Chapter Text
1
"Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted, a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted, the hooves in his mind were always lifted. Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to remember, it reminds me of where I was going without you."
-Richard Siken, The Stag and the Quiver
0.
The announcement for the lottery was always made so casually. To the room full of young careers, all 30 and below and eager and waiting for their chance, for this year to bring meaning to their life's worth training for the Games- the number was never said with enough conviction.
"This year's first number is," the head of the career school began.
It was an inconspicuous place. A retrofitted warehouse. Birds crammed into the corners of the high rafters. All perched politely out of the way. The same soft, cotton songs Quackity always listened for cooed deep in their dove chests as the crowd murmured in anticipation.
Only district 2 could get away with such a large operation.
The Capitol crafted the national laws. And 2 enforced them.
To be a career was an honor inside 2. Not unlawful like it was for the districts of higher numbers.
And Quakcity sweating and clutching his palm around the engraved poker chip in his hand understood this.
The commissary buzzed with energy. It was a not so secret meeting occupied by other district residents who lingered at open doors. The stale air from the heavily developed district drifted inside.
Quackity could see Sam's solid tinted visor at the edge of the crowd when he glanced behind his shoulder.
Quackity knew he was watching.
He uncurled his hand.
He turned 19 three days prior. He was old enough to choose to be a peacekeeper. Old enough to leave behind the hope of being a victor. Give up being a career.
"925."
The matching numbers smiled up at him from the poker chip in his hand. Carved into the belly. A corresponding slip of paper from that jar at the front of the room was held in a proper hand.
It was random chance.
A gamble that decided if he did what Sam wanted him to do. Or if he risked it all in the arena for glory and a comfortable life.
"I got the number," he said, first to himself and then again a little louder.
He was going to be a victor.
i.
"Did you see the reaping for 10?" Sam asked him the night after the lottery.
Sam looked oddly human outside of his peacekeeper gear. There was no visor to hide his soft eyes. Or the dark circles under them. Or his frown when he bent down to look into the window of the oven and straightened back up, arms crossed.
"No, uh- no-," said Quackity, lamely. "I kinda, got roped into training after I won the lottery." The poker chip felt heavy in his pocket. He pulled at the side of his beanie.
Standing this close to Sam's oven wasn't the smartest idea. He was still warm from the heat of training. The soft bird song from around the career school's campus echoed in his ears.
He wondered if the Capitol had those same birds. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to not hear bird song.
Slipping a hand into his pocket he wrapped his fingers around the poker chip.
District 10's reaping was always followed by 2's. A specific rail line traveled from the Capitol in a radial arm. It was a line that traveled, in either direction north or south, from 10 at the southernmost point of the tracks, straight through 2 at 10's north border, and finally, like a straight arrow, shot to where the Capitol sat at the center of the entire nation.
It was convenient for animal transport. Heavily controlled meat resources would only ever travel from the Capitol to the other districts anyway.
Only 2 was so lucky to have such an intersection. Where stone and meat exchanged hands. And such the relationship was strong. If not forced by geography.
It was likely he would see the tributes and mentors of district 10 at the table upon the reaping stage come morning.
Sam slipped on huge green oven mitts over his hands. They were kept in pristine condition like everything else in Sam's home.
Sam looked Quackity over. And seemingly decided not to comment on Quackity throwing himself into intense training after winning the same lottery all his peers would be still running through the stone-work streets celebrating.
"You're not wearing that thing during the reaping are you?" Sam looked ridiculous holding his mitted hands up as he posed the question. He looked out of place in his pristine home.
It was the nicest mansion in the western arm of district 2. It was a place many peacekeeper officers called home when they stayed in 2 on temporary leave. Whether medical or in Sam's case in between assignments before things ramped up during the reapings.
It wasn't usually open to non-peacekeepers. But Quackity knew Sam. Sam had made sure he was allowed in the career school. Had vouched for him.
Quackity was, as he usually was with Sam, an exception. Sam was the one in fact who'd invited Quackity into his home and let him stay.
"Yeah, of course I am." Quackity said adjusting said beanie. "I was practically born with this god damn thing."
"Yeah as far as you're concerned you were, right. Oh my god, it's old isn't it? Jeez- you're at least going to I don't know- change it up some right?"
"Change it up?"
"Wear a pin representing the district on it or something. It'd look good." Sam turned to him with his ridiculous oven mitts on. The oven timer dinged. He bent to get the pie out. He set it on the oven top. "Fancy a bit of last supper."
"Hey, I'm not dying in the arena. I'm a career alright. The odds are in my favor."
"I know. I know…"
It was lamb pie. Something District 2 always stole from 10.
Their lambs.
Quackity imagined the favor 10 got in extra peacekeepers to keep natural predators and animal snatchers at bay was worth the trade.
He didn't know much better. Where he lived on the western edge of District 2 he always had food.
He could always go to Sam and voice a request and the Capitol would gladly bend over backwards to send it.
It was simply out of Quackity's concern how district 10 was for its citizens. Or the rest of district 2 for that matter.
After Sam had set out plates and silverware and picked up a plate to grab a piece of pie, he sat down and spoke over a sorrowful bite of lamb.
"You know it's a bad year to win the lotto, Quackity. District 2 is kind of in trouble with the Capitol. I'm not sure our reputation is doing so well right now. You didn't see the reaping, but it was bad. A lot of peacekeepers are in trouble for being too passive when in 10." He pinched his nose. "Listen, I'm really just not sure how much support you'll get even as a career in this situation." He dropped his hand and leveled a stare at Quackity. "You can always pass it off to someone else, you know-"
Sam made the hand gesture the careers used to back out at reapings.
No one had ever actually used it at a reaping yet. At least to Quackity's knowledge. It was mostly used to mock someone else in district 2. And sometimes it was answered with real vitriol.
Quackity admittedly used it too often.
He almost laughed at Sam casually making it towards him.
Sam sighed. "I mean I'm seriously encouraging you to pass it up. I'd hate to see you go and-"
"And what die? You have like zero god damn faith in me is that it?"
"It's not a game of skill."
"It's not? Then what is it? Come on, enlighten me, Sam."
Sam took a deep breath. "It's a show. They want a story. And they want- they want a character. A trope. Not your real self, Quackity. The audience wants palatable candidates and no reminder of- of cracks in their control okay."
"So what?" Quackity sat down with his own piece in a huff. He was hungry. He'd trained all the way up until the lottery that day. "Give them some kind of narrative. Like a- a-" He gestured to the white archway that lead to Sam's living room. "Like one of your shit romance novels."
"Yes, yeah- look I know it sounds cheesy, Quackity, but that's not a bad strategy, okay."
It was Quackity's turn to sigh. "Well I'm not interested in romance. So I'm fucked."
"Whoa, hey- now you're being a defeatist."
"Well, hey- that's not fair, alright. First you come at me about not standing a god damn chance-"
"That's incorrect I did not say that, Quackity-"
"I could always just defer-"
"You could," Sam stabbed his fork on his plate. Quakcity paused at the loud sound. "Do you want this?"
"Yes, I mean… this is it right… it's this one chance, man," Quackity fished for his poker chip. "It's this or peacekeeping alright. Or sticking around and hoping I get another chance before I'm 30."
Sam snorted. "Peacekeeping isn't so bad," he took a bite of his food and ran a hand through his green hair. "Maybe you'd make a good little soldier."
"I was raised to be a victor."
"Do you know what that means, Quackity?" Sam sounded sad.
"Oh my god, come on Sam I know this is- this is about you or whatever. You want to see me. And I'd still see you." Quackity didn't sound confident.
"Right, you'd come back every year."
"Yeah," said Quackity, pushing his food around with his fork. The meat that crumbled out of the golden crust steamed.
He wondered if it tasted as bitter as he felt. Perhaps that assumption was wrong. Perhaps the meat tasted better because it was stolen. He thought for a second maybe his victory would taste better to some other career when he made the hand signal that he wasn't going forward with volunteering.
To him, with Sam in his head, it could only taste sour. Like he was leaving too much behind.
But this was what he was raised for. He was a victor. Not a peacekeeper. Not a patrolman for the cattle herds in district 10. Not just a citizen of district 2 either.
He wasn't meant for the stone quarries in the mountains of the east and north.
He wasn't a mason either.
He would be a victor.
"That's good enough for me," Sam finally said, relaxing. "I'll see you then… right?"
"Yeah, you'll see me. I'll- I'm not going to die alright. I'll think of a story. Jesus, maybe a romance. Who knows. Crazy world out there. Maybe the mentors chosen for 2 this year will be hot."
"I'll be watching from 11 so we'll see about that. You should really try and date them anyway even if they're like 70 years old or something. I know one of them is. You'd go down in Capitol history for sure."
"Oh my god, shut the hell up, Sam."
--
ii.
The van trip to the southern end of district 2 lasted as long as it took for the sun to climb from the belly of the horizon to its soft, orange, and full position at the edge of the bowl of the sky. The peacekeepers assigned to them helped them all out of the vehicle as each present and future career hit the gravel ground and squinted into the morning.
Once in front of the stage, Quackity clutched his poker chip. It was all for show. The stage. The line-up. The prick on his finger that he had waited in a queue for (his blood type noted). Like he wasn't going to raise his hand and volunteer as soon as the first name was called. Like the tribute hadn't already been decided behind the scenes.
Quackity supposed it looked good for the cameras.
He thought about Sam's insistence on a story.
It was certainly already a good one.
He held his poker chip by his side as he looked over the bobbing heads of the crowd.
Finally, all of district 2, all traveled to one place. To the temporary stage in front of the towering southern train station. Built of stonework and intimidating, with steel cattle runs inside for the goods that came from 10.
The tributes and mentors from district 10 were allowed on stage every year. Despite Sam's warning the night before, this reaping was no exception.
And most of the crowd reluctantly watched. Most didn't seem to care. It was only cordial. A relationship of circumstance and necessity.
The careers, strategically lined up at the back of the crowd, all mumbled amongst themselves.
Quackity watched as the same mentor he'd always seen sat down with a thermos in his hand. The other was absent.
Two tributes, light-haired and almost identical shuffled and shared a look.
Quackity wished Sam had come so he could ask what happened to the other one.
If maybe she'd died somehow. Maybe she'd killed herself. Maybe she was a criminal held in bondage in the Capitol.
The truth only concerned so far as the simple fact that 10 only had one mentor this year. A mentor who wasn't known for much of anything besides being wasted.
Sam would've surely commented on it.
But even if Quackity wanted Sam there he knew full well it wasn't necessary for him to attend at all. Sam already knew who would be reaped. The poker chip Quackity held in his fist was evidence of that.
On stage the district 10 mentor sniffed and scowled and looked less than honored to be there. He pushed at the curls on his hair and scanned the crowd with reddish eyes.
The sun hung low for a clear morning. The light cast awkward over the stage.
Even at the proper table, in the proper light that bounced off the polished stone of district 2, the district 10 mentor looked dressed down. Downright slovenly and out of place. Like he'd done it on purpose.
