blankly at the ceiling, wrapped tightly in blankets he had found in the cupboards. Everything felt blurred, distant. As if he were watching someone else’s life through a dirty window.
Juan was officially dead.
The thought kept coming back to him like a boomerang. Every time he tried to think about anything else, his mind drifted back to Juan. As if nothing else mattered anymore. Juan, Juan, Juan, Juan…
Juan was dead.
He had never imagined he would hear those words so soon. He couldn’t process it, he just couldn’t. Not long ago, he had been talking to Juan, laughing at stupid things. What did “Juan is dead” even mean? He should be sitting somewhere in the Caribbean, sipping drinks on a beach. He should not be lying cold in a chapel. There shouldn’t be a funeral, no mourning, no stupid farewell video. Someone had to open his shop tomorrow morning, someone had to paint, someone had to…!
Juan was dead.
Something stabbed at his chest. Quackity turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow. The mattress creaked under his weight. His eyes burned, though not a single tear fell. He wanted to cry so badly, he begged for just one tear. Damn it, he wanted to so badly…
And yet inside, he was empty, like a vase filled with dried-out flowers. He felt awful for not being able to shed even one tear. He was so tired, yet he couldn’t even fall asleep. He just lay there and thought.
About Juan, who should have been enjoying life. About that damn reactor that caused nothing but trouble. About how maybe, if he had come out of his hole more often, none of this would have happened.
Maybe it really was his fault. If he had gone out to people more, or at least answered messages, Juan wouldn’t have agreed to enter the reactor, cuz Quackity would have talked him out of it. Even if he had shown up there, Quackity would never have allowed anyone to pull the lever. Hell, if Quackity had been around more, Multi wouldn’t have needed to look for helpers. Aldo and Roier would never have been there that day, Juan would still be alive.
If only he had been more useful, Multi would have asked him for help. And Quackity would have helped, he would have even overseen the whole process. He would have negotiated, done anything. Anything that could have saved Juan.
The word “what if…” made him feel sick. Because no matter what he imagined, nothing would change the course of events. And every version ended the same damn way. Juan was dead. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. He was cold and pale, his body laid out in a church, surrounded by a thousand roses from Graf.
Juan was dead and he wasn’t even fucking there when he was dying.
Juan, who so often said things so absurd they made everyone laugh. Who always tried to involve everyone, even if it ended in disaster. Who always tried to support and help when someone needed it. Who painted such incredible works that owning one was a luxury.
And Quackity, who was so often absent, was still breathing. Still alive, relatively fine. Something twisted in his stomach again, and he rolled onto his back.
Maybe if he hadn’t disappeared so often. If he hadn’t slept through afternoons. If he hadn’t left Multi alone in all that mess. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
That word was slowly killing him.
Maybe if Multi hadn’t called Aldo and Roier. Maybe then nothing would have spiraled out of control. Maybe Quackity could have calmed everyone down. Maybe he could have convinced Juan not to go into the reactor. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
His thoughts raced without stopping. Every version of reality seemed better than the one he was trapped in. A rough laugh escaped his lips. Pathetic. Quackity hid his face in his hands.
The truth was cruel, but simple. Juan was dead, and nothing would change that. Nothing. No guilt, no grief, no longing would alter what had happened.
Silence filled the room again. Then another thought surfaced, one he truly hated, one he had been trying to push away for hours. One that had been sitting inside him ever since he learned what had happened.
Why was he still working with Multi? Why?
His jaw clenched. To everyone else, the answer would seem obvious. Juan had died because of everything surrounding the reactor. He died because someone chose to enter it, and Multi couldn’t keep things under control. Because of obsession. Because of the game they had both decided to play. Because of plans meant to turn them into gods. Divinity, evolution, progress or whatever word Multi felt like using that week.
Someone had died. Someone Quackity cared about. Someone he considered a friend. That should have been enough to hate Multi. Shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t he be furious? Shouldn’t he hate the scientist and walk away? Seek revenge for Juan’s death? Burn bridges and choose a side?
And yet, every time he imagined sending him a message, or meeting him face to face… something stabbed at his chest. The worst part was that it wasn’t hemorrhage or heart attack, but it was that strange grief, that sense of loss.
That was why he hated himself more than Multi. Because despite everything, the whole mess… he understood. He couldn’t say he accepted it or agreed with it. But fuck, he understood.
