Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quackity was in a predicament. He was always in a predicament of some sort, it seemed, but this latest dilemma was different from most of the problems he had been facing on the regular. He didn’t often worry about parties. Las Nevadas was made for partying, and the president was no different. He thrived under both strobe lights and spotlights, anywhere he could get enough eyes on him.

No, the event itself wasn’t the issue. The event itself was, in fact, quite advantageous. Quackity knew for a fact that there would be business owners there, people who came from distant places to scout out opportunities for profit, people who could enrich his economy and publicize Las Nevadas’s grandeur. This party was an open door.

It was also a den for gossip.

Quackity knew how his city thought; he knew the wild, no-tomorrow mentality that permeated every gathering, because he had cultivated it himself. He had built it, carefully, purposefully, as a place where no citizen would think twice upon seeing their leader in the sleaziest of places. They may actually love him more for it. Far from soiling his reputation, Quackity’s frequent appearances at his own casino and strip club elevated the common man. Their filthiness didn’t rub off on him, his dignity rubbed off on them. He had no fear of being seen. He had no fear of being spoken of.

No, the problem was something much more petty and much more irritating. He couldn’t see any real reason for it. He certainly wouldn’t have planned it this way himself.

It should be easy, he thought, I shouldn’t have any problem finding a date.

Because of course it had to be a couples only event. But it was more than a footnote on the invitation; Quackity knew how his city thought. Everyone knew he was single. It was common knowledge that he scoffed at the idea of looking for love. He wasn’t expected to bring a lover, and he wasn’t expected to bring a friend. He was expected to bring a bitch. And yet, for all his ruthless scams and sugar-coated insincerity… Quackity couldn’t bring himself to ask that of someone. A one night stand, sure; he could do that. But this was more. This was a declaration of ownership, and there was nobody whose reputation he wanted to mark like that. There was nobody he was willing to reduce to that level.

Well, there was one person.

The thought of asking the smug bastard to be his date – Quackity groaned just imagining the smirk that would doubtless paint his face. No way in hell could he deal with that bullshit all night.

He waited until the day of the event to make sure he had no other option. When he could stall no longer, he dragged himself to the outskirts of the city under the scorching desert sun and stood before the rickety burger van, inwardly rehearsing what he was about to say.

“Quackity!” came the familiar voice.

“Wilbur.” The taller man leaned over the counter of the burger van window, a lazy smile on his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, and Quackity felt a strange flutter of anxiety in his stomach. He shoved it down. It was just Wilbur, there was nothing to be intimidated by.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Quackity told him. Wilbur’s eyebrows went up, though the rest of his expression remained unchanged.

“Now that’s a dangerous way to start a conversation, Big Q,” he said.

“It’s nothing bad,” Quackity said, instantly kicking himself for going off-script. This drew a mischievous grin from Wilbur.

“If that was true, you wouldn’t be asking me of all people,” he pointed out. “C’mon, what is it? You need someone to crawl down a sewer drain for something you’ve dropped? You want a moving target to test some new projectile on? You’ve got employees at your beck and call, and you’ve made it abundantly clear that you want none of my help in important matters, so what pathetic, lowly, little drudge chore do you need done so badly that–”

“I need a date!” Quackity blurted out. Wilbur froze, taken aback. He continued, “But if that’s such a pathetic drudge chore, then fine. I just thought you might enjoy finally going out to a party again after – however long it’s been.”

“...you were going to ask me out?” Wilbur’s voice was smaller now. Quackity blanched.

“N-no, I- well, technically yes, but not like- it wouldn’t be like that,” he sputtered. “I just happened to be short a date for a party tonight, and for a moment you seemed like a… plausible option. But it doesn’t matter. I can just take someone else.”

“What would be the catch?” Wilbur asked, face twisted with confusion and disbelief. Quackity sighed.

“I just… need you to be a little bit nice-ish for once,” he said, “Dress up. Don’t leave destruction wherever you go. Actually try and listen when I tell you things. You can go back to being a massive inconvenience first thing tomorrow morning, but tonight I need a break.” Wilbur cleared his throat, recovering from his surprise. A tiny smirk played at his lips as he said,

“I hate to break it to you, but that’s not exactly a catch. It’s just a date.”

“Only for convenience’s sake.” Quackity let his gaze wander in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. “A night out, for fun.”

“Right, right, of course.” Wilbur sounded uncharacteristically sincere. It made Quackity nervous. “Just a night to unwind. Dress up, go out, maybe get a little buzzed and just…”

“Have fun,” Quackity nodded.

“Well,” Wilbur said, taking a little longer than Quackity would have liked before answering, “then I accept.”

“Good,” Quackity said, before Wilbur could change his mind. “Be at my place to get ready at seven. Sharp.” And he turned on his heel and marched away without a backward glance.

______

“You’re late,” were the first words out of Quackity’s mouth when he opened his door. Barely giving Wilbur a second to respond, he turned and strode away into the house, but the momentary image remained imprinted in Wilbur’s vision: Quackity, his skin deeply tanned by the desert sun, a bright white shirt hanging completely open to bare his chest while he toweled off his wet hair, bright yellow and brown wings ruffled behind him.

Wilbur’s brain felt a little fuzzy, but he forced out a simple, “Hardly,” in reply. By that time, Quackity had crossed the room. 

“Second door on the left,” he called on his way down a hallway, “There’s plenty of hot water left. Don’t use the blue bottle.” He vanished into a room and shut the door behind him. Wilbur wandered to the second door on the left and found himself, for the first time in his life, feeling too dirty to be allowed in such a bathroom.

Everything was gleaming marble and cobalt blue, with golden fixtures and a mirror so clear that it would have looked like a window if not for Wilbur’s scruffy reflection gazing back at him. He shed his trench coat and tossed it over the counter, where it sat like a stain. Looking down at his scuffed boots, he noticed that he had tracked in quite a bit of dust and some sand burrs. He toed off the boots and stalked toward the spotless shower.

Hanging next to a fluffy, white towel was a set of clothes, obtained specifically for him, if the sizing was any clue. So Quackity didn’t even think him capable of dressing himself properly. It stung, but then again, was he wrong? Wilbur was wearing his best clothes – a collared shirt, a black sweater, some pants that were only slightly frayed at the cuffs – and he felt like an eyesore in the flawless perfection of Quackity’s fucking bathroom. He tried to bury whatever humble feeling was creeping up inside him in apathy as he undressed. He left his clothes strewn across the floor.

It took him a minute or two to figure out how the shower worked, and even longer to decide which of the excessive number of soap bottles he was supposed to be using. Not the blue one, Quackity had said, so naturally Wilbur snatched that one first and examined it. It wasn’t labeled, but it had a fancy lid which he unscrewed to sniff the contents. The scent was unfamiliar, but remarkably pleasant – something light and subtle and slightly spicy. He put it back where it belonged.

It felt good to scrub himself completely clean for once. Not that he didn’t wash regularly enough; this just felt more… thorough. He hadn’t turned the fan on, so the hot water quickly fogged up all of the glass in the room.

When he was done, he dried off and slipped into the outfit Quackity had set out for him: an intricately patterned white, blue, and burgundy shirt, a black vest, and slacks that hugged his thighs and rode a little higher on his waist than he was used to. Apparently, Quackity anticipated that he would still want his coat; there was a substitute in stylish dark red leather, high collar and all. 

He wiped away some of the fog on the mirror to check his reflection. A patchy stubble still rested along his jaw, somewhat disrupting the otherwise polished look. He had agreed to be nice for tonight, but he still allowed himself one tiny little rebellion and left it untouched. 

After the steamy bathroom, the rest of the house felt cold. Wilbur wandered back to the living room, taking in the stupidly luxurious interior design. Ornate golden light fixtures hung on invisible wire so that they appeared to float. The furniture was custom made to accommodate Quackity’s small wings, and Wilbur was certain that the rug on the floor was an actual tiger hide. The kitchen tiles were heated, for fuck’s sake.

“Does everything fit?” Quackity’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Wilbur, engrossed in the stupidly fucking elaborate duck emblems embossed on the mantle, didn’t turn around.

“Yeah,” he said, “Except the trousers are a little tight.”

“They’re supposed to be,” Quackity dismissed. Wilbur looked up, opening his mouth to say something or other. The words evaporated the second he laid eyes on Quackity.

The man had his white sleeves rolled up and the front of his shirt open down to where it tucked into a dark blue vest. The vest was overlaid with a black diamond pattern and cropped high enough to show off the high-waisted black pants that clung to the curve of his hips. All down the sides of his legs, diamond-shaped cutouts in the fabric displayed fishnets underneath, until his pant legs flared out into bell bottoms about mid-calf. Wilbur didn’t realize he was staring, wide-eyed, until he heard Quackity chuckle.

“If you like this, you’ll be thrilled to see what the other guests are wearing.”

Wilbur didn’t think anything could rival this. He clamped his mouth shut before the words could slip out. As Quackity began to walk toward him, he dragged his eyes away, but the damage was already done – a burning in his cheeks, a flutter in his stomach, a flush of heat between his legs. It didn’t help that he could hear the click-clack of Quackity’s high heeled – fucking high heeled? – boots coming closer. He held his breath and tried to think of something unsexy.

Eating mushrooms.

Getting told off by his dad.

 Cleaning dead grasshoppers off of the windshield of the burger van. Why were there so many massive grasshoppers in Paradise? Those fuckers were not sexy at all.

“I have shoes for you to try,” Quackity said, and holy fuck why was he standing so close, Wilbur could smell his cologne. A pair of dress shoes was pushed into his hands, Wilbur swallowed and mustered up the most casual attitude he could. Robotically, he bent and put the shoes on.

“You know, you seem pretty well-prepared for someone who was only thinking of me as a ‘plausible option,’” he commented.

“Don’t read into it, Soot,” Quackity scoffed, “The Las Nevadas delivery system is fast.” 

“Same day?” Wilbur probed.

“Usually.” Quackity stepped away to study his date’s appearance. His face betrayed no hint of emotion. “You didn’t shave.” Wilbur stroked his rough chin.

“No, I didn’t,” he agreed, risking eye contact. He silently dared Quackity to make him.

Quackity didn’t. He just said, “Hm. Well, the car’s ready when we are.”

It was a Lamborghini. Because of fucking course it was. 

Chapter Text

In hindsight, maybe Quackity shouldn’t have been surprised that Wilbur looked so breathless when he saw him. He really had pulled out all the stops tonight, with his glittering eyeliner and jewelry. He was even wearing a corset, although that was mostly to keep his wings hidden. He couldn’t help wondering whether Wilbur would comment on that subject as they got in the car. It didn’t take long.

“Whait, wh- Quackity, where have your wings gone?” Wilbur realized. Quackity sat up straight at the edge of his seat.

“They’re bound,” he said shortly, starting the engine.

“You mean- you mean bound to your back? Why?” Wilbur twisted in his seat to stare. Quackity intentionally jerked the car as he exited the driveway, earning a yelp and a curse from his passenger.

“Because,” he replied.

“Because why?” Wilbur pried.

“Because it’s none of your business,” Quackity said.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” said Wilbur, “Wings aren’t meant to do that. You can’t fold them that flat against your back; they must be so strained!”

“They’re small,” Quackity said.

“They still have bones!” Wilbur protested.

“They’re mine, and I can do what I want with them.”

“Let them out.”

“No.”

“Let them out!” Wilbur reached over to grab at the back of Quackity’s vest. Quackity fended him off with one hand, swerving the car.

“I said no, keep your primedamn hands to yourself!”

“Why the hell would you do that to yourself?! You’re going to pop a fucking joint out if you leave them–”

“It’s none of your fucking business, Soot, leave me alone!”

“You can’t just do this shit for no reason, you could seriously hurt yourse–”

“Why the fuck do you even care?”

“Because you’re going to ruin a perfectly good pair of wings for no–”

“Perfectly good, my ass!” Quackity took both hands off the wheel to shove Wilbur back to his side. “They’re already useless, they can’t even fly!”

“They’re still part of you!” Wilbur pushed back.

“Well they’re fucking ugly!” Quackity snapped.

“No, they’re not, and even if they were, it’s not worth damaging your own body just to–”

“You’re one to talk!” Quackity deflected, “What, I’m supposed to take self-care advice from you?”

Wilbur stiffened. “That’s not the point.”

“Don’t tell me what the point is!” Quackity sneered, “The point is you sitting in my fucking car in my fucking country telling me how to live my life even though we both know you’re no better!”

“But you could be better,” was the heated response, “That’s what you always want, isn’t it? To be better than me?”

“I already am!” Quackity forced a heartless scoff. “At least I’m not biting myself until I bleed, Wilbur. At least I’m not slamming my head into stone walls! I know what you do, and I don’t fucking care about your opinions when you’re already busy killing your own braincells. At least I’m not slicing my wrists open, what about that, huh? Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Wilbur looked like he had been punched in the gut. He stopped fighting, and Quackity put both hands back on the steering wheel.