Quackity almost felt bad for him. His tributes looked neat where they stood behind the long table. But their seated mentor looked like he had every wish in the world except to be there on that stage with them.
As Quackity watched him the district 10 mentor blinked and searched the crowd. Slow and languid. Like some big cat caught in a cage that had finally noticed the stares.
Quackity knew he couldn't see him. Couldn't zero him out. Couldn't know he had that poker chip in his pocket. But he felt singled out anyway.
Even if he wore strict linen like all the other careers. A button up and pressed slacks. His hair combed even if had long since grown out into a mullet.
He wore his hat on his head. The beanie Quackity hoped Sam saw and rolled his eyes at when the rolling broadcast showed him stepping up on stage.
Standing in the line-up, he clutched the poker chip.
He held it by his side as the announcer held a white slip from the random draw dropped from the reaping ball.
And eventually, finally, it was his time to volunteer.
There were eyes on him as soon as the name was called. Waiting for him to make the hand signal.
He could still back out and the first career to raise his hand next would win the position as tribute instead.
They would become victor.
But it was his year.
He was guaranteed a chance.
And Quackity raised his hand.
His voice left his mouth harsher than he wanted it to be. Desperate to be heard, he was not the tallest of the crowd so when he spoke again, a bit clearer and deeper in his chest, the other careers parted to make it obvious who was speaking.
He volunteered.
And the district 10 mentor. The man with the curled hair and reddish eyes and the smirk- he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes when Quackity stepped up to make his speech.
It was a career thing to do so. And Quackity's wasn't long.
And yet still he could almost hear the district 10 mentor snort from where he sat as if he was droning on.
Quackity looked right at him. Suddenly quiet and halted in his speech. He blinked as if to give the district 10 mentor a spot to speak.
The man drank instead. Silent and clutching the thermos he was allowed to have. A very obvious tracker blinked on the side of the metal cylinder.
Quackity's eyes fell to the pin on his lapel. Silver and adorned with a large number 10, branded onto the forehead of a horned steer.
He turned back to the mic when there was no extra comment. He thanked Sam wherever he was whether in district 11 already or still in transit watching his reaping on the holographic screen of a small comms device.
He thought about what Sam had said.
He thought about a story.
He thought about a pin on a lapel. A steer with hooked horns. And he waited for the next tribute to be reaped. And the next career to volunteer.
And the district 10 mentor watched him the entire time he stood on stage above the crowd.
iii.
After leaving his empty reception room, Quackity stood in a small marble and gold veined room of hardly used turnstiles in the branching above ground train station of district 2. Quackity was met by his peers.
He had been only talked to by his future mentors in the reception room after the reaping. He had no family to see him off. Not even Sam.
And his peers, the few other careers he was close to could only see him at the train station, sneaking in to say goodbye.
In front of them he took the pin off his beanie and stared at it.
It looked so different from the head of the steer for district 10.
He thought about the lonely mentor and his tributes stood just behind the table. The guests of honor.
Except for the mentor of course. The mentor was even asked back on the stage if he had something to add. He'd stared right at Quackity and said, "No, no, just enjoying the show, you know." And took a drink.
It had boiled Quackity's blood.
And standing with his two bags ready to depart to the Capitol it further incensed him he would share a train with the mentor and his two lamb-eyed tributes.
He didn't want the pin. Silver and something Sam had given him from a drawer in his stone mansion home.
It had just been for show. It represented the stone quarries. The shovel work and mountain men Quackity had only seen in passing at each year's reaping.
The pin hardly represented him or the other careers of the western edge of district 2.
He handed it to the other careers who had come to say goodbye.
"Ignore, Schlatt," said the kid who took the pin from him. It looked bigger in their hand. "He's just a drunken idiot. His tributes won't even be a problem."
"They all stink anyway," said another. And Quackity felt supported.
For whatever reason the younger careers liked him best. Asked him to help with their training or classes, tracking or map reading, or even classification of mutts and technologies other districts had no idea even existed.
Sometimes they'd try and convince him to shoot stones at the birds. He'd never agree to it. But he wouldn't stop them either.
He had only ever known them as his family. He wondered for a brief moment if he would see them again as a victor. Whether on his tour or a future reaping when they were older and would raise their hand to volunteer.
His own token, the poker chip in his pocket, 925 carved in white strict lines on one side, seemed to weigh more as he shook his head but agreed with them.
"I heard…" said the first quieter, turning the silver pin in their hand. "They smell like that cause they have sex with their animals." Their voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. "Especially the pigs."
Quackity didn't have a chance to shoo them away or chastise them or disagree in disgust.
He looked to the end of the turnstiles. Opposite of where he stood, sheltered from the open air platform itself, not yet willing to step out into the light and soft steam and look over the doorway to his future just yet. He saw figures enter the marble pavilion. Peacekeepers trailed calmly beside them. Expressions unreadable behind visors and masks. They unhooked the turnstile arms one-by-one to allow the party to walk straight through towards the archway to the platform Quackity stood by.
It was the entourage of District 10.
That mentor's eyes found Quackity. And Quakcity picked up his bags in a huff and deliberately stared Schlatt down as the mentor's escort, wearing a guady Capitol suit, chastised him.
"It's a privilege to be here, do you understand that? As the mentor of district 10 you represent an alliance between two districts which is integral to the well being and thriving nature of this United country. And your behavior doesn't exactly scream grateful."
It was a failed attempt. Schlatt clearly wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah, yeah, you know what-" Schlatt said his steps stopped in front of Quackity. The entire party he was with seemed to follow his gaze to the district 2 career. "It is a privilege to be here."
The call for the train to depart was made.
Quackity turned. The future careers quickly said bye to Quackity and scattered away making pig noises as they passed the tributes from 10.
The peacekeepers followed them out in silence.
"Cute," said Schlatt loudly and sarcastically at the mockery. He spoke again, much too soon for Quackity's liking. "Hey, why you in a rush, huh?"
Quackity looked behind his shoulder. Schlatt couldn't be addressing him. He was a fucking idiot if he was.
Schlatt's escort started to scramble to stand in front of him and stop him.
"Yeah, you beanie, I'm talking to yous. You're a career man right?"
Quackity set both his bags down in a huff. The train doors were open and waiting and he chose instead to turn around and face Schlatt.
The man was older. Greyed at the edges. Wrinkles wrapped delicately around his eyes and scarred hands.
He was a head taller than him and Quackity looked stupid glaring up at him on the platform. "Do you ever shut the god damn hell up?"
Red-brown eyes met his glare with ease. "Jesus, what the fuck do they train you to do now in 2, huh? Have a potty mouth and bitchy attitude? That was a nice speech you gave by the way, so maybe you should talk more like that to your elders."
"I'm not- what the hell," Quackity whipped his head around to look at the train. His own team, the entirety of district 2 meant for the capitol waited. "I'm not going to be talking to you at all, alright, pal. So bye- see ya. Enjoy the ride."
"You know we share the same train right, big guy? So I hope I'll be seeing more of you, you know." Schlatt managed to say before his escort finally stopped him and pulled him away.
Before some distance was pulled between them Quackity's eyes fell to the pin Schlatt wore. He stared at the head of the silver steer. The fierce horns. The 10 on its forehead.
He hadn't been able to see it up on stage. But up close he could see the ring of cup-shaped flowers framed around the steer. A soft, funerary wreath. A half-circle under its resolute expression and dark eyes.
Schlatt's eyes also darted downwards, as if looking for a similar pin on Quackity's collar. But Quackity quickly noticed they tracked down farther than his lapel or collar before they raked back up again and Schlatt was being turned by a stern hand on the back of his wrinkled suit jacket.
Quackity had sworn he'd seen a smirk on Schlatt's face before he was ushered away.
An idea. A thought. One he'd need time to think about. To hold that poker chip in his hand that single day it took to travel by train to the Capitol and come to a slow conclusion about his story-less situation.
He knew he had seen a smirk.
He made sure to hold onto that for later.
"The fuck was that a god damn pick-up line," Quackity muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to Schlatt if he was listening over the hiss and steam of the train.
Within moments he was grabbed by the other career. By his mentors and their capitol escort and pulled closer to the train.
When he glanced back to see if Schlatt was watching him from down the line of the sleek, waiting train, he saw Schlatt crouched on the tough concrete platform. Schlatt and his team weren't far from the protective cattle grate Quackity himself stood on as his own district team regarded only the open door to their train car.
Quackity could see that Schlatt's tributes were extremely young. They both looked down at him with clear eyes. Practically twins. Maybe they were. Both the unluckiest, luckiest pair of twins, holding each other's hands as Schlatt spoke. The sputter of the waiting engine drowned out his words from that far down the platform, but Quackity still noted the way Schlatt's shoulders were held differently in the face of vulnerability.
More open.
His tributes were too young. Probably only had their names once or twice in the reaping ball between them. On the starting cusp of teenhood.
And yet they'd been picked. And no one from district 10 had volunteered to take their places.
The young tributes and Schlatt entered the middle car before anyone else. Peacekeepers had stepped out to watch them enter. It was the only car of the five that made up the entire locomotive that was delegated to 10 and their team.
Quackity quickly found out the car for 10 was worse. Less luxurious. More cramped in quarters. And too many peacekeepers and cameras in the corners of their quarters or in the tiny junction halls between that middlemost car and the two sides that belonged to 2.
District 2 was expected to walk through 10's car. To disturb them. To ignore their privacy.
To travel from their own quarters to their dining hall and their meeting room multiple times during that single day and night to the capitol at the expense of district 10.
It felt like a power display more than anything. No set-up or conditions for true cordiality.
10 and 2 despite their geography despite the expectations of their continued cooperation and comradeship never aligned in the games. And the train. That dreadful set-up, with 10 trapped in the middle and corralled by strict security, it felt like a display. Like a show of mercy. Like comforting a lamb while a sticking knife was held behind the leg.
Each time Quackity crossed through the district 10 train car he didn't have a chance to stop for long. But every time, the door would hiss and open and he would walk through and feel Schlatt's eyes following him from where the man sat by the dirtied window at a small booth seat across from his tributes.
Schlatt had a bottle in his hand. The metal thermos with the obvious tracker was absent.
And each time Quackity passed through Schlatt clutched a different bottle. A different colored drink.
Finally, the last time Quackity crossed through the train car he did so alone.
He searched the car. The small booth was empty. The cabin was quiet. Every member of district 10 asleep. Their backs turned towards the corridor that raced down their train car from where they slept stacked in their bunk beds.
Quackity searched for Schlatt. Loudly asked like it was his place to when he couldn't tell if he was in one of the beds along the train walls or not.
He barely got an answer. But he finally knew Schlatt wasn't in the train car.
He found him past the exit door. In that junction hall. In that tight corridor with only a stone's throw between one door and another door- the difference of space between one train car and another train car. He saw Schlatt slumped against the emergency exit to the right of the entrance to Quackity's own train car. It was like he had tried to open it. To turn the heavy wheel at its middle and push at the straight handle. Or thought about it. And had given up.
