[Discontinued] The Things Left

15. Things That Are Unfixable

» Word count: 3,033 «

cw // Jschlatt

**

The journey was a long one, specifically made so Fundy could be away for a long time. By the time they reached the first checkpoint, it was dark already. Much to Wilbur's insistence to continue, they made camp in a disappointing cave. Even in the cold, they remained far from each other. Not a single word, that wasn't asking for the map, was spoken. Not a single thought shared, even if it meant biting his tongue to keep snarky comments from souring the mood further. The campfire's flames were dancing in the stone walls, so warm compared to the moon's light outside.

Quackity was the first to throw the blankets over, turning away from them. Schlatt wasn't tired, nor was Wilbur. They stared at the flames, glancing at the other a couple of times out of curiosity. The smell of burning wood was somehow calming, in a weird way of course. Smoke was never good, but for once they allowed it to be good. After what felt like an eternity, which was probably an hour or so, Schlatt also threw the covers over; leaving Wilbur to stifle away in the loneliness of the night.

The fire was out and the sun wasn't when he woke up. He glanced at the other two, moved by curiosity other than anything. Quackity was still fast asleep, holding the blanket tight while his other hand rested under the pillow. That was funny, to remember things that never mattered in the first place. Just like the fact that Quackity would always be the last to wake up, no matter who they were with; except George of course, nothing could ever wake him up. Or that he'd never be able to sleep without a sign of the cross before. Again, things that he never cared for; and aside from the usual tease, he didn't care.

Or even Wilbur. That man was almost allergic to sleep. He'd never go to bed without a cup of tea or a good song. Sometimes he'd even sing it if he had his guitar, or just hum himself to sleep. He had to admit, Wilbur had a decent voice. And he could even count the times he'd fallen asleep listening to it, on purpose or not. Again, things that shouldn't have mattered.

When he glanced at Wilbur, seeing him sleeping against the cold stone was a sight. It didn't invoke any feeling, it wasn't a new view anyways. And things made sense, some did. That bad posture, excluding the height and the disadvantage, was formed by bad habits. He saw him shivering, from the early morning breeze, the blanket having fallen.

He didn't know why he fixed it.

After a couple of hours, when the sun was high again they woke up. Wilbur didn't mention the blanket, even if he knew it should've been around his legs by then. Quackity was last to wake up, taking extra in doing whatever it was that he needed to do. And Schlatt, he was just sitting and packing things away.

In silent agreement, they continued with the track.

His arm was red from scratching it, unconsciously. He didn't notice until he scratched the cut that was still healing, drawing a sharp gasp from his mouth. His eyes widened when they reached the injury, his mind taking a little too long to process his bloodied arm again. His body stopped, just staring at his arms like it was alien from his body.

Another gasp made him look up, to see Quackity and Wilbur with a mix of confusion and worry on their faces. He opened his mouth for an excuse, but there was nothing. How could he hide an injury like that after they have seen it already? He could only stand in place, like a deer in headlights. He remembered reading what deers were; again, things that didn't matter and should not remember.