“I haven’t done any of that since I came back.” Wilbur’s voice was quiet now. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Quackity spat. “Don’t talk to me about shit that doesn’t concern you.” He set his gaze straight ahead, scowling. Wilbur lounged sullenly in his seat.

They rode on in silence. It felt unnatural.

Wilbur wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. Quackity wanted to reach over and grab the seatbelt, and choke him with it. He wanted to slam on the brakes and send Wilbur flying through the windshield. He wanted to scream at Wilbur to buckle up so that he wouldn’t fucking die if they got into an accident.

He didn’t.

__________

Wilbur didn't stir when Quackity parked and got out of the car. He waited until he heard an irritable rap on the window, and still he made no move. His door opened.

"Get out," Quackity ordered.

"Unbind your wings," Wilbur countered.

"No. Get out."

Wilbur stayed put.

"Wilbur get your ass out of my fucking car or I swear to Prime I will beat the shit out of you with a primedamn fucking crowbar. I am not in the mood for your bullshit!" Quackity snarled. When Wilbur remained stoic, he grabbed him by the coat and tried to drag him out. Wilbur gripped the sides of his seat to anchor himself. Quackity let go and stumbled back unceremoniously, spitting curses. 

"Fine!" He took a deep, steadying breath, straightening his vest. "I don't care. Stay here. I'll go by myself."

Wilbur said nothing. He stared straight ahead and listened as Quackity turned and stomped away. Click-clack click-clack click-clack.

He sat alone, seething.

He considered stealing the car and driving back to Paradise. He didn’t.

Instead, he pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and examined the skin underneath. Lumps and seams of scar tissue lined the inside of his wrist all the way up his forearm. Only one of them was recent, the one he had carved with a jagged rock the first day he was revived. He picked at it. His stomach churned. It was only once. It was only once, and then he had stopped. He had just needed to make sure he was real. Quackity could never understand. 

Wilbur hadn’t meant for anyone to find out, back in Pogtopia. He hid the wounds easily under layers of clothing, but Quackity, ever sharp-eyed and meddling, had known anyway. He had figured it out. Wilbur never understood how. 

There were so many things in Pogtopia that he would never understand, far too busy watching the world slip away into a pinwheeling storm of madness to remember everything he had said and done and to whom.

What he did remember was pain, grounding and punishing. What he did remember was the terrified look in Quackity's eyes as he took the knife away and the anger in Quackity’s voice as he said stop, you need to stop, don't you dare fucking do this to yourself. He had never said please. Even back then, they weren't soft enough for please. It was the only thing Wilbur could appreciate about Quackity's interference – at least he wasn't pretending to be sympathetic. At least he was real and rough and shouting, and the sting of his anger was almost as grounding as the sting of the blade. 

He scratched a little harder at his skin. He wanted to rip himself open and scrape out everything that made him care so much about what Quackity said to him. 

A flash of movement in the corner of his eye made him tug his sleeve back down. Quackity was back, looking about as pissed off as Wilbur figured he would allow himself to look in front of strangers. He came to a stop in front of Wilbur’s open door and glared at him venomously. Wilbur braced himself for another shouting match.

It wasn’t fair. Nobody should be able to look that fucking hot when Wilbur was trying to be angry in return. But through his frustration, he couldn’t help but notice the way Quackity’s dark hair perfectly framed his mole-dotted cheekbones and naturally crimson lips. They stared at each other, neither moving a muscle. Then, Quackity began taking off his vest and untucking the bottom of his shirt. 

Wilbur’s brain short-circuited. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck– He wanted to move, or speak, or something, but he was frozen in place as heat rushed to his groin. Quackity was wearing a steel-boned corset under his clothes, which he unlaced with sharp, purposeful movements. The effect was somewhat dampened when he had to shimmy awkwardly out of it, huffing under his breath in annoyance. Once it was off, he loosened the strips of cloth that were wound around his torso. A pair of small, brown-and-gold wings unfurled from his back. Deftly, he replaced his vest and arranged himself so that the wings poked out between his vest and pants.

Finally, he folded his arms and looked Wilbur up and down.

Wilbur had regained control of his limbs, and he shuffled his legs and the hem of his coat in a fruitless attempt at hiding the obvious bulge in his pants. It only seemed to irritate Quackity further.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you stupid fucking whore,” he hissed. Wilbur swallowed, face burning. “My wings are out, happy? Let’s go already.” Quackity turned and began to walk away. Wilbur scrambled to follow him, but his eyes were locked on the ruffled feathers and tense, knotted joints.

“W-Wait, Quackity, your wings are all– they’re all skewed,” Wilbur tried to say. Quackity flipped him off without looking back. Nonetheless, his wings bristled and flapped once, twice, thrice, and most of the feathers righted themselves. Wilbur fell into step at Quackity’s side. They were approaching a huge building with a gorgeously carved marble arch over the main entrance. Music bled through the walls, just a taste of what lay inside. 

“Big Q, hold on–” Wilbur hung back, hesitating, “-can’t we wait just a minute? For me to… you know.”

Quackity gave one more careless glance at Wilbur’s awkward hard-on and rolled his eyes. Still, he had the grace to wait for it to settle down. 

While they stood there, he said, “Ground rules.”

“What?” said Wilbur, but Quackity kept speaking.

“You can order drinks on my tab, but don’t waste my money. Don’t take any pills. I don’t care what the circumstances are, just don’t. There’s plenty of other shit to get high on.”

“You talk as though the only reason I’m here is to do drugs,” Wilbur said, “If that was truly all I wanted, I could’ve stayed in the van.”

“Are you taking this seriously?” Quackity demanded.

“Yes,” Wilbur sighed, rolling his eyes. “No pills. Got it.” 

“I’ve got to talk to some people, so I won’t be with you the entire time. Mingle. Be entertaining. Just don’t talk shit about my country or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Wilbur laced his voice with as much sarcasm as he could manage. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’d better not,” Quackity muttered, starting toward the doorway again. Wilbur followed. The bouncers let them pass, and he heard Quackity take a deep breath as he put on his “public appearance” face. He slouched casually to contrast him.

The doors swung open, and Wilbur’s jaw dropped.

High, vaulted ceilings. Balconies on three walls. Sprawling dance floors. Slender silver poles in six different locations. Everywhere, everywhere, people. There were more people than he had thought were even on this server, and every one of them was dressed like the main event. The noise, the vibrance, the beauty and sensuality and energy that filled the room nearly swept him off his feet.

He slowed down almost to a stop, until an arm snaked around his waist and guided him forward. Heads turned in his direction as he stumbled along, and suddenly he wished he wasn’t so damn tall.

“Keep up, Soot,” Quackity murmured.

“Why is everyone staring at me?” he asked, and Quackity laughed. It was a cruel laugh, a condescending laugh that said, you have no idea how stupid you are.

“Aw, honey,” he said. His voice was dripping with enough false sugar and venom to make Wilbur shiver. “You think they’re looking at you?” He scoffed once more at Wilbur’s stunned silence before dragging him into a group of strangers.

“Mr. President!” greeted at least three people as a woman shook Quackity’s hand.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” she gushed.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied, shaking hands with a few others. Nobody even glanced at Wilbur. He let his attention wander while Quackity exchanged formalities with wide-eyed and blushing citizens.

Had Quackity implied earlier that there would be guests more suggestively dressed than himself? If you like this, you’ll be thrilled to see what the other guests are wearing. Wilbur could see what he meant now. From where they stood, he could spot several people in glittery suits (with or without visible lingerie tops), one or two in metallic two-piece dresses with colorfully feathered accessories, and one person whose scant, leather-and-fishnet getup made him double take.

Then, he was being shepherded away again and Quackity’s arm was tightening around his waist, pulling him closer.

“You’re gaping,” he commented.

“Good thing no one’s looking at me,” Wilbur snarked back.

“Impressed?”

“This is a rather grand venue for a drug party. Are you sure you’ve brought me to the right place?”

“Check out the bar and see.”

They moved through the crowd toward the back of the room, where a massive bar was serving dozens of patrons. Everywhere they went, voices vied for Quackity’s attention. He somehow managed to give each of them their acknowledgement with a word, a wave, a nod. When they came to the bar, he waved a hand as if to say take your pick, then promptly fell into conversation with someone Wilbur had never seen before.

“What can I get ya, sweetheart?”

Wilbur met eyes with the bartender. Why was everything here so fucking gorgeous? Wilbur felt a pleasant thrum of attraction as they watched him with piercing golden eyes, tapping clawed fingers against their hip impatiently.

“What would you recommend?” he asked, leaning forward to prop his elbow on the counter.

“Amorcita on ice,” they said instantly.

“Why?” Wilbur challenged playfully.

“Ya gonna need some fire on ya tongue to keep up with the competition, hon.” Their eyes darted to the side. Wilbur glanced that way as well, noting that Quackity had already drifted a little from his side and was animatedly entertaining the person he spoke to with a story of some kind.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter how gorgeous they were, how gorgeous anybody on the whole primedamn server was, because Quackity wasn’t looking at him and Wilbur wanted to scream at him until he did.

“Suppose you’re right,” he sighed. They nodded and started on his drink.

Chapter Text

Quackity had to admit, it was actually turning out to be a lovely night as far as he was concerned. Entertaining conversations, good music, tasty refreshments. He could tell that Wilbur was having a good time too, eventually. After about half an hour, he finally had mercy and moved to the interior balcony on the left side so that Wilbur could be approached by guests who weren’t solely focused on talking to their president. For a while, Wilbur looked sullen, but once he got a couple of drinks in him, he loosened up. Quackity glanced across the room once in a while to check on him.

“President Quackity, I assume?”

He turned, and his stomach swooped. Before him stood two women in complementing suits. But these weren’t Las Nevadas citizens.

“At your service,” he said, bowing slightly and putting on his most charismatic smile. “Would you happen to be Mrs. and Mrs. Fallin?”

“Dr. and Mrs,” corrected the woman on the left, her wife leaning on her arm.

“Oh shit, really?” Quackity’s eye lit up with interest. “May I ask what your PhD is in?”

“Engineering and business administration,” replied the second woman, tossing herlong, flower-adorned hair over one shoulder. Quackity gave a low whistle, impressed. 

“Well, it’s an honor to meet you in person,” he said, and he meant it. The woman on the left, the taller of the couple, finally smiled, revealing a dimple in one cheek as she offered a handshake. 

“Likewise. Las Nevadas is a fascinating place, but I’m sure you hear that all the time.” 

“A president can never get tired of bragging about his country,” Quackity winked. “Now, I’d love to speak with you about your own business, but I understand the two of you are fairly private with such things, so if you’d prefer to go somewhere a little quieter…?”

“I thought I spied an empty room off the back hallway.” The smaller woman was instantly ready with her reply, and the three of them set off. Quackity couldn’t quite figure out which wife was the doctor, and he got the feeling that was intentional on their part. He chuckled inwardly. He would get along just fine with this pair.

__________

“-that bitch was halfway up the pole before you finished talking!” Wilbur threw his head back, laughing. The person he was talking with groaned good-naturedly and pushed their drink into Wilbur’s hands. “Go get ‘em, tiger!” Wilbur called after them as they followed their partner to the dance floor. He laughed to himself and put the half-finished drink to his lips, not really caring what it was. Something fruity.

The hum of electronic music vibrated against his skin. He sang along without really knowing the words, just slurring sounds in tune. The air was starting to feel like bathwater, warm and humid with so many bodies. He liked it.

“-and did you see who he was with?”

“Of course not, I wasn’t paying attention to that!”

“Prime damn it, Cherry!”

“Well it’s not like it matters, he’s still single. Whoever he brought is just arm candy anyway.”

Wilbur looked around, spotting the source of a promising conversation, and sauntered over. He was tipsy and in the mood to gossip.

“As if he needs arm candy. He’s got himself a fucktoy.”

“Who’s got a fucktoy?” Wilbur chimed in. One of them, Cherry if her outfit was any indication, turned to him and said,

“Have you seen Quackity’s date?”

Wilbur grinned. “Sexiest motherfucker I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he announced.

“Did he look like a bottom?”

“Ehh…” Wilbur wobbled his hand in midair in a so-so gesture.

“Of course he’s a bottom,” said the other, “No chance the President’s taking someone who doesn’t worship him when he’s got all the sluts in the country begging him to fucking brand them.”

“Pardon?” Wilbur blinked.

“Makes you wonder where the guy came from, doesn’t it?” said Cherry, “Suppose he could be from the strip club, right? Or just a fan.”

“Don’t you think someone could be Quackity’s date for some other reason?” Wilbur said, “Besides…”

“Besides simping for him?” the stranger snorted, “Like what? Why else would Quackity pick someone to take here?”

“Like maybe to show off to them,” said Wilbur, “Or, I don’t know, maybe if he… actually kind of likes them? A little?”

“No chance!” Cherry laughed. “A guy like Quackity? He probably thinks the bitch is beneath him anyway.”

“He’s not wrong,” shrugged the other.

