Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a universal truth everyone knows, though they may never voice it. 

Loving someone is as easy as the movies make it look. 

Sliding hands together, interlocking fingers and palms in a synchronized dance. Touching foreheads, going cross eyed from long minutes of staring. Whispering words of affection into each other’s ears, giggling at flirty jokes. It all comes as easily as rain itself. 

With Karl and Sapnap, it was even easier. 

“Good morning, darling.” Sapnap would whisper at the crack of dawn, when it was just him and Quackity awake. 

They’d tiptoe out of the bedroom so as to not wake their third, stumbling over each other and into the kitchen. Sapnap would giggle then hip check Quackity out of his way as they were both reaching for the coffee machine, leading to several squawks of disdain. 

He would always make his coffee too sweet then Quackity would make his coffee too bitter so they would swap kisses to balance it out. 

“You’re an idiot.” Quackity would murmur. 

“You love me.” 

“Do I?” 

Sapnap would grin, a devilish thing that would never fail to make Quackity’s knees weak. 

“The hickey I put on you last night seems to think so.”

Sapnap’s own hand was always warm on the back of Quackity’s neck, downright scorching as it made it’s mischievous journey down his back. 

There was nothing arduous about loving Sapnap for how could one not love the sun? How could a man not adore the warmth of light as well as the comfort that comes with it? How could one not yearn for the smell of campfire and flames?

There were things one had to learn to adjust to; Sapnap was never one of them. 

So like Icarus caressing the sun, like a moth circling a campfire, Quackity held his love and let it consume him. 

“Good afternoon, Alex.” Karl would call out when they ran into each other during the day. 

Quackity was constantly moving, always keeping his hands busy and brain busier. He had learned from early on that their world would leave behind those who dared to take their time. If he stopped for a moment, for a second, he would be left staring at the backs of those who were once beside him. 

So he put his head down and rolled up his sleeves. 

Karl hadn’t seemed to get the memo though. 

“Oh,” Quackity would blink. “Hi. Is something wrong?” 

Karl would smile, privately amused, then shake his head. “Why do you ask that every time I come by?” He’d perch on the edge of Quackity’s desk, swinging his feet in a childish move that never failed to send jolts of something in the other’s heart. “You always know what my answer is.” 

“Don’t ‘always’ me. There could be problems one day, you never know! And when—yes, when not if, don’t look at me that way, Karlos—that happens you and Sapnap have to—”

“—come find you.” Karl  would interrupt “I know. We know.” There would be a tinge of impatience in his voice. 

Quackity would look down, swallowing down words and promises.

“Hey.” Karl would lean forward and press his face into Quackity’s hair. He would obnoxiously peck the crown of his head, smirking as the other attempted to bite down a smile of his own. Then he would cup Quackity’s face in hands covered in sweater sleeves so their gazes could meet once again.

“We will. If something happens, we’ll tackle it together.”

“And if we can’t?” 

“Then we’ll run away together. Hand in hand in hand.”

Karl’s eyes would always be so soft. Gentle and careful in a way that made Quackity’s chest ache whenever he met his stare. Despite what some thought, Karl Jacobs was not made of cotton candy, giggles, and sugar dreams. 

But his love was. 

If Quackity could break off a small piece of Karl’s heart and tuck it into his pocket, holding it for the rest of his life, he would. Just a fragment of his infinite affection could single handedly allow Quackity to win every fight, calm every storm; it would allow him to simply keep letting air back into his lungs. 

But breaking off a piece of Karl’s heart might lead to it shattering completely so, despite everything, he kept his hands to himself. 

Karl would press a kiss to his forehead, lingering like he was trying to imprint the feeling of lips against skin into Quackity’s brain directly. Quackity would close his eyes and let himself remember. 

“Promise?” He would ask. 

Karl’s laugh was like a blanket around his shoulders. “I promise.” 

“Good evening.” Quackity would call out, wrenching open the door to their house and unceremoniously dropping his tie onto the ground. 

