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And I know I've kissed you before but
I didn't do it rightCan I try again,
try again,
try again?– "Pink in the Night" by Mitski
Fog blankets the shore.
The water ripples grey and rheumy, the haze parting with the ship's steady whir.
The deck groans with nearby commotion. Footfalls and chatter — all white noise he could do without. It's why he's standing here. Leaning against the railing. Watching the mist like it's a telenovela.
Inevitably, Schlatt steals a glance over his shoulder.
Everyone's mostly gathered around the bar, laughing and gesticulating and nodding at each other emphatically. Others are scattered in gaggles. Conversing. Discussing. Maybe even networking.
He sighs. Just the thought makes his body thrum with fatigue. He ought to find a deck chair, or something. Get his cruise on. That's what he's here for, isn't it? Vacation.
The question lingers in his head. Isn't it?
In any case, he just didn't think there'd be so many goddamn people around. And the sun's not even out. It's only now he notices the faint drone of a headache. Then the hollow pang in his gut. What the hell did he have for breakfast?
Schlatt glares out into the surrounding woodland. What time is it?
"Hey, mate."
He startles at the voice beside him, instinctively clutching the lapel of his overcoat.
An emerald haori drfits in the briny breeze. Crow's feet wrinkle with an apologetic smile.
"Oh," he chortles, "hey, Phil. You caught me, uh, contemplating."
"Ah. That's new." Phil gives a hearty chuckle, tugging the brim of his wide hat. "Shit weather, innit?"
"You said it, man. Some cruise." Huffing, Schlatt drapes himself over the railing. "Where… hey, where the hell even are we…?"
"You run into any of the staff 'round here?"
He blinks, spinning to peer up at the ship's control room. Though it's not like he can make anything out through the tinted windows. He pushes his glasses up regardless, humming.
"…No. Not really, no." He arches a brow at Phil. "Have you?"
"Good." He gives a nod, smiling in spite of his furrowed brow. "That's good. Listen, Schlatt, I've got some people I need to catch up with, but I'm glad to see you."
Before he can say a word in reply, Phil claps his shoulder and bids, "Don't be a stranger, mate."
Schlatt returns a half-hearted wave, left with his unanswered questions.
Getas clanking down the deck, the geezer walks up to one of the other gaggles and is immediately enveloped into joyous hugs by some kid and a bald guy.
A buoyant guffaw and rumbling murmur sparks a glimmer of recognition that triumphs through his headache.
Tubbo and Fit.
He thinks about walking over, too. Saying hi. Shouldn't he? After all, when's the last time he saw those guys?
When's the last time he saw those guys?
With a blink of bright round eyes, Tubbo catches his stare.
Schlatt turns back to the fog. Maybe later.
Spurred by muscle memory, he digs into his pocket for his crumpled pack of Reds. It takes a second to get his empty lighter to spark.
Blue smoke mingles with the cool haze, leaving a second trail with the water. They dissipate in tandem. Drifting through this dense mist, they might as well be ghosts. Even this big-ass boat is being swallowed by it. She could sink right here. Kiss the sediment and disappear forever.
A chill crawls down his spine. He steps back from the railing.
He hates the ocean. Can't swim, to boot.
What the fuck is he doing here?
"Hey."
He hears a voice so hushed it almost blends into the atmosphere's murmur. Fearing the worst for his sanity, Schlatt snaps to find its source.
A lopsided smile curls up at him. Dark eyes twinkle.
"Can I bum one?"
That coy, rasping voice stirs a vague frisson in him. He shuffles back to give its owner a sweeping glance.
Black baseball cap, no logo. Navy blue turtleneck. Dark rinse overalls. A thin gold cross strung on a smooth chain.
"…It's me." The smile falters. "Schlatt. It's me."
Finally, he dissolves into a laugh, letting out a breath he'd been holding for God knows how long. It's like the sun's come out.
"Oh, God– you-you know I'm bad with faces, Alex. Since… Since when did you wear other hats?" Exhaling trepidation, he reaches into his coat once more. "And what the hell happened to 'hello, how are you?'"
"U-Uh–" He seems to shrink, hiding under the brim of his cap.