“See?” Cherry elbowed them. “I told you it doesn’t matter. He’ll have a new bitch for gala and a hooker on each arm for whatever comes after that. They’re expendable. Oh look, Ez and Myra are here!” Cherry pointed excitedly, changing the topic, she started moving toward her friends, waving, and her partner followed. Wilbur stood, feet glued in place while his brain caught up with the conversation that had just happened.

So that was the catch. It was Quackity’s little power play. Show him a world he could never be good enough for, then parade him around so everyone could see that he was nothing but a hopeless, smitten whore. Well. If he was sober, he would surely have been seething at the insult.

As it was, he was only a little… disappointed. It wasn’t like he expected Quackity to be sweet, but for a moment he had believed that maybe Quackity really did just want him to have a good time for once. He tried not to be hurt. It was a stupid thought anyway.

Wilbur distracted himself by wandering back toward the bar, overhearing snatches of conversations here and there.

“...and he’s not even shaved, just some scruffy fuckin’ drifter with a fancy coat on.”

“I mean, he makes Quackity look better by comparison.”

“That’s probably why he brought him in the first place.”

“Duh, why the hell else?”

“Tch. As a joke, maybe.”

Wilbur changed directions and slid onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar, closest to the corner of the room. The lights seemed to dim, and the heat of the crowd didn’t feel quite so nice anymore. He wished he knew someone here. He wished Quackity would come back. He wished his date hadn’t vanished in the first place, that they could spend the night together drunkenly bickering and maybe…

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and ordered another drink.

__________

Quackity was giddy with success. Not only had things gone fantastically with the Fallins (he was right; they never clarified who the doctor was, and by the end of the talk he was beginning to think they both were), but he had also bumped into several other wealthy soon-to-be investors and negotiated with them all. He was on top of the world, leaning on the railing of the interior balcony to chat with some younger people while he gazed out over the dance floor.

He wondered vaguely what Wilbur was up to. He had left the man alone just a little bit longer than he had intended to… Reluctantly, he decided that he ought to check on him. It was strange; he usually didn’t even think about Wilbur during events like this. He kept those worlds separate.

Quackity excused himself from the group and made his way to the ground floor, scanning for his date. Almost immediately, his eye caught on a flurry of commotion at the bar. He heaved an exasperated sigh, his good mood teetering slightly. 

Wilbur really couldn’t help himself, could he? As Quackity approached, he assessed the situation. The bartender was leaning halfway across the counter in an attempt to restrain Wilbur from trying to fight another man. The stranger, who was already sporting a bloody nose, was also being held back. A small crowd was gathering, either to intervene, egg them on, or just gawk.

“LEMME AT ‘IM,” Wilbur was howling, “I’LL BITE YOUR FUCKIN’ TITTY OFF, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Quackity made a conscious effort not to smack his forehead. One night, he thought, half pissed and half amused. You can’t go one night without getting into trouble.

Security was just showing up, breaking up the far-too-eager crowd and seizing the offending parties. Quackity quickly intervened, laying a hand on Wilbur’s flailing arm. 

“Wilbur, stop.” He let an edge of warning slip through his otherwise calm facade.

“But this bitch–” Wilbur protested, far too loud. Quackity cut him off.

“I don’t care, Wilbur. You’re drunk. Stop fighting security, or you’re walking home, get me?” Wilbur paused and looked at Quackity as though just now recognizing him.

“Let him go, please,” Quackity told the security guard.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the hostess’s orders–”

“-can be overruled by the order of your President,” Quackity interrupted. He calmly pried the guard’s hand off of Wilbur’s coat and pressed some cash into it. “You’ll face no repercussions once I speak to her about how prompt and effective your services have been tonight. Thank you.”

The guard nodded in deference and allowed Quackity to take Wilbur and shove him onto a barstool.

“Stay,” he hissed, and turned to deal with the rest of the mess. The other guest had already been removed from the premise and his date looked particularly incensed, as did several others who Quackity assumed had come with them. He mustered up his charm and ventured toward them to smooth things over. 

It didn’t take much, thankfully. Just some vaguely apologetic sentiments, good humor, and a few well-timed complements. Add in the offer of a free round of drinks, and the group was practically fawning over him by the time he took a polite leave. Social crisis averted, just like that.

When he sidled up to Wilbur, the man was squinting at him like he was a particularly difficult puzzle.

“What?” Quackity asked irritably, sitting down beside him.

“Are you bisexual?” Wilbur asked, his filter evidently gone.

“What?”

“Bi-seck-chu-al,” Wilbur sounded it out. “Y’know. You swing both ways? Like a pendulum?” He made tick-tock noises, tipping his head one way, then the other, back and forth.

“Yeah, I know what bisexual means,” Quackity snorted, “Why do you ask?”

“I think I’ve been cursed by the gods,” Wilbur sighed, not answering the question, “Because everyone around me is so damn beautiful, every single one. Women really like you,” he added matter-of-factly.

“So I’m told,” Quackity replied with a half shrug.

“Do you like them back?”

“They’re pretty chill.”

“You know what I mean, Q.” Wilbur leaned closer. He smelled of strawberries and booze. “Do you like them?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Quackity said, turning his face away. “I’ve never been with a girl, never wanted to. Maybe I should have. Might’ve been easier to deal with. But it’s not like it matters now anyway.”

“It wouldn’t be easier,” Wilbur said, “Women are confusing as fuck. So are men, though, so I guess it evens out. I thought I’d never ‘em out. But then I met Sally–” he grinned– “And it was true love.”

“Didn’t you two divorce?” Quackity raised an eyebrow. 

“I used the past tense for a reason, Q,” Wilbur replied.

“You think ‘true love’ is a temporary thing?”

“Oh, no no no, quite the contrary. I think the poor fucker who married Sally will love her for eternity.” Wilbur waved a hand vaguely. “But I’m not him anymore, y’know? It’s hard to miss someone when the part of you that loved them is still lost somewhere in that fuckin’ train station.”

“Maybe you weren’t in love to begin with,” muttered Quackity. “Maybe nobody ever is. Maybe it’s just chemistry and lust. Just another drug.”

Wilbur stared at him with an expression that was hard to place. Confusion, maybe, incredulity, definitely irritation. Then, he grabbed Quackity’s hand and placed it on his own chest, directly below his collarbone. His heartbeat was thumped steadily against Quackity’s palm.

“That is,” he said, deep and sincere, “the dumbest fuckin’ bullshit I have ever heard in my life.”

Quackity pulled his hand away. “Whatever.”

Wilbur hummed, then stood up, stretched, and said, “Come with me, Q.”

“Why?”

“So I can ask you more stupid questions.”

“Wilbur–”

“C’mon, you had your fun doing whatever you were doing earlier without me,” Wilbur insisted, “Now it’s my turn. Walk with me.” He looked hopeful, a playful gleam in his eyes and a pink flush in his cheeks from the alcohol and the heat of the room. Quackity found that he didn’t hate him so badly, drunk.

“Alright,” he agreed, “Fine.”

Chapter Text

The second floor balcony was a little quieter, though Wilbur still had to take Quackity by the arm and pull him along whenever someone tried to talk to him. He was tired of not getting his attention. They found a doorway out into the open night air, and Wilbur took the opportunity he saw.

“Got a light?” he asked, pulling Quackity over to the railing. He slipped a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Quackity leaned against the railing and lit one up for him.

“You know your lungs are fucked, right?"

"Mm-hm," Wilbur hummed in agreement. "Although I seem to recall seeing a cigar in your mouth on occasion as well, Big Q."

"On occasion ," said Quackity, "I have a taste for them. You have an addiction. There's a difference."

"Of course," Wilbur deferred. "That's always been the difference between us, hasn't it?" He took a long drag from his cigarette, relishing the taste of nicotine and the look Quackity gave him at his words.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, Quackity," said Wilbur, the alcohol making the words slide out more easily. "You and I, we're the same. We do what we do for our mundane thrills, but for you it's purposeful."

Quackity looked like he had several objections, but he didn't voice them. Instead, he asked,

"And for you?"

Wilbur cracked a smile. "It's an addiction."

"What is?"

"All of it." Wilbur drew a vague shape in the air with his cigarette, then turned and hopped up to sit on the railing. The glimmer of candy-colored lights shone from streets and buildings nearby, highlighting Quackity's face beautifully, dancing in the reflections of his eyes. Those piercing, mismatched eyes. One clouded over with milky grey, one almost dark brown enough to appear black. Wilbur liked to study them when he could. He almost had them memorized, although he was more accustomed to seeing them narrowed in a scowl than… whatever this expression was that they were giving him. It was calm and curious, something his fuzzy mind couldn't quite grasp. But it was there, and it was attention, and he felt like a desert wanderer guzzling it down like fresh water. Only those eyes could make him feel so thirsty, and so satisfied.

Prime damn him, Wilbur would do anything to keep those eyes on him.

"Quackity," he said. He didn't know what more to say, but the taste of his name was better than nicotine. 

"What?" Quackity said. Wilbur kept him waiting for a response, sucking in a lungful of smoke. He tipped his head back, back, back, and blew it up into the clear black sky. 

"Quackity, he said again, more to himself now.

"Wilbur."

He smiled. He liked hearing Quackity say his name.

"Quackity," he said.

" Wilbur."

Prime, that was beautiful. Perhaps if he kept going, he could hear it one more time.

"Quackity!" He leaned back, spreading his arms wide. Suddenly, his heart swooped and he cried out, losing his balance. Then, he was being jerked forward, toppling off the railing and into a pair of strong arms. Quackity’s shoulder hit his stomach, winding him. His eyes were squeezed shut, he was draped uncomfortably over his rescuer, and something soft was tickling his nose. 

"Wilbur, what the fuck , you can’t just do that, you're gonna fucking fall to your death–" He wasn't listening. He was regaining his breath, and he went slightly dizzy with the pleasant scent that filled his nostrils. It was familiar somehow, something light and gentle and slightly spicy. He blinked his eyes open and found the downy feathers of Quackity's wings just close enough to brush his face. 

"-fuckin' dumb bitch, scared the hell outta me," Quackity was ranting. He dumped Wilbur on the ground and stepped back, clearly expecting him to stand up. Wilbur didn't. 

"Your wings smell so nice," Wilbur murmured. Quackity didn't hear him.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded. Wilbur shrugged. "Don't fucking shrug at me! Answer the question, bitch."

Wilbur swallowed and tried not to smirk. All this attention for something so simple. "Just got carried away, I guess."

Quackity seemed dissatisfied by the answer. "You're a fucking idiot when you're drunk, you know that, Soot?" 

"That's twice in an hour that you've had to save me, isn't it?" Wilbur observed, officially failing his attempt at not smirking.

"You think that's funny?" Quackity snapped, "I told you not to be more trouble than you're worth tonight. That was your one job."

" 'M sorry." It came out slightly slurred. Quackity froze, taken aback. Wilbur blinked up at him, vaguely registering that he would never have apologized for something like that when he was sober. But Quackity was standing over him, wings splayed out like an angel, glaring with those vicious eyes. He couldn't help but want to appease, if it would keep him from looking away even for a moment.

"...you should be," Quackity recovered, but the words were quieter than they should have been. "Why don't you get up?"

"I like the view where I am," Wilbur said honestly. The softness in Quackity’s tone evaporated.

"Are you flirting with me right now?"

"Well, more at you since you don't seem to be reciprocating," Wilbur admitted. Quackity pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Why did I expect anything more?" he muttered. "Get your ass up off the ground, Soot."

"You look beautiful."

"I know."

"You vain motherfucker," Wilbur chuckled.

"How is that vain?!" Quackity's wings ruffled in annoyance. "You're the one who said it, all I did was agree. You think you're the only person who's ever told me that I look good? Get over yourself!" He stooped, grabbed Wilbur by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Fuck , he was stronger than he looked. Wilbur felt the beginning of an erection, and this time he didn't care if Quackity noticed. 

"If you get so showered with compliments," Wilbur prodded, "Then what's the problem with your wings? Surely you wouldn't hide those beauties."

"Stop."

"They smell lovely."

"You're a fucking creep."

"Well, I couldn't help but notice–"

"Shut up."

Wilbur did not shut up. "What if I say that your outfit suits you perfectly?" 

"I'd say damn right." Quackity looked away from him. Wilbur didn't like it.

"What if I say that your lips look absolutely delicious?" He stepped around into Quackity's line of sight, only to be left behind as Quackity turned and stormed toward the other end of the balcony.

"I'd tell you to fuck off," came the bitter reply.

"Come on, Q," Wilbur followed at his heel, "You know this is what you want, you love seeing me like this, don't you? You love knowing that you drive me insane ."

Quackity didn't answer. Wilbur cornered him by one of the railings, forcing him to turn and make eye contact once more.

"Admit it," he purred, "You love that I'm obsessed with you."

Quackity bared his teeth, his golden fang glinting on one side. "I couldn't give less of a fuck about how you feel, Wilbur," he spat.

Wilbur felt something twist inside of him, but he swallowed the pain and threw his hands up in a wild gesture. "That's exactly what I mean! You love this because you know that you don't have to care about me in return. I'm addicted to you. That's why you invited me here." He placed his hands on the railing on either side of Quackity’s waist, stooping down until they were at eye level. "To show me what I am. To show everybody what I am." 

