Chapter Text
“Every time my heart is beatin', I can feel the recipe
I wonder if my day is coming, blame it on the entropy
My blood is pumpin', I can see the end is right in front of me
Don't take it from me, I could be everything, everything…”
Sharks — Imagine Dragons
City lights cut through the night sky, coloring the heavy clouds yellow. Not even tobacco smoke can block out the smell of ozone wafting through the air, it permeates everywhere, even somehow creeping into the glassed-in office. Blinking, Quackity turns away from contemplating the panorama of the city and puts out his cigarette on the ashtray. The only eye clings to the object lying on the desk for the umpteenth time that night. It looks as alien as possible, lying among the stacks of documents that the Mexican must review and sign every single day. Eternally cold, black cover made of a material vaguely resembling leather, gilded letters from some ancient language mixed with runes, Quackity inhales sharply through his nose. It had taken him a lot of time and effort to get this book. But it was much harder to write one name in it. He'd done it only a few hours ago, holding his breath and clenching his teeth, finally deciding to do it after what seemed like weeks of deliberation. The weather had immediately turned bad, the sky rumbled intermittently beyond the clouds, and Quackity couldn't stop his fingers from shaking.
Damn it.
That name. A name he'd rather forget, erase from his memory forever, but no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much time passes, he still remembers it. It's like it's burned in there somewhere, deep inside on a level that can't be reached, and Quackity realizes that's partly why he's standing here now. After all these years. He stares anxiously at the rumbling sky outside the window once more, flinches when lightning flashes as it cuts through the night's darkness, and then the raindrops finally begin to pound on the dry desert ground. Even hours later, when the horizon finally begins to brighten and the weather slowly but surely improves, Quackity does not move away from the window. He stares intensely into the distance, not noticing the feathers on his wings ruffling on his back, smoking one cigarette after another until, somewhere far away on the horizon, a lone figure appears walking along the road toward town.
Inside, something twitches. Quackity presses his lips together and turns around, heading for the door.
Maybe he shouldn't have gone downstairs. Maybe it would have been better if he'd just kept watching from his office like that, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. Now he waited below, blinking only occasionally and not moving from his spot until the stranger's figure was a couple of meters away from him. A pair of hooves clattering loudly against the pavement, a black suit with a blue sweater underneath, a pair of horns... His brown, curly hair was now mottled with a multitude of snowy white strands, and the red eyes that Quackity had seen so many times in his nightmares were staring straight at him. Schlatt was silent, and if it weren't for the heaving of his chest he would have been a ghost.
"Now we're even," Quackity literally forced himself to say it, his tongue barely moving from the cold frozen in his veins.
Schlatt's eyebrows twitched oddly. He belatedly pulled a semblance of a smile on his face that was nothing like the predatory grin the Mexican remembered, but he still didn't answer right away.
"Why, not happy to see me?" there wasn't the mockery in his voice that Quackity had expected to hear, but it still sent shivers down his spine.
He didn't answer. The tension in the air was different from what the Mexican had expected, but that didn't change anything. Looking at Schlatt with a mixture of contempt and spite, Quackity turned and walked silently away without looking back. To hell with it. There was no reason for them to talk. Putting that damned name in the Reviving Book, he hadn't counted on exactly anything. To be completely honest — he didn't even think Schlatt would actually show up in town, some part of him even hoped it would never happen, because there was literally no reason for the former president to do so. But no. Schlatt had come straight to Las Nevadas, but without his trademark smirk on his face, without evil words, without insults... No, that wasn't what Quackity had been expecting.
Shaking his head, he pushed those thoughts away. He shouldn't care, it was just another piece of the past he hadn't cared about in a long time. If he was to think of it, it was only as a fulfillment of the lost bet.
It's hard not to think anyway. Even monotonous work, which usually helps to distract from unnecessary things, comes tight with thoughts climbing into his head. Quackity doesn't immediately realize that hours have passed. The silence of the office flooded with red sunset rays is suddenly cut through by the click of the door, the Mexican jerks and looks at his watch for the first time in a long time, realizing that he has been sitting here all day. But even that quickly becomes irrelevant. Schlatt looks at him from across the room, Quackity frowned, not understanding how the horned man was able to find his way here. Though... He's always been good with people and knows how to get what he needs from them. So it was no wonder he'd made it here, even if it had taken him all day.
