Chapter Text
About fifteen minutes from their destination, Karl and Sapnap start changing out of their travel sweats and hoodies, and start fooling around in the backseat shortly thereafter.
“Breach of bylaws!” Quackity screeches. “I demand punitive damages in the form of one of you fucking bozos coming up to the front seat with me, since you can’t keep your damn mitts to yourself otherwise.”
Sapnap takes the burden upon himself. “She is beauty, she is grace,” Karl says, as Sapnap forces his broad shoulders between the front seats. There’s a lot of shoving and flailing. He manages to stick his tongue in Quackity’s ear before tumbling and ending up upside down.
“You’re disgusting and a disgrace and I’m going to kick you out of the car and run you over until you’re Christmas roadkill,” Quackity says. Sapnap just leers up at him. Shameless, endearing motherfucker.
Karl and Sapnap finish changing. The pines rise to a hundred feet on either side of the road. The car is transformed into a bastion of holiday spirit: Mariah Carey on the radio, Karl in a red cable-knit sweater, Sapnap’s white crop top swapped for a green MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU FILTHY ANIMAL crop top, and Quackity’s knuckles on the wheel as white as the driven snow falling furiously around them.
“It’s not too late to turn this car around,” Quackity says. Festively. “We could do Christmas in Vegas with all the sad gambling addicts, get eloped with Elvis dressed like Santa. Worse ways to spend the holidays.”
“It’s literally too late, dude. In this snow I don’t think we could get back to town, let alone Vegas,” Karl says. He pops an antler headband onto his head. He’s so cute it’s offensive.
“I’m looking forward to Christmas with your ex,” Sapnap adds. “If he tries anything, I’ll get to deck him. What’s merrier than that?” He wrestles himself upright, looking thoughtful. “Uh, your ex who’s now kind of your…brother, right?”
Quackity gags. “No the fuck he is not. Oh my god, I knew you wouldn’t remember! That’s it, I’m turning around.”
“We’re not turning around. I’ve got you, Sap, I wrote it down.” Karl digs out his notebook from his weekend bag. “Okay, Quackity HQ family tree, starting from the top: Philza Craft, world renowned architect and hermit, who lives way out in the middle of a magical snowy pine forest, like Santa.”
“Like a weird survivalist doomsday prepper Santa, sure,” Quackity mutters.
“Biological father of Wilbur Soot, Quackity’s second worst ex, and adopted father of Tommy, hellion devilchild.”
“Tommy’s alright,” Quackity says.
“Not according to every story you’ve ever shared about him. Didn’t you say he Home Aloned the house once?”
“Yeah, but it was funny.”
“It does sound pretty funny, Karl.”
“We digress! Next there’s Tubbo, honorary Craft brother, best friend of Tommy, bio son to Quackity’s first worst ex, may he rest in piss. Tubbo is Quackity’s stepson.”
“Mother of—Tubbo is not my stepson, Jesus Christ. He’s eight years younger than me!”
“Fine, stepbrother. Then there’s the school crew: Niki, Jack, Eret, Quackity, Fundy.”
Sapnap whistles and whoops for Quackity, then tries to stick his tongue in Quackity’s ear again. Quackity fends him off.
“All five were friends of Wilbur’s, until Wilbur became a weird little freak and detonated—” Karl flips a page, “—the friend group. Niki’s not a fan of Wilbur or Tommy, but she’s still cool with Phil. Jack is also not a fan of Wilbur or Tommy, but he’s close with Niki. Not many people are fans of Eret, they burned some bridges, but Eret feels bad and is still close with Fundy. Wilbur also feels bad, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Also he adult-adopted Fundy a few years ago, even though Fundy’s only like, two years younger or something? I put a question mark after that.”
“Yeah, no one’s got a clue what that was about. I think it was a joke.”
“Sure, totally funny and not weird at all. The most recent addition is Ranboo. He’s in a bookclub with Phil, Niki, and Technoblade.” Karl flips another page. “Also there’s Technoblade, Quackity’s mortal enemy who he hates to double death.”
“Technoblade is Wilbur and Tommy’s cousin,” Quackity corrects. “He’s lived with them since high school, but he didn’t want to be adopted into the family, and who can fucking blame him. He sees Phil as a friend, Wilbur and Tommy see him as a brother, he disagrees. It’s a whole thing. Also I hate him to double death.”
Karl squints at the notebook until Sapnap digs out his glasses from the glove compartment. “Thank you, baby. Okay, Quackity’s current status towards Philza, Niki, Jack, Eret, Fundy, Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Technoblade are as follows: neutral, positive, positive, neutral, positive, negative, positive, positive, neutral, loathe entirely. Did I get that right?”