"You- you're reading too far into this, Soot…" Quackity tried to keep his voice harsh, but he faltered. Wilbur tilted his head and let his strawberry-booze breath graze across Quackity's cheek. His pants were too tight, restraining his bulge uncomfortably. 

"I want you," he whispered.

Quackity shook his head slowly. "I don't care," he tried to say, but the deep concern etched into his face said otherwise.

"Don't you get it?" Wilbur leaned back to gaze at him, finally letting his face blaze with all the longing that burned in his chest. "That's the only reason this could work. You don't have to care, just take me. Claim me. Own me."

"I don't want you."

And the words tore into his vulnerable heart like daggers, but he didn't flinch. He knew it was true. Pain could be managed when he knew it was coming. If anyone could inflict pain on himself and train himself to enjoy it, it was Wilbur. So he pushed the dagger deeper. 

"You already fill every inch of my brain," he whispered, "You already own my heart. Why not claim the rest of me, too?"

"What are you asking me to do?" Quackity looked lost and appalled, like Wilbur was a bloody car crash that he was only slowing down to stare at as he passed. Wilbur was okay with it. It burned shame into his face and it forced a lump into his throat and it blurred his vision with tears and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt, but he was okay with it.

Because at least Quackity was looking at him.

"Let me kiss you," he begged, barely a whisper. " Please. " Words weren't enough. Wilbur dropped to his knees, letting his arms fall to his sides. 

Quackity looked pained. "You… you're drunk, Wilbur."

"Don't pretend you give a fuck about that," Wilbur said, desperation making his words come out angry. "I know that you brought me here to humiliate me and to– to make me into just another little whore for you to use and throw away. Everyone knows that, I know that,  so why don't you just do it? Use me up, Quackity; at least it'll mean something to one of us."

"And afterward? What then?" Quackity hardened his expression. Once again, Wilbur found himself staring  breathlessly upward. He was a bug under a microscope, a criminal caught in a searchlight, a fish in a clear glass bowl. All of his desires were laid bare. He was on display for the object of his obsession to examine and appraise. He was exposed like a perfect, wide-open target for his rival to take aim. 

For the first time, Wilbur began to feel regret  creeping up on him. But it was too late to turn back now, and Wilbur would be damned if he didn't at least try to take it all the way.

Quackity had asked him a question. He had asked, what then? So Wilbur would answer.

"I don't care. Take me home, leave me in a ditch, hell, fucking kill me afterward if it makes you feel better. Just let me pretend for this one moment that I'm worth your time." The world spun around him, but he stayed there, real and grounded by the pain coursing through him. 

Quackity grabbed him by the collar, dragged him upwards, and crashed their lips together.

It barely deserved to be called a kiss. Wilbur whimpered into Quackity's mouth as his lips were abused, but he wouldn't dream of pulling away when his love was pressing against him so purposefully. His arms found their way around Quackity's waist and held on for dear life. His weight was almost entirely hanging on Quackity's grip on his collar and then– 

Quackity moved one hand into Wilbur's hair and jerked his head backward, plunging his tongue in deep and swallowing Wilbur's cry of pain. Wilbur took it. It was all tongues and teeth and the taste of smoke and strawberry booze clashing horribly with the flavor of wintergreen mints, and Wilbur took it all. Quackity's golden fang dug into his lip and drew blood, and he took it. His mind emptied of everything that wasn't this, right here, right now. He had to take it all, devour it, memorize it and never let it end. Quackity's nails scraping his scalp. Quackity's mouth attacking his own. Quackity's thigh pressing up between his legs. He moaned helplessly as his hips bucked into the sensation.

Quackity's tongue withdrew, but the kiss didn't break. Tears gushed down Wilbur's cheeks and drool slid down his chin. He could feel Quackity’s breath, heavy and fast, against his skin, and it made his whole body shiver and his cock throb. Before he could even try to stop himself, he was grinding down on Quackity's leg, chasing relief.

The hand in his hair dragged his head back, finally breaking the kiss. Wilbur panted, dizzy and reeling. A strand of saliva still connected them. Then, Quackity's thigh pulled back, leaving Wilbur anchorless. He whined in panic.

" Please," he gasped, " Please, Quackity, please, I need you–"  

"I will let you cum once, " Quackity growled in his ear, "And you will thank me until I tell you to shut up."

" Yes," Wilbur begged, " Yes, please, please Quacki– ahh!" Quackity jerked his knee upward and pulled Wilbur back down onto his thigh. The heavenly pressure made his eyes roll back. Quackity's hands clawed at his shirt for a better grip.

"Wilbur. Wilbur." His voice was so cold, so unaffected. Wilbur let out a choked cry as a fresh peal of tears spilled down his face. "Wilbur, look at me."

He obeyed. Quackity was staring directly into his eyes, but Wilbur's gaze fixated on the dribble of blood smeared around his lip – Wilbur's own blood, drawn by Quackity's fang. He felt a rush of pleasure, and his mouth hung open, craving more. He wanted Quackity to bite into him and tear him apart like a predator. Like a cannibal. Like the dangerous creature he was. He would take it. He would take anything if Quackity just stayed close to him.

"Do you still like the view?" said Quackity. Wilbur could barely think, let alone speak. He nodded dumbly, grinding harder until he had to bite his lips to muffle his noises. 

"Then kiss me with your eyes open this time," Quackity demanded, and Wilbur couldn't refuse him. He dove into another violent kiss, this time meeting his darling's tongue with his own and nearly choking in his eagerness. He forced his eyes to stay wide, even as they rapidly blurred and the colors of Quackity’s face, eyes, hair, all slid in and out of focus. He blinked hard and fast, trying to clear his vision. There was heat building and knotting in his gut, and the friction on his cock was perfect , but all his brain had room for was the smattering of tiny moles that dotted Quackity's face. They were so beautiful. They were so, so fucking beautiful that he almost started to cry again. He couldn't breathe. He didn't need to breathe, unless he could breathe Quackity. 

Wilbur's legs were trembling violently, and he was sliding down, unable to support himself, practically humping Quackity's knee now, and the latter had to heave him back upward and hug him tightly to keep him from collapsing under the stimulation. 

He was close. He was so close, but he couldn't say it, because his mouth was being thoroughly explored. He tried to pull away, but a hand behind his head pinned him in place. Evidently Quackity was much more interested in how far down his throat he could reach than whether Wilbur had something to say. He was entirely at the mercy of his dearest love, and his dearest love fucking hated him. He couldn't hold it back any longer. He was such a primedamn fucking slut for this man that his last thought before cumming was that he wished Quackity was inside him.

A tidal wave of euphoria crashed over him, rattling his very bones. He couldn't hear himself crying out; there was only pleasure, rich and heavy, and hot release soaking his underwear. His hips shuddered, struggling to stay in motion and grind his cock into overstimulation. He couldn't let this moment end. It had to be forever.

His head was released, and he buried his face in his darling's shoulder. All of his strength went into clinging to him, pressing their bodies as close as possible and rutting against him soft, ignoring the discomfort. The sharp scent of cologne and the warmth of Quackity’s skin kept him alive. 

" Thank you," Wilbur murmured, lifting his face just enough to be audible. He kissed his love's neck reverently, praying that he could stay like this: kissing every inch of skin within reach, tasting his dearest on his lips, whispering his gratitude. " Thank you, thank you, thank you so much, you're so perfect, so beautiful, thank you, precious, beautiful love, thank you, so perfect, love you so much, you're perfect, thank you–" 

His hands ran through soft, downy feathers. Quackity drew a sharp breath, but Wilbur was too wrapped up in his messy but gentle ministrations to notice. What he did notice was the tension in his beloved's joints, and the ease with which his own nimble fingers could press into just the right spots to relieve it. He worked the muscles carefully. His kisses grew more clumsy and his words less coherent as he poured his focus into making those precious wings rustle and flap. Quackity's breaths huffed, but he allowed himself no sound of satisfaction or pain for Wilbur to gage his performance by. He felt some of the knots loosening, so he went a little faster,  encouraged. 

"Wil– mmf– Wilbur, that's enough."

Wilbur didn't stop. Quackity pulled him away and placed a palm over his mouth, silencing his jumbled praises and thank you s.

"That's enough," he repeated, stern, and dropped him. Wilbur remembered a moment too late that he wasn't supporting his own weight. He thumped to the floor. 

"Quackity–" he began, but as he lifted his face, his love was already stepping over and around him to walk away. Wilbur was left alone, with a gaping hole punched out of his chest where his heart used to be.

He took it.

Chapter Text

What the hell was that?

Quackity wove through the crowd, maintaining a mask of token pleasantry while his mind screamed in panic.

What the actual fucking hell was that?!

He didn't want to do that. He shouldn't have done that. He should have just said no, why hadn't he just said no? He needed to escape. He needed to get away somewhere and think, to figure out why the hell he had done that. He evaded someone who looked like they wanted to speak to him and instead slid up to the bar.

"What can I get ya?" The golden-eyed bartender seemed to materialize before him. "Rum 'n coke is on the house if ya like."

"No thanks, I don't drink," he said distractedly, lowering his voice, "Do you know of a back room, somewhere empty?"

"I gotcha, hon," they replied quietly, then nodded toward the end of the counter. Quackity came around and they let him slip behind the bar and through a door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY. A small but comfortable break room welcomed him, only one employee lounging inside. 

"Carlin, skedaddle," the bartender snapped, "Mr. Prez needs his space." The person got of their seat and muttered some acknowledgement as they scurried out. "There ya go sir, I'll make sure you're not disturbed."

Quackity nodded, and they closed the door after themself, leaving him alone. He instantly sank into a chair. 

He had left him there. He had left Wilbur sitting on the floor of a balcony, drunk and crying, after getting him off in the most callous way possible. He felt sick. What the hell was wrong with him? He should have said no, or had an actual fling with him, or done anything other than whatever the fuck he did. But Wilbur had looked so desperate, and the pure admiration on his face after Quackity kissed him was... Prime, it was intoxicating. There was no other way to put it. Not a single drop of alcohol had passed Quackity's lips that night, and yet he was drunk on narcissistic pleasure. It felt so good to be worshipped. 

He buried his face in his hands. He had told Wilbur he didn't want him, and then taken him anyway. What kind of mixed message was he sending? Honestly, his only consolation at this point was that maybe Wilbur was drunk enough not to remember everything in the morning. 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wanted to punch himself square in the face. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Wilbur was drunk, for fuck's sake, why the hell had Quackity even touched him? What if Wilbur did wake up in the morning with no recollection of having given himself up to his rival? How was Quackity supposed to look him in the eye knowing that he had taken advantage of him like that? He couldn't just rely on alcohol to erase his actions from memory. The very idea was fucked up, and sickeningly familiar.

Quackity would never forget the terror that hit him when he woke up in a bedroom that was not his own. 

The night before was only a blur in his memory, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't figure out how he had gotten there. But he recognized the smell, thick and heavy. He didn't have to roll over to know who was lying next to him. Was he awake? Quackity's heart pounded in his chest. He was so sore. The red marks on his wrists had begun to bruise. His wings ached where they had doubtless been gripped, twisted, and used to manhandle him into whatever position Schlatt wanted him in...

Barely daring to breathe, he shifted and turned his head to sneak a glance at his bedmate. Thank Prime. Schlatt was asleep, or at least he appeared to be. 

Quackity slipped out of the stained sheets as quietly as possible, adrenaline overpowering any grogginess that his hangover would have slowed him down with. He was cold and bare, and trying to walk only made his sore places hurt so much worse. But he had to get out. He felt so sick. His mouth tasted foul, like musk and sweat, and he was going to throw up. He needed to get out. His zip-up jacket and boxers were on the floor. He didn't bother looking for the rest of his clothes; he just had to get out. 

Maybe if he made a joke about it later, Schlatt wouldn't be too angry with him for running away. Maybe if he played it off like it was nothing, he could convince himself that it really didn't matter. He would laugh it off and call it a wild night, and no one would have to know that he was scared. He was so fucking scared, all he wanted to do was run.

 But he couldn't run. He had to come back to mend things with Schlatt. He only had one lover, after all. He should be grateful that he was wanted by someone. Even if that love made him stumble to his knees on the way home and vomit. He was in love. Even if being in love felt like purgatory, always suffering for his mistakes and apologizing over and over just to survive. 

Quackity's wings had folded flat and tense against his back. With some effort, he dragged himself out of his head fixed his good eye on the wall, registering that it was painted grey. He counted how many pieces of furniture were in the room. Three chairs, one table. He was alone. He was sober. He was okay. Quackity took a deep breath. 

He just had to distract himself, that was it. He would give Wilbur some space, calm down, and deal with whatever came up later, when he was less... shaken. He stood up and stretched his wings out deliberately. They felt a little more comfortable after the unexpected massage that Wilbur had given him, but he still felt exposed with them out of their bindings for the world to see. Damn Wilbur.