His partners would smile at him from the couch. They would already be curled together, Sapnap’s arms looped around Karl’s waist and Karl’s hands buried into Sapnap’s dark hair. Affection would always hit Quackity like a freight train at the very sight of the two intertwined, the very weight of it nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Were you two canoodling without me?” He would gasp, mock affronted. 

Sapnap would snicker. “Canoodling?” 

“Snuggling, embracing, fondling, whatever.” 

“Just say cuddling like a normal person.” 

“Are you saying I’m not normal? Oh, how cruel my sweetheart is.” 

“Sapnap, Alex,” Karl would say. “Shut up.” 

He would drop himself down in the middle of them, throwing his arms around his beloveds. Sapnap would grumble at having to move and Karl would giggle but they would hold him back just as tightly. 

In the midst of the limbs, spitting out a mouthful of Karl’s hair, Quackity would look at his lovers’ laughing faces and think. About a past without them. A present with them. A future where he could keep them even closer. 

Under the glow of the setting sun, he would whisper three words that only the men on either side of him would hear.  

Loving comes easier than breathing. Different factors that come with love may be difficult to deal with, but at its core, the very act of love comes as easy as breathing. 

Now here’s a secret they only tell the most unfortunate of lovers. 

What is difficult is not love, but rather the absence of it. 

What is difficult is not the absence of love, but rather the longing for it, 

What is difficult is not the longing for love, but rather it is the actions people do in the hopes that they will be able to recreate it one last time. 

Wilbur Soot is and always has been something like an asshole. 

This is a fact. The sky is blue, grass is green, Wilbur is a bastard. 

Quackity knows this, had known this ever since he first shook hands with the man and asked to be part of his nation. He had been rejected back then with nothing but a polite shrug. Wilbur’s eyes had been cold and Quackity had wondered if they could ever be capable of holding warmth or softness. 

Even after they became friends, he doubted it. 

It was something like poetic justice that he got to stand in Wilbur’s position years later. 

He dismisses Wilbur from his country with a quirk of his lips and dares the man to argue. And argue he does. 

They stand toe to toe, sniping at each other and jabbing fingers. Wilbur leans down to get right in his face and Quackity, refusing to let Wilbur’s height give him any sort of leverage, juts his chin up and meets him head on. 

“Let me in your nation, I’m your servant.” Wilbur says, honey sweet. 

‘You’ll never be anyone’s servant. And you sure as fuck will never be mine.’ Quackity thinks and says as much. 

Wilbur’s lips stretch into a smile that looks too thin and too wide to be considered an actual grin. The shock of white hair falls into his eyes and Quackity thinks about yanking it, pulling at hair until Wilbur stops smiling and starts shutting up. He pushes those thoughts away. 

“The yin to my yang.” Wilbur calls him. “My other half.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Quackity says, rage nearly blinding him for a beat or two. 

His other halves are far away from him, in a nation that they had cultivated for everyone but him. His other half is rotting in the dirt and rocks, despised by those who once loved him. His other half is hastily sewed with the rest of him, held together by rage and heartbreak. 

His other half is not standing in front of him, newly revived and still horrible to boot. 

“I don’t need you.” He tells him when Tommy wanders off, bored by their conversation and all too fascinated with Las Nevadas. He waits until the teenager disappears around the corner to grab the front of Wilbur’s tattered coat and pull him down. Wilbur doesn’t flinch for a second, following the motion like he had expected it, the bastard. 

“Let me say it again so you understand me clearly, yeah?” Quackity snarls. “I don’t need you to survive. Don’t pretend for a second that you have a place in my life, that you impact what I do.” 

Wilbur regards him for a minute. Then he raises a brow in a way that sends something red hot fury fizzling through Quackity’s veins. “Say what you will, Q. You and I both know that’s not true.” 

“What the fuck did I say about you pretending you’re part of my life? I’ve survived without you and I will continue to do so without you. I don’t need people like you to be who I am.” 

“And what are you?” Wilbur asks, cocking his head. “A monster desperately trying to be human? The comedic sidekick that finally decides to stick up for himself? A copycat?” 

