Chapter Text
“Are your bones hollow?” Schlatt asks. He’s in a good mood. Tipsy, in shirtsleeves, handsy. He’s pulled Quackity onto his lap and is admiring his wings with his hands. Quackity hums when he hits a good spot right at the base, flexing to give Schlatt a better view.
“Hm?” he asks.
“Hollow bones. You know, since you’re a bird.”
“Hmm. Prob– probably in the wings. At least.”
“Mm. Makes sense. You’re so light. Skinny.”
“Not where it counts.”
Schlatt snorts. “Tell yourself whatever you want, sweetheart.” It’s a point of contention between them. In a rare moment of grace, neither of them is in the mood to pick that battle right now. “You’re light, though. I could pick you up with one hand.”
He bounces Quackity on his legs. “No you couldn’t,” Quackity objects.
“I could throw you around like nothing,” Schlatt insists. “Bet you’d like that.”
“Maybe I would,” says Quackity. He wiggles on Schlatt’s lap, and Schlatt laughs and kisses him.
“Little. You’re little. Probably why you’re such a lightweight.”
“Hey.”
“You are. I’m barely feeling it and you’re swaying all over the place.”
“I’m not. That’s, that’s never happened.”
“Mm. Prove it. Finish your glass, then.”
“Hm? Why – why’d you want me to do that if I’m such a fucking lightweight, huh?”
“Maybe I like you swaying.” Schlatt offers him the glass. “Come on, prove me wrong.”
Quackity grins and drinks.
He protests, and he’d never fucking say it out loud, but he likes this, likes Schlatt telling him who he is. What Schlatt likes to think of him as. It’s his attention. Schlatt is – well, he’s selfish, self-centered. Quackity gets it. He is too. But sometimes Schlatt starts talking about him or his body and gets stuck on it and – then Quackity can fucking luxuriate under that stream of attention. It doesn’t matter if what Schlatt says is true or not. If he strategically fights it, or shrugs it on, sometimes Quackity can keep that attention on him longer.
Schlatt isn’t, like, a lot taller than Quackity, but he might actually have a hundred pounds on him. Quackity rolls the idea around in his head. Featherweight. A slip of a thing. He sits up a little, rolls his back to emphasize the slender length. His head swims.
“Gotta be careful,” he says, grinding down on Schlatt. “You might break me."
Schlatt grunts. He slings an arm around Quackity’s waist, holding him tight, and wraps a hand around the base of one of his wings. It sits on the muscles there, and although he can’t close his fingers around it, the wing is small enough he gets a good grip. “Oh, no – if you say it like that, it sounds pretty interesting.”
“Oh nooooo,” Quackity drawls, pitching his voice higher. “I’m in danger.”
“It’s a big world out there. God alone knows what could happen if you’re not careful.”
The hand on Quackity’s back creeps lower.