Nevertheless, Quackity was an actor. He could handle this. He straightened up, put his confident mask back on, and made his way back out into the heat of the party, where it would be easiest to distract himself. 

__________

Wilbur sat on the balcony and used the end of his fourth cigarette to light a fifth. He licked his lips again, trying to remember the taste of Quackity's kiss. It had gone so quickly. A taste of heaven had slipped away before he could savor it for everything it was worth. And now he would never get it back. Quackity was done with him. Wilbur felt hollow.

He sucked in a lungful of smoke. His mind was still buzzing and delerious, but underneath the intoxication, there was nothing. Numb. Cold. Prime, he hated the cold. Wilbur stared listlessly at the cigarette in his hand. Then, carefully, he twirled it around and pressed the glowing end into the back of his opposite hand. The effect was almost instant. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, forcing them not to jerk away. It wasn't difficult. His survival instincts had been a lot weaker ever since he was revived.

The tip of the cigarette slid slowly across his skin in a circle, burning angry red marks in its wake. He focused as hard as he could on the point of contact, letting the sensation of too hot too much too painful take over. If nothing else, it was grounding. It kept him living in a way only self-destruction ever could.

He pulled the cigarette away and took a long drag from it. His hand flexed, streching the damaged skin until it felt like every cell was silently screaming. The ring of red looked like it was missing something. Wilbur puffed out a smoky, half-hearted laugh and dipped the tip of the cigarette to his flesh once more to add a single line. He ended it in a flourish, turning the burn mark into a decent-looking Q. There. Now it was official. 

He sighed as all facimily of amusement drained from his face.

At least the bar was sure to be open. Wilbur had never been a "drink-your-worries-away" kind of guy, but it seemed there wasn't much else for a tired, used-up zombie to do. Quackity sure as hell wasn't coming back for him. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he had a ride home anymore. Might as well down a few more shots and see where the night goes. It didn't matter anymore. Any purpose he might have had for being here, alive, had bled out along with his heart when Quackity had walked away. 

He wondered what his date was doing. 

__________

Quackity didn't even know this party had karaoke until a microphone was being shoved into his hand. Never the type to be a buzzkill, he mounted the small stage -- which happened to be one of the six platforms featuring a pole in the center -- and grinned out at his impromptu audience with all the confidence he wished he could feel. As usual, he was met with enthusiastic cheers and several wolf whistles. 

"Gimme a beat!" he said into the microphone, and whoever was DJ-ing took the cue. A song started up, one that he knew. He had sung it a time or two before in the club. "...and I'd better see every one of you dancing," he added, pointing out at the sea of people and winking to the drunken cheers that responded. He puffed his wings out put all his concentration into his performance. After all, he thrived under the spotlight.

"Yesterday I heard you say, your lust for life had gone away..."

In the end, he succeeded at entirely distracting himself.

__________

"...It got me thinking, I think I feel a similar way, and that's sad..."

Wilbur wandered down to the ground floor in a daze. He could just barely hear a voice from the speaker over the noise of the party. Even with his mind muddled, he would always be a music lover, so he slurred along with the snatches of lyrics that he could make out. The lights and shapes around him only seemed to come in focus when he looked directly at them, so finding his way to the bar proved to be a much harder task than he had anticipated.

"...we'll be the envy of the gods above!"

He liked this song. It had a playful sort of tune. 

"I'm feeling devious; you're looking glamorous. 

Let's get mischievious, and polyamorous..."

Wilbur stumbled into a barstool and heaved himself on top of it. The bartender have him a skeptical look, but took his order nonetheless. The heat of the room pressed around him like a hug. Or like it was trying to suffocate him. Either would be welcome at this point.

"...we could take a holiday in the month of May,

run free and play i n fields of flowers, pass the hours,

Making love is how we'll pray..."

Now that he was closer to the speaker, he could hear more of the singer's voice. It was angelic, a sweet tenor hum with the hint of a smile audible in the way each word resonated. Wilbur swayed slightly with the melody. He turned and scanned the room lazily.

"...our ideology is you can do what you want,

too much is never enough..."

Oh. Oh. It took a moment for the realization to sink in. Of course the singer was flawless. It was fucking Quackity. Up on the stage, mic in hand, he looked perfectly in his element. Wilbur gazed at his slim figure, watched his dynamic movements. He licked his lips, wanting so badly to press kisses down his neck once more. Instead, he settled for staring unabashedly. Clearly, most of Quackity's energy was going into the song, but the few simple gestures and dance steps peppered in easily hypnotized Wilbur for the duration of the song. 

"...got no time for pain when it's just you and me, in ecstacy..."

Somebody nudged Wilbur's arm. He ignored it. Another nudge, more agressive this time. He glanced reluctantly to the side and found a stranger offering him something. He shook his head and turned back to the stage. A hand on his arm drew his attention back to the stranger. 

"Try 'em!" they were saying, pushing an open palm full of small, pink pills towards him. He couldnt make out the rest of their words.

"Nah," he tried to say, "I'm good." But they were insistant.

"Try 'em! It's a fresh batch... swear they're better 'an fuckin' potions, bruv... gotta try one!"

"Jus' fuck off," Wilbur groaned, his patience wearing off quickly. They didn't seem to get the message. Finally, Wilbur said aloud, "Ahhhh, fuck it all."

He pinched a few pills between his fingers and brought them to his mouth. As he trained his eyes back on the stage, he found Quackity staring back at him, mismatched eyes wide and alarmed. He was vaguely aware that the person beside him was squawking something or other, but that didn't matter. He swallowed heavily and gazed back. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest. That was odd. It wasn't there a moment ago. It felt foreign and heavy. 

The colors in the room seemed to pulse brighter and more vibrant before fading into a dim glow. Quackity stood in the middle of it all, looking at him. Fuck, Wilbur loved it so primedamn much when Quackity looked at him. He smiled. Then he smiled some more. His face felt funny, like it was buzzing with something colorful. He wondered if he was glowing, just like the rest of the room. The lights pulsed brighter again. He laughed. At least, he thought he did. He couldn't hear himself. He could hear echoing, though he wasn't sure what was echoing. Was Quackity still singing? He squinted at Quackity's lips, but the lights grew bright and pierced his eyes. He squeezed them shut to block out the discomfort.

Wilbur felt like he was floating, spinning either slow or fast,  he couldn't tell. He wanted to hear Quackity sing again. His face felt so funny -- all of his skin felt funny, and he wasn't sure if his head hurt of not. He opened his mouth to say something to Quackity, a joke -- could Quackity hear him? His lips moved, but he couldn't breathe. Or maybe he was breathing too much, through too many mouths and lungs with cigarettes in each one and smoke filling his ears and making every sound muffled and tingly against his skin, far too warm for comfort but still so pleasantly shivery... he tried to open his eyes but all he saw was dark, and then the colors came back and it was too bright and he squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wide in a silent scream, so wide that he was enveloped in a gaping void of mouth and then he was falling, slowly and quickly, and spiralling through stars and galaxies, his stomach was swooping and everything was black--

Wilbur didn't feel it when he hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Quackity was off the stage and across the room in seconds. 

"WILBUR!" he shouted, knowing that there would be no response. He pushed through the crowd, not caring whom he knocked over on his way. He flung himself to his knees next to Wilbur's limp body and grabbed the front of his jacket, yanking him into a position where he could see his face. "WILBUR!"

He looked up at the people gathered around him. They were staring, some in confusion, some in dismay, some with expressions that made something in Quackity's chest rage and boil. 

"What did he take?!" he demanded of no one in particular. He tried to pick out the person that he had seen sitting next to Wilbur at the bar, but he hadn't been paying enough attention to recognize them. Damn him, why hadn't he paid more attention? He dropped Wilbur's coat and stood up. "Someone tell me what the fuck he took!" There was a fire in his eye now, and a murmur of panic swept through the bystanders as they elbowed each other for answers and came up empty-handed. Somebody in a glittery pink halter top was staring with their pupils blown wide and their mouth hanging open. Quackity stepped over Wilbur's unconscious body and grabbed them by the shoulder. "You, you know what he took?!"

"...was only s'posed ta take one," they said, "Fucker took a whole fuckin' 'andful, whaddhe do that for?"

"Handful of what?" Quackity took a breath and put his hand on their other shoulder, making sure they were looking him in the eye. "This is very important. Tell me exactly what he took a handful of."

In reply, they pulled out a couple of small, pink pills and held them carefully in their palm. Quackity snatched a single one and held it up to look closer. It looked familiar. He couldn't remember the name, but he remembered bloodshot eyes, pale faces and loud laughter, heartbeats slow and delirious...

"Shit." He dropped the pill, turned back to Wilbur, and scooped him up off the ground. It was harder with his limbs gone completely slack, but he managed it. "Get me a doctor, now!"

__________

Wilbur felt heavy. His skin was too heavy. Or maybe his bones. Everything sounded muffled and underwater. Was he underwater? Maybe he was drowning. 

Huh. That would be kind of funny.

Maybe the water was warm. He tried to feel it, but all he felt was heavy and... tingly? Too hot? Too cold?  

He tried to open his eyes and found it harder than he remembered. Stubbornly, though, he cracked his eyelids open and took in the dim blur around him. Lights were moving past him, appearing and disappearing one by one. He tried to make out the rest of his surroundings, but it grew exhausting. His eyes slid closed. What a weird way to drown.

Suddenly, he could feel his body moving. Wait, no. He was slowing down. Had he been moving before? Huh. He heard a voice, low and distant and wavering. He liked it. Then somebody was touching him, lifting him up, and he tried to say something. It came out as a low groan, muffled behind his half-closed lips. He cracked his eyes open again. 

"...owe me big time for this, Soot..." The words swam around in his head, overlapping and refusing to line up in order. Wilbur gave up trying to comprehend them and just let himself be carried. He couldn't see the person's face. It was just a silhouette above him. He hummed slightly. The arms around his knees and shoulders tightened. "...lucky you didn't fuckin' die..." 

Wilbur decided that he didn't mind drowning.

__________

Quackity laid Wilbur carefully in his bed, fussing with the blankets until he looked comfortable. He wasn't dying. He would be somewhat miserable when he woke up, the doctor had said, but he wasn't dying. He was going to be fine. 

Prime, he was so fucking stupid. Quackity hated him. 

He felt Wilbur's forehead. A cold sweat was already beginning to break out. He might be feverish for a few days, but he wasn't dying. Quackity wanted to slap him silly. Well, first, he wanted him to wake up and say something to prove he wasn't dying, then maybe grin that stupid, shit-eating grin, and then Quackity wanted to slap him silly. 

The plush carpet in Quackity's bedroom was spotted with footprints by the time he was done pacing back and forth. He went out to the kitchen and filled up a glass of water, only to drink one sip and pour it down the drain. He stood at the sink, wings fluttering restlessly at his back. Wilbur wasn't dying. He was going to be fine.

"Fucking dammit, Soot," he whispered, and buried his head in his hands. He wouldn't get any sleep that morning.

__________

Wilbur was awoken by a pounding headache. He groaned and fell into a short coughing fit that only made his head hurt worse. His throat felt like sandpaper. 

"Wilbur?" That voice was familiar. He coughed some more and blinked his eyes open. This... was not the van. Where was he? There were cool blue walls and sheer white curtains that seemed to glow where they hid windows. An ornate wooden dressing table and vanity, a nightstand and chair occupied by -- oh. Quackity was there. This must be his penthouse, then? That would explain the massive bed with sweet-smelling comforters.

Wilbur grinned and said hoarsly, "Fancy meeting you here, Big Q."

For a moment, it looked like Quackity was going to punch him. Instead, he grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and told him to sit up. Wilbur felt a little dizzy, but complied. As he sipped on his water, he searched through his recent memories for any clue as to how he had gotten here. 

He was working in the van, it was a slow day, he was bored. Quackity showed up, and suddenly things got interesting. He asked Wilbur on a date, but it wasn't a date. It wasn't a date, but they were dressed to the nines and walking into a party side by side. The party... was strange. He remembered drinking, Quackity disappearing somewhere, and then only bits and pieces of the rest of the night. Dancing. Talking with blurry-faced strangers. Kissing. Who had he kissed? It must have been lovely; it felt like a good memory. But there was nothing after that. It was a hazy swirl of colors and the smell of sweat and nothing more.

"So I take it last night was fun?" he finally said, settling on get Quackity’s  version of events. 

"Wilbur, you got drunk, swallowed a handful of pills, and passed out on the floor," said Quackity.

"Ah. So yeah, fun." Quackity did punch him this time, though only in the arm. Wilbur accidentally spilled some water down his shirt and whined in protest. 

"It wasn't funny," Quackity said, and oh, that was his fighting voice. The heated voice that he used when he was mad, but not deathly infuriated enough to get dangerous. Wilbur smirked. "I told you not to take any pills. I told you specifically, and you didn't listen, and you almost got yourself killed because you can't handle being unsupervised for ten fucking minutes." 

"Isn't that a shame," Wilbur said, unbothered. "I suppose one of these times maybe I'll learn my lesson."

"Next time I'm just gonna let you die," said Quackity.