He understood why Multi protected the reactor. Why he felt cornered. Why everything was falling apart. He understood his panic, his desperation and even his obsession. And that made him feel like a monster. Juan had been his friend. So why wasn’t he screaming? Why wasn’t he demanding revenge or tearing the lab apart? Why couldn’t he hate Multi?
Quackity squeezed his eyes shut. Because he loved him. The realization made him feel weak, fucking sick. Not because it was new information, actually he had known for a while.
Maybe he hadn’t fully realized just how far it had gone. But he knew it was something close to love. Every time his thoughts drifted to the mad scientist. Every time he checked his communicator, waiting for a message from him. Every time his heart sped up when he saw him. Every time he sat in the reactor, listening to Multi’s voice.
God. He always listened, no matter what Multi was talking about. Sometimes the scientist would go on for hours about science, the reactor, possibilities, theories and Quackity would sit there in complete silence. Fascinated. Listening to the beautiful and terrifying mind Multi possessed. The way he spoke, the way he thought…
The way he looked at Quackity as if they were equals. As if Quackity was his partner, not a follower or servant. They were equal, they were both gods.
That memory hurt. Because with every warm, gentle feeling, he felt worse and worse. The guilt wouldn’t leave him alone. Juan, his good friend, was dead. Killed in Multi’s laboratory. And Quackity was thinking about love towards the scientist.
How dare he still care about him? How dare he still crave Multi’s attention? How dare he still miss him?
Quackity let out a shaky breath and pulled out his communicator. He stared blankly at the conversation with the scientist, who had messaged him two hours ago.
Fucking hell. He felt like crying, because Multi had always been so kind to him and so gentle. He couldn’t understand how he could allow something so horrible to happen to someone else. Quackity hesitated for a moment, then started typing.
He deleted it and started again.
Deleted.
No matter how many times he typed something, he kept erasing it, changing it again and again. Still, he didn’t send a single message. Every time his thumb hovered over “send”… he just couldn’t do it.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
He dropped the phone onto the mattress and stared back up at the ceiling. His eyes were dry as a desert, even though he wanted to cry so badly. He wanted to shed a tear, to mourn his friend.
But he couldn’t. Despite the grief clawing at his ribs. Despite how badly he wanted to fall apart. Nothing came. Not a single tear. Just emptiness, so vast…
Then, suddenly, Quackity heard someone use his waystone. Well, no surprise, it was deadass right next to his bed, barely hidden behind dozens of crammed chests, so there’s no way he would miss that sound of teleporting. He froze, listening. Whoever it was didn’t move.
But he could hear them breathing like they had just run a marathon. Jesus, what the hell had they been doing? They sounded completely out of breath almost like Ewron after doing two jumping jack.
Who could it be? Who even had this waystone?
As quietly as possible, Quackity got up from the bed, which creaked softly beneath him. He cursed under his breath, promising himself he’d replace the old mattress soon. He grabbed a flower pot from nearby and slowly moved toward the intruder.
Fear replaced his exhaustion, snapping him into alertness. His heart pounded, urging him to fight or flight response. No one should have had that waystone. Well, almost no one. Recently, he had let maybe two people into his house. But, who the hell knew, maybe one of them had brought someone else along. Into his one safe place. The only place he could escape the world. Who the hell…?
Quackity hid behind the chests, raising the flower pot slightly, waiting. Would they teleport back, were they here to rob him? It didn’t matter, cuz he was ready. Well, as ready as someone who hadn’t left bed in days and barely ate could be. He just hoped it wasn’t someone big, cuz then he’d be completely screwed.
The floorboards creaked, giving away the intruder’s position. Right next to the chests Quackity was hiding behind. He lifted the pot higher and lunged forward with a hoarse shout. He was just about to beat them like citizens militia in 1983, but then he saw the white lab coat. And the greenish dreadlocks. He froze mid-swing, staring at a terrified Multi, who was shielding his head with his arms.
“¡Dios mío, pendejo!” Quackity groaned, exhaling the breath he’d been holding. He lowered the pot and set it on the floor.
“What, what, what?” Multi squeaked, straightening up and breathing heavily.
“Have you completely lost your mind? I could’ve hit you!” Quackity sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“Maybe don’t jump at people with a, kurwa, flower pot, yes?” Multi muttered.
