Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quackity didn’t want a roommate.
In his eyes, he still had one. He didn’t care that he’d been suspended indefinitely. He didn’t care that what had gotten him kicked out was a barely scarred over wound on his face. He could easily pretend that nothing happened if Schlatt’s side of the room stayed untouched, exactly as he’d left it. So why were the powers above (the university board) so fucking determined to get in the way of that? If Schlatt was gone, that was fine. Quackity didn’t care. But couldn’t he at least be left alone?

The answer to that, of course, was a resounding no. And it came to him in the form of four sharp knocks on the door, that same door creaking open before waiting for an answer. Looking up from his computer, Quackity was met with…a quite normal-looking man, all things considered.

Curly brown hair, tall, tapered glasses, a navy sweater over a white collared shirt, jeans. The only bizarre thing was a kind of massive brown trenchcoat that reached to his knees. He looked a bit religious, or just nerdy, but nothing crazy like some rumours he’d heard about his possible new dorm occupant. He smelt faintly of cigarettes and vodka, though, which was somewhat suspicious considering it was 10:24am on a Monday.

“Um, hello?” Fuck. This guy was still standing in the doorway and Quackity was too busy trying to discern whether he was an alcoholic. It probably seemed like he was checking him out or something. Fixing his gaze back on his laptop, Quackity raised his hand dismissively in acknowledgement. “Hey. Put your stuff wherever.” The man seemed to take the hint that Quackity wasn't in the mood for conversation, as the next ten minutes or so seemed to consist of him unpacking his very meagre belongings.

“Are you going to give me your name, or will I have to ask administration?” Quackity was startled when his voice piped up again, from the bed opposite him where the man sat.
“Quackity. You?”
“Wilbur.” Perfect. That’s that settled. “Do we share any classes?” God, can’t he stop talking?

Quackity shrugged in response, going back to his work. “I dunno. Maybe.”
“Well, alright. I’ll leave you alone then. Mind if I have a smoke?”
“...Sure, yeah. Just do it out the window.” Wilbur looked around. “There isn’t one?”
“Bathroom.” After a moment of searching, Wilbur ducked into the door leading to the bathroom.

Quackity checked the time again, wondering how long he had before his first class. Taking all afternoon classes seemed like a genius idea at first. Go figure. Maybe Wilbur would smoke for another 45 minutes and Quackity wouldn’t have to see him for the next few hours.

Quackity didn’t care if the man smoked five packs a day, in all honesty. He was guilty of a cigarette or two most days too. As long as he kept it outside, like Quackity did himself, that was far from a damning trait. But if that asshole is always drinking…Quackity shook his head, berating himself for being so prudish. It shouldn’t matter, he was used to it anyways. He was just being an idiot.

Alas, despite his prayers, Wilbur returned after fifteen minutes or so. Brushing past him to get to the bathroom door, Quackity stepped inside to make himself presentable for class and was met with multiple pill bottles on the sink. Checking to ensure they were prescribed and not drugs, he reached up and put them in a cabinet; he didn’t want to be knocking them over constantly.

Another quick glance around the room told him the candle he lit in there every morning to ward off the chronic mildewy scent of the place was extinguished. That was…frustrating. Whatever. A few minutes later, he deemed himself ready and walked back into the main room.

“I put your medication in the cabinet for the sake of space. Also, did you put out my candle?”
Wilbur didn’t look up from the novel he’d picked up, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Ah, thank you. And yeah, sorry. I don’t like fire.” Right. Great.

“If you don’t want the candle in there you’re buying an air freshener. It’ll smell like rotten wood in there otherwise.” Wilbur nodded diligently before going back to his book. Quackity was going to hold him to that.

-

Nearly six hours later, Quackity was back at the dorm. He’d gone to…almost all his classes. He was a decent student. Just not History of Economics, that Hellhole. It was a boring-as-shit class taught by an ancient old woman who was way too strict to be teaching at a community college. On most days, Quackity just didn’t go, even though he should’ve.

Though his reasoning was that she barely graded on attendance, the homework was what mattered and struggling through it without actually learning the information was torturous. Whatever, he’d probably pass. Maybe. Hopefully.

Rapping on the door quickly to warn Wilbur of his entrance, he swung the door open on its rusty hinges to…silence. That was weird, wasn't it? He shook his head. No. It wasn’t. Wilbur might have evening classes, or be out somewhere. Who knew what was up with that guy? He was reading a mystery novel for fun earlier. Maybe he was at the fucking library or something.

Quackity then realised he didn’t know Wilbur’s major. God, hopefully he isn’t a business major. He couldn’t be, they’d surely share one or two classes if that were the case. He was overthinking. If only he had any weed left.

-

11:44pm. The door opened, slowly, and Wilbur finally walked into the room, stumbling slightly.
“Hello. You alright?” Quackity felt himself tense, sitting up straighter in his bed and watching Wilbur’s every move. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?” Wilbur nodded as if to agree, before making his way to the bathroom.

Allowing himself to exhale, Quackity tried to force himself to relax. Plenty of people drink. He used to, pretty damn often. He needed to stop being so…weird about it. He tried to turn on music in his headphones, but the notion of not being able to hear anything else instantly made him mute it again.

After a while, Wilbur was back, quietly pushing a few of his belongings to the foot of the bed with minimal effort before collapsing onto it. “Do you want me to turn the lights off?”
“Yeah, that’d be brilliant.”

So Quackity did, switching to his phone to waste time until he could fall asleep. Wilbur seemed so calm. He had been drinking, Quackity was sure of it, so why was he acting so…tired? He didn’t even know what he was confused about. It didn’t matter anyway.

-

Yet an hour later he was still awake, thinking, scrolling through his phone and letting the colours and images and words fill his mind and kill his hyperactive imagination. He originally figured Wilbur must’ve fallen asleep immediately, but every time he looked over the man seemed to be in an entirely different position, so maybe he wasn't the only one who couldn’t sleep with a new person in the room.

Wilbur occasionally murmured indiscernible words before cutting himself off, moving to shove his head in a pillow or turn himself against the wall. What is up with him? Quackity considered asking him if he was still awake, despite knowing the answer, maybe asking if he was good. But it seemed too…forward.

He shouldn’t get to know him. The less that he interacted with him, the better. And Quackity believed that wholeheartedly. He had much better things to focus on than the inner workings of some random guy who was probably a drug addict and apparently had a bit of a criminal record and he ‘wouldn’t have been our first choice to room with you considering what you’ve had to go through but we don’t have much space and’ it was stupid and he was definitely some kind of dangerous.

But it would be fine. It was already nearly halfway through the year, the first semester would be over soon. He only had to room with Wilbur for what, seven months? Then they could never talk again. He creeped Quackity out, with his five different types of medication and less than a suitcase of stuff and weirdly peppy(?) personality and that stupid school-shooter type trenchcoat that he was still wearing whilst fucking sleeping.

Maybe he’d even get kicked out before the end of the year, what with being a literal criminal and all. It wasn't good to get his hopes up, but it was nice to think about. Fuck, he was unfriendly. One day with this weirdo and he was already praying on his downfall? Whatever. He needed to sleep.

Chapter Text

Wilbur crushed his cigarette with the heel of his boot, finding a recycling bin to get rid of his bottle. It felt like ants were crawling through his skin. It was entirely his fault that he only attended one class and it happened to be the most tedious one (History of Economics, whatever that meant. It seemed easy at least) but the inactivity of the day was driving him absolutely mad.

The feeling was near hypomania, which was…unfortunate. He should get some sleep, that would help. He thought it couldn’t have been past 10:00pm, but the half-shattered screen of his phone told him it was nearly midnight.

Will Quackity want me there?
It was stupid, paranoid of him, but he’d be lying if he claimed to not already care somewhat desperately about what the man thought of him.

Maybe staying away would ensure that he didn’t annoy him, didn’t do anything irrational or disturbing…no, he was being illogical. He was barely drunk, it was fine. He could go in and go to sleep, it wasn't like he was insane. He could control himself perfectly well.

Making his way up the stairs, he creaked open the door and cautiously made his way into the claustrophobic room. He really did hate the way the ceiling slanted inwards, making the already small room seeming attic-like. Close walls were a hazard. Not that any walls were…great. Christ, he already regretted going back into the building.

“Hello. You alright?”
“...Yeah, I’m fine. You?”
Quackity seemed…off. He’d been rather hostile earlier, but in a dismissive way. Now he just seemed unsettled. The rigidity of his stature as his gaze fixed on the doorway made the man anxious. Surely he wasn’t frightened of him. No, he’d left that behind. That’s what college was for. It was a fresh start.

Ignoring his reservations, Wilbur stepped into the bathroom, opting to skip fixing his hair or brushing his teeth and instead just splashing his face with cold water and reaching for his medication, grabbing the bottle labelled Zolpidem.

Very serious interactions can occur with alcohol and this medication.
Yeah, sure. Whatever. Wilbur put two of the tablets into his mouth and swallowed them dry, glancing at the candle to ensure it was still out.

What kind of reckless psycho leaves a candle burning all day without someone in the room? Wilbur gripped the sink, ignoring the faint grinding sound it made in response to the pressure. It’s fine.

Feeling dreadfully tired, Wilbur made a weak attempt at pushing the collection of things he’d left on his bed out of the way and then let himself fall, regretting it when the bed greeted him with a broken spring or two in the stomach. He could barely keep his eyes open. At least he was certain that he wasn't manic.

“Do you want me to turn the lights off?” Quackity spoke for the first time since his initial greeting. “Yeah, that’d be brilliant.”

Darkness swathed the room as Wilbur tried to get comfortable, fighting off his unease at the way Quackity had looked at him when he walked in. Does he know? The thought was only stressing him out more, but it played on a loop in his head. He couldn’t, there was no way.

But he wasn't having a good night. Sometimes it was fine, the pills worked and he didn’t have any nightmares and he was fine. But some nights he just couldn’t, and his thoughts spiralled and he ended up having to regurgitate information into his head about history, literature, art, whatever would stick. Anything to keep the rest of his consciousness at bay. He would’ve gone to smoke, but…no, not right now.

