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Quackity whispers to you: stay safe.
You whisper to Quackity: You too
Multi has been staring at those two messages for hours every day ever since. They might as well be burned into the screen of his communicator at this point. The caving pressure in his chest gnaws harder than his bloodlust. It eats him from the inside with no end in sight.
He hasn't been able to look at blood the same since. It only serves as a reminder of the crimson that was staining Quackity's hands that day. The taste hasn't been the same since, either. The blood of his workers feels like acid on his tongue, burning into his fungiform papillae.
Would Quackity's blood taste different now? He's changed, after all. His voice lacked that cheerful, teasing lilt. Those dark eyes no longer shone the same, consumed by an infinite void one could only find within the vacuum of space. No stars could outshine such darkness.
Quackity's blood must taste different now. Multi still can't wash the crimson off his lab coat after that embrace. Something has evidently changed.
Change is a natural part of life. As a scientist, Multi would be a heretic to defy change in any form.
Then why does it make him so uneasy to imagine how else Quackity could've changed?
The sound of radars pinging brings Multi out of the depths of his mind. He brushes his dreads out of his face and leans over his desk to examine the alerts.
[Portable Radar] Quackity is nest your portable radar named Wejście + Reaktor at X: 166 Y: -15 Z: 1405.
Multi stands up so fast his head spins. A week of silence wouldn't be anything to worry about in Multi's eyes, if it weren't for everything that happened recently. Each day, paranoia tightens its grip on Multi's throat and cuts off all rational thought. Holding onto the wall, he runs out of his office and hurries down the stairs.
He's met with the sight of Quackity leaving the decontamination room, looking even worse for wear.
"... Hey," greets the avian.
"Where have you been?" Multi cringes when the words tumble out of his mouth before he can consent to it. What an ugly thing it is to care. "Are you alright? You look..."
"Yeah, I'm..." Quackity trails off, probably abandoning the idea of lying about his wellbeing, "... I need to show you something."
Standing up straight, Multi draws in a sharp breath and nods once, beckoning Quackity to follow him into the operation room. Involuntarily, his head turns every couple of steps just to see if the man is following him at all.
Once inside, the doors slide shut and echo. Quackity plops down on the operating table with a weary, pained grunt that rings alarm bells in Multi's already spiraling mind. Before the scientist can ask what it was that Quackity wanted to show him, the latter is taking off his hoodie. Soon enough, those golden wings spread out — Multi only now realizes they were, in fact, hidden under the hoodie this time, that's why he felt something was missing — and Quackity puts the piece of clothing aside.
"Look," the avian invites Multi to come closer, so he does. Multi walks around the operating table to stand behind him and immediately comes to understand the reason for Quackity's unannounced visit.
Where magnanimous, breathtaking golden wings should be nearly shining in the cold lighting of the operation room are instead battered, bloodied, thinning remnants of feathers that once held radiance of the sun, now submerged in the shadow of the eclipse. Bones protrude where feathers are jagged and torn, completely visible at the tips in some places. Good god, they look like they're rotting.
"What happened?" Multi inquires, hoping his emotional turmoil is concealed well enough, "when did this happen?"
"I don't know, ever since I..." Quackity omits the obvious, "they've just been getting worse. I tried to preen them, but I only ended up making it worse, lost even more feathers, I..."
He bites down on his lip, looking over his shoulder at the scientist.
"Everything fucking hurts, Multi."
Whatever Multi expected to hear, it wasn't that.
He draws in a sharp breath, feeling it bounce around in his lungs, feeling it sink to the bottom like a rock into the sea that will never see light again.
The silent plea needn't be repeated again. Multi runs his hand over his face quickly, mutters an "okay," and grabs the tray with surgical tools standing by.
"Does it hurt to touch them?" Multi asks in a tone so soft, no one would believe it to be him, would they hear.
"In some places more than others," Quackity answers, "be gentle. Just... do something."
Multi hesitates for a second longer before reaching out to touch the jagged limbs. They flutter under his touch and Quackity holds back a wince, worrying the scientist, yet dismisses it and tells him to proceed, so he does.
The individual feathers have become so fragile, Multi need only lightly pull at them with barely any force and they come right off the base.