His tone is acid, so cold it nearly burns Quackity alive.

“Maybe you don’t need me. You certainly don’t need your old nation or your friends or your fiancés—” 

Quackity punches him.

It should be satisfying, the crunch of bone underneath his knuckles, the way Wilbur’s eyes go wide with surprise and pain for a split second. It should be satisfying, seeing blood running down Wilbur’s face, seeing the blood on his own knuckles. It should be. 

Wilbur laughs and it sounds like velvet and gunshots. 

“Oh, how are you so predictable and not at the same time?” He doesn’t move to wipe the blood away and it trickles down to his lips, jaw, and down his throat. He taps the side of his head in a little salute. “Better luck next time.” 

“I hit you.” Quackity snaps, heart pounding. “The fuck do you mean better luck next time?” 

“You didn’t shut me up though.” Wilbur smiles. With all the blood on his face, it’s a ghastly thing. Quackity can’t look away. “That’s what you wanted to do, right?” 

“I don’t need you.” He repeats, for lack of better to say. 

“But do you want me?” 

When his gaze flickers to his bloodstained lips, Wilbur only smiles wider. He leans forward, not touching but so close the other can smell the acrid scent of blood and gasoline on him. “I never thought you were a man who denied himself of what he yearned.” 

Was this what drowning feels like? 

“I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.” Quackity replies, ignoring the fact that he had touched him at least ten times since he came to Las Nevadas. “You’re delusional to the point of grandeur.” 

“Good thing we match.” 

With that, Wilbur kisses him. 

It’s not so much a kiss as it is a fight. It’s a clash of teeth and violence, two feral monsters imitating intimacy but without any of the gentleness and with all of the raw emotion. Quackity slides his hands up, up, up until they rest in Wilbur’s tangled mess of hair. 

If it were Karl, he would thread his fingers through the curls, tugging teasingly. 

He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls.  

Wilbur groans into his mouth. “Fuck.” He hisses. 

Quackity snickers, cruel. “I forgot you liked that, freak.”

Wilbur bites his lip hard enough to bleed, smirking as the other shudders. 

“I haven’t forgotten you liked that.” 

Quackity brings their mouths back together with an almost painful clack , blood coating his tongue. He wants Wilbur to shut up, wants to keep going, wants to throw up, wants something he can never have. In the end, he keeps kissing him and he keeps kissing back 

Wilbur hums, hands sliding down from his shoulder, tracing down his spine, and finally resting on his hips. 

If he were Sapnap, he would hold him gently, tapping out a rhythm of a stupid song on his hip bones with his fingers. 

Wilbur grips him hard enough to bruise. 

“I hate you.” Quackity breathes and he wonders who he’s talking to. “I hate you.” 

“Were you two just kissing?” Someone shouts, horrified. 

They jump apart. 

Tommy stares at them from a distance though Quackity can make out the look of surprise etched onto his face, even from so far away. He licks his lips, tasting iron. 

“No.” He replies, skin buzzing. 

Wilbur stays silent and Tommy runs up to them. 

Thankfully, the teenager hadn’t actually seen them do anything. He prattles on about how ‘it looked like they were from an angle but it was totally cool if they were kissing, he wasn't judging’ when Quackity holds up a hand. 

“Listen. I have some matters to attend to.” If he stays near Wilbur and his infuriating smile for another second, neither of them would live to see Las Nevadas flourish. He gestures for them to leave. “See yourselves out, if you please.”

Wilbur fixes him with a stare so heavy it nearly feels like it has a physical weight on Quackity’s shoulders. For a moment it looks like he’ll say something about the kiss, about the conversations, about the antagonism. Then he shrugs. 

“Alright. Tommy, let’s go.” 

He turns on his heel. 

Then, he glances back at Quackity, considering. 

“Ranboo and Tubbo are holding a grand opening for their hotel soon. Everyone’s going.” He says. 