"Not this time, though?"

"Too many people around," Quackity tipped his chin up haughtily, "I had to at least look like I gave a fuck that my date was trying to kill himself."

"Ouch." Wilbur made a face as though he had been physically hurt. Which wasn't difficult considering that his head felt like it was splitting open. "Why use your venom on a dying man, Q?"

"You're not dying," Quackity snapped. "They had to tube a potion down your throat to keep your heart beating, but you're not fucking dying."

"Oh joy," Wilbur deadpanned.

"You act like you want to go back to that Prime-forsaken train station!"

"I hated the afterlife and I never want to go back. It's how you get there that's the fun part."

"Wh- you think fucking dying is fun?!" Quackity looked apalled. Wilbur looked back at him blankly. He had been half-sarcastic a moment ago, but now that Quackity said the words out loud, he found no voice in his mind that would disagree.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"That's fucked up, Wilbur," was the immediate response, spoken as if it was supposed to be some new revelation to him. 

"I know," he said.

"It's a dangerous and dysfunctional way of thinking, and it's going to fuck you over."

"I know."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Do what? Think? I can't exactly help what runs through my brain, Big Q."

"No. I mean, why do you hurt yourself?"

Wilbur opened his mouth, then closed it. He rolled his eyes and finished his glass of water, but Quackity was still staring at him, expecting an answer. He sighed.

"My head hurts," he complained. 

"Wilbur." Fuck, that was Quackity's Serious Voice. Wilbur scowled at his empty glass. "Answer the question."

"Why should I?" he said, "It's not like you care."

"Is it the same reason you cut yourself back in Pogtopia?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I didn't want to go out with my wings on display last night, and you fucking forced me to do that!" Quackity sat back in his chair, frustrated. "So I think it's pretty fair." 

"Why?" said Wilbur, seizing the opportunity to shift the subject. "What's so wrong with people seeing your wings? You had them your whole life, anyone who knows you knows that they're there."

"Because they're ugly, okay?" Quackity rubbed his temples exasperatedly. "They're ridiculous and unprofessional, and they're an unnecessary vulnerability. They're best kept hidden."

"That's not true," Wilbur said immediately. 

Quackity threw his hands up. "Whatever! Now you know the reason, happy? Can we get back to the topic at hand?"

"I'm serious," Wilbur pressed, "Your wings aren't ugly. They're elegant--" Quackity scoffed-- "and lovely, especially in the light--" His wings ruffled and folded against his back-- "and anyone who knows the first thing about avians could tell that you take good care of them when you're not stuffing them into corsets and shit. They're beautiful." 

Quackity looked pissed.

"Are you done?" he asked. That was weird. Wilbur would have thought a vain man like Quackity would love being complimented. Intrigued, Wilbur decided that, no, he was not done.

"I used to stare at them all the time during the election, you know that? Because they caught the light, and you would move them around while you were talking, probably without even meaning to. You were so expressive, it just happened. They were much more yellow back then, weren't they? It's a pretty color on you--"

"Wilbur, cut the bullshit."

"--Although I daresay I like them even more nowadays, with the brown parts. Makes you look more mature, you know? And so sexy."

"Shut up!" Quackity snapped. There was a faint flush creeping into his face.

Wilbur grinned. "Aww, are you flustered, Big Q? Poor baby..."

"Shut the fuck up, I- you're a fucking idiot. Okay? We're done talking about my wings. Prime, you're so annoying."

"But I was just getting started!" Wilbur pushed, laughing, "Don't you want to know how hot you look with your shirt all scrunched up to let your wings out in the back? And how sexy it is when you get angry and they ruffle up, like that'll make you look scarier? And how--" 

"Wilbur, shut your fucking mouth, okay? We're done!" 

"Why don't you shut it for me, Big Q?" Wilbur wiggled his eyebrows. Quackity let out an irritated noise and stood up. Wilbur laughed at him, then abruptly stopped when he turned and headed for the door. "W-Wait, Big Q, where are you going?"

"I've got better shit to do," Quackity said, "Go back to sleep. Fucking die or something, I don't care. Just don't get into my stuff." He slammed the door behind him, and Wilbur winced as his head throbbed. 

He let out a discontented noise and glared at the door for a while. It only lasted a few minutes, though. He was in Quackity's bedroom, alone.This was a golden opportunity for some mischief... which he would figure out just as soon as he was ready to get up. Quackity's sheets were stupidly comfortable, his pillows deep, and everything smelled so inexplicably good...

...he'd do something devious after just five more minutes...

Chapter Text

Quackity did not, in fact, have "better shit to do." The president always had work, but he hadn't scheduled anything really important. He went to his office above the casino and authorized some papers. He drafted a business letter, looked over a new zoning ordinance, argued with Foolish about public facility designs. It was practically mindless at this point. Nothing felt as urgent as the nagging at the back of his mind, but still he ignored it. 

He didn't want to talk to Wilbur. But alas, he did have to stop by his house after a few hours to eat. And to check on Wilbur's fever. 

The phonograph in his living room was at full volume, playing a record that Quackity had forgotten that he owned. The windows were all open, curtains fluttering in a slight breeze, while the air conditioning audibly struggled to combat the dry heat that flooded in.

Quackity slammed the front door behind him and went to close them. Why had he left Wilbur alone in his house? He turned the music down to a sensible volume and marched down the hallway, bracing himself for whatever bullshit Wilbur had pulled in his absence. He was prepared for a lot of things -- graffiti, property damage, missing items, new and unwanted structures. What he was not prepared for was the bathroom door left wide open, and Wilbur Soot in his bathtub. There was a mountain of fragrant bubbles, overflowing slightly onto the floor. Only a fluff of brown hair and a pair of devilishly smug eyes were visible peeking out at him. 

"Wilbur--" Quackity started, but he was immediately interrupted.

"Shhhhhhhh. I'm resting. You wouldn't deprive a poor, sick man of a little rest, would you?"

"Did you use the entire bottle of bubble bath?"

"You have too many soaps, Big Q. Why have that many if you're not going to use them?"

"This is such a waste."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the soap," Wilbur said, the smirk audible in his voice.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Quackity demanded, "What did you do?"

Wilbur only laughed quietly to himself. Quackity looked around. His eye caught on the mirror for the first time since entering.

"What the--" There were crude drawings and  scribbles all over the glass surface, along with sloppy letters spelling out #2 Medal, RICH FUCKER, and suck it duck boyyyy. Looking closer, Quackity could see that the marks on his mirror sparkled in the light, some gold, some black, some blue, some bright red...

"Wilbur." Quackity's voice was low and calm and dangerous.

"Yes, Big Q?" Wilbur didn't bother to suppress his grin. 

"I am going to ask you a question, and if I don't like the answer, I will come over there and strangle the fucking life out of you."

Wilbur whistled. "Right here in this bathtub? Take me to dinner first."

"Is that--" Quackity stared furiously into Wilbur's eyes while he pointed at the mirror-- "My good makeup?"

Wilbur stretched languidly, poking his wrinkled hands and feet out of the sea of bubbles. Water sloshed over the side of the overfilled tub.

"How should I know?" he said airily, faking a yawn. "With all the containers you keep in your cabinets, it's impossible to tell what's useful and what's just showy bullshi--" 

"Wilbur, you PRIMEDAMNED FUCKING ASSHOLE!" 

Wilbur flinched, not expecting the shout. His smirk slipped as he retreated into his bubbles. 

"Quackity, don't yell, I still have a massive headache," he whined. 

"You ARE a massive fucking headache!" Quackity snapped. "I let you plant your ass in my home, I trust you for one morning, and you just have to go screwing around with all my things--"

"It's just makeup, Q, calm down!" Wilbur looked a little nervous now, eyes wide as he scooted against the far side of the tub.

"I spent good money on that shit!" Quackity snarled. 

"You have plenty more where that came from!" Wilbur threw his arms up in a wide gesture, splashing suds all over the place. "You're the richest motherfucker in this country, so don't you dare tell me the money is what you're worried about!"

"Who the fuck raised you?! You don't do this shit to people who welcome you into their homes!"

"Quackity, I'm serious, my head is hurting so fucking bad--"

"I don't care!"

"--just quiet down, okay?!"

"Get out!" 

Wilbur froze. "...what?"

Quackity glared at him. "You heard me. Get out of the fucking bathtub."

"Now?" Wilbur at least had the common decency to look uncomfortable, but Quackity was beyond caring about shame right now. He marched toward the tub, and Wilbur's eyes went wide. "Wait, Quackity, you- you're not serious, I'm literally bare ass naked in here, you can't-"

Quackity pulled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the hot water at one end of the tub. Suds sloshed every which way as Wilbur scrambled to the other end to avoid him, but Quackity was searching for something else. He ran his hand along the bottom of the tub until he found the plug, then pulled it out. The bubbles began to sink as water swirled down the drain. 

"-Q, what the hell?! At least turn around or something, I'm not- I'm not getting out of here if you're fucking watching me-"

"Out." Quackity lunged and seized Wilbur's arm, gripping it tightly enough that the other couldn't slide out of his grasp. Wilbur tried to pull back, but he was wet and slippery. It was a battle quickly lost as Quackity dragged him out of the tub and dumped him unceremoniously onto the slick tile floor. He landed on his stomach with a yelp of pain. Quackity didn't spare him a second glance. "Clean up your mess, Soot. All of it. The floor, the mirror, whatever else you've fucked with. I want it all spotless or else you're walking back to your pathetic van in nothing but fucking bath suds."

He stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

__________

Wilbur stared at the door, his heart racing and his head aching miserably.

He was sprawled, flushed pink and naked as the day he was born, on Quackity's bathroom floor. Most embarrassingly of all, he was hard. He couldn't help it, Quackity was just so... much. All the time, he was so much. He filled up all the empty places in Wilbur with heat. Whether it was the heat of anger, embarrassment, or arousal was often hard to differentiate and honestly irrelevant. So when Quackity first got worked up enough to shout at him, then physically manhandled him out of the bathtub, Wilbur was left stunned, trying to figure out whether he was upset or not. 

The cool tile pressed against fresh bruises on his knees and elbows. His head throbbed, though not as viciously as earlier. Wilbur suddenly remembered that he his clothes were lying in a heap on the bedroom floor, discarded in favor of a plush bathrobe he had found in the closet. If Quackity really wanted to, he could force Wilbur to walk home without retrieving them. The thought of being thrown out, trudging back to the van wearing Quackity's bathrobe and nothing else, made him shiver. He relished the moment. 

No, he wasn't upset. He was actually really turned on. 

Wilbur got to his feet and grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack to dry himself off. The robe he had "borrowed" was waiting as well, and so he pulled it on before beginning to use his damp towel on the floor. It soaked through quickly, and he had to use the extra towel to sop up the rest of the water and bubbles. 

When it came to the mirror, he wasn't quite sure what he was doing. He found a washcloth and started wiping it down, but the makeup only smeared and then stayed stubbornly where it was. After several fruitless minutes of scrubbing at the stains, Wilbur tossed the washcloth aside and started rooting through cabinets for some kind of cleaning solution. He found a bottle labeled Makeup Remover and a small sponge, and decided that they were his best bet. It occurred to him briefly that a sponge of this size was probably not used for cleaning surfaces, but once he started scrubbing and the first few swipes actually succeeded, he didn't bother to question it. He just accepted that this would take a while.

Time dragged by slowly, stretching out the monotonous chore. The back of his left hand stung, badly, with every movement of his fingers. Quackity had left too soon for Wilbur to even mention the angry, red burn in the shape of a Q that he had found. Just another souvenir from a night he would never fully remember. Wilbur was still stuck between hating and admiring it. Like a brand, it was both a constant pain and a symbol of something dear and familiar. He settled on hatred for the time being, tucking the shreds of admiration into the corner of his mind where he let shadows and cobwebs gather.

When he was done, the entire bottle of makeup remover was empty. Whoops. 

Wilbur cracked the bathroom door open and poked his head out into the hallway to glance both ways. It was quiet. He walked down the hall, drawing the robe a little tighter around himself, and pushed open Quackity's bedroom door. Too late, he wondered if he should have knocked. He settled on saying, "Hello?" as the door swung open. 

Quackity was lounging casually in his chair, sipping on something sparkly and reading a book. His eye flicked up to Wilbur briefly, then back down. Wilbur planted his feet where he was and scanned the room for his clothes, but they were nowhere to be seen. After a solid minute and a half, he said, "Where are my things?"

"Are you leaving?" was the reply. Wilbur didn't even have to think about his options before responding.

"No, I don't think I will. I've still got a fever, after all, so I think you could stand to be a little more hospitable. You wouldn't want it getting out that the president is willfully neglecting the needy, would you?"

"You're not my citizen, Soot." Quackity still didn't look up at him. Wilbur crossed to his bed and splayed out on top of the now neatly-made covers, silently claiming ownership.

"I'm your guest," he drawled, "You should treat me like one."

"You're my guest up until the second I tell you to leave," Quackity answered calmly, "At which point you become a trespasser, and I will treat you like one."

