Archive of Our Own ^beta

He told himself it wasn't a problem.

When he was up at night, watching movies with his friends, drinking and laughing the night away. When he was bored out of his mind, staring at the sunset with a beer. When he had nothing better to do than nurse a drink and think. Everybody did it once in a while. 

So it wasn’t a problem when he started to grow tolerant. 

When he couldn’t feel the buzz for so long he ended up binging a 6-pack of beer and spent the rest of his night over the toilet with George rubbing circles into his back and swore he'd never do it again. When he could barely tell he was drunk but woke up the next morning with a splitting migraine. He was fine whenever he woke up tipsy. Though few and far between, he went to practice not quite hungover, but instead running on the fumes of last night’s drinking spree. He could tell his game was off, but nobody else did unless he was on the verge of fainting.

It shouldn’t have been a problem when they started to notice. 

No matter how many times they’d see him taking painkillers, no matter how many times he’d taken a break just to stave off his nausea in the privacy of the bathroom, no matter how many times he’d come to practice  drunk .

He was fine.

And he was fine now. Fine in the locker room, dizzy and zoned out of his mind from whatever-the-fuck he’d drank the night before. Nausea ate at him, but he had to fucking practice. He’d be letting the team down if he didn’t.

“Schl…” his hearing cut out and he didn’t hear the rest of his name, but he saw Sapnap standing in front of him with a… look on his face.

“Whaddya want?”

“Nothing,” Sapnap stood straighter and slung a towel over his shoulder, “you just look off is all.”

“Oh fuck off,” he growled. “I’m fine, just a headache.”

“I hear ya man, no need to get mad. If ya need anything…”

He hummed at Sapnap as he returned to his locker. Pulling a bottle out of his bag, three pills landed in his hand and he swallowed them whole.

He wouldn’t be needing anything.

Wilbur didn’t like seeing Schlatt drunk. That is, drunk past tipsy. Tipsy Schlatt was fun— maybe a little less censored than he should be, but hilarious nonetheless. Now, drunk was a different story. His temper grew out of hand as did his incoherence.

It was exactly how Schlatt was now, stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway as he hiccuped, still taking gulps from his bottle of whiskey. The team, along with Tommy and Eret, had all gone to Quackity’s house to hang out. Little did they know that alcohol would end up being thrown into the mix when Sapnap found the bar cabinet and announced it to everyone. Thus, the whole group other than Eret, Techno (the responsible ones), and Tommy (the literal child) were several shots deep.

Or in Schlatt's case, half a bottle deep.

Wilbur stood to get a snack, hungry from all the talking and laughing. He was a little buzzed, sure, but knew he was a lightweight and kept his glass of vodka small, not refilling it once yet. Schlatt stood there, already the drunkest of them but still rummaging through Quackity’s alcohol, the clinks of bottles against one another so loud that Wilbur was afraid he’d break one.

“Hey.” He spoke, opening the fridge. “Whatcha doing there, Schlatt?”

“‘S there any more whiskey? Fireball?? ‘S my favorite I can’t find anythin’ other than shitty Jack Daniel's…”

“That’s… whiskey?” He raised an eyebrow and watched as Schlatt emerged from under the counter, hitting his head on the way up. “It’s not the same Wil, this is shit!!”

Wilbur chuckled, less so because it was funny and more to lower the tension he felt in his chest at the raised voice. “Schlatt I get you’re having fun, but you need to cool it on the alcohol.”

Schlatt pushed off the doorframe, swaying left and right as he did so. He placed a heavy foot forward, slamming his foot into the floor with enough force to make a moderately loud sound. “‘S not a problem, Wil, m fine!” He tried to yank his arm back, not only failing but slamming his elbow into the corner of the wall. He cursed and stumbled, giving Wilbur an opportunity to yank the bottle from his hands and catch Schlatt before he fell forward.

A yell erupted from Schlatt’s throat: “GODDAMN IT! Give me tha’ back you motherfucker!” Wilbur flinched as the words hit his ears, but he kept his hold on Schlatt. The chatter from the next room over went unnervingly quiet. Wilbur swallowed, slowing his wandering mind, and stayed calm. “N-No, I can’t do that—“ Wilbur’s voice caught in his throat, “I can’t do that. You’ve had enough.”

Schlatt slammed the empty bottle of Fireball on the counter, making Wilbur flinch once again, nearly losing his grip. The glass had cracked.

“Let me th’ fuck go.” His voice was stern rather than angry now, and Wilbur breathed. “No! You’re done fo-“

“LET me. The fuck. GO!”

Wilbur’s arms went slack.

Schlatt left with another bottle.

Neither had noticed the boy pouring cereal behind them.

The bottle wasn’t there the next day.

He woke up on the couch with a blanket on him. Sapnap slept on the floor near him, sprawled out next to Quackity, the two covered and surrounded by trash from the night before. He didn’t remember any of it.

He didn’t remember any of it.

They didn’t stir as Schlatt bolted and leant over the kitchen sink, last night’s liquid courage falling from his lips, sour and wasted.

Tommy loved Schlatt and Schlatt loved Tommy. It was a simple bond they’d made known to each other.

The night Tommy had seen him drunkenly yelling at Wilbur, he knew something wasn’t right. Schlatt drank, Tommy knew that what with the amount of time he’d spent around SMP, but Schlatt was never this mad. Especially not at Wilbur.

The man that night  wasn't  Schlatt. There was no way he could be. The Schlatt that Tommy knew was practically his role model. Techno and Wilbur and everyone else still helped him, yeah, but Schlatt was everything Tommy ever wanted to be. Confident, charismatic, hilarious as shit. The Schlatt he knew wasn't an asshole despite his sharp exterior, nor was he a drunk getting pissed off over stupid alcohol.

Tommy kept track of him whenever he sat in at their practices or spent time with him. He went as far as to rummage through the duffle bag kept in the dugout while Schlatt was on the ice. Oddly enough, Tommy getting things from the others' belongings was a pretty normal occurrence to the point where he was surprised Philza hadn't stopped him from doing it yet. Still, he made sure that Phil hadn't been looking before he unzipped the bag. There was the usual stuff in it: water, snacks, extra clothes, his phone, etc. To Tommy's relief, there was no alcohol, but there was a pill bottle buried deep into the recesses of the duffel bag. He pulled it out swiftly and began to scan the label.  Ibuprofen, 200 milligrams.  He shook it gently to gauge its fullness, noting it seemed about one-fourth empty.

"  HEY!"

Tommy shoved the shit back into the bag as Schlatt skated over with a screeching halt. They'd been called to a 15-minute break, apparently, but Phil was too far away for Tommy to hear. The zipper was pulled closed just as Schlatt stomped into the dugout and yanked Tommy away. "What the hell are you doing with my stuff, kid?!" 

"Uhm- Nothing!!" Tommy stood ramrod straight and smiled nervously as he was studied with an annoyed expression. 

"So there's nothing in your fuckin' pockets?" Schlatt crossed his arms, "Not even up your fuckin' ass?"

Tommy snorted, trying to maintain his already-shit composure. "No sir, nothing is anywhere, not even up my ass"

"Good," Schlatt sat down on the bench, leaning his elbows on his knees and waving Tommy off. "You already put your hands all over my shit so hand me the... the painkillers would ya? Got a nasty ass headache."

Tommy did as he was asked, pulling the ibuprofen out of the bag with ease. He handed the bottle to Schlatt as well as his water. He opened the bottle, shook four of the white tablets into his hand, and popped them in his mouth before chugging the liquid.

Tommy took note of that, too.

There were few things that scared Schlatt. Death was one of them.

Usually, he didn't think about it unless he was in one of his 'moods', as his friends liked to call it. Schlatt figures he was the only one who knew it wasn't just a mood, it was a damn depression. One that he couldn't get out of no less. No matter how afraid he was, that would never stop his mind from wandering, eyes darting around his disheveled bedroom slowly and methodically. 

I could drink myself to death,  his brain would start,  but that's a shitty way to go.

If I mixed my meds my heart would stop.  It skips a beat and starts to pick up in pace.  But why the hell would I do that?

I don't want to die, but I can't do this anymore.

He'd always end up here on nights like these. Always, always, always. Always when he'd had a little too much to drink but not quite enough to feel the same deranged euphoria as normal. And always, he'd lay lifeless on his bed, still as a rotting corpse while his chest grew tighter until the air in his lungs left. There was nothing left. He was nothing. He was never anything. 

He was lying to himself. He knew he was lying to himself.

There were few things that scared Schlatt.  He  was one of those things.

His breath hitched as another gulp of air still left his lungs empty. As he sat up, heaving in breaths like an old dog, Schlatt felt pins and needles run all along his arms. His head felt foggy and saliva fell from his mouth as he hyperventilated.

How could he be thinking like this? Why the fuck would he want to kill himself? Sure his childhood wasn't the greatest, but that didn't matter. It had been over a decade since his father laid a finger on him. Why didn't that stop him from feeling the stinging sensation on his face? Why had Schlatt felt the need to stoop to his level with drinking? Was it because he didn't care about the team? No, there was no way- they meant the world to him. But if they did, why was he putting himself through this mental and physical torment? If they hadn't caught on already, they would soon. Or the paparazzi would.

The room was growing smaller and smaller around him. Air becoming thicker and heavier and warmer and Schlatt was stuck in a vaccum chamber before he even knew it. He could feel the damn tears welling in his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He couldn't fucking cry. Not because of this. Not because of his own idiocy.

They couldn't know, but they had to know. He couldn't live, but he couldn't die either.