They both fell silent, staring at each other. Everything stilled, as if time itself had stopped. Since that terrible day, Quackity hadn’t seen him even once. Multi looked awful, even worse than usual, which was really a feat. His coat was wrinkled, his dreadlocks even more of a mess than normal. He lacked that usual composed, almost performative presence, he was definitely not “aura farming” like always. Instead, he looked exhausted and tense. Dark circles hung heavily under his eyes and his skin looked paler than ever. Quackity was pretty sure he didn’t look much better himself.
Their eyes met and some cruel part of Quackity hoped that Multi felt at least a little guilty. That he suffered the same way that Quackity was. That he couldn’t sleep and every thought he had was haunted by Juan.
But the relief that flooded his chest at the sight of Multi, still alive, was immediate, instinctive. Pathetic. Truly pathetic.
“How did you even get here?” Quackity asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
“You never changed the waystone after you brought me here,” Multi replied, staring straight at him.
Fuck, of course he hadn’t. Of course he forgot. He had shown that scientist every place he’d ever saved on his stupid map.
Multi glanced around the stuffy room, making Quackity feel exposed. Someone had just seen how utterly wrecked he was, and that someone was John Multas himself. Humiliating.
“I just… wanted to make sure nothing happened to you,” Multi said quietly, looking down at the tips of his stylish boots.
Something in Quackity snapped. This was the same person who had let Juan be thrown into that chamber and who had let Aldo pull the lever, who had allowed Juan to die. And in this very moment he couldn’t even look the younger in the eye. And he came here to check if the younger was alive.
Quackity wanted to scream, to cry, to hit him. To grab him, laugh in his face, demand answers. Ask if he felt just as awful. He wanted him gone. He wanted beg him to stay. He needed so many things and wanted even more. All the prayers and cries were mixed up in his head, pounding at his temples.
And as he looked at Multi, his eyes finally filled with tears. And it hit him harder than it should have. Because he couldn’t cry for Juan, his dead friend. But he could cry now, for this, for this crazy scientist. He felt tears slid down his cheeks.
And the worst part was that Multi was looking at him with something like tenderness, mixed with something like relief. And that made the tears fall harder like some Niagara Falls. God, he was a pathetic man. He felt disgusting. Cuz Multi was looking at him like that and he couldn’t even throw him out. Something tightened in his throat.
“Stop it,” he rasped through tears, his voice breaking. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The relief on Multi’s face shifted into something else that looked like guilt, sadness. Quackity hated it. Hated all of it, hated how he felt. He couldn’t stop crying and his sleeve was already soaked from wiping his face.
“Don’t look at me like that, pendejo.”
“Quackity…” Multi started, but he was cut off with a sharp gesture.
“No. You don’t get to do this,” Quackity said, louder now, his voice edged with anger.
Multi fell silent again, staring at his shoes. Quackity let out a hysterical laugh, clashing horribly with his sobs.
“Do you know how long I’ve been lying in that bed?” he asked and received no answer. “I can’t sleep, nor eat. I think about him all the time. Every time I close my eyes, I see him.”
His voice cracked and something stabbed at his chest. Still nothing, no stupid answer, not even a look. Quackity stepped forward, anger boiling over. And not because he hated the man in front of him. But because no matter what, he couldn’t. He wanted to, but just couldn’t.
“Juan is dead,” he said, the words sounding like some sick joke. “Juan is fucking dead. You said we wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not my friends. You promised. You fucking promised me, Multi.”
Multi closed his eyes. Quackity’s hands trembled with rage. He was furious that the older man couldn’t even answer him. Not a fucking word, nothing. Just standing there like a statue, waiting for god knows what.
“Say something,” Quackity growled, shoving him lightly. Still nothing. “Say something, motherfucker. Defend yourself. Tell me why I should still help you. ¡PUTA MADRE, DI ALGO!”
He could barely breathe, his anger crashing against Multi’s silence. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he was ready to swing. The scientist flinched slightly, the first reaction in a long time. That only made it worse.
“¡PELEA, CABRÓN!” Quackity shouted, his voice breaking halfway through. “Say anything! Say there was no other choice! Say you didn’t want this! WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING?! SAY SOMETHING, GODDAMN IT!”