A camera blinked in the corner of the tight space. Quackity looked up to it. It was angled right at Schlatt and Quackity watched the way he blinked up at where he stood above him. He wiped his mouth and didn't seem to recognize who he was.
There wasn't a bottle near where Schlatt sat on the ground. Just a glass of water that hadn't been touched. It sweat condensation that pooled down onto the ridges of the metal floor.
Schlatt's eyes angled up higher like he didn't care to fixate on the camera or who Quackity was and he wiped at his mouth again.
Quakcity followed Schlatt's gaze to the top of the junction hall. To the small box skylight above them. To the stars that passed too quickly as the train roared down the tracks.
The small junction swayed. Quackity's stomach jolted. He kept a hand in his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the poker chip.
He remembered how Schlatt had looked. How he had acted when someone, when something was vulnerable in front of him.
Quackity decided then to stay.
He sat down on the other side of the corridor instead of going back to his own train car and the nice bed that waited for him.
He didn't have a curfew. Hadn't been told about one. And there was no enforcement for him. No strict security like what waited for Schlatt back in the district 10 train car.
Across from him Schlatt cleared his throat and sighed and let his head clack back against the heavy exit door.
Outside there was a faint screech of metal, it buzzed through the flooring beneath them. The train swayed and turned. The rail line had bent softly. Their direction changed.
Quackity knew they would arrive at the capitol soon.
A minute passed and Schlatt hadn't looked back down at him.
Schlatt kept his nose pointed towards the skylight, legs obnoxiously splayed out in front of him, nearly crossing the entire expanse of the junction hall. Nearly reaching Quackity at the other side of the cramped area.
Finally he spoke still looking up at the blur of stars above them.
"You, uh- you miss home already?" asked Schlatt. He posed the question like he has forgotten who Quackity was.
Like Quackity wasn't from district 2.
Like just hours earlier Quackity hadn't been loudly parading through what should have been Schlatt and his tribute's private space. Like he wasn't full of good food Schlatt and his tribute wouldn't see. Like he didn't have the knowledge that when it came to the affairs of the Games, he didn't have to worry.
"Yeah," said Quackity, answering like he was whoever Schlatt thought he was. "I miss the birds."
"What the fuck? The what?"
"The birds."
Schlatt blinked up at the skylight. He finally looked down. Leveled a stare at him across the aisle and narrowed his eyes. His calm demeanor fell. His shoulders rigid and he brought his legs up. Crooked his knees closer to himself, angled up like a shield against Quackity who sat across the tight corridor.
"You're soft for a career."
Quackity crossed his arms. He'd finally changed out of his reaping clothes. He only wore a soft black t-shirt and simple pants. He still had his beanie on his head.
"What the hell does that mean?" He asked.
Schlatt rolled his eyes and seemingly for the first time glanced over and realized the water was there. "God," he murmured and took a shaky sip. He sighed and leaned back heavily on the exit door. "I said you're soft. You're no fucking- look at your god damn hands, huh. You're not a stone worker. Not one of them quarry boys. You're gonna fucking die in there." He spoke at the water glass held in his hand. His eyes didn't leave it. "All of you."
"Well there's always one victor."
Schlatt snorted out a breath. He took an exaggerated sip next. His eyebrows raised, stare blank where it cast over the glass and his knees and across the junction hall as if Quackity would see the look and suddenly realize his words sounded stupid leaving his mouth.
Quackity kept his arms crossed back straight and defiant against the smooth metal siding behind him. "I'm not going to die in the arena."
Schlatt choked on the water. He coughed and set the glass down beside him with a soft tick against the metal beneath them. "The fuck, god you're-" he wiped his mouth and looked over him.
Quackity tightened his crossed arms. He glared harder.
Schlatt still wore that pin. The horned steer. His eyes fell to it.
Schlatt as if noticing, swiped a thumb at it.
Quackity looked away and realized his mistake.
"You trying to act tough doesn't change shit," said Schlatt. "You know you and your little uh your school kid group has got the wrong idea. You really want to throw yourselves into this shit so willingly. What? Cause daddy raised you with all the right tools and in a pamepered little house where you never had to climb down into a quarry on the other side of those mountains you live near huh. And what you had some victors sending you information they shouldn't- congratulations that doesn't mean you make it out of the arena. You ever even- you ever even killed someone before?"
Quackity kept looking at the grating on the floor between them. He relaxed his crossed arms. He didn't look up to Schlatt.
Quackity had only ever killed lambs. Always with a wooden handle knife that was pressed into his hand.
It was only so they could weed out the kids who hesitated at the career school.
He never did. He never felt sick either.
It was easy for him.
A victor didn't hesitate.
He looked up at Schlatt. "Shut up," was all he said.
Schlatt laughed, deep in his chest. "You're the one who stopped to talk to me, hot shot. Don't you got a nice bed to get back to? Better get that mileage while you can the arena's got dogshit in terms of all that comfort you 2s like, you know."
"I don't need that. I could-" he searched the small junction. It was like sitting in a tall box with Schlatt neither door on either side budging. The train rocked.
"Yeah," said Schlatt. Breathed it out head tilted, thumb tapping on his knee where he gripped it with his hand.
"I could sleep out here."
"I take back the soft shit. You're plain fucking weird, career. That'll get you killed too."
"You're not my mentor, you know."
"So why'd you come to talk to me?"
"You were out in this fucking-" Quackity gestured to the whole box. "In this thing all passed out."
"Oh I'm fully fucking coherent." Schlatt raised his glass of water. "Got cut off you see."
"Mm, great, so you're just a little wasted, right. Like that's any fucking better. A real good god damn representative of the capitol."
"God, on second thought, talking to you, I'm not nearly wasted enough, baby. You're kinda a fucking drag."
"Jesus Christ I-" Quackity went to stand. His head was pounding. He didn't ride trains often. So the rocking made him feel seasick.
He'd only ever pushed out on a small boat over a high altitude lake. Careers unlike many of the kids in other districts always learned to swim through practiced instruction.
He needed to retreat to his room. Think about his strategy. About his story with the poker chip in his pocket.
"Why'd you sit down then?" asked Schlatt.
Quackity settled back against the steel wall with a huff. He leveled a glare at Schlatt.
"Why you always do that? I'm just askin' here. You act like I'm a villain or something, you know."
"Listen, I'm going to be honest, alright-" Quackity glanced at the door that led to his district's train car. He needed to cool it down. Needed to look vulnerable. He wanted Schlatt to look the same as he had in front of the twins at the train platform. The poker chip sat heavy in his pocket as he spoke. "I don't know."
Schlatt shifted where he sat and sniffed and the greenish lights flickered overhead. Quackity could hear the ice in the glass Schlatt held clatter against the sides as he tilted it. Finally Schlatt spoke.
"You nervous?" asked Schlatt. It wasn't said with any sarcasm. No bite.
It was lost of the teeth Schlatt had suddenly bared when he had fully realized who Quackity was.
Silence fell on the junction hall. The floor thrummed under them. The stars raced overhead through the skylight. The train jumped and the tracks clicked somewhere beyond the metal frame encasing them.
"Birds, uh," Schlatt looked him over in the dim lighting.
Quackity noticed how he didn't look at him after that.
He realized Schlatt wasn't going to wait for him to respond.
The same soft drop to Schlatt's shoulders Quackity had seen at the train platform had overtaken him.
"Why do you miss birds anyway?" asked Schlatt. "Thought yous careers weren't from the mountains."
"They're from," Quackity took in a deep breath and cut himself off. He met Schlatt's stare. The man had finally looked up at him. "You're from 10 right?"
"Wow, you figure that out all on your own, huh."
"Whatever- whatever- listen," Quackity stuck a hand in his pocket as he spoke and shifted in his seated position. His fingers wrapped around the poker chip. "The land you annexed like 12 years ago-"
("Personally, I didn't annex shit-")
"The occupied zone south of 10. The one that was there, alright."
"Yeah, shit. And what about the birds?" Schlatt almost pouted. Slumped against the door with a small frown like he really would rather only know about the birds.
"Okay, so you know the place alright."
"Yeah the autonomous north or the occupied north or whatever the fuck. It was that to us. I mean it was the south to us technically. But I guess it's all relative ain't it?"
"Yeah, I know. I know, uh," Quackity tightened his fingers around the chip and he leaned forward some. He could see Schlatt's eyes rake down his sitting form and then back up as if trying to figure out what the movement meant.
"And the birds?"
"Holy shit I'm getting to that, alright, Schlatt. Jesus Christ, you are really attached to the birds."
"I like animals," mumbled Schlatt.
Quackity thought about the comments the other careers had made.
Quackity could have made a joke then. But he decided to swallow it down.
He didn't want to lose his chance to hold Schlatt's attention like this.
With Schlatt relaxed.
With him open to in a way that was too similar to how he approached his own tributes.
"Listen, that's where I'm from originally. That's why I like birds so much, alright. It's what I remember best. Besides the bombings right the Capitol bombed everything alright. And I was- I was supposed to grow up in 10, you know, but no one has a choice where they went and the Capitol separated families cause that's what they do alright-"
Schlatt straightened his posture some. He wore a scowl but seemed more invested. Quieter. Softer. He huffed out a breath. "You think it's alright for a career to talk like that?"
"But, hey- listen, I'm not-" Quackity looked at the door that lead into the district 10 train car. He knew peacekeepers stood behind it. "It's just a fact. It stopped everything right? The bombings stopped the conflicts between everyone alright. And 2 didn't have enough kids so I was brought north and put in a career school. Which I'm grateful for-"
Schlatt made a sound but didn't comment.
"And I had like a new family, alright. The air it's really fucking thin there but it's clean. And the birds they're different and they're quieter and more hidden but I'm glad they're there you know."
Schlatt hardly made a sound. He stared at the water glass he held over his knee, thumb swiping over the condensation clinging to the side. He listened. Head slightly tilted. As if he didn't need to make the statement outloud that he understood.
"I think," Quackity shifted where he sat. He leaned forward some, hands braced on his knees, his legs criss-crossed. He kept his posture open. "If I had been sent to 10 we could've. Maybe we could've-"
"You trying to say we could've met?" Schlatt's eyes were harsh. Red and narrowed.
The lights along the ceiling above them flickered. The stars stretched past the skylight window.
Quackity tried to save the conversation. "Yeah, yeah, I could've met you, alright."
"Fat chance, hotshot. Are you trying to relate to me?" Schlatt coughed and cursed and sat up straighter than he had the entire time they'd been talking. "You're trying to fucking relate to me aren't you? What? Think you're hot shit. Wanna try and get a little in before the games. Before you die a virgin."
"Shut the fuck up, Schlatt."
"You know if you wanted to just get in my pants you could've just been direct."