"I hate you" he muttered into thin air.

He didn't hate them, though, and they didn't hate him back. They should though.

What a fucking hypocrite.

"I hate you," he mumbled once more. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I  HATE  -!"

He'd begun pacing. A bottle of beer- half empty- rested on the nearest surface. 

He slammed it into the wall, the glass shattering into fractals on the ground. Schlatt was sure one had embedded itself in his hand. The remaining alcohol had already stained his carpet and filled the room with a bitter scent.

"What the fuck is  WRONG  with you?!" He ran a hand through his hair, chuckling through his tears. He really did sound like his dad, didn't he?

God, what the fuck was wrong with him?

Schlatt looked down at the remaining bottleneck in his hand, tracing each jagged point with his eyes. His chest rose and fell unevenly, choked up with tears and sickening laughter. His eyes became unfocused, and he held the pointed side up to his thigh, raising his arm to plant it into his flesh. His hands shook. His vision blurred as a sob rose in his chest.

What am I doing?

The rest of the glass fell. Schlatt's legs gave way soon after and he crumbled to the floor. The tightness in his chest could no longer be contained, and he screamed, breaking down into sobs that only he could hear. His mind was exhausted. His body was exhausted. 

There were few things that scared Schlatt, but what did terrified him into sleepless nights.

Technoblade eyed Schlatt from across the locker room. They were the last two left since both of them had arrived to practice late. Tommy and Sapnap had both mentioned something being wrong, and his drunken anger at Wilbur was enough to give Techno some sort of idea of why. The man had clearly hidden everything from the rest of the team. Techno couldn't comprehend why, especially since Schlatt had been the one to aid Tommy and Wilbur during their rough spots.

Today though, Schlatt didn't look well at all. His eyes were sunken in and bloodshot, and his face was a sickly grey. He watched as Schlatt popped a handful of painkillers (which was concerning in and of itself) before finally speaking.

"You uh... You alright man?"

Schlatt glared daggers at him, but Techno knew the malice was only there because of the exhaustion evident on the man's face. Techno raised an eyebrow and waited for a response.

"Doin' peachy, Techno" his voice was almost a growl, low and hoarse. "What's it matter?"

"I dunno" he sat down next to him, not missing the way he hid his things from Techno's sight, "ya just look like crap is all."

"Thanks, man" Schlatt rolled his eyes, leaning his head forward onto his locker door. "I'll be fine..."

"Listen, Schlatt," Techno's normally laid-back tone grew ever-so-slightly more stern, "I'm not blind, and neither are the others. There's something up with you." He took a deep breath and leaned to get a better look at Schlatt's face. "Have you been drinking?"

"  No.  " came his immediate answer. "Why in the hell would you think that?! I haven't been drinking during fucking practices Techno! And I hardly have outside of them!!"

Techno knew that was a lie. Schlatt had told them multiple times about places he'd gone, he'd drunk texted the group chat, hell, he'd even hung out with some friends solely to drink. Was it just an excuse, or did Schlatt genuinely not remember telling them?

"But you have been. If you need a break jus-"

"  No!  " Schlatt stood, shaking on his feet. "No, I fuckin' haven't, why- why would you know that?!" Raspy and exasperated breaths came from his throat, then a nervous chuckle, "I'm not drunk, Techno."

"I never said you were  drunk,  " Techno's tone became calmer again,  "  but you look hungover as hell." 

Schlatt slammed his locker shut as he ran his hand through his unkempt hair. "I'm not drunk, and I'm not hungover. Stop thinkin' I am."

"Schlatt, I'm just trying to he-"

"Just.  Stop."

Techno froze. Schlatt didn't give him a second look before putting his helmet on and taking his gear out of the locker room.

His choked-up voice echoed in Techno's mind even after the door had shut.

Schlatt hated that everyone was suspicious of him.

The eyes they gave him were more akin to the glances Wilbur got whenever he was having an off day, not the grins and smirks Schlatt usually got when he was out on the ice.

It pissed him the fuck off. He didn’t need help. He didn’t need to be saved. He was just living his life for Christ's sake.

He was glad nobody saw the flask in his jacket pocket.

A whistle was blown shortly after Schlatt had slammed into the wall, failing to regain his balance and hitting the ice.

Quackity skated over as fast as he could, followed closely behind by Wilbur. The way Schlatt had been the past few days, weeks even, had given Quackity a looming anxiety that couldn't be quelled. His pale complexion, his slight weight gain, the way he shook on his feet. But today? Today he'd been worse than ever.

Lots of Quackity's questions had been answered.

"Schlatt?" he says, helping him out of his helmet to check for any obvious injuries.

"Heya pumpkin~" his voice slurred and he hiccuped. He tried to sit up, but Quackity forced him back down. He could smell the booze on Schlatt’s lips.

“Hey, stay still for a second man, we need to get you checked out.”

”’m alright, Q, I c’n play…” Schlatt tried to sit up again.

”Schlatt you’re fucking drunk!” Quackity snapped at him, yelling loud enough for the rest of the team to hear. “You’re drunk and you just rammed into the wall, you’re fucking sitting out the rest of practice I don’t care what anyone says!”

”He’s drunk?” Wilbur’s small voice came from behind him. The fear in it only made Quackity angrier at Schlatt.

” Yes,  he’s drunk.” Quackity helped prop Schlatt up against the wall once he realized picking him up wasn’t an option. Q was strong, but not enough to lift up the big guy. Wilbur had shrunk away, skating to stand near George at the back of the group.

”Techno! Help me here. Sap, get the trainer.”

”Yup, already coming!” Techno and Phil were already on the way, swiftly skating along the ice as Sapnap nodded and left. Techno skidded onto his knees, touching Schlatt on the shoulder gently.

”Ya with me?” Schlatt nodded, giggling.

”Good. How are you feeling?”

”mhh… Owie…” Techno rolled his eyes, “Does your head hurt? Anything else?”

He hesitated, eyes scanning the area before his head tilted back to Techno. ”The room’s kinda… wavy…”

”Does your stomach hurt?” Quackity asked. Schlatt nodded.

”See, coach he’s fucking drunk!” Quackity stood and crossed his arms. He was pissed.

”Calm down, Q,” Phil squeezed his arm. “We’ll check ‘im out.”

Schlatt had an extremely minor concussion as well as a large bruise on his knee where he'd landed on the ice.

Just as Quackity said, he was also drunk.

Phil cancelled the rest of practice, and Quackity was tasked with taking him home. He was  not  happy about that.

After they changed, Quackity hauled Schlatt into the car, drove all the way to his place, hauled him  out  of the car, and forced him to lie down.

"I didn't wanna go home..." Schlatt whined, rolling onto his side and warming up in his bedsheets. His wavy hair was knotted every which way and clung to his pillowcase with static.

Quackity sat beside him, his face still in a grimace that hadn't left since the dumbass had hurt himself. "I don't understand why you're doing this. Every time you drink you-- you fucking drink so much! I'm willing to fucking be there when you're drunk but coming to practice like this?  Really??" 

"I'm not that fuckin' drunk, I could've practiced still. Th'boys aren't that fuckin' brutal, man. Lay off."

Quackity turned to look at him. "No. You know we've been telling you we're worried right? Ever since you got mad at Wil that one time we hung out, you've been so fucking far away!" Pure, poisonous truth was all he spoke. Based on the look in Schlatt's eyes, Q knew something had broken through that thick skull.

"I haven't been that fuckin' bad, Q, shut the hell up." Or not.

Quackity couldn't begin to express the hurt he'd felt at those words. "Do you just not fucking care?"

"About what?!"

"About yourself? About anything you've fucking done? About  us?"  Quackity stood, staring at him with a piercing gaze. Schlatt's face was still pale, yet his cheeks were flushed with inebriation.

Schlatt jolted up where he sat, propping himself up on his elbow. "I do care, Quackity, don' say I fuckin' don't!"

"Then fucking act like it!" He stormed out of the room to get a glass of water for Schlatt. He'd slammed every cabinet, every door, unable to control his own annoyance. When he returned, Schlatt was laying back on his side, face hidden by where it was set in the permanent crease of his pillow. The glass was handed to him, and Schlatt took it without a word, sipping at it gently.

"I'm fucking sorry, okay?" Schlatt set the glass back down. "Is that what you wanna hear?"

"Why did you do it? Why'd you come in today?"

There was a pause. Schlatt's distant eyes seemed to be lost in thought. "I don't know."

"If you don't know, do you really fucking mean it?"

"...I don't know."

Quackity stood again, walking to the doorway and grabbing the knob. He was seeing red because of this goddamn situation– the situation that Schlatt seemed completely unphased by. He just wanted a straight answer, why was that so hard to get?

"Then fucking figure it out." The door was pulled closed. Quackity refused to think about Schlatt's distraught face.

Quackity held Schlatt's hair back while he threw up the next morning.

Despite everything, Quackity refused to abandon him. The way he'd started to cry was reason enough.

Still, he was disappointed to see him at practice the next day. At least the scent of alcohol hadn't stuck to him yet.

After the incident with Quackity, he was more careful.

Instead of a flask in his pockets, he kept two water bottles. A clear, disposable plastic bottle held, well, water, and a black metal one held whatever he'd chosen to get drunk on that day.

Seeing it sent a chill down his spine, but he didn't think they understood how much he needed this.

Thankfully, he'd gotten away with it for two weeks without any suspicion.