"You have a nice city," the faun said sincerely, but Quackity squinted suspiciously, "I can't believe you did all this yourself."
"Why are you here?" trying to sound indifferent, he asks, "I've kept my end of the deal, so now we can both go our separate ways."
"I can't even stop by to say hello to an old friend?" the sickeningly soft tone of faun's voice makes everything inside unpleasantly churn, and Schlatt pulled that travesty of a smile back onto his face.
No, that is not a smile. Quackity remembered how Schlatt smiled when he did it genuinely. Wide, predatory, showing the fangs that normal sheep do not have. Now the horned man was doing the exact opposite, his words once again lacking any sense of mockery. Suddenly, it made Quackity angry. Angrier than Schlatt showing up in this office uninvited.
"You have no friends in this city," Quakity hissed, and the faun even flattened his ears for a moment at the contempt in his voice, "or anywhere else."
Quakity's bluntness seemed to make Schlatt confused, just for a few seconds. And then the Mexican finally watched with satisfaction as his eyebrows came together and the skin around his nose wrinkled in a familiar fashion. That's better.
"And you're still as eloquent as before," Schlatt grinned, but not at all cheerfully.
Just like before. Oh, how often that phrase had popped into Quackity's head since Schlatt had come to the city. Literally every time they crossed paths, Schlatt did things differently. Slightly different, completely different, whatever. He wasn't like... Himself. The self that Quackity remembered perhaps too well — Schlatt was the embodiment of everything the Mexican had hated to the core since... Fuck it. But now Quackity saw a very strange copy of faun in front of him. It wasn't even about looks. This Schlatt was really different, just observing, minding his own business, not trying to get drunk at every opportunity, hardly ever raising his voice, even laughing many times less often. And quieter. He almost stopped smiling altogether, and if he did, it was weak and didn't seem sincere.
Again, it made him angry.
Quackity didn't know what to think. He didn't want to think about it at all, but now Schlatt was always around, and thoughts of him filled Quackity's head like a bad, jangling song. Why the faun had stayed in the city even after a couple weeks, the Mexican couldn't figure out. At first he'd suspected that Schlatt would pester him on purpose, but no — if they'd run into each other, it had been by accident, and each time the horned man had been less than eager to talk. Perhaps it was the fact that Quackity was trying to cut him off at the root, not being stingy with his words. Schlatt responded in kind, if not immediately. And again, it made the Mexican angry because he expected the opposite, expected shouting and ridicule, just like before, but instead he could casually see the former president with an old camera in his hands, filming an empty street with such a mesmerized expression on his face that it was sickening.
What a joke.
He can almost feel his blood boiling as he watches Schlatt, with the same serious expression he used to look at documents when he was president, get the right angle to take a picture of the garlanded palm trees in the parking lot. He frowns, bites his lower lip, presses buttons, and then stares into the small screen with a fucking genuine, soft smile. He's standing a few meters away, in the light of the streetlamps, his shabby jacket pushed to the side like before, his hooves shuffling on the pavement, and his short tail swaying in time with his thoughts.
Fucking joke.
It's so ridiculously funny that Quackity clenches his teeth and walks away abruptly, feeling his chest squeeze in a vise from the inside.
***
Schlatt didn't like to remember the past. Never. There were no carefree days, no grandiose ideas and plans that usually accompany other people, no feeling that you don't care at all about tomorrow, nothing like that. There was only the noise of actions to which he paid absolutely no attention and words to which he did not listen. It was all just to drown out the countdown beating right behind him. Without all these conversations and useless activities, the days became empty and that made them more frightening — because all Schlatt began to think about was the elusive time. Day after day. Hour after hour. Every minute, slipping away like sand through his fingers, had terrified him from the moment he'd learned he wouldn't live to be thirty. Schlatt still refused to believe it. He was angry at the world, at himself, at his powerlessness and his pathetic attempts to occupy himself with something to keep his mind off the frightening diagnosis.