Tamping down the urge to throw himself into the water, Schlatt offers a rueful smile.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm, uh, a little high-strung," he mumbles, making a contrite offering of his crumpled pack. "Never thought you'd be out here askin' me for a smoke. I thought you quit."
Quackity looks up, eyes turning to crescents. Praise be, his radiant laugh echoes through the strait.
Schlatt finds himself chuckling. He's not sure why. Did he say something funny?
Before he can think to ask, his laugh simmers to giggles, muffled by his gloved hands. He sniffles and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, cursing through a breathless chortle.
"Uh." In lieu of another haphazard one-liner, Schlatt fumbles through his pockets. "Need a light?"
Quackity lets out a guffaw that could've been a sob. His arms reach out to wrap around his torso, under his coat. He nestles into the crook of his neck, quiet laughs racking his shoulders.
"Woah, easy." He ashes his cigarette, lest it singe his downy hair. "Gotta make up your mind, tonto."
Schlatt carefully returns the embrace. It blossoms a familiar warmth.
Quackity does that strange laugh again and, through a voice that was only above a whisper, mumbles an apology.
It happened in the middle of the night.
A shrill alarm, blaring up and down the corridor. Filling the darkness with stark red light. The ship's engine howling outside.
Schlatt had been awake, anyway. Nursing the complimentary bourbon and replaying the afternoon on a loop. As soon as the lights went out, he topped up his flask with a sigh.
All things considered, the crash wasn't totally catastrophic. Felt more like an earthquake. Four point five mag, if that.
Everyone's mostly gathered near the front of the hull now, rabbling and clamoring. The gaggles persist, huddled behind marble pillars and giving him wary side-eyes.
He almost wants to throw up his hands and start yelling. Can't a guy just mind his own business? Settling against a pillar of his own, he gulps down the urge with a swig from his reserve.
It's at that point a high-pitched squeal cries through the entire hall, the PA system crackling, "Please form pairs of two."
Right. Of course. Buddy system. Classic emergency protocol.
He gives the corridor a brief scan.
It doesn't take too long to spot him. His hatted head poking through the crowd. A navy blue sleeve swiping the air in some exaggerated gesture. He can almost hear his lilting laugh tumbling through the chatter.
Quackity's got no shortage of buddies over there.
Schlatt tucks his flask away. Might as well commit to this lone wolf thing.
"J. Schlatt."
He startles at a low timbre, bellowing with his name.
"Jesus– fuckin' Christ, what is it with people sneakin' up on me?"
Standing rigidly beside him is someone whose voice nor attire conjures any glimmers. A stern scowl, half-obscured by an odd violet flurry, deepens in reply.
"Your reputation precedes you."
"Reputation?" Schlatt scoffs, turning back towards the crowd. "What reputation?"
The stranger clears his throat, golden epaulets swaying.
"Would you like to be my pair?"
"Do I know you?" He eyes his black velvet suit. "You gotta let me know, man. I'm bad with faces."
"Right." His brow seems to twitch. "My name is Ash."
"Hi, Ash." He takes a beat, committing it to memory. "How do you know my—"
"Be my pair."
"Oh. O-Okay, all right." Who let this guy on board? "Sure, sure. I'll be your pair."
"Excellent." With a solemn nod, he surveys the corridor with hands clasped behind his back. "A brave new world is upon us, J. Schlatt."
"You can just, uh, call me Schlatt."
"I have full confidence that we can seize the reins and rise above the treachery that has befallen this vessel." Ash gives a sweeping gesture. "These people are lost. Blind. Without direction. Nobody realizes what awaits…" he trails off, inhaling sharply. "Once the gates open, only the strong shall survive."
"…Right."
The violet particles seem to shift as a smirk appears on his face.
"Of course, you don't need me to tell you that."
Before he can inquire about what it is he doesn't need to be told, the PA crackles once more.
"Line up in front of the door with your partner. You will be called in for an interrogation."
The chatter quiets for a moment, stewing into hushed whispers and concerned looks.
Schlatt hums, starting down the hall. His newfound buddy strides ahead, velvet cape trailing along the carpeted floor.
"Don't worry," he hisses gravely, "I'm ready for any anything."