Fireball was his drink of choice today, so he had to be careful to pace himself. He knew he'd drink too much too quickly if given the opportunity, so he put his regular water bottle out on the bench and kept the booze in his bag. Not only that, but Tommy was going to come in later today. He didn't want Tommy to see him as shitfaced as that night and get any ideas - Tommy couldn't become like him. At least, not as far as...  this  went.

His hands hadn't been trembling as much as usual this morning, so he only drank about a shot (in the privacy of the locker room, of course) and hoped that it would carry him through until they were able to take a break.

Respite came not long after Tommy had arrived. Schlatt couldn't be more grateful. The alcohol had started to wear off.

More than that, he just wanted to see the kid's face.

He and Wilbur fought for the chance to see him first, and to Schlatt's delight, he was just a few seconds faster. With a shit-eating grin, he slid past Wil and into the dugout, pulling Tommy into a hug.

"Schlaaaattt!!" Tommy whined, his voice echoing throughout the dugout. A smile crossed Schlatt's lips, and he ruffled his hair gently.

"What's up, Toms? How'd practice go?"

"Good! I ran through my routine first-try!" There was that smile. Schlatt melted at it. He didn't think he could love anything more than he loved Tommy in this moment.

Except for a drink, maybe. It was a close second.

"Good job! You'll have to show us later, we'd love to see it." A light blush crept over Tommy's face, and he laughed at the embarrassment.

"Stop hogging him, Schlatt, Wilbur's gonna body you," Techno deadpanned from where he stood, drinking from his water. Wilbur was in fact about ready to body him and was hovering over Schlatt's shoulder, staring at him with a look that bore into his skull. It took everything in Schlatt to stop himself from cackling at the man's wide-eyed expression.

"Fine, fine!" he motioned for Tommy to give Wilbur some attention and sat by his bag.

His bag, which was open, the alcohol sitting out on the bench.

He loved Tommy to death, but why was he so damn nosy lately?

Schlatt could only stare, moving to stand further away from everyone before taking a long sip. They couldn't smell the booze from over here, he hoped. The bottle went back in his bag after it was closed, and he zipped it back up before drinking from his actual water bottle. His eyes remained on Tommy as the rest of the team darted around to dote on him, giving him hugs and pats and gentle teases. The noise wasn't hitting Schlatt's brain; the only thing he could pay attention to was the joy Tommy brought. The team on their own were happy together, like a family brought together by coincidence and never to be separated again. But the team and  Tommy  were that and ten times more. The way they smiled when Tommy was there softened Schlatt. For just a moment, a part of him felt right. Happy.  Perfect.

Tommy just couldn't find out.

"Oh, Schlatt!" The voice pulled him out of his trance, and he blinked, glancing down at Tommy. "I forgot my jacket, can I use yours? I tried to find it in your bag but couldn't."

He blinked again but tried to hide his nerves. "Course, kid." He knelt on the floor, unzipping his bag. The tremble in his hands had returned. He carefully set the black bottle on the ground beside him, along with several other items, and eventually pulled out the flannel jacket that Tommy loved so much it had begun to smell like him. "Here ya go. Bring your hoodie next time so you're not freezing."

"I know, I know, I will," He put the jacket on, buttoning the middlemost buttons and pulling the sleeves over his hands. "Thanks, Schlatt. Also, what the hell is the second drink for? Is it tea? It smelled kinda like tea but-"

Schlatt's heart sank.

"-but it didn't  fully  smell like tea, you know? What is it?"

"It's... an energy drink. It's like... a thing you mix with water. Some of 'em smell weird." 

"Ohhhh... that makes sense. Can I try some?"

"Hell no!" Fuck, was that too harsh? He quieted his voice. "I don't want you bouncing off the walls! I doubt Phil does either..."

Tommy pouted, but his smile was quickly back as Sapnap compared it to Quackity on caffeine. He would've laughed along with them if his body hadn't grown so tense. He’d lied through his teeth, to Tommy no less. What a piece of shit he was.

Schlatt stuffed everything back in his bag and exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding.

He didn't smile as wide for the rest of the day.

Going out drinking was a hobby of sorts… if that sort of thing could be considered a hobby. Schlatt tried to convince himself it was; it gave him some semblance of sanity. Privacy, even. No one on the team had to know about it and he wouldn't have to worry about being caught.

Ignorance is bliss, after all.

For once, he actually had a buddy to go with. Ted was in town and the two had decided to go to a local bar since they'd only had a few get-togethers in the time they'd known each other. The bar had a vintage aesthetic with golden orange mood lighting seeping through the windows gently. The warmth of it gave Schlatt a boost of confidence he didn’t know he needed. Ted’s demeanor held just as much excitement as Schlatt’s, and they eventually settled down into a comfortable discussion to catch up.

“How’s the hockey been?” Ted asked, taking a swig of his beer. “You guys on the Olympic route again?”

“Yeah, but qualifiers aren’t for a while so we don’t really have much to worry ‘bout yet” He took a long drink from his bourbon and felt his nerves calming already.

“That’s good to hear though!” Ted hit Schlatt on the back playfully, “You guys are some of the best athletes me and Charles have ever seen, and trust me we’ve seen a lot of ‘em.” He smirked at Schlatt, his eyebrows scrunched almost smugly. “Don’t doubt yourself, man. If you put so much into practice I know for a fact you’re putting ten times as much into your games.”

Schlatt couldn’t help but return a small smile. “Thanks, man… it’s really not all that great though. Just… y’know something I enjoy.”

“Naaah, you’re so much better than for it to be something you just ‘enjoy’, c’mon!”

“Alright alright, I get it. ‘M not gonna be dropping out or anything…”

A brief silence passed over them before Schlatt turned the conversation onto the other man. “How ‘bout you? How’s your work been?”

Ted shrugged “eh, same old same old. Most interesting that happened was some ice skater fucking wrecked her leg. That was a week or so ago.”

“Damn,” Schlatt smirked, “sucks to be her.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard medical leave is shit.”

“Sure as hell is.” Schlatt thought back to all the times his teammates had injured themselves, leading to devastating setbacks for the team. Not to mention everything with Wilbur and even Tommy… God,  never again . “Recovery’s more important obviously but takin’ people away from doing what they love does somethin’ to 'em, you know?”

“Mmh…” Ted hummed, head tilting in thought. Schlatt suddenly felt cold, a phantom chill running down his back. He gulped down the rest of his drink, and it was gone again.

The night went on like that, and the chill grew stronger until it didn’t anymore and was instead replaced with a bitter warmth of familiarity. A familiar pang of guilt.

How long had it been? How much did he drink? Too much, he knew. This tingling in his brain and under his skin and the trembling of his fingers told him it was too much. 

Was Ted talking to him? Was Ted even here anymore? 

He took another shot. How many shots had it been? Too many.

He had to stop before it was too late. He had to, even though he knew it was already too late. 

He looked up and Ted was still there. The bar was stale and stiff with the night air and perpetual scent of alcohol and sweat. “Hey,” Schlatt mumbled. He heard his voice tremble and slur. He had to leave. “I- c’n I get some air…?”

Schlatt didn’t process Ted’s face before shutting his eyes and pressing his palms into them. “Yeah. I think we should call it anyway, man…” When Schlatt had reopened his eyes, Ted was on his feet, swaying. Or was that just his vision? Schlatt couldn’t tell. He guessed it was the same either way. 

He stood next to him and nearly collapsed. Schlatt’s heart dropped and he caught the side of the bar before he fell, dread taking him over. Everything inside him was screaming for him to get out. He needed to get out. Now.

Ted asked to help, and Schlatt just nodded. The silence was heavy. Or maybe it was just him. Ted probably thought he was insane. A piece of shit drunkard with no life. He didn’t deserve one. He did. But he didn’t. 

Before he knew it they were outside. The light had left and was replaced by the blue hue of the moon. What time was it? Ted sat him down on a wooden bench, just as cold as the night. It ate through his hoodie, and he shook, teeth chattering. He sat as close as possible to Ted. Ted was warm.

“Drink too much, dude?” Schlatt nodded again. He couldn’t speak. Ted patted him on the back and he flinched, the shiver becoming too much and forcing him to pull his legs up. It hurt. This hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted to go home. He’d probably drink more. He didn’t want to drink more. He  needed  to drink more.

“I can take you home?” Schlatt nodded a third time, more intensely than before. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. It all felt the same. He tried to even out his breathing, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his head on his knees. His bones felt stiff and his hands and face felt numb. He needed to relax. Relax.  Relax, dammit. 

He couldn’t. Schlatt unfurled himself, the distant streetlights blinding him from afar. His head pounded and he slumped forward, exhaling heavily as he leaned his head between his knees. 

“‘m sorry… ‘m sorry ‘m like this.” The words were breathy. His throat was choked. Raindrops landed on the floor below him but only his face felt damp. Schlatt sat up again, looking Ted in the eyes. A silent trust was shared and Schlatt was pulled up with a strong arm around his shoulders. Dizziness overtook him, and his head fought itself to stay upright. Blackness danced in his vision but faintness did not, at least not yet. Oh God. Not again. Not a-fucking-gain.

Schlatt’s chest grew tight and his cheeks grew damper. He wanted to sob. Why was he crying though? He didn’t want to cry. No one could see him cry.  No one.

He was being loaded into a car. His legs were tired. 

“Schlatt?” 

He looked up. Someone was there. It wasn’t Ted. That wasn’t Ted’s voice.

“Excuse me, are you J. Schlatt?” They were holding something. It was bright.

Oh. Oh  God.  No. No, no this wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. No. 