"That's not why I'm here-"
"Can I just, can I just cut in real quick before you stammer and blush here and start crying about me calling you out on being a virgin okay. Cause that uh, that that was the most piss poor attempt at relating to someone I've ever seen. Wow I could've met you?" The mocking tone filled the small space of the junction hall too easily.
Quackity's shoulders dropped some.
"God," Schlatt's voice was edged in barbed spikes again. "Every fucking career is so fucking full of himself. Fuck off, bro," said Schlatt as he tried to stand.
He slumped.
He gave up and sighed and groaned a curse. "You know your maths off," Schlatt said, speaking with defeat weighing down his shoulders.
"The fuck does that mean?" Quackity growled the question out. "It was. It was like 12 years ago. I fucking know that. I'm 19. I wasn't a fucking fetus back then I remember alright, pal. What- how many god damn brain cells do you even have left, Schlatt?"
"I'm not- Jesus," Schlatt whistled low as if he couldn't believe what he was witnessing. "Calm down okay. Sorry to hurt your feelings, career boy."
"You're the one insulting my math like I don't know my god damn history here, alright."
"I volunteered for the games when I was 22, Quackity."
Quackity was dead quiet.
Schlatt had deadpanned his name. It was the first time he had used it.
His preferred name was announced to the crowd. Of course Schlatt would know it.
Of course at some point he'd stop using stupid nicknames.
"You weren't even a fucking concept," said Schlatt. It was spoken with finality.
They both stayed quiet. Quackity holding his poker chip. Schlatt his glass of water.
They talked more. Schlatt mostly asked about the birds again and again. Like he didn't want to hear about anything else but the colors and songs and how little there were in the strict stone streets of District 2.
Quackity watched the stretched stars above them.
And when Schlatt was the first to get up and leave at a peacekeeper's request, Quackity couldn't get him out of his head.
The other career was still up. The entire district 2 team thought Quackity was out of his mind for even talking to Schlatt for longer than an insult in passing or cordial silence.
Quackity knew he had to get the man's attention again as he laid in bed, cradled by the rocking train.
He held the poker chip as he slept. And when he woke up only a few hours later they were at the Capitol already.
Quackity exited the train with his plan. He had 7 days to train. Had 8 before the interview. 9 before the private sessions. 10 before his score was announced and the Capitol mulled over statistics and odds of winning and the candidates were given free reign of their time in their final days. Some would choose to train more. To show up in front of a crowd again or be seen under the watchful cameras. To form their last ditch alliances and plan with their district teams on desperate strategies.
On the 12th night there would be 12 last suppers.
As Quackity was ushered towards the hall that would take him towards his stylist for the opening ceremonies he continued with his calculations in his head.
As his eyelashes were transformed under the stylist's hand, red oxide painted, Quackity understood he had 13 days in total before the day he stood in the arena.
He had 13 days to make his plan work.
--
iv.
Quackity needed Schlatt's attention again. The district 10 mentor was hardly around him.
He hadn't even seen him at the opening ceremony.
After it. After Quackity had scrubbed the copper glitter off his cheekbones and unstrapped the marble-wing costume that had been made for him, he noted the tower they were meant to stay in. How his quarters were entirely separate from district 10's how he wouldn't likely run into Schlatt in the elevator. And if he did Schlatt would just ignore him and stay silent and roll his eyes even if Quackity tried to strike up a quick conversation.
When he stood with the other tributes on the first day of training, all 24 of them in different athletic outfits, his own stone grey and simple and loose on his legs- Quackity realized what his strategy would be.
All the tributes shared the gym on the ground floor of the tower they stayed in. Each station in the gym was occupied by a trainer and was meant for a different skill.
The shared gym time was their chance to form alliances with other tributes.
The materials, the skills, the pool at the fringe, and the ropes course above. Quackity had enough training with it all already.
He stayed at the edge. Followed the other 2 career around.
They weren't interested in making alliances. Careers naturally teamed up during the beginning of the Games anyway. The other career from 2 watched the careers from 4 as they climbed the ropes course. Evaluating how the kids who had only ever known the coastline and shipyards and a full ocean would maneuver outside the water.
Quackity didn't pay them any mind. Instead, he watched the tributes from district 10. Saw how they stood by the knives. A trainer had their hands clasped by the station and followed them as they talked to one another and pointed to the blades.
Quackity supposed the blades were the most familiar part of the gym to them.
Quackity glanced up at the careers from 4 above where he stood. He was casually unbothered, leaning on a tree meant to facilitate a different set of climbing skills.
He already knew how to climb trees.
At the other end of the gym the district 10 tributes held a blade up.
They weren't allowed to spar or test each other across districts. But the tributes could challenge one another.
One of the light-haired twins mockingly held the blade out to the other and Quackity, watching them, and glancing to the catwalk, the part of the run that was suspended above all their heads in the gym, and he saw cameras. He saw escorts too. Waiting Capitol suits and gems and long feathers and bright colors and in the middle of them all Quackity saw Schlatt looking down from the railing.
Saw how he was staring across the gym's floor. How he was looking right at him.
Quackity waved and Schlatt seemed to take that as a cue to look away.
Quackity knew the only people he could challenge to a fight were few. The other career from 2. His mentor. Any of the trainers.
And of course, any other mentor from a district that wasn't his own.
Within moments, mind made up, Quackity pushed away from that fake and half-sized tree. He approached the weapons station. The blades and small hooked knives and long chains ending in heavy maces.
Beneath the shadow of the weapons racks the twin tributes stared at a purpled axe.
Quackity knew his own mentor, that other tribute, the cameras and Schlatt above were all watching were all listening when he offered to make an alliance with district 10.
That he could show them his skill with a sword.
He wasn't that much of a fighter. But he wasn't standing there offering to excel at wielding a blade.
He heard footsteps on the catwalk above. Heard someone curse and the two tributes blinked at him. Eyes clear and searching him for an indication it was a joke.
The trainer offered to spar with him so that the other tributes could see his skills. Quackity hesitated. Crossed his arms. Made a show of looking those two twin tributes over as if he might change his mind. Might turn around. Or just make a rude comment.
They didn't seem too interested after all. Just wary of him.
Before Quackity could open his mouth to speak a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. He hadn't even heard the footsteps.
Quackity was turned on a dime and he heard the catwalk burst with chatter and loud exclamations above him. The twin tributes were silent behind him as he was pulled and shook roughly by Schlatt whose grip crushed into his shoulder.
Schlatt's eyes were red. His breath burned in the air. It was exactly what Quackity had wanted to happen.
Quackity glanced up just to see where the cameras along the catwalks pointed.
It was right at them. And so was the attention of the members lining the suspended walkways.
"You spar with me and no one else. Think you're hot fucking shit," Schlatt hissed. "Want to show off so bad? God, you're a shit fucking career."
Quackity looked Schlatt up and down. He glanced to Schlatt's lapel. Schlatt still wore that pin. The one with the steer.
The hooked horns.
Schlatt hadn't let go of him yet. He breathed too close. Too much in his space.
Quackity tilted his chin up.
"You wanna save that for when we fight?" asked Quackity.
Schlatt let him go and picked up a heavy club without hesitation.
The trainer agreed to facilitate.
The other career from district 2 watched him from across the gym like Quackity was the world's biggest idiot for challenging a victor.
And they fought.
And they fought the next day.
And Quackity knew they would fight the next. He knew he would have to do it again and again.
He started it the same each time like a ritual. Approached district 10. Knew Schlatt would descend the catwalk, those stairs at the edge of the gym. Knew the trainer would back off. And he'd find himself pinned down or he'd pin down Schlatt and he'd check to see if the cameras were looking. He'd always check before he stopped grinding his heel down on the man's hand.
And Schlatt would look too. Quackity would catch him when he would turn his cheek against the cool floor. Disarmed and pinned and panting for air underneath a knee in his back.
He would see Schlatt watching the cameras.
And it's the fourth day that Schlatt handed his sword back to the trainer to be hung up that he swiped at a bruise on his cheek from Quackity's boot heel when he said, "You're getting their attention you know…"
Quackity said nothing in return. He just dusted off his grey shirt. He always had a new one for each day they trained in the gym. He didn't have to deal with stains on his clothes like district 10 did.
He looked up at the catwalk. The suspended walkways that circled the inner perimeter of the gym. On the east end of the gym in front of wide windows where the golden sun would always rise, there was an office high above the ground. Higher than even the catwalks. Like boxseats at a stadium. It was where the gamemakers could watch the tributes on the training floor. It was where they would make evaluations once the private sessions were being held.
Schlatt scowled as if he suddenly got the complete picture. "Jesus, that's what you fucking want isn't it?"
Quackity stood. He hung up his own blade. "Am I still a shit fucking career?"
"No, but you're still fucking weird. You think getting what? Think pissing me off everyday and getting your ass beat by an older guy is gonna get you sponsors with how piss poor your peacekeeper buddies are performing right now? Not gonna admit it's kinda hot to throw you around, you know. Hotter to get absolutely fucking tossed by you too, short stuff."
"Shut the fuck up. This isn't about it being hot, asshole."
"Wanna share what it is then, toots."
"Whatever," mumbled Quackity. "Listen, I got other things to practice, okay. And you've got," Quackity gestured between Schlatt's two tributes. They were never far, usually waiting and talking to one another, hardly doing more than hanging out around the familiar blades. "Babysitting duty or whatever."
Schlatt's face changed at that. Just a flash of something. His face fell. His shoulders too. He pushed his fingers through his curled hair and sighed deeply.
"Yeah, yeah," Schlatt said, voice different, his eyes downcast. He quickly changed. Donned a smirk again and looked right at him."Bet you got loads more to do than just me, career boy."
Quackity rolled his eyes and made that same gesture he used to always make.
The one used in 2 when a career wanted to pass up volunteering.
"The fuck does that mean, Quackity? You rejecting me? Come on stop being cryptic," Schlatt shouted at him.
Quackity was already walking away.
Schlatt shouted at him. "Hey!"
Quackity didn't even stop walking. He just glanced over his shoulder and yelled back (loud enough for the cameras and watching eyes), "It means shut the fuck up, Schlatt."
v.
All 24 tributes and their respective district teams shared the commissary hall attached to the gym.
It was the only meal they shared. Everything but lunch was private, held on their district's respective floors and living quarters inside the tower.
Most teams, the districts with careers, sat to themselves. The ones with less resources sat alongside their alliances.
10 and 2 sat on tables on opposite sides of the commissary.
Quackity could glance up and see Schlatt and his team every time the commissary opened for lunch and they took their respective seats.
The fifth day since they had arrived in the capitol was no different.
Schlatt was drinking at his place across the commissary. He looked calmer with a bottle in his hand.
Around the edge of the hall, above the long tables, perched ever present cameras and television displays.
The games were always being broadcast somewhere. Every segment. Every step was a part of the final show.
Even lunchtime wasn't an exception.
Quackity stood up and made it seem as if he was going to head towards the joint restrooms at the end of the commissary hall. It was the only god damn place without cameras or watching eyes or peacekeepers.