He’d absolutely love to be drunker, but if he actually wanted to attend more than one class the next day he’d rather not be hungover for it. Years of drinking and he still got hangovers so bad that he’d classify them as cruel and unusual punishment for having a dependency.

He didn’t have any nightmares, at least. The pros of not sleeping!

-

At around 5:00am, Wilbur fumbled around for his glasses and glanced curiously at the man sleeping across from him. He looked…asleep. Probably. Good enough. Wilbur, as quietly as possible with the way everything in this building creaked, slipped out the door and into the hallway, making a beeline for the stairs.

When he made his way outside, he instantly felt a surge of relief. Sitting down and leaning his head against the concrete, he stared up at the pitch-black sky. Wilbur had decided he liked Quackity. They should be amicable at the least, he’d concluded.

Whatever problem Quackity seemed to have with him could surely be resolved. If Quackity did know about his past, he could always just lie about it. Convince him it was a rumour. It’d be fine. Perhaps they’d become friends.

••

What the fuck?
Quacky blinked groggily, halfheartedly shielding his face on instinct and scanning the room. Oh. Wilbur was gone. What fucking time was it? The clock read 5:16am. Jesus. Was he an early riser, or had he just not slept? Quackity just hoped he wasn’t dead off campus somewhere. Luckily, he was exhausted enough to fall back asleep not much later.

••

“Good morning, Quackity!” Wilbur called from the bathroom as he saw the light flick on.
“Morning. Did you sleep alright?” Turning on the faucet, Wilbur pushed his hair back and reached for the other two bottles of the cluster. Sertraline and Risperidone. “Splendidly, you?”
“Alright.”

Leaving the bathroom, Wilbur glanced at the other man, who was still in his bed. “You’re a man of few words and little expression, I see. Penny for your thoughts?”

His tone was cheerful, and he was glad to see that Quackity didn’t seem…mad at him. Or frightened of him. Just kind of generically cynical. Maybe that was his resting face. “Penny for my thoughts? What are you, 65?”

Wilbur laughed, pulling on a toque for the frigid air and beginning to don his shoes. “No, I’m certainly not living that long! Would you like to join me for a walk?”
“...What?” Quackity swung his legs off the mattress, slightly rubbing his temple. “No thanks.” Wilbur shrugged, going to leave.

“Wait, uh, Wilbur-” He paused. “What’s your major? Do you, like…have one?” Wilbur smiled, turning and leaning against the doorway. “History. B.A. You?”

”Business. I was just wondering.”
“Ah, you must think me a proper idiot then. What a shame I’m not a financing student.” Wilbur mocked, completely unsurprised such a pragmatic seeming man was going the dependable and mind-numbingly boring route.

“I’d consider it a blessing. I won’t have your hippie ass in any of my classes. Now go on your walk.” Quackity joked, turning to go into the restroom. Wilbur waved faux cheerily, but walked away with genuine contentedness. He could find a friend in Quackity, he thought. He just needed to not destroy everything. A daunting task for someone like him.

Chapter Text

It was Friday, and the first time Quackity had attended his History of Economics class all week. The moment he walked in the door he felt boredom oozing from his soul, entirely ready to tune out the entire lesson.

God, he was definitely failing this class. Maybe he’d have to…get a tutor or something, as humiliating as that was. Or just cheat on the next few tests. Be there for the next few tests. That would also help.

“Quackity!” He looked to the far side of the benches, where Wilbur sat waving brightly. Why was he always so…cheery? It struck Quackity as vaguely psychotic. That wasn't even like- an insult. It was just an observation.

Sliding into the space next to him, Quackity opened his laptop but didn’t bother turning it on. It was just so the professor wouldn’t get on his ass about not taking notes. Which he wasn't taking.

“I didn’t know you were in this class! I’ve never seen you here.” Wilbur turned to face Quackity whenever he spoke to him for some reason, so he was now looking at him curiously with an awkwardly angled torso.

“I skip a lot. It’s boring as Hell.” Quackity scanned the room, finding a dry kind of humour in how strict the professor was despite being so rarely on time. Hell, he was late himself, and yet she was still nowhere in sight.
“Not a history fan, eh?” Wilbur grinned, the implication of his major (his passion?) clear.

“No. The past is bullshit. I live in the present.” Quackity tried to make his tone sarcastic so it didn’t just sound like he was an idiot. Wilbur laughed, so he figured it carried over. He had an interesting laugh. Mildly insane-sounding, but kind of nice.

Maybe he should stop thinking of Wilbur as insane. He…probably wasn't. He’d been friendly the entire week, if kind of bizarre. Just because he drank sometimes and there were various rumours about him being a deranged psycho didn’t mean he was a bad guy. Right?

“Boys, why don’t you quiet down over there. This is a classroom, not a basketball game. Thank you. Thanks.” Quackity raised his head to see their teacher, then raised his eyebrow at Wilbur. A basketball game? But Wilbur already seemed to be raptly paying attention. Weirdo.

-

Falling onto his bed dramatically with a sigh, Quackity opened his laptop to check his grades. He used to be a way better student, but he was still fine. It was probably lame to be super academic and ambitious anyways. Passing was good enough.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Quackity glanced at his phone, freezing instantly at the contact that stared him in the face. Fuck. Fuck no. Absolutely not.

His breathing grew erratic as he stared at the screen, black spots tinging his vision as he tried to accept, to decline, to do anything. To stop being so fucking pathetic and worthless and cowardly and do something.

Before he could stop himself, he’d weakly thrown the phone across the room. It was still ringing. It stopped ringing eventually. The sound continued in his ears. Fuck. Fuck.

He hadn’t answered. Schlatt had called him and he let it go to fucking voicemail. Rubbing his temples in a distressed fervour, the phantom call tone in his ears was replaced by a much more violent sound, a shouted voice, a face twisted in anger. By a hand gripping his wrist, a bruise on his shoulder.

You think you’re just gonna fucking ignore me? You think I waste my time calling you and don’t even expect a fucking response? What’s wrong with you? Do you just have way too many better fucking things to do, asshole? More important shit to attend to, is that it?

“Quackity?”

••

When he swung the door open, humming a tune, Wilbur did expect to see Quackity on his bed as per usual. He didn’t expect to see him hunched into himself, trembling, his hands gripping his head and his face obscured from view as he whispered something indiscernible.

“You alright, Quackity?” The man didn’t look up, his shoulders still shaking violently. Concerned, Wilbur took a cautious step closer, but halted at once when the man flinched and shifted further towards the headboard of the bed.
“Wilbur, stay the fuck away from me.”
“…Duly noted. Staying the fuck away.”

So he backed away and left the room. What else was he meant to do? He wanted to stay, truly. It was strange and, admittedly, downright uncomfortable to see Quackity so emotional, and he wanted to…help? Maybe?

Or maybe he just wanted to know what his deal was. After all, it was always fascinating to learn what made people the way they were. Maybe whatever was making him panic was the reason he was so monotonous all the rest of the time. Maybe it was where his facial scarring came from.

Taking out a box of matches, Wilbur struggled to set one alight in the light sprinkling of rain. He hadn’t realised it was there. I should really have a lighter. But the thought instantly set him on edge, and he found himself dismissing it rapidly enough.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Wilbur nearly dropped the (thankfully unlit) match in a reach for his phone, knowing there was only really one or two people a call could be from. The caller ID read Tommy.

Picking it up instantly, Wilbur exhaled, determined to keep his tone light. His younger brother never called him first. Wilbur nearly heard his voicemail in his sleep with the amount of times it's played on loop in his ears.

“Wil?”
“Tommy! Tommy, how are you?” He was well aware he sounded desperate. He didn’t care.
“I’m, uh- I’m alright. How’s college?”
“College is good, I’ve made a friend, he’s my roommate, his name’s Quackity, he’s a bit standoffish but I’m certain we’re hitting it off splendidly, he’s really a character-”

“Hah, it sounds like you’re in love with him or something.” Wilbur coughed, surprised.
“Madly and irreparably. Why did you call me?”
“I need the passcode for our old Google login. High school stuff.”
“…Right, yeah. I can do that. I just have to look it up, I’ll text it to you?”
“Great. Thanks.”

Wilbur stared at the fragmented home screen of his cellphone, feeling…empty. He shook it off. He lit the match. It was fine, surely. He had more important things to do. Like smoking this cigarette. And checking up on Quackity when it seemed morally acceptable to do so. But until then he’d smoke this cigarette.

Chapter Text

Quackity was getting angry.

All day, every day, the only thing on his fucking mind was Schlatt. The asshole kept calling, and every time he hung up it took a humiliatingly long time to focus on anything else.

He hadn’t answered any, not yet. But the erratic times and the frequency struck a fear into his heart. A fear that Schlatt was free, just roaming around. That he could show up anytime he wanted.

His grades were slipping already, he’d barely been in class all week. His appointed counsellor having reached out for a meeting about his “apparent recent troubles.”

A pro and a con of being the ‘victim’ of an on-campus altercation was that the counsellor actually had to pretend to give a shit about his academics before he started failing everything.

Everything was just infuriating. He was constantly on edge, alert, ready to shout at anyone who looked at him. He felt suffocated, stretched thin, and the thing making it all so much fucking worse was Wilbur.

All he wanted to do was be left the Hell alone, and if Schlatt couldn’t do that he certainly couldn’t tolerate anyone else doing the same.

But there was Wilbur, every fucking day. Quackity knew he was his roommate, that some contact was unavoidable.

But did he have to be so friendly all the time, barging in with that wide fucking smile, asking him about his classes, saying he could help with his schoolwork like he’s some fucking genius?

Did he have to be so worrying? Did he have to show up half drunk most nights, toss and turn in his bed murmuring, get randomly freaked out and leave to go outside and then return like it was nothing?

The dude clearly had something going on, and if he was determined to make Quackity’s business his own then he should get the same annoying treatment.

Except he wouldn’t. Because Wilbur cared about Quackity, and Quackity didn’t care about Wilbur. He couldn’t. Not with what he’d been told, not with people saying it was a shame he’d landed with a “second Schlatt” or “a guy who’s even worse.”