Quackity frowns. “Okay...and?” He’s gotten the invitation in the mail a few days ago and had set it aside carelessly. Tubbo was a good president, a great kid, but he didn’t have the time for a party in the midst of building his new nation.

“Sapnap and Karl will be there.” Something heavy and agonizing forms in the pit of Quackity’s stomach. He opens his mouth to respond when Wilbur continues. “I will too.”

“What?”

Wilbur shrugs again, this time, though much more coy and conniving this time. “You and I need to continue this conversation. Preferably in a crowded place where you won’t kill me. I’ll prove my worth to you.” 

Quackity blinks. “I won’t change my mind. You don’t belong in Las Nevadas.” 

“Then you and I can have some fun.” Wilbur grins. “I am but your humble servant.” 

Then he turns back, waving a nonchalant hand at the man behind him. “Have a goodnight, Big Q.” 

There’s nothing left of him after he takes off, nothing that proves he wasn’t just a fever dream or hallucination. Only the blood on Quackity’s lips and the ache in his chest prove Wilbur Soot ever set foot into his life once again. 

Karl, Sapnap, a party. Him, Wilbur, having fun. Love, love, love. 

It sounded like glory, it tasted like grief. 

Chapter Text

There are days where Wilbur feels like he’s still stuck in that same miserable limbo. 

If he closes his eyes for too long, he could see the station painted in monochrome shadows and gloom. Only the blood red lights from the windows of the trains speeding by had offered some semblance of life. Cold, unsettling, disorientating. That was all the limbo was and, in turn, it was all he had known for years. 

He had become so used to the utter black and white of the place that, at times, different colors blinded him. When he had first opened his eyes and saw the setting sun—the vivid oranges, yellows, and pinks—he almost couldn’t register it all.

The shades, the warmth on his cheeks, the wind ruffling his hair—was this what life had been? 

“Have you missed me?” He asked his brother who looked a million years younger and older than when Wilbur had left him. 

‘Has the world missed me?’ He wondered. ‘ Has the world remembered the dent I left in it?’ 

Tommy had taken his hand with a hesitancy that Wilbur hadn’t remembered him capable of having. The feeling of skin on skin, of tender contact was all too much and the older had jerked away with a laugh sharp enough to slice tendons. The cloying comfort of warmth was unfamiliar and undeserved. 

So here he stands now, snow hailing at his back and soaking him down to the bone, and staring up at a glittering “Bee n Boo Hotel Grand Opening” sign. 

He doesn’t care much for Tubbo and he definitely doesn’t care for the young man’s husband (and he’s pretty sure the pair were not all too fond of him either). Yet they had oh-so-graciously sent him an invite to their hotel opening—in a show of faux-politeness, Wilbur was sure—and he had oh-so-graciously accepted.  There was little else he could do otherwise. 

Plus it would be interesting to see how everyone interacted with each other all these years later. How many friendships had been burned to the ground, how many new ones had emerged from the ashes? Who were friends, who were foes, who were lovers? 

Quackity had managed to fall for Dream’s lapdog of a best friend and the mousy little Karl Jacobs so, really, anything was possible. 

The thought of the scarred man sends a smile creeping across Wilbur’s face. 

What a fascinating enigma he was.

When Wilbur had seen the nation Quackity had built for himself, he had been intrigued. Nothing more, nothing less. But when he had refused to allow him in, even outright antagonized Wilbur out of Las Nevadas? Well then—

He presses the pad of his thumb into his lips, crushing the smile spread beneath it.  

—that had been when the real fascination had ignited. 

He wonders if he would ever get around to untangling the mystery of Quackity or if the man would send him back to the limbo for even trying. There’s an itch in his skull, just begging to be appeased, and Wilbur was but a humble servant to his desires. 

The grand doors fly open then, effectively cutting him off his thoughts, and Tubbo stands in front of him.

“Oh. Welcome, Wilbur.”

“Hi. Your hotel is lovely.” Wilbur says, not meaning a single word of it. The other just snorts. 

“You haven’t even seen most of it.” He replies then holds out an expectant hand. “Coat. Please.” 