"Oh, you're really gonna tell me to leave when you've already branded me?" Wilbur displayed his burned hand for Quackity to see. Quackity finally looked up, brow furrowed.

"That wasn't me," he said.

Wilbur snorted. "Sure, I believe you. Let me just check with all the other server members whose names start with Q."

"It wasn't me," Quackity insisted, "It was probably you. You must've done it with a cigarette or something after..."

"After what?" Wilbur lifted his head slightly from the soft blanket it was pressed into. 

"Nevermind."

"No, go on, after what?"

"You know."

Wilbur shifted to prop his chin on his hand and kick his feet in the air girlishly. "C'mon, don't hold out on me, Q. You know I don't remember shit from last night. Tell me."

"You'd better not be fucking with me right now," Quackity muttered.

"Did you do something embarrassing?" Wilbur guessed. Quackity rolled his eyes, so he took that as a yes. "Go on and tell me about it, then. I won't tell a soul, cross my heart."

"Wilbur, you almost fell off a balcony and died. I caught you."

"Awwwwwww," Wilbur cooed, "Are you embarrassed that you saved me? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that you're soft for me."

"I'm not soft for you," said Quackity, "I just have common human decency."

"Such a sweetheart," Wilbur went on, ignoring him, "My hero, rescuing me from falling to my death. How shall I ever repay you?"

"Maybe by shutting up."

"Ah! I know," Wilbur mocked, "A kiss, for my savior. How would you like that, Big Q? Since you were so keen on seeing me naked earlier--"

"I was not! That- that's not even what- that wasn't the point!" Quackity sputtered, starting to flush pink. Wilbur grinned and kept pushing.

"And now you've hid my clothes somewhere I'll surely never find them! If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been plotting to seduce me this entire time."

"I just put them in the wash!" Quackity protested. "You can't blame me, they were gross!"

"Oh, you're just begging for a reason to kiss me!" Wilbur sang back at him.

Quackity scoffed. "You're the one who was begging last--" He cut himself off abruptly, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second. He looked back down at his book, lips pressed tightly together.

Wilbur opened his mouth to keep teasing him, but hesitated when he registered Quackity's words. Wait... 

Oh. Well, shit.

"...Quackity?" he asked carefully. "Did we kiss last night?"

"Briefly." Quackity kept his voice level, though his ears were red. Wilbur considered this new information. His stomach fluttered, and he bit his lip without really meaning to. Quackity had kissed him. And he was embarrassed about it, which had to mean something, right? Wilbur was partially thrilled. Mostly, though, he was pissed that he couldn't really remember it. Prime, that must've been a hot memory. Even if it was brief and awkward and vodka-flavored, it was Quackity's lips on his, something he had practically built a special place in his brain just for imagining over and over. He licked his lips and tried to keep his tone conversational while his thoughts pinwheeled out of control.

"Well, how was it?" he asked.

"It was fine."

"Aw, c'mon, just fine?" Wilbur pouted, "Was I really that bad? If I was that bad, there's no need to spare my feelings."

"If you were bad at it, I would tell you," Quackity said, and Wilbur believed him. "You were fine."

"Hmm..." Wilbur feigned thoughtfulness. "You know, you seem to have a pretty well-formed opinion, for a kiss that was apparently so 'brief.'" 

"And you seem pretty deeply concerned with that opinion."

"Maybe I am," Wilbur said, "Maybe my entire fragile little existence hangs on your opinion of my kissing skills. Is that what you think, Q? You think your opinion is sooooo important to me, I would just die without it?" He snorted.

"You tell me," Quackity said, leaning forward a bit and raising one eyebrow. "You're the one who keeps asking me what I think. Unprompted, by the way."

It felt like a dance. Step forward, step back. Accuse, deflect. It was the push and pull he was used to with Quackity, and he loved it just as much as ever. He had Quackity's attention, and he could hold it for as long as he could keep thinking of quick responses to snap back his way. 

"Oh, I think I have plenty of prompting," Wilbur said, once again displaying his burned hand. "You can't blame me for being curious about what's going through your head when this is the result."

"I told you, that wasn't me. It was you. If anyone has a right to ask questions, it's me. Like, for instance, why the hell would you burn my initial into your skin?"

"Now that's not fair, how should I remember?"

"If you can't answer that, then answer this." Quackity fixed him with an intense look, and something inside Wilbur tried to shrink and shy away. He didn't let it show. "Why would you burn yourself at all?"

And Wilbur gritted his teeth, because of fucking course Quackity had to bring this shit up again. He didn't want to talk about it. He had already said he didn't want to talk about it. Why couldn't Quackity just take the damn hint?

"Oh, you know--" He pointed to himself-- "arsonist. Comes with the territory."

"Well, we both know you're not a bladesmith," Quackity pressed, "So what about the cutting?"

"You keep bringing this up," muttered Wilbur.

"Answer me honestly, and maybe I'll stop."

"Fucking liar."

Quackity tilted his head. "I'm listening."

All of the enjoyment had drained from Wilbur's posture, and he rolled over dismally onto his back. "You really want to know?"

"Yes."

"Hmph. Well, maybe if you do something for me first, I might start talking."

"Wilbur," Quackity said in a warning voice. Wilbur did not heed the warning, tipping his head to gaze at him with a slight smirk.

"Why don't you kiss me again, hm?" he taunted, "Maybe that would loosen my tongue. Unless you're too scared."

"Wilbur."

"Too much of a pussy to try it? It would get you allllll the answers you could wish for, but you just can't stand the idea, can you, Big Q--"

Without warning, Quackity lunged to his feet and grabbed Wilbur's jaw. Wilbur yelped in surprise as he came close, but their lips did not touch. Quackity hovered inches away from his face, looking livid.

"If you expect me to use my body as a fucking bargaining chip, then you might as well slit your own throat and bleed to death," he hissed. "Don't you dare fucking try that shit on me."

Wilbur's hands flew to grab at Quackity's wrist, but Quackity only gripped his face tighter until Wilbur could feel his nails digging tiny crescents into his skin. 

"Ah- Q, I didn't- I wasn't- I didn't mean it like that, I- I'm sorry," he stuttered, heart racing. Quackity's glare was burning straight through him.

"I don't fucking care," he said, "You're going to tell me what I want to know because I asked nicely, not because I gave something up to you. Understood?"

Wilbur swallowed. One of his hands left Quackity's wrist to twist into the blankets instead. He let himself pause, relishing the moment -- lying on Quackity's bed, with Quackity above him and glaring down while he held Wilbur in place with a punishing grip, close enough together that if he focused he could feel the faint warmth of Quackity's breath on his face. Heat dropped low in his gut, and he could only hope that a boner wouldn't be too obvious through the bathrobe.

"Yes," he breathed, "Yes, yeah, I-I understand."

"Good." Quackity let go of him and backed off. Wilbur almost wished he hadn't. "Why do you cut yourself, Wilbur?"

His mind was reeling as he sat up, shifting to keep his little problem inconspicuous. He didn't really realize that he was answering until the words were halfway out of his mouth.

"It's just what I deserve." Before Quackity could reply, he quickly amended, "Or, I mean, it was. Back then. I don't do it anymore. I told you, I haven't done any of it since I was revived."

"Any of it?"

"You know. The cutting, or the... other things. Hitting my head and stuff." In the highs and lows of his madness, the walls of Pogtopia's caverns had looked all too inviting. He still remembered the feeling. His back pressed against the cold stone. Tilting his head forward and gritting his teeth in anticipation. The electrifying jolt that rattled through him when he slammed it backward, as if trying to splinter his skull. "I stopped."

"Did you stop?" Quackity questioned, drawing a bewildered look from Wilbur. "You stopped cutting, you stopped doing whatever the fuck your concussion-inducing shit was, I assume you stopped biting yourself. But did you actually stop, or did you just switch mediums?"

"What are you talking about?" Wilbur shrank in on himself slightly. He wasn't sure where this was going, but he didn't think he liked it.

"Do you smoke because you like it, or because it fucks up your lungs?" Quackity asked bluntly.

"Wha- I don't--" Wilbur tried to answer as heat crept up his neck. "I've smoked for- for ages, Q, that's got nothing to do with--"

"Do you eat three meals every day?"

"Of course I eat," Wilbur deflected, but Quackity wasn't having any of it.

"That's not what I asked," he said. "Three meals, Wilbur? Two at the least?"

"Yes," Wilbur said.

"Every day?" Quackity pressed.

"...not every day," Wilbur admitted.

"How many days a week?"

"Oh my fucking Prime, Quackity," Wilbur groaned.

"Just estimate. How many days a week do you eat a decent amount of food?"

"This is stupid," Wilbur grumbled. He didn't give his answer for a few moments. When Quackity remained expectantly silent, he sighed and guessed, "Maybe like, three to five days a week? I don't fucking know."

"Why don't you eat more?" came the immediate response.

"Because I don't want to!" Wilbur said, "Can we be done with the fucking interrogation already?!"

"No. Why don't you want to eat more?"

"Prime-- I don't need it! I survive just fine the way I am."

"Is it because you think you deserve to starve?" Quackity probed on.

"No," Wilbur defended, "It's just nice, alright? Maybe I don't really mind being hungry once in a while, so what?"

Quackity didn't answer. He just raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

"...and maybe- yeah, maybe I don't really care that much if it's uncomfortable." Wilbur's face was warm. His mouth kept moving when his brain told him to shut the fuck up, as if a small dam had broken and the words were leaking out and spilling all over. "Because at least then I can feel it, all the time, and I know that I'm alive, and I have a body that needs to be fed to keep surviving, and I'm not- I'm not just a ghost. I feel like I exist. And maybe it doesn't matter if it hurts, because I don't- I haven't exactly earned myself a life of luxury, okay? Maybe it's good for me to feel it sometimes. Maybe I'm supposed to. As a... reminder, that the world doesn't just forget the shit I did. Or something. Look, I don't fucking know! I'm not starving myself all the time, I'm fine. I'm alive. I literally live in a food truck, it doesn't fucking matter."

After he finished, the words soaked in the quiet air between them. Despite the vulnerability of the moment, Wilbur somehow felt as though a knot of tension in his chest had loosened. 

Quackity was examining him with an unreadable expression. After a minute, he nodded slowly. "Okay," was all he said.

Wilbur forced a scoff. "Eloquent as always," he spat.

"Thank you for telling me," Quackity said, but his tone was flat. 

"Fuck you," said Wilbur. Quackity simply looked him up and down once more, and turned to leave the room.

"I'm going to get your clothes," he said quietly. "They should be dry."

Chapter Text

Quackity took his time, pulling each article of clothing out of the dryer and folding it to stack neatly.

He had debated, while Wilbur was working on his penalty cleaning in the bathroom, whether to use scented or unscented detergent. To let the smell of Quackity’s house in Las Nevadas linger on in the fabric, or to leave him alone. It felt stupid now. A lot of things felt stupid now, as he matched the seams of Wilbur's sweater and smoothed out the wrinkles.

He had forgotten to ask why Wilbur stopped cutting himself. He wasn't sure if he could ask now. Maybe it would be too much. Prime knew that Quackity didn't want to take this too far, this little thing that was both foreign and familiar in ways that made him uneasy. It felt too much like candlelight and soft touches, the reluctant sharing of a rotting wound that few had seen but the one who inflicted it. It felt too much like a fragile glass being pushed into shaking hands. It felt too breakable for him to carry.

Quackity calmly shook the creases out of Wilbur's mangy trench coat and began wrestling it into a decently folded rectangle. Wilbur was recovering, he reasoned with himself. It would be natural to let him stay for another day. Until he was better. Quackity would have to play host, and serve him three meals. That would be the natural thing to do. He would do that much for almost anybody.

He looked at the folded trench coat and frowned. In the end, he had used the scented detergent. 

When he came back to his bedroom, he knocked on the door. Of his own bedroom. Just another thing that felt kind of stupid, but whatever. He heard a muffled call from inside and took it to mean come in. Wilbur was still just lying on Quackity's bed, although the drawer of the nightstand was open and he was busy examining a pack of herbal cigars. He brought them to his nose for a sniff, then tossed them aside in distaste.

"Put 'em back," Quackity said, restraining a sigh. Wilbur sat up and looked at him. He did not put them back.

"Give me my things," he demanded, as if Quackity wasn't already holding the clothes out for him to take.

"Do you want me to make sure something more comfortable gets brought over?" he asked.

Wilbur looked at him in wary confusion as he snatched his clothing back. "Why?"

"I just thought as long as you're staying here--"

"You can't make me stay."

This made Quackity falter. "...I thought you wanted to," he said honestly, and it felt stupid.

"I don't," Wilbur said. But Quackity caught the slight shift in his gaze, the way his upper lip quirked just so when he finished speaking. Quackity knew a blatant lie when he saw one. He relaxed slightly. 

"Well, either way, I'm fairly sure you're still running a temperature," he said briskly, "So you should at least stay and get some sleep tonight before you walk home. Pretty sure no one's gonna catch you if you faint under the heat at this time of day."