He’d ask what they meant, what they’d heard, and they’d laugh. Like he was an idiot for not knowing.

Worse than Schlatt? Quackity would get fucking killed if he let Wilbur think he had any power over him, any sort of control.

He starts asking Wilbur about his day, being all benevolent and cheery-like, being nice to him when he was drunk, and then what?

Wilbur, with his demented mind, would think he owned him, that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted and Quackity would have to comply.

And Quackity couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t withstand the smoke in the air, the shattered glass on the floor, the needles in the trash, the shouting in his ears. If Wilbur was worse… Quackity shuddered.

He needed to continue keeping him at arm’s length. Past an arm’s length, actually. Far past.

He didn’t trust him, not at all.

••

Wilbur was getting nervous.

He was convinced at least someone knew about where he’d come from, what he’d done, who he was. Which was…expected, he supposed.

But rumours get twisted, the story was already so bad, what did people think? That he was a psychopath? A serial killer? The possibilities were frighteningly endless.

All he felt were eyes on him, whispers, persistent thoughts that swam through his mind every second he was sober. Even when he wasn't, they echoed.

Quackity hates you. Your brother hates you. Your professors hate you. Everyone is against you. Everyone thinks you’re insane. Prove them right, why don’t you?

He knew it was stupid, illogical, that he needed to stay calm and say his fucking assurances about how everything was fine, how the chemicals in his brain were just unbalanced.

Or whatever Cherneshevky-ass rationalist bullshit was supposed to fix his constant worrying. He’d been to enough panic management seminars to know vodka wasn't the ideal coping mechanism.

But he hadn’t lost his shit. Hadn’t had a violent nightmare, hadn’t started sobbing or laughing maniacally or shouting at Quackity or seeing shadowy figures in the dark.

He’d been polite, he’d kept conversations light and done his schoolwork and taken his pills regardless of how empty they sometimes made him feel. It had been nearly two weeks, and nothing absolutely damning had happened yet. Not bad!

It was just so exhausting, though, feeling like he was constantly on the verge of spiralling. It was no wonder his vices remained so prominent, so consistent, even though he’d become very certain they were what was making Quackity so displeased with his general existence.

Or maybe it was his demeanour. His clothing. His major. His mediocre hygiene. His slightly deranged cheeriness. The rumours. The scent of the “Restful Sleep” lemon balm tea he made with the kettle sat on the floor next to his bed. Quackity could loathe the scent of lemon and just not be bringing it up.

Wilbur came to the realisation that there was a lot about him to dislike.

-

“Quackity! My friend, my companion, how are you on this fine evening?”
The man was, as he was more and more frequently, tucked into the furthest corner of his bed and shielded by his computer in the half-dark of the dimly lit dorm.

“I’m not in the mood, Wilbur. Can’t you go on one of your fucking walks or something?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure! Sure. Yeah.” Wilbur smiled. “If you’d like to be rid of me that badly.”
“Yeah, y’know what, I would.”

Right. Not the time for joking. Wilbur strode out the door, his pace becoming less confident and more nervous the second he was out of view.

Why did Quackity hate him so much? From what he’d heard, Quackity had a pretty terrible roommate before him. Was it a trust issues thing?

Or maybe you did something. Maybe you did something and you just don’t remember because you were drunk, you were manic, one of your fucking excuses. Wilbur shook his head in frustration, quickly picking up his pace. That wasn't the case.

Quackity clearly just had issues. Wilbur wasn't in any place to judge, and he didn’t even feel judgemental. They didn’t have to be close just because they were sharing a room.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling a weird urge to keep trying, to keep up his exaggerated performance of trying to win the man over.

Why? He had no idea. When did he ever? He’d pay someone a pretty penny to tell him how the fuck his brain worked.

He had, actually. Until he fucked up therapy too. It was almost funny how he ruined the one thing that was meant to stop him from ruining everything.

“I should get a job,” Wilbur mused aloud to the pigeon a metre away from him. If his presence was such a damper on Quackity’s mood and he had to continue having one less class than he wanted because the campus psychiatrist said he needed time to “emotionally regulate,” he should at least be making some money.

Maybe he could get a job with Quackity! If the man didn’t work already? Wilbur didn’t think he did. Perhaps he could propose the idea, find somewhere business-y enough that it would be his style. Hmm. Maybe not the last part, actually. If Wilbur had to be some financing intern he’d kill himself.

But a shared job would be common ground, finally, something they could connect on. Would Quackity agree? Probably not!

But Wilbur was happy to be delusional for the next fifteen minutes, running increasingly more unlikely scenarios through his head to keep his thoughts at bay.

Quackity couldn’t hate him forever if he just kept trying, right?

Chapter Text

Wilbur was ruining Quackity’s life.

Quackity was…sure of it. He was. The moment Wilbur waltzed into his dorm room, everything had been falling apart. At this point he didn’t care if he was failing, didn’t care how messy the dorm had become.

That was mostly Wilbur’s fault anyway. The man seemed allergic to tidiness, to normalcy, to sense. Whatever. Quackity would talk to him later about the clutter of bottles and food wrappers and academic papers.

He’d taken a look at a few of the papers. Art history, a lot about war propaganda, 1800s literature. A weird collection of eccentric claims with flowery language, citations from poets and madmen. Quackity didn’t get it.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Fuck. He’d learnt to dread that godforsaken sound. Pulling out his phone, the same Caller ID stared him in the face. Fuck it. Quackity picked up the phone.

“Quackity! Hey, how’s it goin’?”
“…What do you want, Schlatt?” His voice was shaking. He hated it.
“What, I can’t check up on you?”
“What do you want, Schlatt?”

“I wanna see you! We should meet up, have a drink.” The phone shook in his hand.
“…No.”
“No? Come on, don’t be a fuckin’ pussy. Are you still hung up over our argument?”
“No.”

“Are you fucking crying?” He wasn't, technically, not yet. He was close.
“…I’m not fucking crying, Schlatt.”
“You’re fucking crying! God, you’re so sensitive. I’m just tryin’ to be friendly here! This is why you’re-”

Click.
Quackity stared at his phone. He’d hung up. Schlatt would be pissed. Not that it fucking mattered. Quackity tossed his phone onto the bed, before standing up shakily and driving his fist into the wall.

It didn’t do much damage, he wasn't that strong. But it hurt. That was the goal. He hit it again, and again, until a crack in the plaster formed and he stopped for fear of defacing the property.

He was so fucking pathetic. Schlatt was right. Crossing to Wilbur’s side of the room, Quackity reached under his bed until he felt glass. Pulling out the bottle, he winced at the bitter aftertaste as he drank straight from it.

Tears finally started streaming down his face as he took a breath, setting the bottle down and coughing. He sat there for a while, on the floor, getting drunk enough that the memories flashing beneath his eyelids grew fuzzy.

Leaving the bottle on the floor and hoisting himself into his bed, he curled onto his side and just…cried. God, he was sensitive.

He was meant to be in class right now. He was throwing away his future because he was, what, too fucking sad to give a shit?

He didn’t move for a while.

-

“Quackityyyy.” Wilbur strolled through the door and turned on the lights, his voice slightly laced with intoxication. Quackity felt awfully dizzy.

Letting himself fall onto the bed, he threw an arm across his face and quickly rubbed away the remains of the tears with his sleeve.

“Don’t you still have class tonight, asshole?” He groaned, keeping the wonderfully dark cover of his arm over his eyes.

“Quackity, are you drunk?” It was meant to sound teasing, surely, but he seemed almost…concerned. No, that couldn’t be right.
“Fuck off, so what if I am?”

Oh. Wait. Fuck. He’d drank Wilbur’s alcohol. Would he notice? Shit, he was dead if Wilbur noticed. So dead. Why did he do that? He was so stupid, so selfish. God, he was so fucking done for.

“Hello?”
He felt a hand on his shoulder and shoved it away, shaking himself out of his momentary panic to see that Wilbur had backed away and put his hands up.
“Hey, I don’t bite. You alright?”

Quackity felt like an idiot. “Yeah, fine. Thanks.” Why was he thanking him? Wilbur needed to leave, now, before things got worse. That seemed right.

“Get the fuck out of here, Wilbur.”
“…Okay.” Wilbur dipped his head awkwardly and turned, making his way to the door. He always left whenever Quackity asked. It was really weird, actually. This was his room too.

“Wait-” Wilbur turned back around, mildly surprised but listening expectantly.
“…This dorm is a fucking mess and it’s mostly your fault.” God, he was mean. Well, it was true, but still. He didn’t mean for that to be what came out of his mouth.

Wilbur was definitely about to scoff and walk away and leave him alone again, completely alone. It was what he deserved.

“…Do you want me to stay and tidy up, then?” What the fuck? Thinking he was joking, Quackity laughed and gestured around the room. “Yeah, knock yourself out.”

Silence followed, then the sound of clinking glass and rustling plastic. Quackity looked up to see Wilbur somewhat stumbling around the room, putting bottles and trash in a haphazard pile on the floor.

Pulling himself into a sitting position, Quackity flinched at the sound of the bottles clattering against one another.
“Wilbur, that’s going to take fucking forever. You’re doing it wrong.”

Wilbur smiled, a crisp packet and crumpled piece of paper in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“Yeah? Want to show me how to do it right?”
God. This asshole. Quackity rose to his feet, pulling the empty bottle out of his hand.

“Well first off, don’t you want to recycle? If you put all this shit in the same pile you’ll have to sort it all out afterwards. Separate trash and recycling and then get a fucking trash bag instead of spilling the dregs of your liqueur on the floor.”

Wilbur stood rigidly and saluted. “Sir, yes sir!”
“You’re such an idiot. I bought trash bags a while ago, they’re somewhere in that cabinet. Don’t rearrange anything in there. It’s mine.”

Trash bags acquired, Wilbur began sorting, humming whilst he worked. If he was this stoked to clean, why didn’t he do it earlier?
“Don’t put that over there. No, stop. You can just set that down, don’t knock it over.”