“Go away!” The shout was shakier than he intended. It couldn’t be helped. His whole body shook. He wanted to scream. God, let him scream. He pulled his legs up onto the seat once more, forcing himself to be as small as possible. Repressed sobs tore up his throat. They were still standing there when he looked back, and Schlatt only tightened himself up further.

The car door was slammed. Shouting erupted from outside the car. Schlatt needed to hide. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to fucking die.

It’s all your fault.

His friend’s cries had caught Ted off guard. After driving the cameras away, Ted didn’t listen to anything else the man said before getting in the car. It was nearly midnight, and Schlatt was sobbing hard, breaths barely stable. Ted drove off before anyone could possibly catch up with him, and he soon put a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder.

“Hey, they’re gone now.” Schlatt’s breath hitched and he couldn’t tell if that meant he understood him or not.

“  I’m gonna die.  ” Schlatt sounded exhausted. Ted didn’t know what more to say, so he just held him tighter.

"Hockey Star J. Schlatt seen wasted outside hometown bar - Exclusive Footage"

The headline instantly caught his attention. His chest shuddered, and Quackity had to blink to make sure he wasn't seeing things. 

"Hockey Star J. Schlatt seen wasted outside hometown bar - Exclusive Footage"

He reluctantly clicked the link, ignored the article, and watched the video.

It opens with a dark city sidewalk, the cameraman walking up to a Toyota Tacoma. Schlatt is sitting in the passenger's seat with someone Quackity only vaguely recognizes helping him into the vehicle.

"Schlatt? Excuse me, are you J. Schlatt?" The man in question stares into the camera, face wet with tears and his labored breathing clear through the microphone. His body jerks frantically, forcing itself into a ball, arms wrapped around the top of his head and head tucked in his knees.

"Go away!" Schlatt yells, his sobs only increasing in volume. Quackity's heart broke at the sound.

"...sir, can I ask what's going on here?" The camera points at Schlatt in the car again. A third voice- the person helping Schlatt- breaks through, "No. You heard the man, get outta here." Schlatt glances back, but once he sees the camera his gaze darts away. He shifts in his seat, trying to hide himself further.

The cameraman was uncomfortably close. "Alright. Is everything okay with Schlatt?" The car door slams and the person turns around, shoving into the cameraman's space. They look enraged. "I'm not going to tell you shit, man." Another question is about to be asked, but they stop the cameraman. "No. Hey." The cameraman backs up a few steps, but it seems like it's impossible for them to get away from the other person. They're blocking the camera with their body, but Schlatt's sobs are loud enough to be heard faintly in the background. "I'm not going to ask again. You better get the fuck out of here before I call the cops on your ass-"

The footage ended abruptly. Quackity stared at the last frame, mouth agape. He didn't know Schlatt's problem was  this  bad. The others needed to know; if he had hidden it for this long, Schlatt likely didn't want them to, but that wasn't his choice. At least, not anymore. He huffed out a sigh to calm himself and glanced down the hall where Sapnap was getting snacks in the kitchen. "Sapnap? Can you come here?"

"One sec!" Sapnap called back. He came back with a bowl of chips he was already starting on and raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter?

"There's something you need to see, Sapnap."

His tone was clear, and the other's voice became more serious too. "What is it?"

"Here, lemme..." Quackity fumbled to pull the link up again as Sapnap sat beside him, glancing over his shoulder.

"What the..." Sapnap's voice was barely above a whisper. "W- When is this from??"

"Says it was from last night. I have no idea where Schlatt is now though..."

Quackity played the video, Sapnap resting his head nervously on his shoulder as he watched. Hearing it again both enraged and saddened Quackity and his chest grew tight with stress.

"We have practice today! Why's he out drinking the night before practice?"

"This has happened before, you know." Quackity scoffed, "I  know  you know, you've seen him this fucking drunk before, dude, don't tell me you don't fucking know!"

A tense silence fell over them. An unspoken dread rolled through the room. Sapnap breathed "What do we do?"

What  should  they do? Quackity knew bringing this to the rest of the team's attention would probably be too much for him. He didn't want any more angry Schlatt in his life, and he doubted anyone else on the team did either. An idea hit him: "Maybe you and I should talk to Schlatt about it."

"But what about everyone else?? What about Phil? They're going to see this whether Schlatt likes it or not, you know.  Schlatt's  going to see it too, if he hasn't already."

He knew. "Fuck..." Quackity slumped back on the couch. "Do you think Schlatt will come in today?"

"He  shouldn't, " Sapnap snapped. "If he does Phil will send him home. Or make him sit out. You know how he is."

"Mhm..." Quackity sat there, thinking. "Should we- Should we just let it be...? I'm fucking worried about him. He  needs  a break..."

"Yeah, I think so too. We shouldn't put so much on him, though. Phil should be the one to handle him first..."

"...okay." Quackity sighed. He stared blankly at the ceiling and could only hope it'd work out.

Schlatt could hardly get out of bed. His lungs hurt and his throat was dry as sandpaper. The room was dim and he sat up, head pounding at the motion. Upon further notice, it wasn't just any room, it was  his  room. There was water and a plate of toast on his nightstand, along with a trash can on the floor. He knew this. He  knew  what had happened. He didn't  remember , but he  knew . He dug his nails into his biceps, leaving dark, crescent-shaped indents in his skin.

A sharp sound came from his phone - also on his nightstand - and he grabbed it to stop the noise, but not before skimming the words.  10:30 AM - get ready for practice

Fuck. Fuck he had practice in half an hour.  Fuck.

Schlatt stopped the alarm and left the phone on his bed before standing up. Vertigo made the room tilt on its side, but he still wandered to his dresser, picking out clothes to change in to along with his jersey and pants. He got dressed and stuffed a slice of toast in his mouth, swallowing it down harshly.

It had come up no more than 10 minutes later. He hated his fucking bathroom.

Despite it, he brushed his teeth and took his painkillers. It felt like he had to take more every time this happened. He grabbed everything he needed - his gear, his phone, his keys, his water - and rushed out of the bedroom door. The smell of bacon overwhelmed him immediately and the nausea from before returned, barely dulled by the medicine. Ted was stood in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Another piece fell into place; Ted must've brought him back.

"Morning, Schlatt." He shoved a slice of bacon in his mouth. The thought made Schlatt sick. "Where are you going, man? You should stay here..."

"Can't," he spoke bluntly, "practice." Schlatt rushed to the front door. Ted was speaking behind him but he didn't care. Everything was fine.

Everything was  not  fine.

Schlatt had hardly talked to anyone as he was getting dressed and no one had tried to talk to him either. Shame coursed through him. Shame and guilt and fear and panic bubbled under the surface of his skin. Every bone and muscle and cell in his body was tense, he could feel it. Everyone's eyes were on him. Wilbur looked scared. Quackity's worried scowl bore into his memory. Techno had his brows furrowed idly, as though he didn't even mean to do it. Sapnap kept glancing at him from his locker. George had a familiar anger shimmering in his eyes. His breathing picked up noticeably, and he  knew  he was on the verge of a panic attack that he'd have to push through. The walls kept closing in until Phil entered and called his name.

"Come with me, Schlatt."

"Hang on," Schlatt forced out. Speaking hurt more than it normally did after he drank, for some reason. "Lemme get my jersey on-"

"No, just come here, mate."

"But-" Schlatt was cut off. "Schlatt, come meet me in the hall. I need to talk with you."

He groaned, rolling his eyes and throwing his shirt on the floor and speed-walking out after his coach. The blonde stood dutifully in the outer hall of the locker room, and Schlatt crossed his arms as he approached. He was annoyed as hell. He'd gone through all the effort of trying to get here for practice, still fighting off the remnants of a terrible hangover, and now Phil was gonna berate him for something like bickering with Q and Sapnap. Goddamn him.

"What is it, coach?"

"I want you to sit out of practice today."

Schlatt's blood boiled. The walls pressed down on him from every direction. "No! What the- What the hell? Why?!" He was starting to panic. "Am I doing something wrong? I'll fucking fix it, I need to practice, Phil, c'mon!"

Phil's face turned serious, his brows furrowing in annoyance. That alone shut him up quick. The air was stale "Mate, I know you were drinking last night... so do the others. They saw what happened... you need a break, Schlatt."

" Saw?  Saw what?" He fidgeted with his sleeves and dug his nails into his arms again. Phil's stern expression softened instantly and he let out a small gasp. " Oh, mate..."

The headache was coming back. "What?! Stop fucking... saying that, what the hell did you see?!"

Phil went quiet. "Come with me."

Phil began walking out to the dugout, Schlatt hesitantly following behind. He tried to hide the staggering in his walk while he felt his legs giving out beneath him, and was relieved the second he was able to sit down on the bench. Schlatt was handed a bottle of water, which he sipped at without question. Did he really look that bad? Phil pulled out his phone and sat beside him, pulling up a dimly-lit video.

That was Ted. That was Ted's  car .

No. No, no way. No. Fucking. Way.

He didn't need to watch it but hit play anyway. He wished he fucking didn't. He wished he hadn't gone out in the first place. Why would he have gone out in public in the first place? Why the hell would he be so stupid?

At least he knew why his throat hurt.

I hate you,  he chanted in his mind. Tears began to fall without his say, pooling on the phone screen. He moved slowly, leaning to touch his forehead to his knees. As the drone of the video came to an end, he handed it back.

"Take it," his voice was cracking. He was breaking. Fucking breaking. He couldn't do this.

Phil did as he was told, and the bench creaked as he sat beside Schlatt. He put a hand on his back. Schlatt flinched, shoulders trembling under his coach's touch.