"It appears as if they're rotting," Multi concludes, "but it doesn't seem to be a bacterial or fungal infection, even though it mimics one. Then it must be..." Dark Cucurucho's power, he doesn't finish (who else might be listening in on their conversation?), but it must be clear to Quackity as well.
"It just keeps getting worse," the avian adds. His voice sounds nothing like it should. It should never sound like the shattering of glass.
Multi feels something in his throat itch and claw, creating uncomfortable pressure. He ignores it, gulps it down, and continues inspecting the rotting wings.
"I'm going to have to get rid of some feathers," the scientist mutters.
Quackity tenses only for a split second, resigning himself to his fate. Having been through so much pain, what's a little more? He's abandoned the idea of it ever ending, anyway.
"Do it."
Despite being given permission, Multi hesitates. A second later, he grabs a pair of surgical scissors along with a scalpel, leaving the former on the operating table for the time being. Gently, he holds up the left wing and nudges it enough for Quackity to understand he's asking him to spread it. He does, letting Multi run his fingers over the loose, rotting softness, soaked in Quackity's blood, tissue coming off the bones in a vile display of the fragility of life.
Life that Multi holds so paradoxically dear.
Following the line of decaying feathers, Multi cuts a steady incision with the scalpel. His hand slips when Quackity winces, holding back a noise of agony.
"I know it hurts," the scientist sighs, "but I need you to stay still and relax, Quackity."
"You try getting something peeled off your limbs," his patient hisses with vitriol.
It's a long way from "do no harm," and even longer from "I would never do anything to hurt you directly."
"Would you rather I do it slow and carefully to minimize the damage or swiftly to get it over with, then?" Multi's question is met with a heavy, stretching silence, the avian clearly weighing his options.
"... I don't care, just do whatever. Get it over with."
Either way, Quackity suffers. And Multi cannot do a thing.
The scientist sighs.
Holding the scalpel firmly in hand, he cuts away at the feathers barely hanging onto the primaries. He concludes it's better to take his time, minimize risk of infection from haphazard cuts. The words he uttered to Quackity that day ring in his mind again, and again, with every feather plucked.
"You're doing great," Multi offers, not even sure why, when he sees the man start to tremble the more he plucks, "just keep breathing."
Quackity's wings flutter, forcing Multi to withdraw the scalpel. Noticing the scientist pause, he waves a dismissive hand and urges him to continue. Multi isn't sure what to make of that reaction.
Doing as he was just asked, Multi makes quick, yet careful work of the feathers coming off the secondaries. There's just a little less rotting that on the primaries, and Multi finds himself unwilling to acknowledge the subtle relief the sight brings.
"Even though I'm losing feathers," Quackity's whisper fills the silence, glancing at his wings over his shoulder, "they somehow feel even heavier."
Multi wishes he knew what to say.
"I believe you."
He leaves it at that and plucks the last feather. His hand slips out from under the wing and he steps back enough to let Quackity move it freely and inspect it. When he doesn't, Multi takes it as a sign to move onto the remaining wing, thus he does. The process is exactly the same.
Rip. Pluck. Rip.
Tweezers place the bloodied golden feathers onto the tray.
Rip. Pluck. Pluck. Rip. Rip. Pluck.
The scalpel cuts away at the remnants clinging to fragile bone.
Rip. Pluck. Pluck. Rip. Pluck. Rip. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
Quackity whimpers, nails digging into the operating table.
"Just a few more left," Multi hopes to soothe, even though he'd like to think he has no reason, "you're doing well—"
As Multi is about to pluck another feather, he feels something tugging at his lab coat. It's Quackity's hand that grabbed it, and is now holding onto it.
Quackity only casts a bashful glance at him. Multi's throat dries.
With two more feathers plucked, Multi is done, putting the bloodied scalpel and scissors away on the tray. He cleans the wings and protruding bones with alcohol and wipes off the remaining blood until they're as clean as they can be. He peers into the container with, what has to be, tens if not hundreds of golden feathers. They don't glimmer in the light. Not on the tray. Not on Quackity.
Multi turns his head to find Quackity staring at the feathers as well.
"How's the pain? You did very well," he says.
"It hurt, but..." Quackity glances over his shoulder, but abandons the idea of looking at his wings, shaking his head with a shudder, "feels better now. Thanks."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Silence stretches thin once more across the operation room, the only sounds filling it being those of Multi disinfecting and cleaning the tools. Quackity doesn't move from the table, which catches Multi's attention.
