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The reality of his situation hits Donald the morning after, while he's making breakfast.
It's not as recent a development in his life as one might think - the early hours of the morning used to be the only kind of alone time he could get for himself, back when the boys were younger and he couldn't afford to take a nap if they were roaming around unsupervised. He'd stand there, still groggy with sleep, making food for three baby ducklings, and a stray thought would slap him right on the face, ranging from Oh, shoot, we've got no money for the water bill to Della should be here dealing with this stuff.
He almost wishes Huey, Dewey and Louie were here as well. It'd be easier, in a sense, knowing they could wake up and barge in on him at any given moment.
Instead they're miles away, content and safe at Grandma Duck's, and he's making food on a cramped kitchenette in Rio de Janeiro, trying not to wake the two other people who've made camp in the lodgings the local Junior Woodchucks found for him.
If taking residence in his own bed can be surmised as making camp, that is.
And that's part of the problem, isn't it - not that he's shared a bed with José and Panchito, but that he hadn't done so in ages, before last night. He'd forgotten how safe it felt, to doze off with two warm bodies pressed against his. It was…if not a new discovery, then at least a feeling he’d welcomed back gladly, and it contributed to the illusion of these last few days besides, made it more concrete, more tangible in his hands.
Perhaps it would be different if they were in his house, with its old crayon drawings still hanging on the fridge and Uncle Scrooge pounding on his door at any hour of the day. It's easier to believe in the euphoria that took over him yesterday when one's riding a murderous snake or fighting ruthless criminals - when one's sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks, with José snuggling close and Panchito snoring loud enough to bring the roof down on them.
But the spell has broken by the time he gets up to make breakfast, and it strikes him, how surreal it feels. It's almost as if a daze has cleared off from his brain, forcing it to catch up and come to terms with what's been happening ever since he left Duckburg.
And the thing is - none of it feels real. None of it feels like it happened to him.
It's not that Donald is prone to self doubt. Far from it, in fact - some might even say he's too full of himself to stoop so low. But sometimes it creeps on him nonetheless, this feeling that he's barely worth the square foot of ground he's allowed to stand on. It's what brought him to Rio in the first place, after they'd beaten him to the ground both metaphorically and literally. And right now he can feel every last remnant of it weighing on his shoulders, whispering traitorous things to his brain.
And he can almost believe them all, because it's true, at least in that brief morning lull when there is no one around to talk him out of his downward curve: it doesn't feel like him, the treasure-hunting and villain-fighting and general adventure-having gig they've had going on. It feels like another duck entirely.
And he's not - he can't be that duck anymore. He's got kids to take care of, and an uncle that drags him around at will, and nothing special to his name besides the fact that he struggles to make ends meet even on the best of days. He can't go gallivanting around as he used to once. He can't have Panchito whisper sweet nothings in his ear and Jose drape an arm around his shoulders and feel like he deserves any of it.
Neither of them has changed an ounce. They're still living a bright, eventful life compared to his bleak and boring one, and that's what he fears the most - that they'll realize it, too, sooner or later. That they'll wake up and see, just as he did, how out of place he looks in the middle of boisterous Rio de Janeiro.
They wouldn’t. Donald tries to put his foot down with his own brain before it gets too far. They were so eager to see him, even before he’d gotten his spirit back. They wouldn’t be put out by something as dumb as a minor freak out.
But what if they do? What if they disappear without so much as a by-your-leave and he’s forced to go back home as if nothing had happened, as if he’d not just gone on a trip down memory lane and rekindled feelings he’d left behind as a younger duck?
He can barely bear to think about it. He's missed them too much not to be hurt by the idea of them looking down on him.
He’s almost glad when the faintest smell of smoke tears him from his mild life crisis. He turns back to his cooking, forcing himself to focus on the effort to save his breakfast. The Junior Woodchucks would probably not be very happy if he were to burn down the room they've given him, dingy as it is.
He's still trying to scrape overcooked eggs off the pan, a couple minutes later, and that’s why he’s caught off guard when someone comes at him from behind and peeks from over his shoulder, saying "My, my, Donaldo, you're spoiling us, my friend!"
Donald startles and turns to José, bewildered. The parrot grins at him and reaches for a fork, clearly intent on stealing some of the food. Donald swats his hand away without thinking about it, residual uncle-of-three instincts kicking in once it’s clear that his mind too stunned to catch up with the rest of his body.
"Now, Zè, calm down" Panchito's voice drawls from behind them, amiably chiding. "Don't let Donal's hard work go to waste."
He leans against Donald's other side and wraps an arm around his waist, the movement casual and natural as though he’d been doing it every day for the past few years, even as he laughs at the outraged look on Josè’s face. The two of them strike up an easy banter, loud and punctuated by laughter, jostling him every time they move and trying to drag him into the discussion and asking him if he’s got a mind to call his nephews to come down as well now that they’ve solved the treasure problem, they had so much fun showing the boys around in Mexico and there’s still so many embarrassing stories the Caballeros have to share about their uncle-
Donald looks back and forth between them, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He’d been so focused on his own inner debate, had worked himself up to such a state that this cheerful, sudden chaos is an unexpected blow, sending him staggering on his feet and leaving him uncertain on how to react. He almost holds his breath as he listens to them, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then slowly, slowly, something breaks inside of him, flooding him with warmth and love and a heavy sense of belonging. He finds himself pushing back nearly as playfully as they do, trying to make his way to the table and half-heartedly protesting when Panchito plants a playful kiss on his cheek and steals the plate of eggs from him while he’s still flustered. The certainty settles in as easily as the doubt had, pushing it to the side as he smiles, harder than he had after they’d came back to the city, so hard it nearly hurts.
He’s not sure how long this is going to last, if the thrill of it will dissipate once he’s on a plan heading back to Duckburg, but he finds that he doesn’t care. He can believe that neither Josè nor Panchito are going to leave, and he can relish in the ease he feels around them, at least until he’s got them by his side.
It’s enough, Donald thinks, for any duck to be happy, even one as overtly ordinary as him.