“Sir, yes sir!”
“Shut the fuck up.”
But Quackity was smiling.

Giving more orders of what went where, he began to help, albeit a meagre amount. His heart jumped into his throat when Wilbur picked up the bottle Quackity had drank from, the man looking at it and frowning slightly.

But then, without a word, he shrugged, placed it in the bag and kept cleaning. Quackity exhaled. Crisis averted. Maybe he figured he’d drunk it himself. Before long, the dorm looked better than it had before Wilbur arrived.

Wilbur collapsed against the wall dramatically.
“You’re killing me, Quackity. I’m not meant to be so dreadfully orderly.” Quackity rolled his eyes.
“Speak for yourself. I’m having a great time.”

Wilbur raised his eyebrows.
“Are you now? What, does bossing me around make you feel better?”
“You know what, Wilbur? It really does.”

Wilbur paused to dip into an exaggerated bow, staggering slightly from the change in motion before grinning up at where the other man stood.
“Well then, Quackity, I am at your service.”

Quackity did a double take before turning and picking up a bedsheet, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.
“Yeah, sure you are. Next I’ll have you cleaning the fucking moss from the bathroom.”

Wilbur scoffed and threw a pillowcase at Quackity’s head, the surprising impact from behind causing him to flinch and shield his head. It’s a fucking pillowcase. Get yourself together.

He could’ve sworn he heard a quiet “Sorry.” from behind him, before Wilbur once again started humming. Taking a few deep breaths, Quackity returned to folding.

Chapter Text

“Wil! Wil? What the fuck are you doing?”

Somebody was speaking to him! The room faded into focus and the ground spun around him as Wilbur felt himself shake, scanning the room with a maniacal sort of amusement.

Tommy stood in front of him, but he seemed oddly small. Maybe he was younger than Wilbur remembered. He couldn’t recall much. Did it really matter?

Tommy couldn’t see it, couldn’t know, but Wilbur did. He’d been enlightened, everything made sense. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, each more enticing and thrilling than the last.

The secrets of the universe unravelled with his reason, the knowledge he could feel himself gaining suffocating that which he already had. He felt a sharp laugh burst from his throat at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Tommy moved closer towards him, slowly, terror tinging his gaze.
“Listen, Wil, you need’ta chill out a bit. Just calm down, just- hand me that, yeah?”

What? Wilbur glanced down. Oh. It was a knife. The rusted stains on the metal twisted into a face, mocking him for forgetting something that was in his own hands. It did feel silly of him.

Clutching the table for support and laughing again, Wilbur realised he hadn’t yet noticed the blood. Christ, it was everywhere. Staining everything, dripping down the walls and being ground into the carpet with every footfall.

Not Tommy, though. No, he was free of it. Absolutely pristine, Wilbur could’ve sworn there wasn't a speck of red on the kid’s skin despite how it was seeping from the open wounds in the ceiling.

“You aren’t tainted yet, huh?” Tommy’s eyes went wide as he took a step back.
“You aren’t contaminated, aren’t corrupted like I am. Don’t worry, Tommy! I’ll fix that for you, I promise.”

He was at his younger brother’s side before the latter could escape, his upper arm firmly in Wilbur’s frantic grasp.
“Wil, please, don’t, please.”

He drove the knife directly into Tommy’s chest, the younger boy writhing weakly at the pain as he let out a gasping cry.

“Don’t worry, Tommy, you don’t have to worry, I promise.” He drove the knife deeper. “I’d never hurt you, never.” He twisted it clockwise, dimly registering tears pouring down his face.

And then Tommy went limp beneath his arms, collapsing against him. Wilbur stumbled at the sudden weight. He was dead.

Wilbur had killed him, after he swore he’d protect him, swore he’d always keep him safe. What had he done? Who had he become?

What had he done?

-

Wilbur’s eyes flew open, faint pleas and apologies dying on his lips as indistinguishable murmurs as he dazedly pushed himself up and glanced wildly around, his panic increasing when he was met with silence and darkness.

It was just a dream. It wasn't real. But it felt so real. Dizziness swamping his vision, he scrabbled for his bag and tried to make out his surroundings.

Quackity slept on the opposite side of the room, his hands and a pillow shielding his head as he curled against the wall. He slept in such a strange position.

Was he really sleeping? After a moment, Wilbur relaxed at the sound of the other man’s steady breathing. He was alright, at least.

He exited the room as quietly as possible, barely stopping to think until he’d gotten outside. Everything would be easier when he could feel fresh air on his skin.

Pulling out his cellphone and a cigarette, he barely managed to open Tommy’s contact with his trembling hands, made worse by the pre-dawn cold. Please. Please.

It went to voicemail. Of course it did, of course he didn’t pick up. It was 4:38am in the fucking morning, why would he be awake? He had school the next day. He was fine. Or dead. Maybe he was dead. Wilbur called again.

“Wil, what’s happened?” He sounded half asleep, but urgent.
“Tommy? Oh, Tommy, I’m so glad you’re alright. You are, aren’t you?”
“...I’m alright. Are you?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I was just worried.”

Wilbur was so relieved, exhaling properly for the first time in ten minutes. That was until Tommy spoke again.
“You called me at 5:00am in the fucking morning because you were worried?”
He sounded…angry.

“I’m sorry, Tommy, I just-”
“I have your alerts bypassed whilst on silent so you don’t fucking kill yourself, not in case you’re worried.” Wilbur wanted to punch himself in the face. What was wrong with him? What had he done?

“I’m so sorry, I wasn't thinking properly, I…”
“When are you ever, Wil?” He sounded near tears. “Just…just leave me alone. I’ve got an exam in like three fucking hours.”

Beep.
Wilbur stared down at his phone, blankly. He could barely remember what he’d just done, what his dream had been about. Tommy hated him. For good reason, he was sure. It was all so fuzzy.

But alas, so piercing at the same time. So it was only natural for him to drink himself back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Wilbur still had little idea who “Schlatt” was, but he was starting to really fucking hate him.

Winter break drew close, the bitter chill seeping in through the poorly insulated windows, but he seemed to be further away from Quackity with every passing day.

He thought they’d had…calling it a breakthrough seemed foolish, but a…connection? When they’d cleaned together, when Wilbur had ignored the fact Quackity seemed to have drunk his spare alcohol and cried in the dark.

Wilbur hadn’t stopped thinking about that night for the week since it had happened. It had lit a spark of hope in him, or rather reignited one. He thought it was a sign that he could reach Quackity, that they could be friends.

But that man had…really taken a turn for the worse. He wasn't coming into class, didn’t leave their room. Wilbur knew Quackity was feeling uncomfortable around other people, and knew he wasn't the most comforting man in the world.

So he stayed away. He came in to sleep, for any essentials, that was mostly it. He was too scared that he’d fuck something up, he didn’t know how to help people. He’s never been able to do that.

But it hurt. And Wilbur was growing more and more certain that Quackity’s distress and depression was caused by this “Schlatt,” his former roommate.

Quackity had woken from a nightmare nearly every night in the past week, his breathing heavy and eyes wide with shock and fear. Wilbur never helped, never moved. He knew he’d just make everything worse.

But he heard him. Echoes of No, Schlatt, I’m sorry- rang in his ears every time he looked at his roommate, knowledge he knew he wasn't meant to have. That didn’t stop him from wanting to know more.

He’d heard part of the story from someone in his Art History class, a friendly girl with pink hair who he’d spent a few of his lunch breaks with. Her name was Niki, and apparently she used to be friends with Quackity, if not that close.

In exchange for a cigarette, she told him all she knew. That Schlatt and Quackity were dating, that she’d never liked the former because he was an aggressive drunk and was weird and rude to a lot of professors and a lot of girls, herself included.

That’s why she stopped talking to Quackity, she said. He refused to break up with him, no matter how rude or demeaning he was to their mutual friends. She said she realised now that he was probably just afraid.

“He was really scary,” Niki told him, her brow furrowed in concern as she leaned back against the park bench. “He’d threaten Quackity all the time at parties and stuff our freshman year, now that I think about it, but we always just thought it was some sick joke. They both liked that kind of ‘dark humour,’ it seemed fine.”

But it wasn't fine. Because she told him that the scar was from Schlatt, that she didn’t know what happened but suddenly the man was gone from campus without a trace and Quackity was gone for a week or so. The hospital, she assumed.

That when he returned he was…different. He’d always been ambitious, a bit of an overachiever, social and charismatic. He came back cynical and just mean (that certainly checked out) and refused to give any details.

“I’m sorry I don’t know more.” She lamented, her phone alarm alerting her of the break’s ending. “I’ve heard so many rumours and I don’t know which ones are true, if any, and I didn’t want to give you any false information…”

“That’s alright, thank you.” Wilbur stood, steadying himself on the bench’s arm. “I just…wanted to know. I’m worried.”
“Me too. Maybe one day I’ll be friends with him again. I’d like to be. Look out for him?”
“Yeah, I will.”

-

Why had he fucking said that.

Look out for him? Wilbur didn’t know how to do that. He’d lied to the first friend he’d made since his junior year of high school, to a girl who seemed to genuinely like him and not find him disturbing.

Whatever. It was fine. Pulling out a worn leather flask that he’d found at a yard sale and taking a swig of the liquid inside, he steeled himself against the cold and made his way back to the dorm.

He never planned on dropping in until all his classes were over, since Quackity was…usually in there, and usually didn’t want to see him, but he’d forgotten a textbook that he badly needed.

It would be alright. It would only take a moment, he’d be late otherwise. Wilbur hated being late. Opening the door as gently as possible, knowing the sound of it hitting the wall freaked Quackity out, Wilbur stepped into the room.

He was met with a sight that he definitely did not expect. Quackity was out of bed, for one. Surprising, but fine. Now for the concerning part.

He was pacing, frantically, pulling at his hair and muttering to himself. It reminded Wilbur of how he acted whilst off of his medication. His steps were unsteady, his breathing erratic. He didn’t seem to notice Wilbur at all.