"Are you alright, Schlatt?" his voice had that soothing, protective quality about it that Schlatt couldn't stop himself from relaxing at. There's a long moment of silence, save for the tears, as Schlatt tried to remain composed. His hands covered his eyes when his head started to throb. It felt as though the hangover had come back already. It'd been less than an hour, and he couldn't catch a break. He refused to look up at Phil, and could only heave in shaky breaths. "Do you need a breather for today?"

"Yes," every inch of his mind was begging him to decline, to let him hold out for a little longer, just a little, but he couldn't. "Please, I feel- I feel like shit, coach, I want to go home..." For once, he was telling the truth. For once, he was giving himself a break. His body was grateful, but his brain was not. His hands continued to tremble, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I didn’t eat this morning- I  couldn’t-  I’m tired– I” Schlatt cut himself off abruptly with a gasp of air. Phil rubbed circles into his back and shushed him.

"I'll tell the others, okay? You don't need to push yourself, but you need to cut back on the drinking before I have to do something about it..." Phil huffed. "Still, I'm sorry about last night... the fucking press had no right to do that shit. I'm willing to give you as long as you need."

He nodded and felt the warmth by his side go away.

Suddenly, he despised seeing the ice.

It had been a while since Tommy came in to see SMP. He'd been working hard all week on perfecting his routine; he ran through it well the first time but it seemed that was just beginner's luck. It took a full 3 days of practice for him to be able to do it consecutively without messing up. The slow-going practices frustrated Tommy to no end. He'd done the same Lutzes and axles far too many times. When he'd finally landed every move for only the second time on that third day, he was ecstatic. It was easy going from there, and by day 5, Eret had graciously given him a day off.

"You've done amazingly this week, Tommy!"  They'd said.  "I'm proud of how far you've come. Take tomorrow off, you deserve it."

Tommy had to remind himself that it was okay, especially since it meant he could visit SMP again. The thought alone made him hyper.

He'd practically bolted into the rink, down the stairs, and to the bleachers. "GUYSSS!" he called, beaming as he stared out onto the ice. Something was off though.

One, two, three, four, five.

He counted again.

One, two, three...

His face fell. Where was Schlatt? 

Tommy's pace slowed as he descended the bleachers towards the dugout. "Philll?" he spoke gently, peeking his head into the dugout and glancing around the area. Everyone's things were there, including a backpack he recognized as Schlatt's. Tommy knew he didn't usually bring that to practice...

"Hey mate!" Phil glanced back and smiled, but it didn’t look full. "Why're you here? Don't you have practice?"

Tommy shook his head, "Eret gave me the day off.." He didn't elaborate despite seeing Phil's lips start to move again. "Where's Schlatt?"

"Oh." Phil's smile grew weak just like Tommy's had earlier and anxiety grew in his chest. What was going on? "He's here. He's sitting out today - this week, actually. He hasn't been feeling well and needed a break after what happened..."

"Okay..." that gave Tommy some relief- at least Schlatt wasn't hurt - but it didn't answer everything, "where is he now?"

"Uhhh... the bathroom, I think. His stomach was bothering him."

"...okay." Tommy sat on the bench. All the energy he'd had a moment ago suddenly left. It seemed Schlatt's team was off their game, too. Everything moved slower, and the banter was present, but quieter. It felt wrong.

Minutes passed, and Tommy's eyes refocused on the skirmish and Phil. "You... you said something happened? With Schlatt? What was it?"

"I..." Phil sighed, breaking focus from the team and turning to look at him. "Schlatt was seen outside with Ted by the press. Bastards filmed him while he was drunk and panicking. I'm already working with PR to get stuff removed, but you know the internet. Shit spreads like wildfire." Phil sighed again, crossing his arms and glancing back at the ice. "It's been hard on them, but especially on Schlatt... He didn't remember any of it, didn't even know he was filmed until I told him... still, it's a good thing he avoids social media or it'd be worse. My worry, though, is that the drinking is more of a problem than I've realized."

Tommy nodded. He was worried, too. "Is... is there any way I can help?"

Phil shook his head, "No, of course not, mate. Being there for him is more than enough."

Being there.  Just like Schlatt always was for him.

It was another 10 minutes before Schlatt returned. Tommy had never seen him so out of it.

His hair was pulled back into a messy bun, loose strands sticking out of his head. Dark circles under his eyes could be seen more clearly thanks to his sickly pale skin. The way he walked was slow and heavy; he always walked slowly, but not because he was shaking on his feet the way he was now. Tommy noticed his hands trembling, too, and he looked as though he'd faint at any moment.

"Hey..." Schlatt waved to Phil, who frowned at him.

"You were gone a while, is everything alright?"

He nodded. Tommy could tell he was lying. It was the same way he'd nodded to his old coach: swift and silent. Intentionally subtle as to be ignored. Tommy gripped at the hem of his shirt.

Schlatt didn't see him until he sat and jumped at the feeling of a physical presence beside him. When he finally relaxed, his hands went to rub at his temples.

"Jeez, kid, ya scared me..." Schlatt's voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Tommy felt the need to match it and spoke in similar silence. "Sorry... Are- are you okay?"

"Feelin' a little sick... that's all." He breathed gently and soon slumped back, hands folded over his stomach and eyes closed. "I'll be okay. I just gotta rest..."

Another few minutes passed. Tommy kept glancing at Schlatt, who had remained in the same position the whole time. If it weren't for the slight shift in his fingers or the way opened his eyes every time Phil blew his whistle, Tommy could have sworn he was asleep.

He needed to be there for him. How could he be there for him?

An idea crossed his mind.

"Um... hey, Schlatt?" he received a hum in response, but still took a beat before continuing. "If you're... uh, feeling up to it, do you want to see if... if us and the team can hang out? Maybe this weekend? I-I can get Eret to take me so none of you have to, they wouldn't mind..." He remained silent after Tommy finished, so he tacked on, "Only if you want to, I mean. If you're sick, you can... you can stay home."

"Sunday?" Schlatt asked, eyes opening a smidge to look at the boy. "Sunday would work for me... I think I'll be feeling better by then..."

Tommy's eyes widened, "Really...?"

"Mhm, course..." Schlatt winced at something Tommy couldn't see, "sorry I'm outta it today... Haven't played all week..."

"That's okay..." Tommy hesitated, still unsettled by Schlatt's appearance and behavior. "Phil... he told me... I'm sorry about that..."

He took his eyes off of Tommy, closing them for a long moment "...it was my own fault, kid. Don't go blamin' yourself."

Phil's whistle erupted through the rink, and both of them looked up to see the team filing into the dugout, leaving Schlatt's words drowned out to everyone but Tommy.

Schlatt didn't know why he thought cutting back on the alcohol would do anything. He'd drank less than half of what he did on a typical day ever since Phil had confronted him. To be honest, the break from playing wasn't the worst thing in the world, but the excruciating discomfort of withdrawal and craving made it difficult for him to even sit on a bench for two hours. He was ashamed that Tommy had to see him like that, but far too dazed to care.

He was also happy he asked to hang out because they decided on a sleepover at Quackitiy's place.

Quackity had alcohol.

He was already tipsy when he arrived and even brought the dumb metal water bottle, filled with whiskey. Said tipsiness was probably why he failed to realize he was late until he stepped in, seeing everyone already inside. The first thing he'd done was hug Tommy tight. Tommy’s coach was there too, who gave him their pity about what happened outside the bar. Tommy must've told them. Schlatt didn't hold it against either of them, but he didn't need it. It was like he'd told Tommy: it was no one's fault but his own. Nonetheless, he thanked Tommy for planning this and thanked Eret for bringing him. 

Wilbur was the first person he saw, smiling subtly at him. The two hadn’t talked much ever since the press release, and Schlatt could only imagine what was going on through the man’s head. He’d done  something  to him, that much Schlatt knew. He knew when Wilbur was upset, he could recognize the glint of fear in his eyes, and the fact that  he  was looked at with the same hesitance that Wilbur had given his old team– 

God, it absolutely broke Schlatt’s heart.

Before he could say another word, Wilbur was hugging him in the entryway while the others busied themselves arguing over what game to play.

“Are you okay?” was whispered into his ear. “I’m sorry…” Schlatt froze for a moment before wrapping his arms around Wilbur, placing one hand in between his shoulders and rubbing him gently.

“I’m okay…” he whispered back.

“Are you feeling better…?”

“Yeah…”

“...is that the truth…?”

Schlatt went silent. “Schlatt… is it?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but bit his lip and leaned into Wilbur further. He could feel Wilbur’s nails digging into his shirt.

“I’m… I feel better than I have… n-not 100%... but better.”

The hesitance was long enough for Schlatt to get worried, but Wilbur soon pulled back. Small tears had welled in his eyes, and he smiled.

“I’m glad, Schlatt. Take it easy… I know Tommy wanted you to take your mind off of…  everything .”

He nodded back, “I promise I’ll take it easy. Thank you, Wilbur…”

The promise was broken as soon as Sapnap started mixing drinks. To his surprise, there was little objection to him downing the concoctions. Most of them gave up once Schlatt began to ignore them.

He couldn’t tell if they cared or not. He wasn’t sure he cared, either.

He had too much.

The room was spinning and everything he did made him feel sick. His legs shook and he stumbled as he walked, failing to move in a straight line. His head hurt so much it felt like he was going to die and his stomach wasn’t keen on forcefully keeping everything he’d snacked on during the evening down. He’d gone quiet, eyes locked onto the ground where Tommy sat at his feet, wrapped in Schlatt’s flannel jacket, laughing along with the boys at whatever B-movie was playing.