Chuckling, Schlatt lags behind. "Hey, man, I get the whole disaster-in-the-dead-of-night thing's got you on edge, but I think they're just try'na figure out what the hell happened."
Ash stops in his tracks, snapping to glare daggers over his shoulder.
"Huh…?"
Schlatt averts his eyes in search of an out. Something tells him his buddy might be a little off his rocker.
Everybody else is dutifully stationed right by the tall steel door, caught up with whatever might be going on there.
Everybody else, except for Quackity. Quackity, watching him with an absent smile.
"Ah. Forgive me." Ash coughs into a fist, expression falling back into a slight frown. "I… didn't realize you were employing a strategic front. But-But I expected no less, of course–" He continues his stride. "We must assess the enemy first and foremost."
Schlatt raises his hands in something akin to surrender, chortling, "I-I gotta be honest, I don't really know what you're talking about, dude," he starts. "I'm just here for a good time. Havin' a drink here, havin' a smoke there. I mean, that's what retirement's all about."
Ash doubles back, his face wrought with something akin to disgust.
"R… Retirement…?"
The tower pierces the night's sky like a thorn. Vines and moss cling to its weathered stone, tossing with the breeze.
It's chilly. Schlatt almost wishes he could head back inside, but the ship was bolted shut the moment they stepped out into the field.
He's starting to get why Phil had been erring on the side of caution. The hard-hatted, hi-vis vested schmucks are more than a little pallid-looking. Awfully quiet, too.
In any case, he'd found himself a satchel. Just lying in the grass near a ditch. Taking a short puff from his cigarette, he wrenches a shovel out of the ground. This could be a start.
A quiet laugh carries over the field.
"What the hell're you doing?"
Quackity shuffles down the hill, wearing that sweet grin of his.
"Went spelunking." Schlatt tugs on the satchel strap, smirking.
He laughs, shaking his head. "Hey, c'mon, make yourself useful and help me climb this tower—"
"What-Now you're just barkin' orders at me?" Schlatt gives him a look in jest. "What gives?"
He laughs again, reaching up to pat his shoulder. "Wait, I-I mean, just–" He interrupts himself with a chuckle, shaking his head. "Just come with me, come with me."
As he goes to put out his cigarette, Quackity grabs him by the wrist and starts for the tower.
Under his breath, he mutters, "Great, here we go," and smiles in spite of himself.
After a whirlwind of back and forths with some of their fellow strandees, Quackity had scuttled away without so much as a second glance his way. Something about fumar.
He's standing on the bridge now. Alone, for once.
Taking an Irish exit from said whirlwind, Schlatt saunters down the steps. He rifles through the tattered satchel, retrieving a packet of jerky stashed between some other junk.
Now it's them on the bridge. Alone.
"Hey, Alex? I was thinking about finding someplace to hunker down—"
"Can you– I'm, like, on the phone, man—" He brings a hand over what he recognizes as a communicator. "What-What is it?"
"Oh. Sorry. Was thinkin' you might be hungry. Slim pickings on that boat."
Quackity falters — the same way he did earlier that afternoon.
"I-I–" he stammers, an indecipherable frown dimming him. "N-No. No, I don't need it, I don't– listen, I'm-I'm taking a call, okay?"
"Right. Okay." Nodding, he stuffs the packet back into the satchel. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
He turns to leave, only to be caught by his sleeve.
"No, no, no, wait. You can-You can stay, just—"
A voice warbling through his comm seems to snap the odd tremor out of his voice.
As he breaks into a laugh, talking into the receiver, Quackity keeps a tight hold on his sleeve.
Following a short-lived quarrel over mental notes in the public comm forum, he'd dragged him down the bridge and past a river. Up the bank and into a forest. Through the forest and into a clearing.
At some point, Quackity lost a hold of his sleeve to ward off some animal. He isn't too sure. It's too dark to tell.
He backtracks through the shrubs, stepping out under the moonlight again.
"Hey, come on, hurry up!" he calls out. Awfully impatient. "I've got us a meeting here."
Schlatt looks up from where he's doubled over beside a tree, exhaling, "Okay, just– like, gimme a minute. You know I've got bad hip flexors."