Wilbur wanted to leave. He wanted to turn, walk out of the room, make it through his class without the book and come back inside a few hours later like he’d never witnessed any of this.

He didn’t…do this kind of bullshit, he’d never been gentle enough for it. He should get out, leave Quackity to handle himself as he always swore he could. He should leave.

But he didn’t. Look after him, she’d asked. Didn’t he at least owe Niki, owe Quackity, an attempt at doing so? He wasn't sure. But he was going to try anyway.

He tried to recall what Tommy did to calm him down, what he said, how he moved. Let him know who you are.

“Hey, Quackity? It’s me, Wilbur.” No response. Go figure. Try to snap him out of it. He moved closer, slowly, then gently tapped him on the shoulder.

Quackity immediately stumbled backwards in a panic, his arm flying to cover his face.
“Quackity, hey, it’s alright. You’re alright. Can you sit?” When he didn’t respond, Wilbur carefully put a hand on his shoulder and sat him down.

He didn’t resist the motion, just leaned away from the touch.
“Just- don’t, please, just- listen, I’m sorry, I am, I am, I-”
“Quackity. Lift your head up. Look at me.”

Quackity eyed him nervously from where he was curled into himself, his gaze unfocused and confused. He seemed to be looking past Wilbur, at another figure crafted by his imagination.

Fuck, what did Tommy do next? Remind him of what’s real.
“You’re not in danger, Quackity. I’m your roommate, I’m Wilbur, Schlatt doesn’t live here anymore. You’re alright, yeah?”

Quackity paused. Nodded. He was still trembling violently, constantly reaching up to touch the scarring on his face. It pained Wilbur to see him so broken. This Schlatt guy better hope they never meet.

They ended up sitting like that for a while, Wilbur breathing slowly and loudly, Quackity mimicking him. He should be saying more, doing more. He was just sitting there like a complete idiot. But at least he was there.

-

He was startled out of his partial zoning out by Quackity tensing even more, his breathing pattern growing out of control after it had so gradually calmed and evened out.

“Just don’t- don’t let him kill me, don’t-” Quackity ripped at his hair, driving a fist into the side of his head. Wilbur wanted to pull his hand away, to calm him down better, but any more physical contact seemed to be a bad idea.

“I won’t. I swear to you, I won’t.”
“…Thanks.” Quackity blinked rapidly, then suddenly pushed himself into a standing position, wobbling and nearly falling over again if it weren’t for Wilbur reacting quickly enough to stand up with him and place a hand on his arm. He flinched away.

“Don’t you…have class?” Ah. And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. He wanted normal conversation and for Wilbur to not press further into anything. It was something he’d done countless times himself.
“Huh. I suppose I did. Probably not much of it anymore!”

“You shouldn’t have, uh- you…hey, is there anywhere else you could like…spend the night?” Wilbur sighed. He should’ve figured.
“Yeah, I can work something out. Goodnight, then?”

“It’s like…3:00pm.”
“I can never tell! You’re like a vampire, you never have the lights on or the curtains open.”
“It might as well, uh- be night. Right? It’s been getting dark…early. Really fucking early.”

The conversation was so tense. So awkward. That quiet time they’d shared, sitting on the floor, weighed heavily between them like fog. Casual banter fell so flat, felt so unnatural. It was dreadful.

Wilbur also didn’t comment on how he sounded half conscious. He’d surely sounded worse so soon after a panic attack.
“It has, yeah. Well, farewell, then. Is that more linguistically appropriate?”
“Yeah, for sure. Bye, Wilbur.”

Wilbur had been gathering up his things as they spoke, and went to unlatch the door. If he’d pulled it open a moment earlier, the squeaky hinges would have caused him to completely miss the quiet mutter from behind him.

“I’m really fucking sorry.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur didn’t know where to go.

He could tell Quackity had needed to cry, to breathe, to calm down properly without him there meddling. So he’d left, no questions asked. He didn’t want to shatter their fragile peace.

But where the Hell else was he meant to spend the night? Wilbur didn’t have many friends, and any he did have were…back home. Far, far away.

Wilbur took a deep breath, pulling out a cigarette and a match before seating himself on his favourite bench and leaning back. He’d do as he’d told Quackity and figure something out.

-

It was nearly 6:00pm when the freezing air finally seeped so deeply into his veins that he couldn’t procrastinate any further.

The ache in his bones from where he’d been reading against the hardened brown plastic increased as he stood, joints cracking as he stood up straight. He really had the agility of a seventy-year-old man.

Where was he meant to go?

He didn’t have anyone, not even Tommy. Not even a tent. Fuck, he should have brought his tent to college. That thing cost too much to leave behind. He’d just…figured he wouldn’t need it.

Clearly, he’d set his expectations far too high.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Wil?”
“Hey, Tommy.” His brother’s voice immediately brought him relief. He’d always been a wreck without him.

“What’s happened, Wil?”
“Nothing, nothing. I just…wanted to know how your exam went.”
“Are you drunk? High or some shit?”

Wilbur scoffed. “I’m sober! Is it such a crime to care about your life? I want to know how you’re doing. Truly, I do.”
“…Don’t fucking lie.”
“Come on, Tommy, don’t be difficult-”

Beep.

Being drunk and/or high and/or “some shit” suddenly seemed incredibly appealing.

-

hi niki!! do u liv off campus?

yes! just barely. who’s asking?

mind if i drop by?

nope, i’d love the company! i’m in the big white complex by the elm tree #112

k omw :D

-

“…Hi.”
Wilbur stood awkwardly in the doorway as Niki yanked the door open, one eyebrow raised.

“Hi. You can come in, it's a bit of a mess.”
“Ah, you’re alright. Should’ve seen my old room.”
Wilbur stepped inside, tripping on a can and a black high heel.

The room was decently messy, as Niki had kindly warned him, but nothing abhorrent. It was pretty cramped, a hardly off-campus apartment within a crowded complex, but a bit nicer than the dorms.

She threw a patterned blanket off the couch and flopped down, gesturing for Wilbur to sit next to her. He took in the faint smell of strawberries and cigarette smoke, with a hint of…cat piss?

But he saw no alcohol bottles, didn’t smell weed. She could have other shit, stronger shit, but that was…definitely not a good idea. He was only a bit fucked up, certainly stable enough to realise that.

He doubted she did, regardless. She showed up to class on time, seemed healthy, had friends. Not signs of being a drug addict. That was good.
“So, why did you ask to come over? I do have a girlfriend, by the way.”

Wilbur’s face reddened.
“Oh, yeah, right, that’s- that’s fine. I wasn't trying to, like-” Niki laughed slightly, waving his words away.
“If you aren't here to woo me, why are you here? Not that I don’t enjoy the company.”

“…Do you have a cat?” Wilbur dodged the question, suddenly feeling self conscious. Just because she smoked cigarettes didn’t mean she had anything else, especially not anything she was willing to give him.

“Yes! I have two, and a bird. That’s the main reason Puffy and I left the dorms this year. I missed them too much.”
“Right, yeah. Yeah.”
“Why are you here, Wilbur? You seem off.”

“Do you, uh- drink? Smoke?” Niki seemed taken aback. Shit.
“It’s fine if not, or if, uh- sorry-”
“Wilbur, it’s okay. I don’t drink. If you want to smoke we’ll have to face the cold.”

Niki smiled, and Wilbur assumed that was…an invitation? Maybe? Hopefully. He hadn’t been high in way too long.
“That’s alright!”

-

“…I think my brother hates me.” Wilbur slurred his words slightly, passing the joint to Niki as he slumped down in his chair and further buttoned up his trench coat against the cold.

“Why would he hate you?” Niki wasn't as high as he was, but she also shuddered against the frigid breeze and adjusted her blanket. The light of the sun had long since died out, but still they sat there.

The conversation had been idle, wandering. He’d learnt quite a lot about Niki; she was here from out of the country, she was a psychology minor. She’d been dating her girlfriend, Puffy, for nearly a year. Various other details. Et cetera.

“Because I’m…fucked. I’m terrible, he’s right to hate me. I’m so- no, wait, sorry. Don’t want to turn this into a pity party.” But Niki looked curious, vaguely concerned.
“No, please continue.”

“…I’m just a bit psychotic, I guess. Bipolar and shit. I’m better now, but fuck, I was bad. Spent most of my freshman year in and out of a psych ward and all that. Stupid shit.”

“Oh, wow.” Wilbur cringed when he realised that he was shooting down his chances of building a good friendship and kicking the corpse.
“Yeah, uh- sorry. Bit too much information.”

“No, it’s okay. I had something similar happen, but it was a few years ago now.”
“What, really?” Niki seemed so…stable. Kind, gentle. Was Wilbur the only one who was shit at pretending to be sane?

“Yes, really. If you can believe it.” She raised an eyebrow at him again, sarcastically.
“Right, sorry. Just…surprised. Sorry.”
Niki giggled at how frazzled he seemed. At least she found joy in his excruciatingly bad social skills.

“You say sorry a lot when you’re high.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry- fuck.” Wilbur buried his face in his hands as Niki laughed. “Now I’m going to notice iiiit.”

“…I set a tree on fire.”
“What?”
Niki shrugged, looking slightly apologetic.
“I was an unmedicated teenager. I was just so angry, so…disconnected, I think? I…”

But Wilbur didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Flames filled his vision, the fragrant smoke enveloping them taking on a burnt, acidic scent. Everything went from feeling freezing to burning hot, his skin felt boiling and sweaty.

He had to leave.
Stumbling through the ashes, he desperately grasped around for his bag and his toque, the sounds of shouting and crackling heat deafening him to his name being called.

“Wilbur? Wilbur!”
Gasping for air, Wilbur flinched away from the hand on his shoulder. The touch sharpened his vision, though, and the worried face attached to the hand broke through the swimming haze of smoke.

“Hey, let’s sit down. Just take some deep breaths.”
He obliged, leaning into the supporting hand on his back, despite his mind screaming at him to run. Once he felt slightly less dizzy, he went to stand. Niki stopped him.