“Change Ranboo to negative, I don’t trust anyone that tall,” Quackity says. “I especially don’t trust anyone who willingly and consistently hangs out with Techno, but he’s Tubbo’s friend, so we have to play nice. By virtue of being my most normal ex, we’re going to label Eret as neutral-to-positive. And despite being a certified piece of shit, if Wilbur’s really trying to be less shitty, then it’d be pretty hypocritical of me to give him less than neutral-to-negative. But he’s on thin ice. And change Jack to true neutral, I’ve never once in my life had a thought about that guy.”
“You got it.” Karl scribbles dutifully. The little bells on his antlers jingle. “And despite all the dysfunction, each of you have spent Christmas together for the last ten years.”
“Wow, it almost sounds like you like most of these people, Q,” Sapnap says.
“It almost sounds like you want to get punted into a blizzard.”
The snow is reaching whiteout conditions. Quackity pulls the car into a crawl. All the better to prepare his idiot boyfriends. “I’ve come up with ten rules to make sure we survive this. Just ten, easy to remember. Karl, write these down. One: no talking about pets.”
“Easy, I hate pets,” says Sapnap.
“Two: do not say Merry Christmas to Wilbur. He’ll call you a bigot. And don’t say happy holidays, or he’ll accuse you of being a spineless centrist with no opinions of your own and lock you into a political debate. Do not discuss politics with Wilbur Soot. Actually, just don’t engage, period.”
Karl writes and crosses out and writes frantically.
“Three: the kitchen is Niki’s happy place, so she does most of the cooking. Do not mess with Niki’s kitchen.”
Sapnap perks up. “She likes to cook? Maybe we’ll get along.”
“Sure, if you respect her kitchen. Four: don’t talk religion with Tommy. He made up his own a few years ago and we all try to ignore it. Five: no strategy games with Tubbo. Six: no competitive games with Tommy and Tubbo. Seven: don’t make eye contact with Ranboo, it makes him uncomfortable. Break that one if you’re feeling chaotic, I don’t give a shit about Ranboo’s comfort.”
“You’re hot when you’re being bitchy,” Sapnap says.
“If you come near me with your tongue again I’ll kill you,” Quackity says. “Eight: don’t make eye contact with Eret. If you do, be normal about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nine: Technoblade.” Quackity’s eyes narrow to slits as he turns into a half-shoveled driveway. “Fuck Technoblade.”
“Like literally?”
“No, Karl. Not literally. But I want you to keep the Christmas spirit of Fuck Technoblade in your heart tonight.” He parks in front of a cozy log cabin, glowing gold in the quickly falling dark. It’s drizzled in Christmas lights like icing, white smoke puffing cheerfully from the chimney.
“It looks like a gingerbread house,” Karl says.
“An evil gingerbread house,” Sapnap says, nudging Quackity in the side.
“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up. I lost my tooth at one of these things.” He spins to them, seatbelt straining. “Okay, bozos, listen up. This one’s the most important. Number ten: be on my side. There will be a minimum of two physical altercations, and that’s if we’re lucky. There’s always, without fail, a food fight, and it’s always started by Tommy. It’s why Niki wants him dead. If the motherfuckers I call my family don’t scare you off by then, they’ll try to recruit you to their factions. If I find myself alone at the end of the night, I’ll burn down this cabin with everyone inside. Be on my side.”
Neither Sapnap or Karl hesitate. “Always.”
Quackity shuts off the car; Bing Crosby’s somber crooning of I’ll Be Home For Christmas cuts short. A man to the gallows, Quackity squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and makes for the front door. Karl giggles. Sapnap rolls his eyes fondly.
They join Quackity on the front stoop, where Quackity is glaring at the wreath. He lifts a fist to the door. He doesn’t knock.
Karl slides his hand into Quackity’s. “It’s going to be great, Q. So your family is rowdy at the holidays. Whose isn’t?”
Quackity keeps not knocking. “Karl. You’re an only child and Sapnap’s family is a Christmas card come to life.”
“I grew up in a town called Mistletoe Valley,” Sapnap says.
“We know, Sapnap. The point is, you don’t get it. You can’t get it. It’s not even your fault! Even if you had standard dysfunctional families you still wouldn’t get it, that’s how weird and fucked this family is.”
“But they’re your weird fucked dysfunctional family,” Sapnap insists. “And you love them, right?”
“I guess. On a good day. Maybe.”
Sapnap puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into his side. Their temples knock together. “Then we’ll love ‘em too. Or we’ll tolerate them. Like any good family does at the holidays.”
He pulls off Quackity’s navy beanie and replaces it with the forest green one that Karl hands him. Tucks in the locks sticking out at the side, just how Quackity prefers.
It’s sweet. Quackity loves them both. Not enough to knock on the door and not say, “I hope we spontaneously freeze to death Day After Tomorrow Style before someone answers the door.”
They do not spontaneously freeze to death Day After Tomorrow Style before someone answers the door. That someone is Technoblade.
Technoblade is six-five, size thirteen boots, square glasses, and wearing a chunky, ugly Christmas sweater. “Yo,” he says.
“Fuck my life,” says Quackity.