WIlbur is reluctant parting with his coat, no matter how patched and dirty it may seem, it is his and always has been, but he readily hands it over at the younger’s request. Tubbo takes it, grimacing slightly at the wet state of it. He then gestures behind him, presumably to where the party was. 

“Welcome to Bee n Boo Hotel.” He repeats. “The festivities are just in there.” His mouth gives a wry little twitch. “Don’t blow anything up if you please.”

There is no fondness in Wilbur’s heart left for Tubbo, he duly wonders if he ever held affection for the boy in all the years they had known each other, but he chuckles anyway. 

“No promises, chief. Thanks for the invite.”  

He slips in. 

The hotel is admittedly beautiful. 

Everything from the winding staircases, furniture, even the damn curtain drapes are lavish to the T. Both the champagne glasses and the people holding them glitter under the light of the chandelier, all basking in the glory of wealth. Wilbur swears he bumps into at least a few dozen A list celebrities on the way in. 

It was so incredible it's almost nauseating. 

In the middle of it all stands the host himself. Ranboo clutches a glass of champagne, looking every bit as nervous as he usually did—but Wilbur can’t really fault him for that this time. 

There were enemies within these walls. Ranboo had invited murderers and victims into the same room, thrusted glasses of fancy beverages into their hands, and expected them to play nice. No matter how polite and cordial the guests were to each other, there’s a tension in the air that Wilbur can practically feel coiling around his skin. There is no simple way to shed off years of bitter antagonism, after all. 

Wilbur slumps back on a wall partially hidden by shadows and watches as the enderman taps on his glass in hopes of capturing his guests’ attention. 

The sound goes unnoticed by the others, all too busy talking with friends and shooting heavy stares at everyone else to look towards their host. Petty amusement curls in Wilbur’s gut at the sight of Ranboo floundering. 

“Oi!” 

Tubbo, newly emerged from putting away Wilbur’s coat, stands at the outskirts of the crowd. His usually soft voice was loud and harsh, causing a hush to fall over the partygoers as they crane their heads to make out the source behind such a sound. Under their stares, Tubbo shifts yet keeps his footing. 

He spins a speech about friendships and hard work while everyone listens with starry eyes.  

When he smiles and toasts a glass seemingly conjured out of thin air, dozens of champagne flutes rise in unison at his call.

“To Ranboo and Tubbo.” The people cheer, miraculously united under one front. “To Tubbo and Ranboo.”

Wilbur bites the pad of his thumb and tastes blood, blood, blood. 

He watches as Tubbo weaves his way through the throngs of people and into the waiting arms of his husband. Ranboo spins him around, murmuring words into his hair as Tubbo laughs into Ranboo’s silk suit jacket. Wilbur licks his thumb clean, the taste of iron coating his tongue. 

“You surprised?” 

He glances up at the sound and Quackity is now standing next to him, two glasses in his hands and an overly polite smile plastered on his face. Wilbur blinks. He had half expected that Quackity would dismiss his invitation to attend the opening when he had brought it up. 

“What?” 

Quackity rolls his eyes (or eye, as the scarred one seems like it was out of commission) and gestures to the happy duo still curled into each other at the center of the room. “You seemed surprised that Tubbo was making a pretty speech.” He says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

Wilbur frowns, unease snaking around his body in a chokehold. 

‘Have you been watching me?’ He wants to shout into Quackity’s impassive face. He wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake until every stolen secret comes falling out of his lips for Wilbur to take back. He wants something he can’t quite put a name to and it lingers in the air he breathes and exhales. 

“Have you been watching me, Big Q?” He asks instead, with a lecherous smile on his face in place of a glare. He leans in to the other man and lets his fingertips trace the rim of one of the glasses Quackity has in a vice-like grip. The flute is cold to the touch and Quackity is just as frozen and Wilbur just smiles. 

“I’m quite flattered, but I’m a taken man.” He continues, shuffling in closer—pressing his luck. Quackity’s eye follows his every move, fixated. “Unless you were rethinking your decision to let me into Las Nevadas?” 