Muscular dystrophy.
He pretends to be fine. He makes jokes, loud and dirty jokes, makes acquaintances, puts on whole fucking shows he didn't even plan on. Laugh is a great cure for sadness. For fear. Even though it's just an attempt to quell his own scream of terror inside. But soon even that isn't enough, in an attempt to come up with a new way to distract himself from reality, Schlatt does something he never would have thought of before — he runs for president, putting a wide and confident smile on his face, convincing everyone around him and himself that he knows what he's doing. It seems that's when he starts to play the role of a man with a plan. And here he is again — they believe him. He believes it himself, finally forgetting why he started it. He likes all the seriousness, the deals, the politics and the money, all the noise loud enough for him to stop hearing his own ragged pulse.
That's when he meets a man whose infectious smile and laugh makes him genuinely laugh back.
But this, too, soon begins to drown in the fear that comes to his throat. Sometimes, from another attack of tachycardia, gasping for breath, he remembers the reason why he keeps climbing higher and higher without looking back, without paying attention to the fact that he is going over the heads — all because of the fear of death. Maybe to others he looks like someone who cares only about money and power, maybe people really think so, maybe he himself has long believed it with all his soul, but initially he decided to do it only to forget how much he is afraid to die. But he is dying. Slowly, every day he feels how his body is getting weaker, how hard it is to breathe, how his hands are getting colder and how his heart is beating slower and slower. He can't run or swim anymore, who knows how long he has left...
Schlatt is afraid to think about it, drinking protein powder with alcohol and hoping it will give him more time. But it goes away, not slowing down even for a second, and Schlatt also rushes through everything, even where he shouldn't. He gives cruel orders, trying to solve problems faster, doesn't look at the consequences, doesn't think about the opinion of others, drops everything to greedily fall into someone's lips, not wasting time on the words he just can't find...
His heart, which should be beating faster from the emotions overflowing his chest, is beating fainter and fainter.
Alcohol isn't enough, either, no matter how much he pours into himself to keep from feeling it. To forget reality, to forget for just one day the countdown he can't help but feel with his whole body. His hands shaking even as he simply lifts the bottle, Schlatt chuckles bitterly.
"Hey, are you okay?" Quackity calls out to him, standing in his office.
Schlatt clenches his teeth against the dull ache in his chest. Doesn't want anyone to see him in this state. He doesn't want that "someone" to be Quackity, looking at him with such genuine concern in his eyes that faun wants to whimper with helplessness. But he doesn't need that pity. He doesn't need another reminder that he's fucking dying.
"Leave me alone," his panting makes it hard to speak, his own heavy pulse pounding in his ears.
Schlatt tries not to let Quackity notice. It's better for him to think that Schlatt is just drunk, as usual. The Mexican can judge him for it, if he wants to, it makes no difference. And he better just leave. But instead, Quackity steps closer and reaches out to him, gently touching his shoulder. The other man's warmth feels scalding hot even through his clothes. Schlatt slaps his hand away, feeling the mixture of anger and fear simmering inside.
"I said get out!" he shouts, louder than he intended.
Quackity steps back, pressing a pair of yellow wings tightly against his back, making him seem even smaller. There's no more pity in his black eyes, rounded with surprise. Only resentment and... disappointment. Quickly turning around, Quackity turns around and walks away, leaving the president alone. As soon as the door closes with a slam, Schlatt leans heavily on the table, trying to catch his breath, but all in vain. It hurts. It's scary. This was happening more and more often, the shouting and angry words did a good job of hiding how scared he was, but the faun didn't care. He didn't care about people's anger, didn't care about their angry words behind his back, the only thing that still made him feel any emotion at all was the pair of familiar black eyes that now looked at him without any tenderness.
He didn't want to die so easily. It wasn't fair, no, why, among all the people around him, was it Schlatt who had to disappear, just like that, with no chance of escape? Simply because he had been unlucky since birth. And why is it that right now, when nothing good should remain, there is someone he thinks of despite the fear filling all his thoughts? Why, why...