No doubt he'd find some kid breaking the fuck down in there. Maybe even several.
However he stopped short. Whipped around and without pretense slid into the empty seat across from Schlatt.
It was as if Schlatt had left it open on purpose. As if everyone on the district 10 team had left it open as some small honor for the other mentor who should have been seated there.
Schlatt pretended to ignore him. Looked somewhere slightly over the top of his head and the beanie on his head. Eyes a little unfocused.
Quackity turned in the hard chair to see the TV screen across the commissary hall.
When he turned back around Schlatt was glaring right at him.
Quackity nearly jumped out of his skin.
"So you're actually just going to sit here. Like this wasn't a fucking accident or somethin'."
"Uh, no," Quackity clasped his hands on the tabletop. "First of all, I'm not that fucking dumb," Quackity looked up. There was a camera right above them perched on the high wall. He met Schlatt's hard glare again. "And listen, I'm just-"
"No," said Schlatt.
"What, hey listen, alright, you don't understand, Schlatt-"
"No, get up."
"I-"
"Actually, fuck off, man. Can I just get one second of god damn peace without you dogging after me, Quackity?"
Schlatt's tributes sat nearby. They looked at them but didn't comment. They ate their food.
No one else wanted to sit near 10. There was a buffer of five seats on either side of them at the long table.
Quackity had this chance. This one chance to go for it.
"Wait, wait, just please. Look, you're- you've listened to me when I talked so far, alright. I've got a short proposal and then I'm gone. I think it could help you, Schlatt. Like, help all of you."
Schlatt took a drink from his thermos. The tracker was no longer slapped on the side of it.
"Fine," said Schlatt.
"Okay, listen. It's simple, alright. You should let me fuck you."
"What?" Schlatt had spoken way too loudly. He had practically yelled.
Quackity whipped around to see all of who was staring their way. It was a basic sum of near fucking everyone in the commissary.
The cameras were no doubt trained on them too. But Schlatt wasn't immediately trying to shoo him away again. When he turned back in the chair to face him, Quackity could swear Schlatt's face was a little flushed. Like he would've never expected Quackity to say that across the table to him.
Schlatt cleared his throat and smoothed the tie he always wore. The same suit he'd worn at the reaping. Wrinkled and pilled. Quackity had only even seen him take the suit jacket off in the gym when he picked up a weapon.
He recovered and leaned forward some, elbows on the table, thermos dragging across it. "You still stuck on that, hotshot? Look, I'm glad you were at least more direct this time."
"Okay? So that's a yes?" Quackity really needed him to hurry up and make a decision before the cameras found something else more exciting in the commissary to focus on.
"God, no," Schlatt patted a hand at the breast pocket of his jacket like something should be in it. He grimaced and curled his hand on the table instead.
Overall Schlatt held himself too stiffly. His entire demeanor had changed after Quackity had blatantly extended his proposal.
"I'm really…" Schlatt took a long sip from the open thermos.
Quackity's eyes dropped down to his mouth. Schlatt wiped at it.
Quackity looked away.
Quackity's own bold words finally caught up to him; he felt them brand across the back of his neck.
"I'm really gonna say no, big guy." Schlatt searched over him. He clarified, "I'm less than interested."
"Wait, wait, that's your personality trait right? Not caring about like being proper right. Like you wanted to spar me instead of letting the trainer do it. And the stage. Your ugly fucking suit. The day drinking, alright. I- I figured it out. All victors have one. So it shouldn't be a big deal if you- you know," Quackity gestured with his hands as if Schlatt would fill in the blanks for him. He sighed and scooted the chair foward. He practically folded himself over the table. Schlatt leaned back some, looking over him like he had suddenly been posessed. Quacktiy reached for one of his hands. Schlatt dragged his thermos and hands towards himself. A safe distance away from Quackity.
Quackity leaned back, pulling away all at once.
Schlatt seemed to relax without the threat of Quackity grabbing at him.
"Look, Schlatt," said Quackity. "All I'm asking is you have sex with me."
"Wow, you make it sound real simple, big guy. What uh- what are you like 16? I'm not a fucking creep so that's a no from me."
"Dude, I'm 19, shut the fuck up. I told you I'm not a kid."
"Yeah, well I'm definitely not a kid, Quackity. Nor am I fucking 19. Listen, you can see I have silver hairs right?" Schlatt pointed to his temple. He had the same silver hairs in his lashes and through the facial hair that wrapped his jawline. Some of the curls of his hair were streaked with grey veins."You fucking blind or something."
"It's not fuck- whatever, Schlatt. Okay whatever. I know you're like 50 fucking-"
"I'm 42."
"Whatever you're older than me. Okay? Who cares?"
Schlatt rolled his eyes. It was his turn to lean across the table some. "I care. I could be your god damn dad. But I'm guessing that's not a problem for what you want."
"No, it's really not. Like not at all."
"Why don't you just make an alliance instead of trying to sleep with me for brownie points?"
"Because I don't need an alliance with any of these kids, Schlatt."
"Right cause you're a god damn career, huh. So," Schlatt dragged it out. "You uh, you really just want to bang then?"
"No, oh my god, stop okay I know I came onto you like that a second ago but let me explain, alright."
Quackity rapped his knuckles against the table trying to think of the best way to word it. "Here, look, look at your tributes, Schlatt."
Schlatt's tributes looked over at them. They looked as if they wanted nothing more than to be excluded from the conversation.
"You hardly help them," Quackity spoke with a hand open and in a jabbing gesture towards them. "You don't even help your own tributes. And you know full well you're doing it on purpose."
Schlatt didn't do anything but drink from his thermos.
Quackity continued. "And I know that you know it's cause they don't stand a chance out in that arena, alright."
"Whatever," said Schlatt.
"Right, whatever."
"You- you really want to win, big guy. Want to win this argument. Want me to let you fuck me for whatever grand plan you got, huh? And then what go into the arena and become a victor. Do you even know what happens when you win?"
They both glanced up at a camera. At a screen. At the fact their very conversations was being broadcast, that somewhere outside the commissary there was an announcer giving play by plays on this year's tributes just having lunch.
"Look, lean in more," Quackity brought his chair as close as he could to the table edge. He slid his elbows onto the table. He leaned towards the middle.
Schlatt did too. More reluctantly but he pushed in some from his side.
"Your uh- your feet too," Quackity easily found Schlatt's feet. He hooked the soft body shoes they wore in the gym area around Schlatt's ankle.
Schlatt actually protested at that. He pulled his foot away with a quick jerk and glared down at the table like he could see right underneath it to Quackity's feet.
"Footsie, really?" asked Schlatt.
"Yes, ham it up, Jesus Christ. You act like you don't want to get laid, Schlatt." Quackity found Schlatt's feet again. He must have given in and let his legs slide forward towards the middle of the table again.
"I'm too fucking jaded to care about getting laid anymore."
"What?" Quackity hooked the toe of his shoe around Schlatt's ankle. He tried to drag him forward. Schlatt slammed a hand down on the table, nostrils flared. He took his foot away for a second and sat up straighter in his own chair. He clasped his hands delicately, innocently and asked. "You got whisky dick?"
"Stop being a fucking nuisance, Quackity."
"You know I don't mind the dysfunction thing by the way. I don't really like the idea of being the one getting fucked anyway, alright."
"Shut the fuck up."
"Look, oh my god. You don't understand, Schlatt, I don't care about the fact you can't get hard. It's totally cool."
"I don't-" Schlatt pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes closed shut like he'd open them and Quackity would simply be gone. "God," He spoke slower when he opened them. He dropped his hand and leaned back towards his own side of the table.
Quackity kept his foot pressed against Schlatt's ankle.
Schlatt scowled. "Just fuck off, career boy," he said. "You want to get railed so bad, huh. Okay, go rail someone your own fucking age."
Schlatt pulled his foot away leaving Quackity stranded under the table.
Quackity reflexively reached across to grab one of Schlatt's hands.
Schlatt breathed out a harsh huff of air at the sight.
"Listen, god, Schlatt-" Quackity started to say. "I need… I need something big, alright."
Schlatt smirked and relaxed some.
"Oh my god, not like that. Just listen, I need more attention than anyone else here. An alliance isn't going to do that. I need a- a plot, alright. I need a story. Something the Capitol will like so much they will pour everything into it."
Schlatt searched over Quackity his eyebrows knitted together like he finally understood but didn't like the clarification.
Quackity had one more angle to try. He lowered his voice. The din of the commissary had grown around them. He was nearly drowned out. But the cameras above them would still capture how they both pushed across the table towards one another as Quackity said, "You need me okay."
"Trust me, I'm really not that desperate to get my dick wet."
"Holy shit, Schlatt. Listen, stop thinking with your dick."
"Excuse me," Schlatt's voice picked up to a near shout. He gestured at Quackity with an open and harsh hand. "That's real fucking cheap. Last time I checked, you were the one sitting here begging to fuck me."
Quackity lunged forward to grab Schlatt's hand. The one not attached to his thermos.
He held it across the table.
"Lower your god damn voice," Quackity hissed. "And I'm not fucking begging."
Schlatt tried to pull his hand away. He stopped after the third try and relaxed. He looked unbothered. He drank.
He sighed and set the thermos down with a soft click.
Quackity felt Schlatt's fingers lightly jump under his own. The digits were rough. Thicker than his. Cut-up long ago and more calloused along the inside of his palms.
Schlatt sighed. "Fine," he said. "What's in it for me?"
"Okay, first just, stroke the back of my hand, come on."
Schlatt tried to pull away instead. Quackity grabbed his wrist tightly with one of his hands. He would gladly let Schlatt drag him across the table if it meant keeping a hold of him.
"I'll explain when you do that," Quackity said, clarifying.
Schlatt let his hand relax in Quackity's grip but it was a limp hold.
Quackity was quickly growing annoyed at Schlatt's lack of effort. "Jesus, you're so bad at this."
Schlatt put on a fake, closed mouth smile in response.
It was ersatz warmth.
It was almost mocking.
It shouldn't have punched Quackity in the gut when Schlatt's hand hold became firm. It was an answer to Quackity's sweaty grip, a rough thumb dragged over the back of his hand.
"You happy?" asked Schlatt. He did it again and Quackity blinked and nearly jolted. "Now we look like a couple of idiots for the cameras. So you wanna tell me exactly what yous think this will do?"
Quackity held onto Schlatt's hand a little tighter.
Schlatt squeezed back as he swept his thumb featherlight over Quackity's skin. An interruption when he opened his mouth to try to talk.
Quackity jolted and glared at the sensation. He couldn't fucking respond with his god damn head ringing at a simple touch.
Schlatt grinned at the reaction. "You know I'm not an idiot, Quackity. You're definitely a fucking virgin. Or down bad so fucking astronomically-"
"Okay so we are-" Quackity's face burned as he interrupted him. He held onto Schlatt's hand so tight as he spoke that Schlatt grimaced in return at the crushing grip. "We are going to do this alright. Because if you do- I mean look, let's be rational here, no one from district 10 is winning and you need support as a victor too right. You need attention every once and while. But you're just some nobody victor for one of the lesser districts with a personality considered unfilmable. But hey, wait, hear me out, you have a trait. A personality the game makers want to see so lean into that alright."