“I have to…leave.”
“Why? You said you can’t go back to your dorm, where are you planning to go?” He’d told her that? It must have slipped his mind. He had to think of a quick, smooth lie.

“…I dunno.”
“Okay. Do you think you can get to the couch?”
“…Yeah.”

-

Wil?! Wil, what the fuck?! What did you do?!

Wilbur shot up to a sitting position, the quick movement making his sight darken, which didn’t help the dimly lit nature of the room and his growing confusion and panic.

Until he saw the glass of water and slice of cold pizza next to him. He shook off the unsettling dream and focussed his thoughts, and the rest of the room came into focus. Oh. Right.

He’d been smoking with Niki. Chatting in the cold, hanging out. He was going to ask to spend the night but he didn’t think he’d got around to asking. It felt too forward. Especially since she had a girlfriend.

So why was he at her apartment? He patted his pockets for his cellphone, using his other hand to pull his glasses out from where they’d been lodged uncomfortably behind his head.

Wincing at the harsh light and squinting at the numbers, they read 3:17am. Go figure. He shut his phone off and closed his eyes. He’d might as well get a good night’s sleep if he was already here.

He didn’t notice the missed call.

Quackity :) (Roommate)
2:04am

Chapter Text

“…You came back.”
“Yeah. Is that alright?”

Quackity was sure Wilbur was going to ask to change rooms, or maybe come back to drunkenly shout at him about how much of an oversensitive fuckup he was.

But he seemed…sober, decently. Alone. Quiet. Not angry, just kind of awkward. Who knows where he spent the night, but he was back. That should have annoyed him. It didn’t.

Quackity thanked the Lord Wilbur hadn’t picked up that phone call.

-

Quackity stumbled from the bathroom to his bedside, tears streaking down his face. He couldn’t breathe, everything was too much, too loud.

He just needed someone, needed proof he was alive. Should he call Niki, call Fundy? Karl? Sapnap? Fuck, he wanted to hear their voices. Maybe they’d pick up. Maybe.

No. No, none of them cared about him anymore. They all hated him, they knew he was a crybaby, an asshole, a waste of breath. He’d wasted his chances with all of them.

He opened his phone with trembling hands and pulled up his most recent contact. Wilbur, of course! Wilbur still cared, Wilbur didn’t want him dead. He didn’t know how terrible Quackity was, but that was fine.

Couldn’t he relish in it before he inevitably got kicked to the curb?

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Come on, Wilbur, please. I need you. Please.”

Beep.

He was such a fucking idiot.

-

Quackity cringed at the foggy memory. No reason for that to come up. Ever. Leaning back against the headboard, he attempted to look as nonchalant as possible.

“Yeah, for sure. It’s your house, man.”
“Is it?” Wilbur’s tone was teasing, but guilt seared through his stomach like acid. He was such a fucking dick.

“Listen, Wilbur, I’m- sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you out. It’s your room too.” The man seemed surprised, but smiled in a mildly over exaggerated fashion.

“Aw, how kind of you. I had no idea, thought I was freeloading.”
“I’m fucking sorry, okay? Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I…” Wait, what the fuck was he saying?

What was wrong with him?

“Hey, it’s alright. Want me to leave?”
With horror, Quackity realised that he’d begun crying. Rubbing roughly at his face, he turned away from Wilbur and opened his phone.

“Nah, you can stay. You live here.”
“Thank you.”

-

Wilbur was the strangest man Quackity had ever met. But it wasn't in a…bad way, necessarily. Not in the way he’d originally thought of him. He was just so ridiculously patient.

Quackity had been more rude, unfriendly, harsh, and a slew of other things to him than he had to his old friends, and yet he always fucking came back.

He’d never raised his voice, raised a hand. Never slammed doors. He’d made fun of him a bit, sure, but it didn’t have any real bite. The only reason it was bothersome was because Quackity was so sensitive and easily offended.

It was embarrassing to admit to himself how intoxicating being cruel to him felt. How comforting it was to be the absolute worst version of himself and not be punished for it. To test the limits of this seemingly unconditional respect.

It was selfish, and it was dangerous. Which was why he was trying to kick the habit, be more civil if possible. He’d rather die than become like Schlatt.

-

The determination for self-improvement wasn't the most pure of soul, but it was there. And it got him thinking about his…friends. About the people who were so kind to him before he drove them away.

Sapnap and Karl, most of all. His closest friends from high school, way back to middle school in Sapnap’s case. They wanted to be roommates, the three of them. More than anything.

When they realised it was two to a room, he’d thought his life was totally over. He wanted to be kind, knew he was more social than both of them, so he offered to be paired with a stranger so they could stick together.

That was when he met Schlatt, of course.

It was fine at first, really. They were just down the hall, and he never felt anything but welcome when he spent nearly every hour he wasn't studying in their dorm, trying to beat one another at computer games and lamenting about homework.

But everything changed when Schlatt kissed him for the first time, when suddenly he was violently interrogated every time he set foot outside the room even if he was just going to the fucking library.

And he denied it. When they told him they were concerned, that his boyfriend seemed mean and he wouldn’t wear t-shirts anymore and he jumped at every noise and he wouldn't stay for longer than an hour.

He should’ve just been fucking honest, told them how he was scared. How everything was fine when he and Schlatt were just friends, good friends, friends who went to parties and jokingly made fun of each other.

Quackity wasn't allowed to make jokes about Schlatt anymore. And when Schlatt made fun of him, it wasn't a joke. But at least they still went to parties.

But no, he didn’t say any of that. What did he do? He fucking laughed, told them they were boring as fuck for playing video games and drinking beer and maybe he just wanted to be around someone more mature who could handle hard liqueur.

They were still friends after that. Years of good friendship doesn’t go to shit over one argument. But God, was it different.

Quackity shook his head, digging his nails into his forearm to rid himself of the memories. He wanted to see them again. Just maybe…not entirely sober.

-

A long smoke and a few shots of gin later, he was stumbling towards their old door with newfound confidence. It was so much easier to do things when he wasn't so awfully clear-headed.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Just a minute!” That was…a girl. Fuck.
“Hey! Can I…help you?” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was sure this was their room. Yet here was a girl he’d never seen in his life.

“Uhhhh…d’you know Karl? Sapnap?” Quackity slurred slightly, but tried to sound friendly.
“Yeah, they lived here before me.”
“…Where d’they live now?”

She paused for a moment, seemingly hesitant to give out the information to some random guy high off his ass.
“I think they’re in another building.”

“…Thanks. Bye.”
He was stumbling back down the hallway before she could say another word. Fumbling with the key, he finally got the door open and burst into the room.

He was totally not ready. He needed to be less sober if he wanted to actually talk to them.

••

Wilbur was fucking concerned.

He’d come back during his break to see Quackity smoking out the window, the scent of weed still prevalent regardless. That had been fine, he was allowed to smoke. Didn’t bother Wilbur.

But when he’d finally returned after his evening classes, he was met with a sight that definitely fucking bothered him. A lot.

Quackity was half slumped against his bed, his eyes barely open. A bottle of gin sat beside him, a bottle of pills next to it.

Fuck.

His heart sank, and in a panic he knelt to the ground and examined the bottle. Thank God he’d gotten his lens prescription updated.

Azithromycin. An antibiotic.

Relief hit him immediately, as well as gratitude for his extensive drug knowledge. He wasn't trying to kill himself, he just wanted to get drunker. Fucking idiot.

“Quackity? Hey, you’re alright. Sit up, come on.”
The man groaned, blinking heavily as Wilbur helped him into a less uncomfortable position. He was breathing steadily, wasn't overly cold.

“What…the fuck…?”
“Hello to you too. How many pills did you take?”
“Uhh…fuck, I dunno. Only a few.”
“That’s good. Any reason you wanted to get this drunk?”

“Fuck you, I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Quackity tried to push him away, but the moment he lost the support of his arm he promptly collapsed into his lap. Wilbur ignored how his breath caught in his throat.

“Alright. Can I help you get into bed?”
He didn’t answer, so Wilbur went ahead and did it. He was not an athletic man, but luckily Quackity wasn't too far gone to help him out.

When he’d gotten the man to lie down on his side, Wilbur fetched him a glass of water and put it on the cardboard box that was functioning as a nightstand.

“…They left me.”
Wilbur turned back to where he’d left Quackity, his quest to go make tea forgotten.
“Who did?” Sure, he shouldn’t try to get personal information out of him whilst he was shitfaced, but Wilbur wasn't one for morals. And he was curious.

“My…My friends. Left their old room. Didn’t even tell me. They fucking hate me.”
Wilbur couldn’t help but feel angry. Did his friends not see how great he was? How much he’d been through? It was irrational to feel this defensive, but here he was.

“Why do they hate you?”
“Because I’m…fucked, Wilbur. I’m selfish. I don’t care about anything ‘cept my fucking problems. I’m too fucking broken to have friends. I was…fuck, I was gonna go see ‘em.”

Wilbur opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He had something to say, he knew he did. It was on the tip of his tongue. He needed to say something to reassure him.

“Eh, we’re all selfish. Don’t get too worked up about it.” Wilbur wanted to punch himself in the fucking face.
“…Schlatt was right, man. Nobody else is ever gonna love me like he does, right?”

And Wilbur wanted to say no. He wanted to tell him how Schlatt was a fucking prick, how Niki wanted to reconnect, how there was hope. But how was one cynic supposed to comfort another?

“Goodnight, Quackity.”
“…Oh, ‘night. Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”

What he’d wanted to say to him only crossed his mind in the millisecond before he was claimed by sleep.

You and I are the same, Quackity. But not entirely. There’s still hope for you.

Chapter Text

“So…I assume you know why I wanted to meet with you.”

Quackity kept his eyes firmly trained on his hands, refusing to look at the woman across the desk from him. He wanted to leave.

The cubicle office felt suffocating, the heat must’ve been turned up to max strength and the plastic plant on the windowsill looked like it was sweating. The walls were bright white, not a single chip in the paint.

Everything was neat. Very academic. Maybe it was meant to motivate him to be productive. It wasn't working, but the effort had to count for something.