That breaks the other out of his stupor and he steps back, huffing. “Desperation is not a good look on you, Wilbur. I said what I said and that’s final.” 

“How disappointing. I suppose I’ll have to stick with my original plan then.”

“Your plan on creating a new nation next to mine?” Quackity smirks, a quick cocky thing. “Let’s hope it's not too much like your last little country.”

“My, my, my, are you threatening me?” Wilbur flashes his teeth in a grin as he leers down at the man next to him. “Quite unfitting for a president of such a flourishing nation.” 

“Not a threat.” Quackity looks at him square in the eyes, tilting his head back to do so. For anybody else, the action would have been ridiculous. “Merely an observation.” 

He presses the tip of a champagne glass to Wilbur’s chest. Condensation soaks into his shirt and onto his skin and Wilbur is left staring at a stain on his shirt, pulse pounding inexplicably at the sudden chill. Quackity smiles up at him.

“After all, I would hate for my dear friend to head back to the limbo so soon.” 

“Oh, is that so?”

Irritation prickles at his skin with the weight of a thousand needles and he feels a thousand more things at once: anger, amazement, the weight of being alive, alive, alive—

Quackity's eyes widen. 

“Oh, shit.” 

A million emotions flash over his face. Before Wilbur could even begin labelling all of them, the other’s expression turns as blank as stone as he fixes his eyes on something (someone, someones) over Wilbur’s shoulder.

Wilbur turns. 

The beloved fiancés who had managed to capture Quackity’s heart stand side by side at the entrance. Clad in matching suits, matching rings, and even matching expressions of adoration, they gaze into each other’s eyes like no one else is around. For all intents and purposes, they look like a match made in heaven. 

 Wilbur’s lip curls at the sight.  

He turns back to Quackity, ready to jab at the other’s horrible choice in companions when he realizes that he's rigid, eyes fixed resolutely down at the marble floor like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. His knuckles are so white around the champagne, the flutes look seconds away from cracking. Wilbur clears his throat and waves a hand in front of Quackity's face. 

“What are you doing.” It comes out as less than a question and more of a flat, incredulous statement. 

Quackity doesn’t look up at him. “I dropped something.” 

Wilbur snorts. “Is that something your dignity?”

“Ha ha, has anyone ever told you you should be a comedian?”

Despite the ire in Quackity's voice, he makes no move to return to meet WIlbur's gaze. It's remarkable how quickly he reverted from smooth politician to a jilted lover, Wilbur notes as he eyes the man hunched into himself. It would be funny if it wasn't just so damn sad. 

“I don’t know. Has anyone ever told you that you aren’t as good of a liar as you think you are?” 

“Fuck off.” Quackity all but snaps.

Across the room, Karl laughs—a squeaky joyous sound that sends Quackity’s shoulders tensing into harsh, tense lines. Wilbur looks down at the man in front of him.

If he were Sapnap, he would have placed a comforting hand on Quackity's shoulders, a shield to protect his back. If he were Karl, he would have wrapped his arms around him, crooning words of adoration.  Somewhere in the back of Wilbur's mind, he knows that that is what Quackity needs too. 

But Sapnap and Karl are wrapped up in each other across the room and Wilbur is neither a soldier nor a saint.

So he reaches out and tilts Quackity's chin up with one finger, lifting the other's reluctant gaze to him. He was warm under Wilbur's touch. 

"I liked you better when you were an asshole." He says.

"Too bad I didn't ask. I told you. I don't care what you think of me." 

Wilbur snickers, digging his finger harder into the underside of Quackity's jaw. "What did I say about you and lying? Desperation may not suit me, but defeat looks worse on you." He relishes in the fact that he can practically hear the other's teeth grinding in barely contained rage. 

"What is your problem?" Quackity hisses through clenched teeth. 

"You, mostly." Wilbur smiles and drops his hand. "Shall we dance?"

