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Summary
He places the cigarette between his teeth and pulls the lighter up to the end. Flicks it on.
You know, he watched it happen. Watched his husbands forget and forget and forget and he knows that that was a self-mutilation, a self-sacrifice, in a sense, because the pain wasn’t worth the love.
Because Quackity wasn’t worth loving. Not when they wanted peace and he wanted success, when he was fighting tooth and nail and claw and blood to keep them together and alive at all costs even if that meant hurting other people — when that clashed with everything Karl and Sapnap had believed.
When the pain of keeping him around became greater the pain it would take to cut him off and so they dashed it to bits, discarded him, shredded the only reality they had known in favor of forging a new one, in flame and fire, leaving Quackity bleeding out on the floor.
He is only cauterizing the wound, you see.
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