𝘽𝙀𝙀 𝙃𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙂𝘽𝙄𝙍𝘿 | quacknap

Day One

Sapnap whistles through his teeth in that attractive way of his as they enter the apartment, and Quackity muffles his laughter in the man's neck as he's carried through his own front door.

(In a moment of weakness, he thinks about how he resembles a bride after a wedding. That thought is pushed from his mind instantly.)

Sapnap kicks the front door closed behind him, and Quackity winces at the echoing sound it makes but doesn't protest. The entrance hall is small, and the closet on the side is almost empty with only one person's set of coats and shoes, but a golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and Sapnap admires the marble pillars with the eyes of a man who has not spent over a million on them recently.

The two stand there for a moment, and Quackity wonders if the other is waiting for permission to move further into the house until he feels a tap on his thigh. He quickly realises its meaning and feels slightly embarrassed as he realises Sapnap must have been waiting for him to get down.

(In another moment of weakness, he thinks; of course Sapnap didn't want to hold you more than he had to. That thought is pushed from his mind instantly.)

He slowly lets go where he realises his legs have been tightly wound around the other's waist, and reaches out until they make contact with the floor. He then swiftly steps away, watching curiously as he realises what Sapnap's doing.

It has been a long time since Quackity has seen Sapnap without his protective layer; his netherite armour. But today the man only wears a plated greave on his lower leg, his armoured boots, and a helmet, which he was carrying in an arm that wasn't around Quackity.

Aside from that however, he only wears a pair of large cargos tied to his waist with string, and a loose white hoodie covered in old burns that reveal the muscled skin underneath.

Quackity is no stranger to Sapnap's body. He couldn't name every scar, or chart the constellations of his moles, but if shown an anonymous dick or arse pic of the man he would be able to identify it with one eye closed (that is—metaphorically, Quackity has lost one of his eyes, he technically always has one eye closed).

But in the little he can see of the man, it seems he has grown into his body in the year or so without Quackity's touch. His arms look similar, with their thick biceps and scarred magma, though the dark hairs running across them are more obvious, and looks more like an attractive style choice than pubescent hormones shining through. His hair is longer and greasily matted (a shock considering he lives with Karl; the ultimate lover of running his hands through soft hair) and is tied back into a foreign man-bun as his usual bandana keeps stray hairs from his face as they fall past his horns.

But despite all the differences, he looks familiar in such a domesticated way that Quackity can't help but associate his singular dimple and pierced horns from when he was an angsty teen with an extreme homesickness. Because Quackity is painstakingly sick; he's running the fever of yearning. He yearns to ask about scars and to trace moles, to tickle him in certain spots so the other spouts soft laughter so juxtaposing his dangerous appearance, and to yank his hair tie out in order to clean all the acid and oil from his skull with luxurious soaps.

The little things, the grasping love handles while they walk because he knows the other hates being coddled in public, or braiding his wet hair as they experience their twentieth rerun of the pitch perfect movies ("greatest films ever created—you can't prove me wrong!") so his hair is wavy in the morning.

Quackity mourns as he stares at Sapnap, as he watches the man strip his legs of their armour as he's watched him do so many times (from the bed, from the couch, from Karl's arms. Or moving from wherever he is so he can help Sapnap with it when the other's shaking from the adrenaline of a kill or hunt so bad he can barely adjust the buckle).

His grievances are weak though (pathetic), so he ignores them, and instead turns from his ex-fiance to glare at his favourite pair of shoes as he catches sight of a speck of dirt on them, despite how he had scrubbed his finger's dry cleaning them only the other day. Sapnap brings the earth wherever he goes, it seems.

When the ravenette is done, moving his armour so it's not in the way of the door and propping his sword up next to it, he turns back to the older with a tilted head, eyes questioning.

Quackity can feel his gaze on him, feel as the other takes in his rumpled suit and bloodshot eyes, and finally sucks up his pride, swearing he won't let himself have such weak (pathetic) thoughts again.

The two stare at each other for a moment—Sapnap has dirt underneath his fingernails. It would piss Karl off if he saw it. Why isn't he wearing nail varnish?—before the taller gestures carefully for Quackity to come closer, expression kind but wary.

Quackity does, his steps akin to a wild animal approaching a hunter, and he's barely a metre away before the other is tugging him into his arms again, not picking him up but breathing him in, cherishing it. Quackity doesn't respond to the arms around his waist for a good few moments, mind rushing with thoughts he wishes to abdicate.

Sapnap holds him tightly, but never harmingly. He holds him with dirt beneath his fingernails, but without knowing of the blood beneath Quackity's. And when he finally moves to hug him back, the man buries his face into the smaller and takes a deep inhale.

Quackity eventually wraps his thinner arms around the other's neck, resting his chin on his collarbone but not letting himself indulge in the scent of muck and wildfires.

Sapnap laughs mirthlessly but intentionally against his neck. Quackity can feel Sapnap's lips against his skin when he talks. "You still do that." He says (fondly?). "Wrap your arms around my neck when hugging, that is. You're the shorter one, you shouldn't do that."

Not much shorter, Quackity thinks, and then without filter: "it's less suffocating this way." He says impassively. "And easier to get away."

Sapnap doesn't respond to that for a moment.

Fucking idiot, Quackity thinks to himself. And then, well maybe he'll leave now, and maybe this internal war will disappear too, and then, though if he leaves again I think I may break with no repair.

It's a sour thought.

Quackity does not enjoy being reliant. He's used to being the jenga tower one brick away from falling, it's not a fun game if there's a wall always holding him up. Easier to clean up though, he supposes.

"I missed it." Sapnap says coolly, as if as soon as he says the words the weight of them aren't pressing on Quackity's shoulders like they're trying to shove him six feet under.

"Okay." He snorts instead of bursting into tears.

They're silent again, and Quackity's mind is running away from him again. Fill the quiet, it's too awkward. Comedic relief. Comedic relief.

"You're dirty." He mutters without regret, it's true.

Sapnap laughs. It isn't blissful, but it sounds like he means it. Quackity wonders when the last time someone laughed at something he said was. "Well, I suppose you have a shower I can use? It was a long journey."

"It was." Quackity says, he can easily estimate how long the journey was. "I have a bath bomb."

"Oh?"

"It's a lemon one. Probably expired but..." Quackity swallows. "I was saving it."

Sapnap brushes his nose against Quackity's neck. "For?"

Our wedding night. To braid your hair. To clean you from acid and grease. To watch pitch perfect. To trace your scars and learn about your moles.. or, no that's not right-

Quackity does not respond.

"Okay. Do you want to join me in the bath?" If Sapnap hadn't been upfront, Quackity would have. He likes that he doesn't have to, Karl was always one to babble about insignificance with a flush while twiddling his thumbs, the straightforwardness is honourable.

"Yeah. I do."

Sapnap exhales softly. "Cool."

1378 words.

-Bree<3