Tommy’s laugh was heavenly. Like warm sunshine hitting Schlatt's cold skin. He couldn’t ruin that for him. Not now. Not ever.

“Schlatt?” A hand was waving in front of his face, belonging to a wavy figure his slow brain eventually made out to be Tommy. “Schlaaaattttt??”

Schlatt hummed at him and blinked. A sour taste lingered in the back of his throat as he let out a low belch into his hand. He felt as though if a word came out of his mouth, he’d vomit, so he didn’t answer.

“Schlatt are you alright?” George asked from the other side of the room.

Still no response. God he was so nauseous. His eyes remained locked on the floor.

The beige carpeted floor that was gradually curving in the corners of his vision. The brightness of the lights from above doubled, then tripled. It was too much. The walls curved in the corners of his eyes. His ears pulsed with the drum of his own heartbeat. His head pounded with exploding pain. His stomach was churning like an angry ocean.

Bile rose in his chest and he sat straighter, arms and legs shaky still. One of his hands covered his mouth as he swayed forward, catching himself with the other hand firmly on his knee.

He gagged hard, gulping as he tried to force it back down.

Christ, this wasn’t fun anymore.

A blur of blonde and red quickly trailed out of his dizzy vision, and he heard shuffling and shouting like white noise.

A hand was on his back and another was helping him up. The touch was overwhelming and he tried to smack it away, but failed. His arm fell limp in his lap no matter how hard he tried to get it to be useful.

Another gag, harsher and louder, broke from his lips, and he suddenly swallowed, feeling as though he was choking on nothing. He kept trying to swallow again, but only ended up in a fit of wet coughs, a large amount of vomit spilling from his lips.

“Shit!” Someone called from above him, making him jolt in surprise.

Schlatt was terrified. After a while of failing to stand upright, a bucket was placed in his lap. After he threw up once, he couldn’t stop. Wave after wave of nausea, mouthful after mouthful of puke, cough after breathless cough came and didn’t leave. His stomach cramped from the force. Each retch tore his throat up. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his body lost control of itself. Even his hands eventually shook so much and felt so numb his grip was useless and someone else was made to hold the bin. The warmth left him in droves and before he knew it he was shivering.

There was a hand rubbing his back, and the distorted words continued on in the background. Schlatt felt like he was going to die. Panicked breaths fell from his barely responsive body and he mewled in pain, his lips barely parting as more liquid forced itself out of him. “Someone call for help,” They spoke firmly. Schlatt didn’t want to go to the hospital. Even in his delirium, he knew he’d have to.

The bile was stained red.

Tommy moved the second Schlatt gagged.

“Course this happened again,” Techno rolled his eyes as he stood up off the couch, already walking away. “I’ll get the bucket.”

Tommy stood by idly, watching as a murmur of concern fell over the small group. He watched as Wilbur stood to get a glass of water for Schlatt, clearly being a decent bit unsettled by the prospect of him throwing up.

That prospect was confirmed when Schlatt’s body jolted forward clumsily with another gag, a beige liquid pooling at his feet and splashing up onto his pants. Quackity, being the one who’d seen Schlatt drunk the most often by far, was quickly next to the man, holding his shoulders.

“Shit!… Techno! Hurry up!” Quackity yelled into the other room as he heard the frantic clatter of various bowls and plastic utensils. Techno rushed in just in time, along with Wilbur, who handed Eret a bottle of water before hiding at the back of the scene.

“Should we move him to the bathroom?” Eret asked.

“I don’t know,” Q replied, dumbfounded and at just as much of a loss, “I don’t think he’ll be able to stand.”

Quackity continued rubbing his back while techno instructed George and Sapnap to step back- they’d been standing right behind the couch- and they did as told, moving to stand beside Wilbur and Tommy.

Eret and Q tried to lift Schlatt but to no avail. Not only was he a big guy, but his body had started to go limp where he sat. “Nope. Not happening.”

“Just keep him here,” Techno offered, “we can check on him better too.”

Tommy was scared. No, he was  horrified.

It reminded him of himself in a way. Burdening pain onto his own body to please people. Lacking the ability to talk to others about his own problems but being able to discuss theirs. Tommy remained mortified as he saw Schlatt sobbing and throwing up, the normally strong man reduced to a small, trembling figure. Tears and snot and puke stuck to his chops and his face was pale and drenched in sweat.

“Is he going to be okay…?” He muttered to Wilbur. “I– I was only trying to help… I didn’t want to make this worse!”

Wilbur only shrugged, squeezing Tommy’s arm, “Sunshine... I know…” He sighed shakily and rested his head on Tommy’s shoulder. “You… you can’t control what he does. At least, not directly… I- I think he really needs help with… everything going on.”

“Guys,” Eret spoke up, obviously frantic despite their calming voice “Someone call for help.”

“Why?” Sapnap asked, eyebrows furrowed but lips softened with anxiety. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s throwing up blood!” Quackity blurted out, muttering a prayer in Spanish and putting his forehead to Schlatt’s shoulder, “you’re going to be okay amour…”

“Shit!” Techno yelled from the other room, “George you call, I’m going to see if Phil will answer his phone…”

“On it!”

Tommy stared at Schlatt once more. Schlatt looked just as terrified as everyone else here. The man was muttering something to himself that seemed largely incomprehensible, but one trembling hand reached to hold onto Quackity. Tommy wasn’t very good at reading lips but he couldn’t mistake what Schlatt had said:

“ Help. ”

Tears filled Tommy’s eyes. He gripped Wilbur's hand for dear life and was pulled into a hug without hesitation.

“I’m sorry Tommy. Shhh…”

“Is he going to be alright, Wil?”

There was a heavy beat of silence, “…I don’t know.”

Tommy started to sob.

“He what?!”

Techno sighed, “He drank too much… like way too much. He’s got alcohol poisonin’ I think, he’s throwing up a lot and there’s blood in it.”

“Why is he drinking??” Phil sounded  angry.  Angry, and just as worried as everyone in the room. “Did you guys let him drink?!”

“We told him not to, Phil, we tried! He didn’t listen just like always…”

“Why are you being  soft  on him, mate? He’s been taking advantage of that this whole time and it’s only made him worse!” Techno paused at the words. Something hit him– the way that Schlatt didn’t budge until Phil. his only real ‘authority’ other than Techno himself, called him aside and talked to him. Schlatt needed tough love, not the softness that Techno was so used to giving Wil and Tommy.

Schlatt shouldn’t have been drinking, but they’d only enabled him. They hardly stopped him after getting so used to seeing him drunk. Whenever they hung out, they’d usually have a little bit of alcohol to loosen up. They knew when Schlatt was hungover, that was how often he’d come to practice that way, but none of them fucking stopped him. That night he’d spent at the bar was a sign, practically a cry for help. And none of them had noticed except for Phil. He felt like an idiot.

“Techno? Are you still there?” He snapped back to the present and tripped over his words, “Ye- Yeah, Phil, here- I’m here.”

“I don’t mean to upset you, Tech. We’ll talk about it once he gets help. Did you call for him?”

“Yeah, George did,” Techno nodded despite the fact Phil couldn’t see him, “sorry about all this.”

“It’s not your fault, mate. Go help Schlatt, yeah?”

“Mhm.” He swallowed. “I’m… I’m sorry we couldn’t - er,  didn’t  - help him more before now…”

“What he does is his choice. You boys influence that, sure, but there’s no saying that if you  had  done more anything would’ve changed… God forbid you guys weren’t around when he overdosed and… well…”

Techno shuddered at the thought of finding Schlatt’s cold body, rotting away alone on the floor of his house, “Yeah… Yeah, you’re right… I just…” Techno huffed, frustrated at everything, but himself most of all, right now. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry this much in my life, Phil. I feel like something  broke  him.”

“What you can do now is be there for him. You and I can talk about getting him more professional help once we know he’s going to be alright.”

“Okay, Phil… Thank you.”

“‘Course, Tech. I’ll see you soon.”

The call went dead, and Techno ran a hand through his hair. He cared about Schlatt more than he’d ever admit out loud. Seeing him in this much pain hurt Techno. He knew about Schlatt’s father, and the alcoholism had no doubt carried over to Schlatt himself, but he never realized how bad it had gotten. Not even after all the signs. Schlatt wasn’t easy to understand, but it appeared that even after years of knowing him, seeing him break down over losses or his own apparent inadequacy, Techno still knew nothing about him.

That  was scary.

They needed to talk once all this was over.

He sighed once more and took a deep breath just as George made his way to him, “They’re coming. They said 10 minutes at most. We have to make sure Schlatt doesn’t fall asleep or choke on his… vomit.”

“Mhm,” Techno walked past George back into the living room. Sapnap had taken Eret’s place in sitting beside Schlatt while the latter had disappeared, along with Wilbur and Tommy. Techno was unsurprised that all of this would be too much for them.  He  could hardly stand seeing it himself.

“Hey,” Quackity and Sapnap turned their heads immediately, faces lined with a mixture of worry, frustration, and sadness. “I called Phil. He said he’d come over as soon as Schlatt gets to the hospital.”

“Okay… What— What do we do?” Quackity was frazzled, eyes wide the same way they were before a big game. Except this wasn't hockey, this was life and death, and that shook him to his core.

“Did George explain?”

“Yes he did, dingus!” Sapnap snapped at Quackity. “He can’t fall asleep.”

Techno sighed as they bickered and walked around to look at Schlatt, avoiding the mess he’d made on the floor. “Hey, Schlatt? You with us?”