Schlatt glared down at their clasped hands. "So what? I should do something taboo then. Do something I should think twice about because it'll make me look bad and I just can't help but not give two shits. So I should like what… I don't know… oh yeah, fuck you, maybe?"
"Exactly, yes. Yeah. That's good, Schlatt. See, you're finally getting it." Quackity mockingly patted one of his hands on top of their joined ones.
Schlatt swatted at him with the hand he had previously kept in a tight grip around his thermos.
Quackity took that hand away. But he made sure his grip remained practically crushing around Schlatt's fingers.
Schlatt spoke with a near growl. "Newsflash, Quackity, how the fuck are you going to convince anyone we banged? What you wanna head off to the bathrooms together real quick. That's real fucking romantic, you know, and it's about the only place it'll ever happen."
Quackity didn't answer at first. He hummed. He relaxed his hold on Schlatt and turned the hand over. It was almost lovingly. He inspected it, curled the fingers open and traced a long scar that ran across the inside of Schlatt's palm. It stretched from one side to the other. A raised bar across the skin. Like a thick blade had once been dragged across the middle.
Schlatt stiffened. He pulled the hand away from Quackity entirely. He cursed and kept the hand curled on the top of the table. Safely in front of him. On his side. Away from Quackity.
"You were making fun of me for jumping earlier. What are you seriously that god damn sensitive yourself?" asked Quackity.
Schlatt shifted in his chair. He dragged the thermos so it was directly in front of him. Like the small metal container could act as a shield.
"Fuck off," said Schlatt. "I haven't agreed to shit so stop being weird."
"Okay, fine, fine. I haven't told you the whole plan anyway."
"Fantastic," sighed Schlatt.
"Listen, Schlatt. Everything leads up to it okay. It all leads up to the interviews. And I'm going to- I'm going to say that yeah, you and I we did shit shouldn't have. And it doesn't matter where people think it happened. The bathrooms," Quackity gestured towards them at the end of the commissary. "The hallway," He flashed a hand towards the exit that sloped up to the training area. Schlatt glanced around as if the whole commissary would be looking at them after Quakcity made the exaggerated gesture.
"Hey pay attention, come on." Quakcity leaned over the table.
He wanted to grab Schlatt's hand again. His fingers just twitched.
Schlatt finally looked right at him again.
Quackity continued. "Wherever, alright. Wherever the fuck we could and wherever people thought they saw us. And I'll say I did it all with you and am in love with you and you are in love with me-"
("Wow, that's fucking cheesy.")
"And we'll play up how upsetting it is that you're from 10 and I'm from 2 and a career and we could never realistically be together. Unless I win. And I kill your tributes." Quackity gestured at the two district 10 tributes. He was aware there was a certain brutal boldness in openly stating it.
He knew it was fact.
Schlatt scowled but didn't bother to say anything about what Quackity had claimed.
"Plus it's even more tragic that you need to stay alive and happy and off all those drugs-"
"If this ends in sobriety I'm out."
"No, okay, look, the Capitol-" They both looked up towards the television displays and watching cameras. "They want to see 2 and 10 together. It wants to see us getting along. It wants… it's integral to their chain of supplies right. So a career-" Quackity paused to think over his wording. "If I make you chase after me and we get over whatever is between us here," Quackity gestured with a finger between them. "Then maybe it'll be a good symbol to broadcast. A sign for back home. That everything is alright. Like all the bad blood brewing between the districts can be patched up. Sounds good right?"
Schlatt seemed to be in disagreement. He looked at Quackity from across the table like every word he'd just said couldn't have possibly been real. Like he couldn't possibly be witnessing this when he should be enjoying his lunch. Or whatever the fuck was in the thermos he was clutching.
"Jesus," Schlatt finally said. "What's wrong with you? What are they giving you career kids these days?"
"It's just- it's just politics," Quackity realized he had spoken too loud. "It's just a show okay. All of it is. Us dating. Us fucking. The games. It just needs to look real. When I- when I first sat down I didn't clarify. I want you to let me fuck you but not like- not really- just so everyone else thinks we are."
Schlatt rubbed a thumb on the side of his thermos. It was a thoughtful gesture.
He didn't speak for a good few beats of time.
He looked Quackity over. Searched him. Made Quackity fidget under the attention.
Schlatt only spoke once Quackity nearly snapped under the quiet. He spoke when Quackity slammed his palms down and scooted forward and opened his mouth to try and make another argument for his case.
"Fine."
Quackity relaxed. "Fine. Alright, awesome."
He hadn't thought about what to do after Schlatt had agreed.
"But I got my own condition. I get to for real fuck you."
"What," breathed out Quackity. He tried to form an argument. A comeback. It was easier when he was the one being forward. He preferred the control it came with. "I mean- I- I-"
"Oh, that's going to look real good for the cameras, Quackity. I kinda prefer it when you're lost for words." Schlatt smirked. "You're less god damn annoying like this."
Quackity glared. If they weren't in a full commissary he'd have grabbed Schlatt and done exactly what he'd done earlier in the training gym that day.
He'd fight dirty.
He'd slam him into the hard ground beneath them.
"God, don't look at me like that, Quackity. I was just seeing if you were all bark here, hotshot. I won't touch you unless it's for your grand fucking plan."
"Look just keep it vanilla, alright. Is that easy for you, Schlatt?"
"Can you even handle vanilla?"
"Oh my god, listen. Like you can kiss me. That's on the table."
"Okay," said Schlatt. It sounded like he'd practically whispered it.
"And you can- I'll tell you what else to do like fuck up my clothes and I'll ruin yours and I can like-" Quackity made a hand gesture.
"Please don't- mm like not here. I get the fucking picture. You want me to give you a handy I'd rather you say it outloud right now cause even the fucking cameras can see that gesture, you know."
"Oh my fucking god, fine. Whatever, whatever, alright. It's whatever works. And we never have to actually do even that."
"Sounds real fucking fantastic," Schlatt punctuated his words with a long hit from his thermos.
Schlatt sighed as if he'd been meaning to do that for some time but had simply forgotten to drink. Had forgotten because Quackity was holding onto him for most of the conversation. Or perhaps because he had finally come to terms with the infamy of his position as the mentor who fucked a young career that wasn't even from his own district.
"You know to me it really sounds like I'm about to get fucking blueballed right up until the games start."
"Shut up, Schlatt, this isn't just about you getting off."
"Wait so what was all that shit earlier about making sure I stay a happy victor then."
"Oh my god, figure that out on your own time, alright, man. Do we- just say it, do we have a deal or not?"
"Sure."
Quackity was satisfied with Schlatt's agreement. "It's a deal, alright then."
Schlatt's tributes were deliberately not watching them. They'd stayed quiet the whole time.
Schlatt looked down into his thermos like the bottom of it would have an answer as to what came next.
Quackity saw him startle when he spoke.
"Your tributes," Quackity pointed directly at them. They blinked at him. "You guys need to back us up okay if anyone asks you to tell them what you've noticed you say we're together okay. Because this-" It was true. But it wouldn't save them. "This benefits you too."
They agreed.
It was two minutes of tense silence after. It was two minutes of Schlatt drinking from his thermos and flexing his curled fingers on the table.
It was two minutes of Quackity jumping his leg nervously, unclasping and clasping his hands and looking towards the district 2 team across the commissary before he and Schlatt both stood up at the same time.
It was that same day only two minutes after their conversation that Quackity dragged Schlatt into the bathroom and no one stopped them.
Quackity pushed him against a wall. The angle was odd. Almost funny because Quackity was shorter. But Schlatt just went limp for a moment and they both breathed like they'd done more than follow one another into one of the only spaces there weren't cameras.
Quackity simply held onto Schlatt's shoulders. Kept him pinned to the tiled wall as he stood still and breathed and pushed at Schlatt and paused in thought.
Thankfully no one else was in the there with them when Schlatt abruptly and loudly called him stupid.
Quackity stomped at his foot in retaliation.
Instantly, Schlatt grabbed for his head. He ripped the beanie hat right off as Quackity protested and tugged at the tie on Schlatt's neck in answer. He clawed at the knot before Schlatt huffed out a breath and shoved the beanie into his searching hands to get him to stop.
They didn't do anything more than that. Schlatt and him exchanged hands over each other's clothes.
He fucked up Schlatt's clothes. Schlatt fucked up his.
And Schlatt let him unbutton his shirt wrong. And he let Schlatt shove his beanie back on his head as he held onto his arms with hooked fingers. The beanie was pulled down so sloppily Quackity's head spun. He almost asked for more.
Almost asked if they could push it all to a realm more real.
But that wasn't the plan. Instead they fought before they left. And they fought as they left. And when Quackity sat back down with his team he knew he was being stared at by the entire commissary.
His team asked questions.
He answered that it was nothing. Just a fight. 10 and 2 stuff.
He got more questions. Some from the other districts full of careers. From district 1 and 3 and 4.
The entire time Quackity knew Schlatt watched him from across the room.
vi.
After lunch it escalated. They had a few more hours on the training floor and this time Schlatt stayed away from the catwalk. He hovered by Quackity, who in turn tagged along, both of them never too far from the district 10 tributes.
It might resemble a simple alliance on the outside. An odd one. One that really benefitted neither party in the long-run, but an alliance nonetheless.
But Schlatt's presence. His attention on Quackity. Their still rumpled clothes. The way Schlatt would casually touch him or lean in too close. Or how in turn Quackity would make it seem as if they forgot where they stood, forgot they were in the gym surrounded by trainers, and tributes, and mentors who would judge them when he hooked his fingers in Schlatt's belt loop and pulled him close.
It all spoke of something more than just an alliance.
The trainers at every station who caught onto the touching and holding and the way Schlatt let Quackity tug him around lead them to separate the two. They would always ask what was wrong. And Quackity understood they were trained to facilitate conflicts on the floor as well to make sure if there was a fight that broke out that it was only when a spar was requested and it was only ever allowed to play out a certain way.
Schlatt bending down to whisper in Quackity's ear about how fucking annoying he was as he nosed and bit at his skin- it wasn't a fight. It wasn't a challenge for a spar.
But it also wasn't something that was common on the training floor either.
And the trainers were only ever prepared to deal with what they knew. So everytime they clashed or held one another too close a set of hands would push them apart.
They'd step away for a moment and let distance and the cool air gap between them. Without fail one of them would move first. A hand around a shoulder. Fingers grabbing at a waistband.
It was a careful dance. They didn't let it get too far. Not that day. Not the fourth or fifth.
And before the teams broke out to the commissary on the sixth day they'd only ever spoken too close and low with one another.
On the sixth day. On the sixth lunch the districts shared, they nearly took it too far.