Quackity stares at him for a beat. Then he closes his eyes and tips back one glass, chugging the champagne at a dangerously fast pace. Wilbur watches his throat work, the smooth expanse of skin and muscle. Under the light of the chandelier, he looked like a dangerous idea. 

Discarding the now empty glass, Quackity moves onto the next, downing the glass even faster, if that was even physically possible. 

"I was gonna drink that." Wilbur says, amused. 

Quackity wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"It was never for you." He replies. Then he thrusts out a hand to Wilbur, all former grace and poise gone. "I'm leading." 

Wilbur takes his hand. Their callused palms tainted by years of bloodshed and murder press together. He does not think about how Quackity's thumb absentmindedly brushes over the back of his hand nor how, despite everything, their hands fit together perfectly. 

"Shall we?" He gestures to the floor where other people have coupled up and are swaying to the swell of violins. Quackity grimaces at the sight. 

"Let's get this over with."

They march towards the floor like a pair of martyrs heading towards their inevitable demise. 

Quackity, Wilbur quickly discovers, is a horrible dancer. 

He has all the expertise of someone who understands and loves it, yet his attention is focused elsewhere. Wilbur doesn't have to turn this time to know what or who Quackity is so honed in on. Somewhere behind them, Karl and Sapnap are intertwined together. Whether it be on the dance floor, in a quiet corner, or at the center of the room, it didn't matter. 

They were together and he is not with them. 

Wilbur winces as Quackity steps on his foot in his distracted state. His hand tightens on his shoulder, digging his nails into the other's skin. "You're quite bad at this." He says. 

Quackity looks like he's about to snap back until he's cut off by them bumping into a nearby dancing couple. They shoot them nasty looks and Wilbur inclines his head apologetically, nudging the other away from them. As the pair waltz away, he raises an eyebrow at the man in front of him. 

"I don't remember you being this abysmal." Quackity stomps on his toes. "That was my foot."

"Oh, really?" Quackity widens his eyes in an exaggerated doe-eyed stare. "I couldn't tell, my sincerest apologies." 

Wilbur rolls his eyes. They sway back and forth, a lukewarm push and pull where neither of them really truly move at all. The stagnancy is nothing short of suffocating. 

"Besides, where have you even seen me dance?" Quackity scoffs, shuffling his feet in a weak imitation of a step. 

Everywhere. Wilbur doesn't say. He remembers a brighter time, when Quackity had strummed his guitar for all that could hear and sang for those who didn't wish to. He had moved like he was on a stage and that, regardless of who was watching, he was the star of the show.

Countless times, he had watched from the sidelines. Countless times, he wondered what it would be like to step in, offer Quackity his hand, and join. 

One time, he did. 

"Don't tell me you forgot."

Quackity raises a brow. "Forgot what?"

"Niki's birthday party." 

There's many words Wilbur would use to describe Quackity. Ruthless, intriguing, terrible, just to name a few. However, as he watches a pink flush spread over the other man's face and down his neck, only one word comes to mind. 

Cute.  

He wonders how fast Quackity would punch him if he called him that. He wonders how far down the blush travels down his body. 

"Ah, so you do remember.” Wilbur snickers. “That must mean that I left an impression.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

They twirl around the ballroom with the gentle swell of violins chasing after them. Quackity’s eye flickers from Wilbur’s face to the space over his shoulder, expression unreadable. He looks distracted. 

Wilbur can’t have that. 

With a fluid step, he leans in closer to Quackity, hand moving up from his shoulder to the back of his neck in a calculated journey. He winds his fingers around the soft hairs on the nape of his neck and smiles as hard as he can. Quackity looks up at him, caught, caught, caught. 

“Do you really want me to go” He murmurs into the other’s ear. “Do you really want to be left alone again?” 

The hand on Wilbur’s waist tightens, painfully. Wilbur just hums. 

“You are so lonely, aren’t you? When I first saw you again, wearing that stupid dress shirt and even stupider tie, I thought it was because your darling fiancés had broken your heart. Lovers leaving tend to do that to a man.” 