He only whined and retched into the bucket again as Sapnap moved it closer to his face. Techno grimaced and pat his thigh, gently running his thumb along it in a soothing motion. “We called an ambulance for you. You know what that means? Where you’ll be going?”

Schlatt hiccuped and more tears leaked from his eyes. Techno was impressed he wasn’t dehydrated enough to lack the tears, but seeing them was still distressing. “I— I ‘unno… he-help?”

“Y-Yeah you’ll be getting help,” Techno squeezed his thigh again. “Think you could drink some water?”

“Mmh…” a hand went to Schlatt’s mouth and he rocked back and forth gently, Quackity holding his back as he leaned forward. “It’s alright if you can’t yet but you really should try.”

“Pumpkin, you think you can?” Quackity soothed beside him. “Just a tiny bit.”

Schlatt paled, still drenched in a feverish sweat, but looked at Techno with glassy eyes. “Kay…” 

Techno grabbed the water bottle off of the coffee table and handed it to Quackity, who helped Schlatt sip it. He drank only a mouthful and choked it down, belching and coughing as he did. Quackity continued to rub his back.

“Thank you, you’re doin’ good, Schlatt. How’re ya feeling?”

“Si- Sick…” Techno wasn’t surprised.

“You’re gonna be okay. I promise, Schlatt.” Quackity held his hand tighter.

Techno stood again, “Just 10 more minutes, Q.” Quackity exhaled a deep sigh, small tears forming in the corners of his eyes and slowly trickling down his cheeks.

Before the paramedics arrived and before Quackity had collected himself enough to look up, Techno poured every remaining ounce of alcohol down the sink.

“I don’t understand..!” Tommy was in hysterics. His throat had practically closed up and his voice squeaked with exasperation. “I w-wanted to  help  him Wi, I– what did I do…?!” Tommy’s back was hunched ever-so-slightly, his arms hugging his chest to try to guard himself.

“ Sunshine”  Wilbur stood in front of him where Tommy was sitting on the guest room bed, the door shut to block out the commotion, “I know- hell, I’m sure Schlatt knows. Schlatt  loves you.  We  all  love you. But you’re not responsible for what he does, Toms.”

Tommy huffed in frustration, his voice suddenly raising, “Yeah, but why doesn’t he just get it!? It should be obvious! He’s- he’s done so much for me! For you, for your team! He’s not a bad person, why can’t he understand that?!” Tommy was gasping for air when he stopped speaking, mouth agape and panting.

“Tommy, slow down, mate.” Eret knelt on the floor next to Wilbur, allowing Tommy some space. “I need you to breathe, deep breaths for me.” Tommy gave a valiant effort, his chest shaking as he did. He had gotten better at calming himself down, and after a few more breaths he felt more steady. Another tight sob fell from his lips and he wiped his eyes with his fist.

“I don’t  understand. ”

Wilbur made a face, one of melancholy, and parted his lips to speak as he tried to find the words. “It’s…” he sighed, “do you remember how you were before you had Eret?” Tommy tensed, but nodded. “That’s… Thinking like that isn’t… it’s not easy to get over. I was like that, too, before I met SMP.”

“But Schlatt’s just– he’s just being  stupid! ” Tommy shut his mouth as the sentence ended, nearly ashamed, but he didn’t feel  wrong  either.

“Of course he is,” Wilbur gained an agreeable tone, “but you and I can only see that because we’re  not him. ” Wilbur half-sat on the bed, facing Tommy and holding out his palms. With hesitation, Tommy held them back. “I can’t read your mind, and you can’t read mine. We can’t read  Schlatt’s  either.” Tommy looked to Eret, who nodded in agreement.

“Then- Then why’s he doing this??”

“He’s the only one who can answer that, Toms. I wish I knew, I wish I could help him as much as you do. He saved my life, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Phil told you to be there for Schlatt, is that right, Tommy?” Eret spoke up, placing their hand on Tommy’s thigh.

“Yeah… he did.”

“You’ve always been there for him, ever since you met. So once we know he’s safe, learning why is what you and Wil can do.” They squeezed him gently, “It won’t be easy for you or him or his teammates, but you’ll be there for him. You’ll  help  him.”

Tommy was brought to tears again, and he leaned against Wilbur’s chest. Arms snaked around him and pulled him close, placing a small kiss on the top of his head. “We’ll get through this. And so will Schlatt, whatever it takes.”

The trip to the hospital was hellish. Quackity had been the first one to offer to ride in the ambulance with Schlatt, and no one objected to that. Techno drove Sapnap and George, the latter of which had worked himself up with anxiety to the point of nausea, and Eret drove Wilbur and Tommy.

Phil arrived not long after everyone else. He was jittery like he was before traveling anywhere (other than Canada, they’d been there so many times). This was by far the biggest health scare anyone on the team had had; broken bones and concussions were nothing compared to the looming dread that came with an overdose.

None of them had seen Quackity since they got there. After nearly half an hour of waiting, he made his way to the lobby, eyes red with tears.

His stomach needed to be pumped. That was the harsh reality the team needed to face. The procedure wouldn’t be done for another half hour, and they likely wouldn’t be able to come into his room for a while; the doctors were still running blood tests and trying to fully stabilize him.

For recovery, it’d be at least a month until he’d play again. If Schlatt ended up needing rehab after his assessment, three or more.

Not a single one of them slept soundly that night.

Phil, Techno, Sapnap, and George were up out of worry. The latter two had both dozed off in short bursts, but the former were awake and giving the doctors all the information they could. Quackity had been so scared he'd been forced to sleep by Sapnap and was clung to him like a moth to a flame. Despite Wilbur and Eret’s efforts to calm Tommy, he was still wracked with panic which only died down once they got in the car to leave. Both of them knew he wasn’t entirely there. Tommy and Eret had fallen asleep beside each other after Tommy had no tears left to cry.

Wilbur sat on the other side of Tommy, gripping the sleeping boy’s hand as his own mind raced. Schlatt was his everything. Schlatt was the person who understood him— the one who helped him, the one who was strong when Wilbur couldn’t be. But Schlatt had drowned right before his eyes, falling deeper into this self-harm and hatred than Wilbur thought he ever could.

Schlatt needed him now. But Wilbur knew he couldn’t be strong for Schlatt. He was a coward.

Wilbur sat with his hand comfortingly on his chest, feeling his heartbeat as he tried to even out his breathing. In for 4. Hold for 7. Out for 8. Repeat. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In… hold... out.

Schlatt would be okay. The man was too strong not to. And Wilbur was strong enough to help him get there.

It was about time he repaid him anyways.

“His blood-alcohol content was 0.43% when he got here.” 

Phil and Techno both paled.

“If we hadn’t gotten to him when we had, it likely would’ve raised to 0.5%. That would’ve put him in a coma. He’s lucky that you all were there.” The doctor futzed around with the papers Phil and Techno had filled out, along with the printed blood test results and his chart.

Techno broke the silence, “How- How’s he doin’ now?”

She reread one section, then looked back up. “Well, the gastric suction is done, so he’ll be on a liquid diet for a few days. Normally, we’d just keep him overnight, but based on what you wrote about his history with alcohol abuse, it might be best to check for organ damage and keep him here for a few days.” Phil was far from opposed to that; the more help the better. “It’s up to the patient though.”

“I’d be willing to pay for his rehab,” Phil blurted out, his protectiveness once again getting the best of him, “so long as it remains entirely private.”

Techno looked at him like he was insane. If it were in any other instance, he would’ve laughed.

“Again, we’d need Mr. Schlatt’s consent,” she stated, “but I’d be willing to direct you to some private addiction centers if you’re looking to avoid attention on your team, sir.”

“Trust me, it’s for his sake. Not ours.”

“Of course, let me show you.” She led them down the hall to a reception desk, glancing at a few pamphlets and eventually handing Techno fliers for high-end facilities. “Unfortunately there are a lot of athletes I’ve seen with substance abuse issues. These are some of the places we transfer patients like Mr. Schlatt to.”

“Thanks,” Techno deadpanned, far too exhausted to say much more. “Are uh… are we allowed to visit him yet?”

She shook her head, “As I said, we’re running tests right now, but you and your group are welcome to stay in the lobby until he’s moved out of emergency care.”

“Right,” Phil nodded, “thank you for this, and for taking care of him, we really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure. We’ll let you know when you can come in or if anything comes up.”

With that, they parted ways. Phil had to guide Techno through the halls as he read the papers he was given.

“Phil,” Techno deadpanned again, but with that tone that Phil recognized as happiness and pride, “what the  hell  did you just do?”

“I just got us a nice tax write-off.”

Techno snorted and laughed louder than Phil had heard in a long, long time.

It was almost 4 in the morning when a nurse came down to let the team know they could see Schlatt.

Wilbur was the only one awake now other than Phil, and the blonde didn’t stop him when he stood.

He was cold.

He was cold and his throat burned.

He was cold and his throat burned and his stomach ached like he was starving but too sick to eat. 

An uncomfortable sensation filled Schlatt’s nose and pins and needles made his wrists itch. He wanted to throw up. He felt awful. The all too familiar nausea began to roll up his throat and he tried to sit upright but noticed he already was. His hands shook as he opened his eyes and felt a hand on him.

“Wil…?”

“Holy fuck…  Schlatt  !!!”

Schlatt leaned into the hand on his shoulder, beckoning Wilbur closer. He was in a fucking hospital. How the fuck had he landed himself in the hospital?? “Wil, what time is it?”

“It’s 6 o’clock in the morning.”

Schlatt felt lightheaded. “I don’t feel good…”

“Are you going to be sick?”