Sighing, he goes for his flask. In the second it takes to screw the cap off, it leaves his hands.
"Hey." He grits his teeth. "If you wanted some, you coulda just asked, idiot."
The moon casts a shadow over Quackity's scowl. He's clutching the steel canister like it's a loaded gun.
"Every time I see you, you're opening a bottle."
"Geez, forgive me for not wanting the perfectly good, free whiskey to go to waste—"
He tips it over the grass. It pours out in a glistening stream. Liquid gold swallowed by soil.
In his act of scathing, senseless cruelty, Quackity shakes out the dregs.
"Starting today." He swipes the cap back on and shoves it into his hands. "You're fucking sober, asshole."
Schlatt lets out a faint chuckle. More of a wheeze, really.
"Alex. Quackity." He inhales. "What in the name of God is your fucking problem?"
Arms crossing, his glare disappears under the brim of his hat. It's just vexatious.
"You're acting like-like it's a crime to have a little drink on fuckin' vacation! I mean, come on," he exclaims, "it's not like I'm gettin' behind the wheel here! Throw me a bone."
He hears a sharp exhale. It might've been a scoff.
"I don't care."
Quackity practically lunges for his wrist.
Right back to dragging him along.
"Okay. All right. No." Schlatt plants himself in the clearing and snatches his arm back. "What is your issue? Huh? One minute, you're all over me, smilin' and laughing, then next thing I know, you're snapping at me like I pissed in your fuckin' soup. I'm getting mixed signals here, Alex. Mixed signals."
All he can see is his frown, creasing with each exasperated word that leaves his mouth. His golden pendant hovers in the air.
"I… just…" His hands curl into fists. "I just want… want us to spend time together."
The familiar acrimony of remorse rises in his chest like heartburn. Or it might've been diffidence. Schlatt turns to look at a patch of moss.
"…That so?"
Quackity does that weird half-laugh for the third time that day, taking a step back.
"Y-Yes?" It's a retort. "Of course I… why-why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I?"
Brow furrowing, Schlatt meets his quizzical stare. Or it might've been frightened.
"Well, I'unno," he mumbles, shrugging. "You… You light up a room. Y'know, folks see you and-and they all just wanna walk right up, strike up a conversation. Make you their friend."
A lopsided smile creeps onto his face. "Huh…?"
"But, y'know, guy like me…" he trails off, searching the darkened forest for reprieve. "I'm, uh, rough around the edges."
Quackity chuckles, arms folding over his pendant. "I'm well aware."
"'Course. You get it."
"I… yeah, no, I get it. Totally," he murmurs, coughing.
"Just… all I'm saying is–" Laughing, he brings a knuckle to his brow. "You don't need to worry about me, Alex. You're better off for it."
The wind whistles.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Schlatt brushes past him.
"So, uh, we still on for that 'meeting', or—"
"Aren't you gonna ask what happened?"
The trees rustle.
His overalls make a cross over his back. Dark denim sealing the ghost of his own self.
A sunlit memory comes to mind. The scent of tobacco and linen. Soft, warm skin. Two perfectly mirrored scars, framed by his shoulder blades.
"Hm? What's that?"
"The crash." He whispers it like a confessional. "What you're doing here. What…"
He quiets with the breeze.
Schlatt laughs, smoothing his overcoat. "Hey, y'know what? I'm taking it all in stride, baby. Frankly, living the coastal life's always been something of a dream. Believe it or not."
Quackity turns to him, glittering like the nighttime ocean.
"You're… You're right." Suddenly, he closes the distance between them with two long strides. "Schlatt. All this, this-this island, this place… it's… a fresh start."
He sputters, shrinking under his stare. "I-I mean, yeah, s-sure, if that's how-how you wanna see it—"
"Ay, padre nuestro…" He latches onto his arm, guffawing and croaking, "It… It doesn't matter…"
Schlatt chuckles, unsure why. "It… doesn't?"
Quackity shakes his head, swiping the shadow of his cap and starting into the woods once again.
"Don't worry, guapito. Don't you worry."
His gloved hand slips into his. It blossoms a familiar warmth.
Silently, Schlatt decides he'll take his word for it.