The sixth day was the first time Quackity ever kissed anyone. And Quackity hated the sound he made when Schlatt finally pulled away. He hated when everything crashed back into clarity and he realized they were standing in the corner of the bathroom by the tiled walls.
He swatted at Schlatt's hands. He wanted them off the back of his neck. They felt too big. They made him feel too small. And making out with Schlatt had already been a sloppy, awkward exercise in reminding Quackity of their height difference.
"Fucking back off," he hissed and pushed at Schlatt's middle. Somehow in the exchange Quackity had ended up pushed into the corner.
Schlatt just made a noise like a hum. He kept his hands on the back of Quackity's head. Kept him cornered. He had to pull at Quackity. To make Quackity stand on his tiptoes and claw at the arms of his wrinkled and stained button-up to get him on his tiptoes.
Schlatt's mouth found the skin of his neck and Quackity made that sound again. The same one he'd made when Schlatt broke the kiss. Schlatt laughed against him.
"You should make that sound again," Schlatt breathed out against him.
"No, I'm not going to- fuck off, Schlatt. You bit me," hissed out Quackity. His heart pounded at every intersection Schlatt's mouth met the column of his throat. When he swallowed he felt Schlatt press his lips against the movement. "You bit me on the god damn mouth-"
Schlatt's teeth struck down.
Quackity shoved him away.
Schlatt stumbled back. He stood there and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth like he was trying to wipe his smirk away.
Quackity had a protective hand clasped to the spot Schlatt had bit him. He looked towards the entrance of the bathroom. He looked back to Schlatt. "Are you serious right now?"
"Yeah, yeah, hundred percent, Quackity."
"Alright then stop biting me for one god damn second."
"You said it needed to be more convincing. Just following orders, chief."
"Listen, I said like grab me a little rougher, alright. Not fucking try and suck my blood or whatever the hell that was." Quackity took his palm away from his neck to inspect it. There was a pink smear on it. "You broke the fucking skin. What is wrong with you?"
Schlatt shrugged. "It'll bruise congrats."
"Fine alright," Quackity wiped his hand on his grey shirt. He dropped it in a curled fist by his side. "Then I get to bite your neck next."
Schlatt took a step back. "The fuck? Hell no."
"That's literally not fair. That's literally messed up, alright. I'm not cool with this being unbalanced. This is going to-" Quackity sighed. His face burnt. His tongue and lip and neck too. He just wanted Schlatt to understand. He wanted him to see what happened if the Capitol picked up on certain clues. "Look the audience is going to want to see me like this all the time, alright. This," He pointed to the forming bruise on his neck. "This makes it seem like I'm in a certain position in this relationship."
"Like what, huh?"
"Like I don't know… like it looks like I kind of just take it. And I don't like that alright."
"What, you don't like that it looks like I'm the one bending you over."
"No, god. I don't, alright."
Schlatt sighed. He nearly rolled his eyes.
"This is serious, Schlatt."
Schlatt seemed to rethink the attitude. He reached around towards his back pocket and brought out Quackity's beanie. Navy and knitted. Something a little pilled at the edges but still in good condition.
He stepped forward and tugged it down onto Quackity's head without hesitation. "It's for show, toots. Don't get hung up on it."
Quackity pushed his hands away and readjusted the beanie himself. "It matters, alright. Trust me."
"Fine," Schlatt had his hands in his pockets. They both looked towards the sinks. A tribute was trying not to make it obvious they were there as they washed their hands.
They practically squeaked at the attention and scrambled out.
Once the tribute was gone Schlatt's attention was on Quackity again.
"Fine, you wanna play Mr. Expert here. What do you want to do instead?" asked Schlatt.
"I don't know," said Quackity. He instantly regretted his quick answer.
"Yeah, exactly, so uh here's the deal. I'm going to bite your neck. You're gonna get all these bruises. And you're gonna get all the attention you want without any mess, capiche?"
"Jesus Christ, fine. I can't believe I'm saying fine but-"
"Look, a lack of experience is nothing to be ashamed of-"
"Actually shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up, okay." Quackity stormed out of the bathrooms first before he had to hear Schlatt speak again.
He knew how it looked. He knew how it looked.
He was hardly ashamed anymore.
The next morning he happened to be on the same elevator as Schlatt. District 2 was on one of the topmost floors. District 10 near the bottom. They didn't have much time to make a decision. It was his team next to Schlatt's.
The two of them by the window at the back of the elevator where the morning sun was full and swollen and warm and witness to the moment they exchanged a silent look with one another.
The elevator doors closed.
Quackity slid his hand over Schlatt's on the bar. He took a step closer. Another.
Schlatt did too.
No one standing in front of them reacted yet.
The elevator jumped. It moved down.
They had three floors to go.
The red number changed.
It changed again.
And Quackity turned to Schlatt all at once he grabbed that ugly fucking tie he always wore and pulled him down. Schlatt's hands grabbed the back of his neck and he clutched onto his suit jacket and Quackity tasted alcohol on his tongue at far too early an hour of the morning. He pressed forward and felt teeth clack against his own like they'd both forgotten there were cameras or people watching or that the whole damn Capitol could see them from outside the glass of the elevator. Schlatt bit his lip. Quackity opened his mouth and stood on his tiptoes-
And he was pulled away. Panting and being told it was all indecent as they finally reached their floor and the doors slid open.
It was indecent. Schlatt certainly looked the part tugging at his pants legs and looking fucked out from just a kiss.
Quackity didn't tell his district team why. Didn't do much more than smirk when they asked how long he'd been involved with the district 10 mentor and how stupid he was.
He didn't want to give the other career the same idea.
At lunch that same day Quackity unceremoniously shoved Schlatt into a stall. He pushed him in and slammed the door shut and they both stood there facing one another as Schlatt immediately complained about Quackity forcing him to leave his thermos at the table.
"Shut the fuck up about your thermos, Schlatt. It's the last day we meet like this okay. The elevator shit was good, alright. So let's just do the usual, alright."
Schlatt blinked and looked around them. At the close walls and to Quackity and the small distance gapped between them.
"Damn last day we meet like this. That's pretty big. So you wanna uh make this meeting a little more real? Or you know, you just wanna make out again?"
"Listen I don't care alright. I just-" He didn't want to admit he had no idea what to start with besides making out and grabbing onto Schlatt.
It would always be awkward no matter what. They were only ever able to really meet in a god damn bathroom. And it wasn't exactly private.
"I can jerk you off." Schlatt deadpanned the offer. He shrugged as he said it. "I can't uh," Schlatt dragged out the interjection like he quite literally couldn't think of the words. "I'm uh, yeah. I'm really fucking- I actually got my hands on uh whisky or something, you know so I'm uh."
Both of them simultaneously looked down towards his crotch.
"Jesus Christ, you actually have god damn whisky dick."
"Is that fucking funny to you?" asked Schlatt.
"No, it's not alright. I'm-"
Schlatt had grabbed at the front of Quackity's tied joggers. He tugged at the knot. Pulled the strings loose.
"Hey, whoa," Quackity grabbed his wrists. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to jerk you off. Stop fucking-" Schlatt squirmed his hands in his grip. It was hilarious how difficult it was for him to break free with how small Quackity's hands looked wrapped around his wrists. "Stop protesting. Just uh, you know, take your fucking pants off, Quackity."
Quackity glared. Schlatt stared at him, his wrists still trapped. Expression neutral and waiting like the request was a typical one.
Eventually Quackity gave in. He untied the knot and shoved the waistband of his briefs and pants down to his midthigh. His loose and long grey shirt hung down past the tops of his thighs. It felt somewhat like a curtain of privacy.
He grabbed Schlatt's wrist again to stop him from touching.
In all honesty Quackity felt ridiculous being the only one so close to half-naked. He could hear footsteps. People walking over tile and water running beyond the little box they stood in. And he knew for a fact that him and Schlatt were just plain god damn fucking annoying to be meeting like this every single day like clockwork.
And standing there. His pants and underwear shimmied down to his mid-thigh as Schlatt's hand twitched under his grip- it was an extra step to that nuisance game of charades they kept playing.
"What's got you so worked up? it's just a fucking handjob, Quackity."
Quackity kept a firm hold of Schlatt's wrist. Without glancing down he stopped Schlatt's other hand short as well. He didn't budge when Schlatt tried to pull out of his grip.
"Do you even know what you're doing right now?"
"Yes," said Schlatt. He almost sounded completely coherent. "I'm gonna get you off. You uh, you think you can like, make those same noises you always do? Or uh, you know, you gonna fucking pussy out and give me nothing."
"God, shut up." Quakcity let go of Schlatt.
Schlatt kept his hands suspended in the space between them. Quackity watched his eyes drop down to stare openly at where his pants had been tugged down.
"Fuck, fine." Quackity gave in. "Jesus Christ, you're annoying."
A breath of silence and inaction stretched between them.
When Schlatt's knuckles brushed the hem of his shirt Quackity, without explicit direction, pulled it up with one hand. He kept his fingers cinched in the soft fabric and awkwardly held over his mid-section. He didn't look down.
He kept his shoulder braced against the hard wall of the stall.
He kept his eyes on Schlatt's face.
He jumped when Schlatt's hand moved and he felt those same knuckles brush against him.
Without warning Schlatt he grabbed his wrist with a punishing grip.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Schlatt asked with clear annoyance.
Quackity dug his fingers in. He must have looked fucking ridiculous to Schlatt. Glaring. Shirt hiked up. Pants pulled down. Holding his wrist like he'd rather grind the bones down under his very fingers than let Schlatt touch him again.
"Don't stick anything inside me right now," Quackity warned. "I swear to God, Schlatt. You do that and I'll break your fucking fingers."
Schlatt rolled his eyes. He huffed out a breath and pulled at Quackity's fingers with his free hand.
"Hey, hey, pay attention, alright." Quackity didn't let up. "Just use your fucking hand like," Quackity let his shirt hem drop. He held his hand up. He showed Schlatt the way to hold his fingers, knuckles hooked between them. Schlatt stared where he stood in front of him. His eyes searched, red brown and not as clear as Quackity wanted them to be in that moment. "Do you know what I'm saying?"
Schlatt nearly swayed as he nodded. Nearly had to brace himself fully on the side of the stall as he gave up trying to pry Quackity from his wrist.
Schlatt used his free hand to run a hand down his face. Like maybe he'd then blink and Quackity wouldn't be there anymore. Nor the demonstration still held in the cool air.
As Quackity watched Schlatt relax. Felt his wrist go limp in his grip and saw Schlatt's shoulders slump. He wondered if there was a flush to his face too.
Without much ceremony Schlatt took the hand Quackity hadn't trapped and reached out. He grabbed at that loose grey shirt. At the side of it. He pulled and then quickly changed strategy. When he splayed a hand over Quackity's ribs, fingers wrapped behind them- the picture became clear. Quackity made a less than dignified sound when he was pried forward.
He took a step closer in the already cramped space.