“I dunno…” he swallowed and ran his hand across his mouth, “I wanna…”

Wilbur moved and grabbed the small container off the side table and put it in Schlatt’s lap. “Careful, you’ve still got that breathing tube in.”

“What-?” Schlatt failed to notice it until he looked down at his chest and tugged lightly on it, only earning a sting in his nose that made his eyes water. He felt disgusted.

“Do you remember any of last night?”

Schlatt thought for a moment. They were watching movies… and he thought he passed out asleep on the couch. “I dunno, I kinda do… I fell asleep didn’t I??”

Wil’s face fell. That said it all. His stomach churned.

“N-No…” Wil sat back in the chair and fidgeted with his sleeves. “You— You overdosed on alcohol. We had to call an ambulance and you had your stomach pumped…”

Schlatt was going to vomit.

“What…?” His heart began to beat out of his chest, “No, no you’re not serious. No, you can’t be… I wouldn’t— no!”

“Schlatt it happened, I was there and so was everyone else. You threw up a lot and we were terrified-“

“No!! No, it didn’t fuckin’ happen, why am I here Soot?!” 

Wilbur flinched and it broke Schlatt’s feeble heart, “I’m telling you! Please Schlatt just believe me…!”

“No!” Schlatt cried, not even noticing the tears that had begun to well. “I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t have done that in front of you…” the tears fell and Schlatt breathed out a sob. Humiliated and sickened. “I don’t understand…”

Schlatt stared at his lap, hiding his face in his hands, forcing himself not to pull away from the lithe fingers carding through his curls. He could feel Wilbur’s gaze locked on him like a hawk. Boring tiny, warm holes into the back of his skull as though he were trying to singe his hair off. Shame was not the right word, nor was embarrassment. It was more like guilt. Regret. Eating away at Schlatt’s skin and bones and soul until he was no more. This would eat at him until he was no more.

And so he cried.

“Are you saying… you would’ve done this?”

Schlatt mumbled a hum of confusion.

“Would you have done this if… if we hadn’t been there to help?”

He froze. He nodded.

The silence spoke volumes. Schlatt stifled his sobs as best he could until his face was spawning with unshed emotions and his hands were tingling. The tears left a damp spot in his lap. 

“You told me it wasn’t about deserving us you know…”

He knew.

“Do you think you don’t deserve us…? Or that we don’t deserve you?”

He slowly shook his head, inhaling through clenched teeth and swallowing his spit.

“ I  don’t deserve me.”

“Wha-“

“I’m— I don’t have to deal with any of the shit you do. None’a what Tommy had to. You— you care so much. I care so much. And- an’ what’ve I done? Been a fuckin’—fuckin’ bastard” his heart suddenly pounded in his chest and he held onto the shitty hospital sheets with an iron grip. 

“I know how much you care and I  still destroy myself  -!” Schlatt coughed. His throat was raw from whatever the fuck procedure they did to him, and he nearly choked on his own spit. The feeling in his throat made him gag, his mouth watering with that empty nausea, and he spat into the bean-shaped container Wil had given him. Wilbur rubbed his back, and after a few moments, he spoke again. “I’m a… I’m a damn hypocrite… and… I have a  problem. ” 

He’s always known it, but reciting it aloud somehow makes the weight on his shoulders a little lighter. A light at the end of the spiraling tunnel. He had a problem. He knew he had a fucking problem. He couldn’t stop himself from  overdosing  on that problem, but it’s better late than fucking never right?

The confidence boost worked for less than a second, and Schlatt was back to trembling where he sat. If he hadn’t done it, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

It’s all your fault.

“I think… we’re more alike than I thought, Schlatt.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing…” Schlatt leaned back in the bed, his breath stuttering and making him cough again. “I know… I knew I should’ve talked to you -  any  of you - sooner. I was… I was just so fucking  scared,  Wilbur… I don’t–” Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I haven’t been so scared in a long time.”

Wilbur shifted his grip to one of Schlatt’s hands. The warmth was inviting and welcoming. “What… what are you scared of?”

“Losing you ‘cause I was an asshole…or losing to myself.”

Wilbur’s hand tightened and his face went red with emotion as a cascade of tears fell down his tired face. “I’d never forgive you if you left me or the team behind.” He inhaled, a sob stifled behind a wall of protection. “I don’t– don’t care if that’s selfish! You’re not going to become what you think you are, and you sure as hell aren’t going to- to  off yourself  just to avoid it and I promise you the w-world that I’ll f-fucking stop you before anything else happens.”

Schlatt’s smile was watery and sad, but it broke through his expression nonetheless. “I–” he laughed breathlessly, “you sound just like me…”

“Good,” Wilbur huffed, his voice still full of tears. “Maybe you’ll finally take some of your own advice.”

Schlatt fell into a deep sleep not long after the two of them had gone silent. It was dreamless yet unpleasant, and even in sleep a foreboding unease was surrounding him and suffocated him.

When he woke, it wasn’t just Wilbur in the room with him.

It was Wilbur, but it was also Techno and Quackity and Sapnap and George and Phil and Tommy.

He wanted to close his eyes and never see them again. Hyperbole, he knew, but even so, he felt mortified.

Wilbur’s hand was intertwined with his, and he couldn’t help but squeeze it tight. Wilbur let out a small gasp, alerting the rest of the group, who all turned their gazes to him.

Without thinking, the first thing he said to them in what was likely at least twelve hours, was “Stop staring-”

Wilbur chuckled, as did Techno, but both of them sounded shallow.

George was the first to step up to him, tears in his eyes even though he looked furious. “What were you thinking, Schlatt?! You’re sure as hell lucky we were there to help!!” He sniffled, wiping his tears, “You could’ve– you could’ve  died  Schlatt how could you–”

“Enough, George, I think he gets it.” Techno set down the book he was reading, “He’s right though…”

“...I know,” Schlatt mumbled. Q and Sapnap each came over and hugged him the best they could. Both had tears in their eyes, too emotional and tired to respond accurately. If Schlatt were in their position, he’d probably be in the same boat.

“We’re glad you’re safe,” Sapnap spoke softly with Quackity nodding along. He looked as though he’d been crying for a while.

Speaking of crying… a sudden muffled cry came from Wilbur’s side.

“Sunshine, Sunshine, shhh…” Wilbur’s hand came free from Schlatt’s, and he hugged the kid -  Tommy  - sitting next to him.

Schlatt was about ready to cry, too.

“D-Don’t– Don’t  ever  d-do that again, Schlatt…” Tommy whimpered, unable to even look up at him. Wilbur kept soothing him as best he could, but it was clear he was barely holding back his own emotions. All three of them shared mutual respect and admiration. Whenever one of them was hurting, the other two felt it too.

It wasn’t quite balance, that was too perfect a word for this. It was more like understanding. Compassion.

Even more than just Wilbur and Tommy, Schlatt wasn’t alone. He was never alone, he was just scared.

If he hadn’t been scared, he would’ve come clean sooner.

If that had happened, he wouldn’t have been here.

He’d failed them all. He’d failed himself. But most of all he failed Tommy.

He made him cry.  Again. 

He watched the room blur as the painfully familiar wetness clouded his vision.

“It’s all my fault.” The words were breathless, and silence fell over the room again. 

There’s a long moment of nothing except the whimpers and sniffles of his teammates, no, his  friends,  before Techno spoke up from his quiet corner by the window.

“No. Well,  yeah  you could’ve cut back. But Schlatt, we didn’t fucking  stop  you. Not once.” The man looked nearly shameful, and Schlatt was fully taken aback. “We’re at fault, too.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“I- I’m sorry…” He didn't think he had more tears to cry, but alas.

“Schlatt,” Phil spoke up, Standing by the doorway. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but…the doctors recommended you go to a rehab center. If you do, it’ll be paid in full by me, and it’ll be completely private. No media outlets will know, just you, us, and whoever treats you.”

His eyes widened.

God, he didn’t think he’d need something so much. Something other than fucking alcohol.

“Y-You’re kidding?” Schlatt stared, trembling. “You’re fucking kidding, right? You’re… You’d actually…?” He can’t speak through his tears.

“We know you want help, mate, whether it’s obvious or not.” Phil handed him a brochure, “it’s up to you, but the offer is going to be on the table.”

He took the paper and glanced down at it.  L’Manberg Luxury Detox Centre.

This wasn’t going to be easy. But that didn’t stop the warmth from returning to Schlatt’s numb body. “Phil, what the fuck…? You–  Yes,  yes I’ll– I’ll fucking go.” He began to cry harder. He felt fucking loved. If they could love him this much, he could learn how to love himself too, couldn’t he?

“I told you it’d be easy, George, fucking pay up!” Quackity shouts to his side, smiling through his tears. Though clearly annoyed at losing the bet, George smiles too as he pulls a wad of cash from his pocket.

“Hey, I thought we agreed not to bet on each other!” Wilbur takes his eyes off Tommy for a moment to scold them.

“Uhhh… Whoops, forgot! Listen it was too fucking easy man,” Quackity chuckles through his tears once more.

“Y-You’re really gonna go?” Tommy looks up, tears calming for a moment. His eyes are wide and intrigued and full of hope. Just like they should be - well, without the tears.

Do it for him,  he tells himself.  Do it for all of them.

“Y-Yeah. I’ll go. I just– I want to feel normal again…” And it’s the truth. 

Schlatt wasn’t fearless. But for them, he’d go through hell and back. He knew this would be hell, but if it meant being on the ice and forever remembering their smiles, maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad.

For the first time in a long time, Schlatt finally felt warm.