"Do you feel weak? Can you stand?"
"No, yeah, I... can," Quackity answers, "can I, uh... use the sink?"
"Why do you need my permission?" Multi scoffs, "yes."
The avian gets off the table and waddles towards the sink. Multi pays him no mind, cleaning the tools in silence while the sound of running water soothes his senses. It runs, and runs, and runs, with no end in sight.
Did Quackity forget to turn off the sink? Multi discards his gloves and slips on a fresh pair before turning his attention to the avian still washing his hands.
He walks over to Quackity. Peering over his shoulder, the scientist can see him aggressively scrubbing at his hands, scratching, clawing, as if trying to dig through the tissue and pull it inside out. Foam drips off the edges of the sink, covering Quackity's hands in a tint of pale red.
"Quackity—"
"It's not coming off," his hoarse whisper interrupts Multi, "it's still not coming off. I can't get it off."
Multi realizes.
Ah.
"Quackity, that's enough, it won't do anything."
"I need it off!" Quackity yells, headwings flapping with agitation. "I can't— I can't clean the blood off my hands, I need it off, but it just won't...!"
Desperation does terrible things to man, doesn't it?
"Quackity." Multi grabs Quackity's wrists and turns the water off.
"No, no... I can't..." a sob echoes out from the avian's lips.
How terrible.
Multi sighs and pulls Quackity away from the sink, back to the operating table where he dries his hands into a towel. His touch lingers, the electric current it creates under his skin makes him wish he could wash the blood off Quackity's hands. Perhaps he could've done something to prevent it staining them in the first place.
Sobs wreck through Quackity, almost soundless as they leave his lungs. He falls forward and rests his head on Multi’s shoulder. He supposes there is nothing he can do but let Quackity have this embrace as the only solace in this situation.
Hesitantly, Multi places his hands on Quackity's back, avoiding brushing against his wings as much as he can. The duckling cries into his arms. The world does not feel his agony. Multi does.
He loses track of time spent holding a trembling Quackity in his arms. It's the avian who breaks contact first, pulling away to rub his tears into his elbow.
"Sorry," he mutters, "it's fine. I... I knew what I was signing up for."
Did he? Because it sure as hell seemed to Multi like Quackity had no choice when he made that deal. He withholds from commenting.
Dull, dark eyes meet Multi's. So weary and sick of life.
Multi hates it.
It's not fine, he wants to argue. Instead, he brushes hair out of Quackity's face, hand sliding along the side of his face, cupping his cheek. For a brief moment, something hopeful glimmers in Quackity's eyes. Before Multi can see it disappear, the distance between them is closed, Quackity slotting his lips to Multi's. Multi doesn't object, figuring this is, again, the only solace he can offer his friend.
Quackity's lips are chapped, more than they were last time. Based on the indents and cuts, Multi can infer he's been biting them a lot. Nervous habit, he concludes. The faint smell of blood entices his instincts, which he'd already been holding back during the preening process. Now, they are harder to subdue. Thus he lets his fangs brush Quackity's lips, prick the tissue enough to let a droplet of blood slither out and grace Multi's tongue with a taste of heaven. The avian lets him.
Once they part, Multi licks his lips and gazes into the other's eyes, thumb brushing over the slit in the tissue. Quackity sighs, resting his forehead against Multi's.
"I'm so tired, Multi," he confesses.
"I know," the vampire whispers, "you should stay the night here. I can quickly synthesize some painkillers for you, or put you under anesthesia and monitor your health while you sleep soundly. No one will disturb you."
No matter how wonderful the offer sounds, the smile Quackity gives him is one of pity.
"I can't," Quackity sighs, "they're watching. You know that."
Then let them, Multi wants to scream. Let them see I've got you like no one else does. Let them see that only I can put you back together.
"I have to go," is the last thing Quackity says before he kisses the scientist one last time. He drags it out, and when they part, he cups Multi's sunken cheeks.
"Don't let me stop you," Multi forces out of his lips. The avian exhales shakily and steps back.
Footsteps echo as he exits the operation room. The sound feels like nails on a chalkboard to Multi as he watches him go, tattered wings bouncing lifelessly with each step. They do not glimmer in the light. The world does not feel their agony.