"I get the fucking picture," said Schlatt, impatience jumping through his words. "I'm not a fucking newbie like you."
Quackity let go of his wrist. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands for a second. He just held them up. Held them out of the way.
He watched with almost detached fascination as Schlatt lifted his shirt for him. Fingers carefully pushed up the hem. He could feel them jump over his middle. Over the slick body of the full compression shirt he wore. They went still. Held him there as Schlatt's other hand, the one Quakcity had finally freed, turned angle and moved lower.
And Quackity's breath picked up and he could hear it whistle. He could feel each inhale push against that hand Schlatt held over his lower abdomen.
He thought maybe he'd look down and keep watch and know exactly the moment Schlatt finally touched him.
That he'd know exactly what it would feel like. That he wouldn't jolt or move. He thought maybe it'd feel like nothing at all. That he'd look up and roll his eyes and hate it all and shove Schlatt away.
But instead he threw a quick and sloppy hand over his mouth within a second. His other slammed and braced at the wall and scrambled for some better hold as it finally registered that he'd jerked his own hips forward and tried to chase the first slow movements of Schlatt's fingers.
Of that hand lost somewhere between them. Schlatt went still and Quackity kept his mouth and nose covered.
He just breathed and reached out for a hold on Schlatt instead. Found purchase on a shirt sleeve on a lapel of his jacket on that chest of his button-up shirt and he pulled Schlatt towards him. They swayed.
Schlatt's hand moved and Quackity tried to hold his hand tighter over his lower face. He pushed at Schlatt and the fingers over his stomach jumped in answer. He pushed again as if he'd rather Schlatt step away. As if he'd rather it stop altogether.
Schlatt only moved his hand faster.
"Shit I-" Quackity tried to say. To breathe out messy between his fingers.
"Can you open your fucking legs more?" Schlatt framed it like a true question. He wasn't even quiet. Wasn't careful when he spoke. He just asked and that hand over his stomach left. It pulled at him again.
Forced him to step forward for him to push forward onto Schlatt's hand.
"What if I said no?" growled out Quackity dropping his hand away from his mouth. He sounded more wrecked than he wanted to when he spoke. The words climbed their way out of his throat on the tips of rough claws.
"God, I'd stop asking and think that's fucking hot," was all Schlatt said in return. His hand went still suddenly. "You should uh, you know, tell me what to do."
Quackity glared down at it. He grabbed Schlatt's wrist. "You should keep fucking moving," he said. "And be rougher, Jesus Christ I'm not going to fall apart. You can press a little harder."
Schlatt immediately obeyed. And Quackity grabbed at him. He let his knee angle out some. He heard Schlatt chuckle when he had to hide his face against the wall next to him as he kept a hold of his shirt. He would tear it if he ripped and pulled any harder. The plastic smelled burnt.
He readjusted his grip, buried his nose into the arm he used to brace himself up against the stall. He bit at the skin so he wouldn't make a sound.
Schlatt had a hand on his hip. His shirt had fallen between them but it didn't matter. It didn't stop Schlatt.
He could look down; he could rub his face against his arm and feel sweat and hot breath become him as he stared at where Schlatt's hand disappeared under the pooled grey hem. He could watch it jump and move and feel the fingers digging into his hips could feel himself rut forward like he could only think of two things. More friction and grabbing onto that fucking dress shirt Schlatt wore.
"Can you- can you be rougher," he said when Schlatt had slowed. Had curled a knuckle against his dick.
It made Quackity twitch. It made him want to fucking hide.
Red-brown eyes watched him.
Quackity looked at some point past Schlatt instead of meeting them. The door behind Schlatt. The wall next to him. The hand still turned and hooked between his legs.
He wasn't going to last if Schlatt continued. He wasn't going to- he just needed-
When Schlatt moved again he clawed at the upper arms of his suit jacket.
He looked between them. Couldn't form a fucking sentence that was coherent. The hand on his hip left to tug and grab at his grey shirt. Schlatt took a pressing step forward as he pushed curled knuckles into Quackity's stomach. The shirt hiked up again twisted in a tight fist.
Quackity grabbed at the hand desperately fisted in his shirt.
His other, he couldn't find a place for. Finally he covered his mouth with it when Schlatt smirked at a sound he made.
He hated the sound of it all. Wet and slick and loud and incriminating. If whatever the fuck crawled out of his throat wasn't bad enough.
Schlatt didn't sound much better. He'd curse and pant out a breath whenever he would tug at that twisted shirt or pressed down at his middle or found a different angle.
"Got anymore fucking requests?" Schlatt asked, sounding rough and bull-like.
"No fuck- I don't know." Quackity's head was full of static.
He made a sound. He would have rather hid. He knew they were in the fucking restrooms. That whatever anyone heard or witnessed would help the narrative would spread the rumors he needed to catch on. That it shouldn't matter too much. That he could just take Schlatt's offer to the very end.
And it all raced over his skin warm and running with sweat and his lungs burnt everytime he breathed and he was sure he was breathing too much near fucking hyperventilation as he grabbed and clawed at his own mouth to shut himself up.
He tore and clawed at Schlatt's dress shirt. He snapped his hips forward. He pushed at Schlatt once.
And Schlatt only answered by pulling Quackity forward with the light hold he had on his grey shirt.
Quackity stumbled forward.
Schlatt's fingers hooked too far.
They nearly dug into that spot Quackity didn't want them too.
Quackity slammed a hand, an elbow against the stall next to him. It made a booming sound, a clack as the whole stall rattled. The metal lock on the door rattled too. "Can you fuck- stop, fucking stop," he shoved at Schlatt.
He hit him and then punched him even if it wasn't necessary. Quackity struck Schlatt right in that spot on his dress shirt still wrinkled and pitted from where his fingers had cruelly clawed at the fabric.
Schlatt's hand finally stopped. He grunted out a breath like he'd suddenly remembered where he was. Like he almost apologized but was too slow to come up with one.
He let it stay. Quackity shifted his hips, his chest rising and falling, a shoulder against the wall. He held onto Schlatt. The wrist connected to the hand that had been jerking him off. And that space he had just struck out at with closed force.
He dug his fingers into the wrist. Pushed higher up. Grabbed at his mid forearm instead. The thick muscle that wrapped around the bones. He felt Schlatt's fingers move and shift and he held onto him tighter. He tried to concentrate on staying still and not making a sound. On steeling his expression as Schlatt moved to cup his fingers over him, smother him with his palm instead as he stepped forward in the tight space. Shuffled and covered him with his hand.
Quackity swore he could feel that raised line, that long healed cut, the raised ridge across Schlatt's hand, drag across him. Quackity jumped his hips. Readjusted each hold he had on Schlatt and gripped tighter.
"I can just leave my hand right here. You can just do what you want." The heel of Schlatt's palm pressed in more. His fingers hooked dangerously close to where Quackity didn't want them to be at that moment.
"This is- I can't fucking do this," said Quackity.
Schlatt ground his hand against him.
Quackity tightened his hold on Schlatt's arm. He took one away and blindly reached for the back of Schlatt's hand. Blindly placed his fingers over it and pushed and added pressure and dragged his hips forward and humped his hand. He panted and held tight and finally looked down. He moved like Schlatt wasn't even there. Like he wasn't even standing there too close in a cramped bathroom stall. Like Schlatt's face wasn't dusted in pink as he watched him. Instead Quackity held him in place. Pushed against him harder. Fucked his hand like Schlatt was just a toy for him to use until he was done.
Quackity looked up at Schlatt. He tried to catch that loose expression he kept seeing. Wanted to see him blush and make a sound at the fact he was using his hand. But Schlatt's eyes were downcast, staring at the spot where Quackity kept his hand trapped. At the space where Quackity wouldn't let him go.
Quackity watched Schlatt blink and narrow his eyes and widen them and he could his rough fingers jump and flex. Each time he felt them curl Quackity would have to grab onto his forearm harder, dig his fingertips into the skin until they cinched at the thick bones.
He was going to lose it. He had no idea who was more wrecked him or Schlatt. He had no hand to cover his mouth. Every breath provoked was loud and growing dangerously louder. He'd curse and fuck forward again and nearly lose his footing and Schlatt would stare and curse as well and sound worse off.
It was too much. He wouldn't be able to move fast enough.
He didn't want to hear himself finish. He didn't want to shake and pant and nearly fall over while Schlatt was the one fully clothed.
He didn't want to lose control that way.
It was only about the show. It wasn't about him actually getting off. He wasn't supposed to be screwing himself on Schlatt's scarred hand.
He let go of Schlatt's hand. He let go of his forearm. "Hey fuck off. I'm serious, fuck off-" He pushed the digits- the hand away from him. "Fuck," his heart drummed along his inner thighs. It pounded where Schlatt was reluctant to let go of his grey shirt. He tried to push the hand away again. His voice was more controlled finally. "It's too much, okay."
When Schlatt let go of his shirt Quackity cursed again. His knuckles had just barely brushed against his lower abdomen as they retreated and his hips jerked forward.
Schlatt looked him up and down. "You sure don't sound like you want me to fuck off." At the end of his words he brought his hand up to his mouth.
"Don't," said Quackity quickly. His pants were still pushed down he huffed out a frustrated breath and tried to grab for Schlatt. To stop him from doing something fucking stupid. "You can literally use my shirt for that. Or anything else."
Schlatt looked right at him as he dragged his tongue along his fingers slowly.
Quackity's heart beat too loud. He couldn't hear properly. Couldn't hear whatever Schlatt said as he continued. As he sat there and watched it in stunned silence.
"You're fucking gross," Quackity said as he thought about sticking his own fingers in Schlatt's mouth.
"Yeah, you're one to talk" said Schlatt as if he could read his goddamn mind.
He thought about it again. He thought about sticking his fingers in Schlatt's mouth. He imagined Schlatt would gag on the digits. He imagined his mouth would be warm and wet and how the drag of his tongue would be rough. He wanted to know how it would feel to hear him make a desperate sound on his knees as he tried to push for air. Tried to push him away as he drooled and struggled at Quackity's feet.
Quackity knew he wouldn't let him up for air.
In front of him, when Schlatt was finally done lapping at his own hand. He wore that smirk and dropped his gaze down to where Quackity had yet to pull his pants back up.
"Guess you finally got something to talk about in your interview tomorrow, huh."
He left afterwards.
He left Quackity to pull up his pants in the stall alone.
Quackity didn't immediately follow. He stood and stared at the closed door. He reached out and latched it and ended up staying. He ended up standing there with his pants still pushed half down his thighs.
He sighed and wanted to strike out at the wall of the stall and kick the fucking door and make the lock rattle loudly.
Instead he got himself off with his hand. It didn't feel the same. Wasn't warped and roughened by time. His fingers were too different. The angle wrong. But he finished anyway. Bit at his own hand and glared and thought about Schlatt licking at his fingers.
He thought about the moment Schlatt had opened his closed eyes, languid and slow, as if he hadn't expected to catch Quackity looking.