He grabbed Multi by the collar of his coat, but still Multi didn’t react. Silence filled the room, broken only by Quackity’s ragged breathing. He stood there, shaking, crying. Waiting for anything, any kind of reaction. Any response, explanation or even a fight. Anything at all.
Instead, he got Multi looking at him with the saddest expression Quackity had ever seen. He had to take a deep breath and look away.
“I can’t,” Multi said quietly, swallowing hard. “I can’t, Alex.”
“Why?” Quackity asked, barely audible, tears streaming down his face.
“Because it would all be a lie,” Multi whispered, turning his gaze away. His hands trembled slightly, the first sign that he, too, was barely holding himself together. “You have every right to be angry with me. I deserve it.”
Quackity froze, the words striking him like a knife to the back. He stared at him, still clutching the lab coat tightly. Multi gave a sad, hollow smile.
“Alex, I deserve it. You have the right to be angry, because I was responsible for it… or at least in part,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time since he arrived. “I failed to keep control of both the reactor and Graf. Everything spiraled, and I foolishly thought I could manage it all. I thought that if I planned everything well enough, it would go the way I wanted. That if I calculated everything, no one would die…”
Quackity’s vision blurred. The room felt too small, too suffocating. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. Multi didn’t sound like a god, not like the brilliant, untouchable genius Quackity had fallen for. He sounded uncertain, like a human, totally broken…. and that hurt even more.
“I couldn’t control what happened,” Multi added, barely louder than a whisper.
Quackity shook his head, letting go of him. He wanted to scream, to run, though there was nowhere to go. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for Multi to admit that something had gone wrong. Nothing was supposed to go wrong, that wasn’t the deal. That wasn’t the deal. That wasn’t the deal. THAT WASN’T THE DEAL.
The room tilted slightly, and something inside Quackity shattered, like a train hitting Alondrissa at full speed. His knees gave out beneath him, didn’t even feel himself hit the floor, just suddenly found himself there. Crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, while his whole body was shaking. The grief he had been carrying for days finally tore through him.
“No…” he whispered, the word dissolving into a sob. Everything hurt. “No, no, no, no… No puedo… por favor, Michał…”
He could barely see anymore, couldn’t think. Didn’t know what he was doing or what he was even asking for. He couldn’t breathe, panic was rising fast.
Juan is dead. Juan is dead. Juan is dead. Juan is dead. Juan is dead.
The thought looped endlessly in his head. The nightmare wouldn’t stop. Through the haze, he saw Multi take a step forward… then stop, as if unsure whether he was allowed to. As if expecting to be cursed out, rejected, hated like hooker under the street lamp. Maybe that’s what Quackity should have done.
But he couldn’t. Because despite everything, the anger, the grief, the guilt… the person he longed for, the person he loved, was standing right there. And he couldn’t push him away, no matter how much he wanted to.
Multi slowly crouched beside him and hesitantly touched his shoulder. Quackity didn’t stop him. And when Multi finally pulled him into a gentle embrace, Quackity broke completely. A broken sound tore from his throat, and his hands immediately clutched at Multi’s coat, tight and desperate, as if holding onto it could keep him from drowning.
Multi held him tighter and the younger buried his face in his shoulder. The fabric of the coat quickly soaked through with tears, his body trembling uncontrollably. The older didn’t even resist when Quackity practically climbed into his lap, clinging to him like a koala, like he was the last thing left.
One of Multi’s hands moved slowly to his hair, gently stroking it. That nearly made Quackity cry even harder. Then, the younger whispered something he had been avoiding for days.
“He’s dead, Multi,” he said, his voice breaking. Saying it out loud, without anger, made it all terrifyingly real. “He’s really dead.”
Silence fell over the room. For a moment, Quackity thought Multi wouldn’t respond. Then he felt the scientist’s arms tighten around him, almost enough to betray how much it hurt him too.
“I know,” Multi said finally, his voice trembling. Another sob ripped out of Quackity. Multi pressed his forehead into younger hair, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry… I know ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough. But I am so, so sorry.”
His voice broke at the end and Quackity let out a louder, almost wailing sob, something he’d probably call “humiliating” later. And then came the nickname, the one that shattered whatever control the mad scientist still had left.
“I’m sorry, kaczuszko,” Multi said, his voice completely breaking.
For the first time that night, Quackity realized that he wasn’t the only one crying. And that even this madman still had some empathy left in him.