Lips brushing ears, he whispers his next words, like they’re a secret just between the two of them.

“Then, I kissed you. And it made sense.” 

“You’ve been lonely since you first found your way onto my land and asked me to become one of mine. You’ve been lonely ever since the election, the revolution, doomsday. Even with three rings on your finger and countless people in your bed, you’ll always be alone.” 

They’re standing still at the center of the dancefloor, unmoving and unchanging. Couples swirl around them, giggling to one another and pressing their smiles together; like everything was a fairytale dream. Under the candlelights, next to the music, maybe it was. 

Rage contorts Quackity’s face into something twisted. He looks like he wants to press a gun to Wilbur’s head and pull the trigger a thousand times over. He looks like he wants to rip Wilbur’s limbs apart with nothing but his hands and anger. He looks beautiful. 

“They made promises to you, didn’t they?” Wilbur asks. “They told you that they would never leave your side because they love you.” 

He tips his head close and stares into Quackity’s eyes. 

“Well, promises are outdated. Let me swear something to you.” 

He dares to touch the side of Quackity’s face, fingers fluttering and cupping skin. Quackity jerks his hand off of its place on Wilbur’s waist to grip his wrist, pressing and pressing until Wilbur thinks his hand has gone blue from the lack of circulation. He doesn’t care. 

“I swear I’ll be the worst you ever had.” He says. “I swear I’ll ruin your life.” 

“You can’t destroy something that’s already in shreds.” Quackity says, words hissed through teeth. 

“Just watch me.” Wilbur says, blood thumping in his ears. His heart thuds so hard in his ribcage, he half expects it to come bursting out in a bloody mess. He presses in closer. “I’ll ruin you completely.” 

Quackity looks at him, vitriol and gasoline etched into his face. “Not if I kill you first.” 

“Do it.” Their noses brush. “I’ll take you down with me.” 

“I’ll be laughing at your corpse, Wilbur. I’ll eat you raw and you’ll remember these words with your dying breath.” Quackity leans forward. Their lips are mere inches apart. “And you’ll regret it.” 

“I don’t believe in regret.” Wilbur breathes. 

Quackity smiles a grim smile. 

“I’ll make sure you do by the end of the night.”

With that, their mouths meet in a harsh clash and Wilbur closes his eyes, tasting hellfire fury and champagne on his tongue. The crescendo of strings sing in approval.

“Wilbur, fuck ,” Quackity hisses. “Wilbur.” 

Wilbur presses his lips to his throat and bites. The man in his arms chokes out another curse, hands clenching and unclenching in the material of Wilbur’s shirt. He’s purposely wrinkling it, Wilbur knows, but can’t bring himself to care all that much. 

Not when Quackity is flush against him, eyes hazy and breath heavy. 

He presses a broad palm to the other’s back, keeping him upright. 

They’re still on the dancefloor, moving together in some semblance of swaying. Everyone else is too wrapped up in each other to call attention to the fact that he and Quackity are partaking in borderline public indecency. Or maybe they had called attention to it and Wilbur hadn’t noticed. 

It was hard to pay attention to anything but skin on skin. 

He kisses the corner of Quackity’s jaw and looks forward. 

Two pairs of eyes stare back. 

Sapnap and Karl look at him, clutching at champagne glasses and expressions as unreadable as a stormy sky. They look apathetic. They look devastated. They look like men who lost both everything and nothing. 

Wilbur bares his teeth at them in a grin. 

Better luck next time. 

“I wish you weren’t stuck in my head. I wish you didn’t blow up L’manburg. I wish I didn’t want you.” Quackity doesn’t say as he pushes Wilbur down.

“You make me scared of the limbo again. You make me want to break you. You make me feel alive.” Wilbur doesn’t say as he lets himself be pushed. 

They stay intertwined, caught in a web of kisses and red hot hatred. When Quackity pulls away in the morning, Wilbur lights a cigarette. He watches him leave through the haze of monochrome smoke until there’s nothing left to look at.