If he stared hard enough at the space beneath his hands, maybe he could see images in the marbled wood. A cloud, a big ass leaf beneath it. That could be a woman without a head? Maybe?

“Quackity?”
“Sorry, uh. Yeah.”

She pulled back her lips in a tensed smile, trying and failing to make eye contact. Quackity could predict this entire conversation. He knew he was failing, knew he was a fuckup. He didn’t need to be told so professionally.

“Quackity, I’m worried about your attendance. You’ve only been to a handful of your classes over the past two weeks. Your teachers have been understanding due to your situation…”

“What situation? I’m fine. I just hate school.”
She sighed, her gaze conveying a hint of worry but mostly exasperation.
“I understand the altercation you had with your former roommate was very difficult for you—”

“Just get to the point!”
“Quackity.” His nails dug into the top of his other hand as he tensed, biting his cheek to shut himself up.
“…Sorry.”

“Has your new roommate been causing you any difficulties? We thought he might be troublesome due to your situation, if you need a change…”
“No.”
“Quackity, if you’re in any danger—”

“I’m not in any fucking danger. Wilbur isn’t like Schlatt, he isn’t like that. Don’t move him. Don’t.”
“Okay. Please don’t curse at me.”
“…Sorry.”

Sighing again, she adjusted her glasses and looked down at the paper in front of her.
“There are certain leniencies we can extend to you to accommodate your situation, but I can’t have you missing any more classes.”

Again with his fucking situation.
“If you need to do them remotely, we could try to arrange that. If you need a tutor, or to drop a class. But this is unacceptable.”

“Yeah, got it. Can I think about it and then get back to you?” She seemed mildly surprised.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, you can leave.”

She was probably surprised he was actually willing to comply with her bullshit. He wasn't really going to accept any of that stuff, but she didn’t have to know that.

Slinging his messenger bag back onto his shoulder, he raised his hand in farewell and nearly ran out the door. He needed a fucking cigarette.

-

A cigarette (or two, or six) and even more of that cheap-ass gin later, Quackity still had most of his faculties intact and he was determined to see his friends this time. It was evening, past when most classes ended.

He just had to try. What’s the worst that could happen?

-

He’d spent the entire walk to the building he’d learnt they’d moved to thinking about the worst that could happen, and he was thoroughly terrified. Surely they’d at least be civil, even if they privately hated him.

Maybe they’d even be happy to see him.

He quickly realised that they hadn’t just moved out of the building, but off campus. Not by much, but still. The building seemed like it was judging him, the tall white walls trying to crush him, tell him to go back to his fucking dorm and stop being a nuisance.

Pinching his forearm to dispel his worries, he took a deep breath and psyched himself up. It was room number #104, right? That sounded right. The memory of going back in embarrassment and asking that girl for the details was vaguely fuzzy.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Just a sec, coming!” That was Karl’s voice. That was definitely Karl’s voice. Panic flooded Quackity’s senses, the intense urge to run away from the door coursing through his veins.

The door swung open, and there he was. Karl. He looked no different than Quackity remembered, except slightly longer hair. He wore a brightly patterned sweater and shock was painted on his face.

“Quackity?”
“Karl! Karl, hey, it’s great to see you. I know we haven’t—”

Click.

What the fuck?

Karl hated him. Karl fucking hated him, there was no other explanation, God this was such a stupid fucking idea—

The door swung open again.

“George?”
“Hey, Quackity!” He looked…happy to see him. Oh, thank Christ. One quick shoulder hug later, they were both in the hallway and Quackity had no idea what to say. George was the one to start off the conversation.

“…How’ve you been? I haven’t spoken to you in ages, like actual ages.”
“Oh, uh, y’know…I’ve been good! I’ve been good. Is there some sort of party going on?”
It was meant to be half-joking, but George looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, just like- why are you at Karl’s?”
“Oh, I live here.”
“You…what?” Hopefully his voice didn’t betray his complete and utter shock.

“Yeah, Sapnap does too.”
“Well yeah, of course Sapnap lives here. You think I didn’t know that?” Quackity snapped, his faltering voice betraying his mounting panic.
“Chill out, man, we haven’t spoken to you in months. You didn’t know I lived here.”

“Yeah, because nobody…told me.”
“Huh, I swear Karl told Niki to or something. Is there a problem?”
“No, no, that’s…that’s cool! I’m- I’m happy for you guys, that’s great.” He winced at how clearly hurt he sounded, but it didn’t matter.

“Is Karl…is he, uh-”
“Oh, yeah, he’s fine. Just stressed about exams and shit. And he’s never been the most social guy in the world.”
Like George would fucking know, that asshole. He’d known Karl way longer than he had. Did George not think he knew his friends at all?

“Ah, yeah. I feel that.”
“For sure. So…is there a reason you’re here? Just come to visit?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. I didn’t know you guys had a new place, so…housewarming, and all that. Maybe we could hang out sometime…?”

George looked awkward, but gave him a smile.
“I think you’re a month or two late for housewarming, but yeah. For sure, I know Sapnap would want to see you. He’s out right now, though.”

“Cool, cool. Well, hey, man, it was great to see you. It was uh…great to catch up. Say hi to Sapnap for me. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Yeah, for sure. Take care, man.”

Click.

The fuck just happened?

-

Stumbling slightly through the hallway and out into the night air, Quackity barely felt the icy wind on his skin as his thoughts raced past him, too fast and too petrifying to comprehend. What was he meant to do now?

It was all the three of them had wanted. It pissed them off so much when they were forcibly separated. At least, it had pissed Quackity off. He’d thought they felt the same. They were a trio, they were supposed to stay together.

They could’ve all been roommates. They could’ve just asked.

Pulling out his phone with shaking hands, he once again clicked open his most recent contact and hovered over the call button for a moment before pressing down. Fuck, he had to stop doing this.

“Hello, Quackity. You alright?”
“Wilbur, hah. Hey, man. Hey.”
“…What’s happened?”

And how was he supposed to respond? Maybe by admitting Wilbur was his only friend, the only person who gave a shit about him. By screaming at him that his life had been over from the moment Schlatt met eyes with him and unless he could go back in time and stop that from happening he might as well just kill himself.

By telling him he’d been abandoned, left in the dust as his best friends built a new life without him because he was too weak to keep up. By explaining that he’d cast away everyone with a scowl and a bad remark and was wallowing in self-pity about the fact it worked. By promising he used to see beauty in the world.

By pleading for Wilbur to never leave him, no matter how cruel and terrible he was. By saying he should’ve died that night, because it wasn't like he was alive anymore anyway. By telling him he was worthless, a failure, a pathetic excuse for a man who drove everyone out of his life with his own misery.

“…I’m failing all my fucking classes.”
“Do you want help?”
“Nah. But…I need it. God, I sound stupid. Fuck, I’m sorry, forget I even called you.”

The few moments of silence on the other line made tears spring to Quackity’s eyes, cursing himself for being such a fucking idiot.

“…I can’t help with your other business shit, but I was just about to do my Economics homework. Want to come leech off my work? I have vodka.”

“…Yeah, sure. Just give me a sec.”
“Ah, take your time. I'll be here.”

Chapter Text

“Hmm, let’s see…ah, what year was the dual banking system invented?”

“I dunno. 1500?”

“1863. Are you even trying?”

“Nah.”

-

Something was different.

Wilbur couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had shifted and he certainly wasn't mad about it. Ever since that night, when Quackity had called him seeming a moment away from a breakdown on his way back from God knows where.

One thing he’d noticed is that Quackity was smart. Like, really smart.

Dates and times seemed to be lost on him for lack of research, but his logical prowess and ability to seamlessly deduct things based on context alone when Wilbur knew he’d read none of the material was…impressive, to put it lightly.

Which was why it bothered him so much that Quackity was such a poor student. Niki’s words echoed in his mind, her insistence that he was too ambitious for his own good and so set on being the best businessman this world had ever seen that it was kind of annoying.

All of that alleged passion was just…gone. He didn’t seem to give a shit about any of his other classes, with their one shared course being the only one he’d study for, and only at Wilbur’s incessant pestering.

When Wilbur had first moved in, he’d at least still appeared to be trying.

But some things were going well! Quackity’s temperament towards him had shifted from being constantly pissed off to…well, Wilbur wasn't sure. At times, it seemed like Quackity still felt just as negatively about him as he had originally.

However, there were times when their bickering almost had an undercurrent of fondness, where Quackity’s sarcastic comments or quiet expressions of gratitude seemed more than just banter or resigned tolerance.

That was a lovely thought, at least. But Wilbur knew far better than to hope for anything. So he’d keep helping, keep ignoring the nightmares, keep bringing him water when he collapsed into bed drunk and turning away the woman who’d knocked on the door twice asking for him.

He wouldn’t dare to hope that one day, Quackity would want to expend the same energy or care for his mental ailments. He could only pray that, once his depression or his mania caught up to him and he couldn’t feign stability, Quackity would like him just enough not to toss him to the curb.

••

With a flick of his lighter, Quackity lit another cigarette. He tried to kick the habit when it started showing in his teeth, but there was no point now. It wasn't like he ever smiled, ever spoke. Why should any of it matter? He didn’t even leave his fucking dorm and soon he’d be kicked out of this place and have to crawl into a ditch to die.

Dramatics aside, he was having a terrible night. Not the standard bad night, the kind of night where he wouldn’t trust himself with a knife.

It wasn't that he wanted to be dead. He wished he could just kill himself, but he’d never be able to do it. No, the cognitive dissonance kept him striving for life. The denial. That was it.

Because he wanted his old life back.

He wanted to live that life so badly it dug into his heart with a wooden stake. His strive for success, his genuine belief in the good of humankind and the beauty of existence.

His friends. His fucking friends.

Without taking out his earbuds, he made the terrible decision of unlocking his phone and clicking open “Photos.”

Fuck.

Swaths of selfies, candids, still snapshots of memories tinted with ambrosia with how fabricated and unthinkably beautiful they seemed. Screenshots of him winning multiplayer mobile games and blurry photos of Karl kissing him on the cheek as he cackled with laughter.

