Work Text:
Whisky sat down on the white grass, the elimination weighing over him like a bag of heavy sand on his back. He felt awful. How could he be so completely, and utterly, gullible to those two? They were just using him to leave him with nothing. ANd it was a punch to the gut. He trusted more people to be left with none.
It hurt. A lot. Everyday he came back around to the elimination area, seeing the pile of beige-stained fungus that he once called his friend. No one could be recovered. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. One day, Spell Book came around to clean up the fungused body before the challenge started, and Whisky watched at a distance in disgust.
And then they were completely gone. No trace of them anywhere, except for their old office. Whisky treated that place like he lived there. He kept everything organized, and made sure no files were missing, and making sure everything was as orderly as it was. Like he was waiting for someone to see his perfected efforts. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.
It was better than doing nothing. He had also kept their jacket, wearing it over his sweater like a treasure, wary to lend it to anybody. Whenever he felt his loneliness weigh upon him, he just simply breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of Birthday Cake that just barely lingered. He sometimes even imagined they were listening to him ramble about his nonsense.
He regretted his choice to trust Money Man and Banana more than anything. Left with nothing but an abandoned office, and a jacket that weighed as much as his disdain.
He wrote a small letter everyday to place in their drawer. He wrote it like they'd see it when they came back, like they were just out hiking for a month or something. But it didn't cover up the amount of tear stains were on those papers. A million apologies written on them everyday. A million regrets held in that jacket.
So what now?