He was afraid to even say it all out loud. How pathetic he must look. He had convinced himself that nothing mattered anymore. Alcohol, money, power, people breathing carelessly around him, people promising to be there for him, people betraying him one by one. Everything around him was beginning to coalesce into a torrent of sticky madness, all ever so eager to sweep him off his feet. The explosion that took one of his lives is remembered with difficulty through the alcohol dulled memory. The arrow that had pierced his already weakly beating heart felt much more painful for some reason.
Nothing makes sense.
The pain in his chest shakes his legs, his eyes unfocused by the intoxication, unable to see the crowd around him, his trembling ears hearing nothing but the almost monotonous noise. He sees only swords pointing at him, and Schlatt wants to laugh, but he only has enough breath for a few pathetic chuckles and wry phrases. The pain in his chest prevents him from taking a deep breath. A familiar pair of black eyes stare at him unblinking, no pity or anything else in them, just disgust and hatred. It makes it hurt even more.
"Flatty patty."
The pocketknife whistles right past his ear and jams into the door behind him. Schlatt's eyes widened as he stared at the table, Quackity lowered his hand and stared straight at him with his one healthy eye unblinking.
"You say that one more time and I won't miss again," his voice is imbued with an unfamiliar ice.
There's a ghastly scar on Quackity's face now, and with it only disgust and anger, so obvious that Schlatt presses his lips together. He would have liked to retort with a barb to get some more emotion out of the other man's face, but it was unlikely he'd get anything neutral, let alone a smile.
"I'm sorry," the faun said through clenched teeth, not expecting it himself.
He walks away, closing the door behind him, and feels an emptiness in his chest where there used to be a dull ache. It's like what he felt right after he closed his eyes, lying in that damn van, and then opened them in the middle of the endless empty railroad platform. Then, the intoxication wore off, it had been a hell of a long time, and he was sitting in that gray station feeling absolutely nothing. All the thoughts swirling around in his head, the noise, the fear, dissappeared all at once, as if someone had turned off a switch. The realization didn't even come into his head right away — he is dead. No pulse. No breath. And he was alone. He had tried so hard to ignore the deadline given to him that now, having finally plummeted into the abyss of death, he didn't know what to do next.
Should he?
There was no point in being afraid anymore. There was no point in drinking, in getting angry and screaming, this time, really. But his hands still reached for the bottle that had come from out of nowhere, and he drained it in a gulp and coughed, then laughed like a madman. His voice echoed against the empty walls and then sank into a strange, foggy silence. It was like a bad dream, like a delusion. God, how he wanted to close his eyes and never open them again, not to see where he was, not to think about how it had happened, not to remember... It was all his own fault, wasn't it? Schlatt grinned immediately. What a funny thought. Like if he'd made different decisions, it would have helped him not end up here, alone, dead of a terminal illness.
It was all just an attempt to escape the frightening reality, a game, nothing more. And he was playing — playing a brutal dictator who loved money, alcohol and power, because it was dangerous, it was vivid, vivid enough that he could at least temporarily forget about his diagnosis, which had put an end to his entire life, once and for all. Was it a good reason? No. But it didn't make any difference now. It never did. But the funny thing was that believing the whole game was surprisingly easy, even easier than realizing his own death. Maybe he was just too good at denying the obvious. Coward. Right, he'd been too scared to think about exactly what he was doing. Now it was too late for regret, now he was alone with fucking eternity and a never-drying bottle of alcohol.
It's over.
***
Quackity leaned back in his chair, covering his face with his hand. His eyes caught the knife sticking out of the door through his fingers, and the Mexican swallowed, warding off the feeling of deja vu. But it's a strange one. It's as if everything has been reversed — and as soon as he realizes what it is, it's even lousier.
"A la chingada..." he exhales, frowning harder.