The very same Karl who hadn’t spoken to him in months. Hadn’t even passively given him a nod like Sapnap had, or awkwardly made conversation with him like George managed to do.

Why the fuck did you leave me?

It was a selfish thought, one that was surely indicative of how terrible of a friend he was. Karl had good reason to hate his guts, after he’d yelled at the guy for no fucking reason and acted one step away from a breakdown every moment they’d spent together.

But he hadn’t meant to. Hell, why would anyone try to be such a pathetic piece of shit? He was so afraid, so fixed on trying not to fail and figuring out how to study without Schlatt knowing and do anything without Schlatt knowing.

Everything was foggy, tinged with red, it hurt to even attempt to piece together all the times he’d been a ghost in his company, the times Karl and Sapnap talked across him for hours before he got too overwhelmed and walked out without a word.

At first, they’d been worried. So they weren’t bad friends, they weren’t unreasonable. They cared. Quackity was the one who was impossible to tolerate, so painful and uncomfortable to be around that they had no choice but to stop worrying.

He realised, with horror, that there were probably times he’d been a dick that he didn’t even remember. He’d slept once a week, for Christ’s sake, and couldn’t have spent more than a couple of hours without being half-drunk.

Karl was right to hate him. He’d hate him too.

-

“Wilbur?”
“Quacki-tyy! You know you can text me, right? My phone might be old, but it does work.”
“Right, yeah, uh…”

Beep.

He really had to stop calling Wilbur whenever he felt like shit.

••

Wilbur staggered to his feet, dizzy from lack of food and sleep. He wasn't sure if he was manic or just irresponsible, but time would tell. He had other issues. Like Quackity.

If he’d been thinking logically, he’d call Quackity back, ask if he was alright. Allow him to decline the call if he wanted to. But when was he ever thinking logically? That was the business major’s job.

-

“Oh, dear. Hello again.”

Quackity was once again slumped on his floor, though he seemed a bit more conscious this time. Wilbur sighed and went to fetch him water, feeling a sense of dread and discomfort at the thought of actually speaking to him.

“Hey, Wil. Or, uh, sorry. Can I call you Wil?”
Wilbur nearly dropped the plastic cup in surprise, but recovered quickly enough. He dropped to Quackity’s side, jokingly throwing up a finger gun and lightly tapping the man’s shoulder, trying to ignore how he tensed.

“You can call me whatever you’d like.”
“Mm. Buy me dinner first. Hey, you have sleeping meds, yeah?”

Wow. Okay.

“Yes, I do.”
“They help with nightmares?”
“…Yes, they do.”
“…Please, man.”

He certainly didn’t have to beg. Wilbur had little moral qualms with mixing drink and pills and less with giving people medication that wasn't prescribed to them.

So, a moment later, Wilbur returned with two of the capsules. Placing them beside the water, he went to take his own so he could sleep off whatever strange feeling was washing over him.

“Hey, Wil?”
“Yes?”
“…I swear I’m not always like this. Or, I wasn't. I’m not…I won’t always be this pathetic. And…mean. And hard to tolerate.”

Wilbur dried his hands on a towel and glanced out the tiny square window, the stars appearing to wink at him as they bounced off his glasses.

“Well, I suppose I must take your word for it. It isn’t terribly important either way, though. I’d tolerate you regardless.”

Chapter Text

You ruin everything. You even ruin yourself. God gave you this body, and you fill it with shit and use it to fuck people up. You’re disgusting.

Wilbur felt like he was on fire.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

His head thrummed against the wall of the tiny bathroom, pain and liquor making it feel heavy and warm. His mind was restless, dragging his body back and forth, no regard for its exhaustion. He dimly remembered telling Quackity it was okay that he was a wreck. How ironic that they’d switched roles. That was…last night? A few nights ago? A week? Fuck, what was time anyway?

You shouldn’t even be alive. Tommy hates you. He’s right to. You shouldn’t ever try to speak to him again, not with the way you-

He had to call Tommy.

Scrambling to stand, to pull his cellphone out of his jeans, a sharp crash pierced his ears as something cut into his skin. Oh, fuck. Who leaves glass cups in a bathroom? That didn’t matter. His phone was almost dead. Hurry, hurry.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri

“Wil?”

Thank God. He had to sound okay, he couldn’t worry his brother. He had to be there for him.
“...hey! Hey, how did that test go?”
“Wil, are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, fine- a little drunk, fine…I just wanted to ask, I know high school is-”
“Damnit, Wil, stop doing this. If you’re alright you can wait to call me til it’s not three in the fucking morning. Get some rest, alright?”
“No, I’m sorry, I just-”

Beep.

Well, fuck.

••

Oh, fuck.

“Wil? Hey, man. Hey.” Quackity shook the man’s shoulder, first carefully before picking up speed. “Hey. This isn’t funny, I know you’re hungover, but get the fuck up.”
Blood came away on his hands.

Looking around frantically, he exhaled in relief when he saw the large shards of glass. It was an accident. He knocked it over. The question of why he was still unconscious stood, though. A check of his pulse came back slightly sluggish, but just the kind of sluggish when someone is finally sick of yelling at you and passes out drunk on the floor. Or something.

“...ckity?” Wilbur’s voice was hardly a croak, the man blinking confusedly and groggily lifting his arms like he was a marionette; not trying to reach anything, merely seeing if it could control itself. “What, ‘sit time for class?”
“How drunk are you, dude?”
“Not enough. You’ve got a good nose, has anyone told you that? Lovely proportions.”

What the fuck?
“Uh, no. Thanks.” Definitely drunk. Maybe high too. He probably thinks I’m his long-lost ex girlfriend or something. “Don’t worry about class. I’m skipping too. Get some rest, yeah?”
Wilbur’s grip on Quackity immediately tensed, his brow furrowing as the words seemed to make him wince.
“Yeah, right. Good idea.”

After a brief pause, Quackity held a hand out. Taking it tentatively, Wilbur wobbled as he pulled himself to his feet and half of his weight was pushed onto Quackity’s shoulders. The fragility of the situation made Quackity uneasy. The memory of being around for too vulnerable of a moment was fresh in his mind, as was the repercussions. If Wilbur sobered up and realised how Quackity had seen him so weak, that certainly invited a desire to prove that he wasn't, right?

I should have thought this through. The longer I stay around when he’s like this, the more reason he’ll have to fuck me up later. Wilbur was scrawnier and far less physically intimidating than Schlatt, but he was still tall. Still probably owned sharp objects. Still capable of throwing a punch, surely. Fuck.

As soon as the man was steady enough on his feet for them both to get out of the cramped bathroom, Quackity put distance between them. Blinking blearily as though he was clearing the pain from his eyes, Wilbur staggered over to his bed and flopped onto the mattress.

“Fuuck. Everything is shit.”
“Yeah, you got that right. I’m gonna…head out.”
“Oh. Alright. I thought you were skipping?”
“Well, you know…” Quackity faltered, “I’ve got places to be.”

A soft mm of acknowledgement came from where his face was buried in his pillow. Taking that as his signal to get the Hell out of there, Quackity slung his bag over his shoulder and left the man behind the door without another glance.

••

Of course he left. Why would he stay when you’re this fucking pathetic? Why did you think he’d want to be around you when you’re like this?

With unconventional effort, Wilbur pulled off his sweater, wincing as the wool got caught on the dried blood underneath his sleeve. He glanced down at the fresh, ruler-straight cuts spanning from the crook of his elbow to just below his wrist. Quackity must have noticed the blood. I suppose it isn’t his place to care. The task of washing the cracked blood off of his arm felt insurmountable. Sitting up, standing, making it to the bathroom, opening the door, turning on the water, feeling the sting of the wounds anew. It’d be cold, too, they hadn’t had hot water all week.

And what was the point? To take care of himself? The thought was laughable. The task of rolling over and pulling a bottle out from underneath his bedframe felt far more appealing, but even that felt like too much. Reaching for one that still had weight to it, lifting it to his lips, swallowing. Maybe he should just lie here for a while.

-

Wilbur felt his head snap back against the wall as chapped lips scraped along his jaw and down his neck, biting down behind his ear and making him gasp. His vision was hazy, black hair and dark brown eyes fading in and out of focus as he was forced further down by the back of his neck and thrown to the ground, his head saved from slamming into stone by a painful grip on his hair. His ears rang as he hit the floor, a strange faint tinny sound muffled by his own heartbeat.

Soft, muffled noise broke from his lips as the man undid his shirt, digging his nails into his back and shoving his legs apart. A hand covered his mouth, pressing him further into the floor as he went limp. He felt something blunt and cold press into his neck, realising it was the less-sharp end of a thick piece of glass. His vision swam as his airway was restricted, heightening the sensation of the man’s teeth sinking into his neck and the odd ringing in his ears that kept growing louder. Dimly registering his belt sliding around the back of his waist before disappearing, the button popped on his trousers and a rough hand on his shoulder shoved him off of his back, forcing him face-first into the pavement and-

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Huh? Blinking dazedly, Wilbur mindlessly grasped at the blanket below him, feeling around for his cellphone, the assumed source of the grating sound. By the time his hand connected with the device, it had fallen silent.

Maybe: Niki
Missed Call

Strange. He’d call her back later. Hopefully it wasn't anything urgent.

Leaving his cellphone beside him, Wilbur closed his eyes again, his head throbbing slightly. He felt…off. Something had changed, the searing warmth in his stomach had dissipated into the frigid air around him but a disconcerting buzz lingered in his stomach. Maybe he’d had a nightmare? The adrenaline certainly hadn’t worn off if that were the case, his heart rate must be through the roof.

You’re always feeling something that doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t matter. A brief glance at the time showed that the day had all but passed him by. He should probably do something about how many classes he’s missed. Most of them were fairly easy, he should get his notebook and at least try to-

Click.

“Hey, Wil, how’s it, uh, going?”

Quackity appeared in the doorway, black hair falling into his face. He had an awkward look about him, vaguely nervous, his dark brown eyes seeming-

Oh.

Oh, fuck.