Maybe he should have kicked Schlatt out of the city the day he got here. Except that would mean that Quackity didn't want him, that he cared, even though everything he'd been trying to prove to himself all these years should have been just the opposite. He shouldn't have cared. But instead of the manufactured indifference he'd never been able to find in himself, when he looked at Schlatt, he felt all the same anger he'd felt fifteen years ago. Anger and resentment. Shit. He should have been above this, it had been years. It was time to get over it.
On the other hand, Quackity knew the faun well enough, even more — he knew him better than anyone else, and he knew perfectly well that Schlatt had absolutely no idea how to stand up for himself outside of civilization. He was bad at weapons, bad at defense, didn't run, didn't wear armor, it was a miracle he'd managed to make it to the city alive at all. Though he remembered he'd never missed an opportunity to complain about the monsters getting him in trouble before, and now suddenly he literally ignored the fact that Quackity had thrown a knife at him. Schlatt didn't even bother to yell. He apologized. And then just walked away in silence.
When was the last time he apologized to Quackity?
A chuckle escaped his lips. This was looking more and more like some kind of stupid joke. It wasn't what he'd expected when he'd put Schlatt's name in the Reviving Book, no, if he'd expected to see anything to do with the horned man, it was how he, with no power or money, would have to rely on the mercy of others, including Quackity. Though maybe he already realizes his situation? Maybe that was the reason to immediately apologize after the Mexican threw a knife at him? Well, if so... Then maybe Quackity could still laugh heartily at the whole situation. Yes, it would definitely give him pleasure, even now the thought of seeing the look of helplessness on the horned man's face made Quackity almost ecstatic.
He's sure of it, so when the Mexican sees Schlatt again, contentedly filming little things on the old camera, blood boils up inside. No, it was supposed to be different. The Schlatt he knows, the arrogant, power- and money-hungry asshole, would never do something like this. Wouldn't smile contentedly as he leafed through the photos, wouldn't stand in the middle of the street, oblivious to anything and anyone around him because he's too caught up in what he's doing. Damn it.
Quackity wished he could say he didn't care about this man. Oh, how he wished he could forget his name and face forever, as if they no longer meant anything to him. But there was no point in denying the obvious — they didn't. He still hates him. He wants to see Schlatt suffer, to pay for everything he's done, to regret everything, being unable to change anything. Because he deserves it. Maybe if Quackity sees this, it will finally put an end to everything that's been going on and he can breathe a sigh of peace. He wish that was the case, so he could just move on with his life without looking back.
"Did you want something?" the faun seemed to notice him after all, and stepped closer.
His face doesn't have that carefree smile on it that was there just a few seconds ago, apparently he's not too happy to see Quackity. Well, it's mutual.
"Yeah, I wanted you off the property. There's a banquet tonight, and I don't think the guests are going to be happy to see a homeless man wandering the streets," he looked at Schlatt meaningfully from head to toe, "in fact, it would be better if you didn't show up at all."
The faun's eyebrows drew together for a moment, clearly wanting to say something sarcastic in response, but sighing heavily at the last moment, Quackity could see him clenching his teeth.
"Okay," he said dryly, then turned to leave.
That's not the reaction the Mexican expects. Maybe a couple of insults, maybe shouts, threats, taunts... But not to a silently receding broad-shouldered figure in a worn jacket. It makes him angry, again.
"If you're going to be a nuisance to the people here, at least try to clean yourself up," he said, trying to make it sound as sarcastic as possible, but Schlatt responded with a flattened ear and a nod.
Look at him... Is he holding back? Wow, who would have thought the former Mr. President would do that? This angers him even more, Quackity chuckles quietly. Fuck it, who is he kidding? He really cares about this man, he wants to see Schlatt angry at his own powerlessness, proud and selfish, the Schlatt that didn't hesitate to use all his vocabulary, didn't tolerate a word against, threw objects, raised his hand... Then Quackity couldn't answer him, for many reasons, maybe he was trying to be right, maybe he didn't want to hurt back, maybe he was just afraid, or maybe all at once. But who cares — none of it had helped then, and it certainly wouldn't help now. No, Quackity wouldn't stand for it now and pretend that the passing years had made him forget everything that had happened.
Because he fucking cares.