Wilbur's expression hardened, and Quackity got the sinking feeling that he had said the wrong thing. Then it was gone, and Wilbur eased back into his usual manner. Quackity wasn't sure if Wilbur was a little more guarded than usual, or if he was reading too deeply into it. 

"Hm." Wilbur leaned back against Quackity's plush pillows, making a point of taking up the entire king-sized bed. "And where are you gonna sleep?"

"In my bed--" Quackity rolled his eyes-- "while you sleep on the couch. Dick." Wilbur gave a showy yawn, and Quackity left the room, shaking his head. He assumed Wilbur had learned his lesson after the makeup fiasco, so he wasn't too concerned about leaving him alone this time. He just needed some space, that was all. Maybe, he hoped, they both did.

When he came back that evening, Wilbur was fast asleep on top of the covers. Quackity laid a spare blanket on top of him and settled down on the couch. 

__________

"...Wilbur. Wake up." A hand was shaking his shoulder. Wilbur groaned and pressed his face into the soft, deep warmth enveloping him and hoped that it would go away. It didn't. "Wilbur, I don't have all morning. C'mon."

"The fuck you want?" Wilbur slurred, cracking his eyes open. Quackity was dressed in his usual crisp shirt, tie, and suspenders, complete with an impatient expression in his mismatched eyes. 

"I made breakfast," he said.

"Good for you," Wilbur mumbled, trying to roll over. Quackity's hand stopped him.

"Let me rephrase that: You're going to eat breakfast now."

"Piss off." 

"Wilbur, I have to be at a press conference in half an hour. Get your ass up." He tugged at Wilbur's arm. Wilbur groaned in frustration. "C'mon, there's eggs and bacon and coffee--"

"What's the point of waking me up for this?" Wilbur whined, knowing perfectly well what the point was. He would be touched if he wasn't so pissed off. 

"I'm not gonna tell you again, Soot," Quackity warned, "Out of bed. Now." Wilbur huffed but complied. Coffee didn't sound too bad right now, he supposed. And he had to admit as he walked out to the living area, the bacon smelled amazing. He stretched.

He had changed into his regular clothes, minus the coat, and slept in them, so they were quite wrinkled now. The color of his trench coat was slightly alarming -- it looked almost three shades lighter than it had before it was washed. Quackity had apparently gone to the trouble of using stain remover as well. Wilbur could count at least five discolored spots that had gone missing. Most of the damage remained, however, so he wasn't too perturbed. 

There was a plate made for him on the kitchen counter. Quackity had apparently eaten already; all he had was a mug of coffee. To Wilbur's surprise, there was a decent amount of creamer in it. He had assumed that Quackity would be more of a straight black coffee guy. He voiced this thought as he leaned against the counter.

"Only when I'm in the mood for something bitter," Quackity shrugged. "It's good either way."

Wilbur hummed and bit off the end of a piece of bacon. He hadn't decided yet whether he was going to be a bitch today. Quackity had really irritated him with the questioning the previous night. Then again, he had let Wilbur sleep there, in his own bed, which was much more than Wilbur had expected. It felt so soft and safe and comfortable, he had actually slept well for once in his primedamned life. At least, until he had been woken up. 

He wondered, briefly, if being nice enough could earn him another night in his rival's penthouse. Maybe this time Quackity would sleep beside him, and he could listen to his breathing as it lulled him into a dreamless sleep...

Wilbur glanced at Quackity and found him already looking back with a mildly amused expression. 

"What?" Wilbur said, a little more forcefully than he intended.

"You seem lost in thought," Quackity said. 

"Just morning haze," he replied, "I wasn't expecting to be woken up so early." Quackity rolled his eyes. Wilbur's attention caught on those eyes. It always did, but this time there was something off.

"Your eyes look different somehow," he said. 

Quackity frowned pointedly at him. "Yeah. That's what happens when some dipshit ruins all your makeup."

"No, I mean like, different from how you always are, just every day."

"Yeah," Quackity repeated, looking at him like he was stupid. Always condescending. The expression looked good on him, sure, but it was still annoying as hell. "That's what happens when some dipshit ruins all your makeup."

"You don't wear makeup every day," Wilbur protested, only to recieve an even more unimpressed look. 

"Of course I do." Like it was so obvious, anyone could see. Like Wilbur was the idiot for not knowing this already. "Not much. Not a full face. But some eyeliner, concealer here and there, blush on the outer corners and higlight on the inners. Maybe some gloss if I feel like it. It doesn't take much, you know. And straight dudes respect you more if it's not too obvious."

Wilbur snorted. "Since when have you sought the approval of straight guys?" 

"You would've been shit at running an entertainment business." Quackity shook his head, his lips twitching almost into a smirk. "It's not about approval, it's about interest. You've got to appeal to every demographic just enough to keep them interested in you. Otherwise you don't get the chance to nail what each one really wants, and that's where the moneymaker lies. I wear more makeup around a certain audience and less around another."

"I'd have thought your citizens would respect you either way," Wilbur said, "The population seems pretty apt to trust that whatever you do is stylish."

"Where do you think that trust comes from?" Quackity pointed out. "They're used to seeing me as someone that appeals to them, whether that's smart, sexy, dignified, whatever. And once you get used to seeing somebody in a certain light, you just kind of assume that everything they do will continue to fit your perception of them. Especially when their confidence level stays the same."

Wilbur blinked. "You really are a manipulative bastard, aren't you?" he said. 

"It's not manipulation," Quackity replied, "It's social aptitude. Speaking of which, I have a press conference to get to. Don't do anything particularly bitchy while I'm out, 'kay?" 

"I make no promises," said Wilbur as Quackity gathered to leave.

"You vandalize my shit again and I'm throwing you out the window," he said over his shoulder, and the door shut.

Well. That was Wilbur's decision made for him, he supposed. Only mild bitchiness today. 

In that spirit, he finished his breakfast and left the dishes on the counter. He figured that Quackity's penthouse must have more amenities to explore, and explore he did. Was it nosy? Maybe. But who was there to judge if Wilbur poked through every drawer he could find, examining Quackity's numerous belongings? It felt like a weird sort of museum, or a scavenger hunt. How many ludicrously unnecessary items could he find? And how many decor pieces had fucking tiger fur on them? Seriously, he thought the tiger skin rug was intense enough, but now it seemed Quackity must have slaughtered half the tigers on the server for his interior design fantasies. 

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But Wilbur was bored, and critiquing Quackity's possessions was a sort of game. It felt a little desperate, though. Wilbur was once again struck with the now-familiar feeling of being little more than a stain in Quackity's perfect home. 

Wilbur found a large screen television and turned it on. It seemed that Quackity had accounts on every streaming service ever created. He selected one he recognized and began flipping through Quackity's most recently viewed shows. Was it nosy? Definitely. He didn't care. 

Apparently Quackity was really into horror film-esq crime documentaries, so Wilbur tried watching about half of an episode. It was more disturbing than he expected. He took a break.

At noon, he rooted around in the pantry until he found something to snack on. He turned the thermostat up and opened a few windows, because Prime knew it was too cold inside. Wilbur didn't understand the logic there -- just because outside was sweltering hot didn't mean inside had to be uncomfortably cold to balance it out. And anyway, he liked the heat. He'd had enough of cold and damp, waiting for years in the unrelenting chill of a train station. Heat was always better.

He took the time, also, to fix Quackity a little surprise, before wandering back to the television and carding through another one of Quackity's "frequently watched" lists. He found a cartoon that was entirely in Spanish, but still pretty funny just by visuals alone. It was still playing when he dozed off,  wondering distantly whether Quackity would send him home when he woke up. He hoped not. 

__________

Quackity recognized the sound of his comfort cartoon before the front door was even open. Which was strange because Wilbur, he was pretty damn sure, didn't speak Spanish. He entered and wandered toward the couch, where he spotted the lanky man's feet hanging off the edge of the armrest. 

"Wil--" Quackity cut himself off abruptly upon realizing that his guest was asleep. Well, at least he was keeping out of trouble. Quackity watched him for a moment. Wilbur looked almost innocent in his sleep, with his face relaxed into a soft expression and the remains of his fever painting his cheeks pink. A faintly amused smile touched Quackity's lips. Such a devious bastard, looking so sweet and saccharine while he undoubtedly dreamed something vile. 

He plucked the remote control from Wilbur's limp grasp and turned the volume down, but left the TV on. Turning toward the kitchen, he found something that caught his attention. A mug of lukewarm coffee stood alone on the counter, joined only by a brief note. He picked it up and read, "For Big Q." 

Quackity threw a glance over his shoulder at Wilbur still passed out on the couch. The coffee in his mug swirled with just a splash of creamer. He lifted to his lips and sipped. 

Instantly, he had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from spitting it out. What the fuck is this, fucking garlic salt?! It was a foul flavor, clashing with the taste of coffee and making him nauseous in seconds. Still, he steeled himself and swallowed the bit that was in his mouth, grimacing. Fuck you, Wilbur.

__________

When Wilbur awoke, the TV was turned off. There was a tall glass on the coffee table before him, accompanied by a note. 

"Drink up, asshole."

Wilbur chuckled, assuming that Quackity had fallen for his very mild bitchery. Then, he paused and debated whether to risk falling for whatever Big Q had laid out for him. It looked like a tall glass of ice water -- which coincidentally sounded amazing at the moment, he was parched -- but how could he tell for sure? 

Well... it wasn't like he had ever been careful to avoid Quackity's schemes in the past. Fuck it. Wilbur grabbed the glass and chugged it in one breath.

It was just water.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe you talked me into this."

"Aw, what's the big deal, Q?"

"If you touch me, Soot, you're gonna wake up in a train station."

"I would never," Wilbur huffed. Quackity rolled over, taking most of the blankets with him. He felt Wilbur try to tug them back to his side for a moment, then give up. "Anyway, this was your idea."

"All I said was that I'm not sleeping on the couch in my own home," said Quackity, "Again."

"I think you were just lonely," Wilbur declared. Quackity scowled and shut off the lamp, plunging them into darkness.

"Shut up and go to sleep," he said.

"But Quackity," Wilbur said, and Quackity could see in his mind's eye the exact expression he was probably wearing -- with his eyebrows high and his lids fluttering, tilting his head in a characature of innocence. "You haven't even said goodnight to me!" There was a longish silence. "Hmph. Well, fine. I'll say it first: Goodnight, Quackity. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

Quackity was quiet for a moment. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Goodnight." Wilbur didn't say anything after that, but Quackity could feel the smile radiating off of him. In the dark, he rolled his eyes. 

He found, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, that he didn't do well with a bedmate. Every time Wilbur shifted, Quackity's breath would hitch, like his body was on high alert. They were on complete opposite sides of the bed, and yet his wings folded tight against his body, their usual nighttime ache even more piercing when he had little else to think about. He turned onto his stomach and stretched them out, but nothing helped. As soon as he started to think about something else, they were folded tight again, subconsciously hugging his sides. 

It was impossible to tell when he slipped into his fitful sleep, because the feeling was the same -- pressed facedown, wings exposed to the cold air. He was smothered, underground, buried deep in a grave and there was something rotten inside of him. His heartbeat echoed through his entire body like the toll of a bell, and he could barely move. He tried to raise his hands to claw at the earth encasing him, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't dig himself out. There were worms oozing through the earth around him, devouring the decay, and any second they might find him.

Something slid against his side, and suddenly they were all right there, probing his flesh with blind snouts, biting and burrowing in underneath his skin. He tried to thrash, tried to scream, but he was buried and heavy and dirt was filling up his lungs -- the worms were in his stomach and he had to vomit them out or they would eat him alive, but he could'nt breathe -- he was dead and dying and buried and the worms were digging into his left eye socket and it hurt -- he was too heavy, there was weight pressing down on him -- mouths gripping his shoulders and biting down, trying to drag him farther into the center of the earth --

Quackity was wheezing rapidly through his pillowcase. 

"--ackity, wake up, you're okay. It's okay."

There were hands on his shoulders, and the touch felt like it was contaminating him, like a toxic fungus seeping through his skin. He jerked and tried to get his elbows under him to lift his face from where it had been pressed into his pillow. A hand moved to his back, trailing its rot and disease across his shoulder blades. He shrank back, but no words would come out of his mouth, only stuttering gasps.

"It was just a dream, Q, you're okay. Everything's gonna be okay." The voice was too gentle, too sweet and meaningless, like syrup poured over a wound. Quackity shook his head. His throat spasmed, and he coughed, and the hand rubbed circles of worms and termites into his back until his flesh was crawling all over. 

"...ahs-stop..." He forced his mouth to shape around the words. Once he started trying, it came a little easier to whisper between breaths, "...stop tou-ching me..."

"Shit, sorry--" The hands pulled away instantly, but the slithery feeling of foreign skin lingered. Quackity gagged. The back of his throat tasted sour. He blinked his eyes rapidly, but everything was black.

"...can't see," he gasped out, and there was a rustle of sheets as the mattress under him dipped. 

"The lights are off right now, do you want me to turn them on?" Quackity didn't answer. His entire brain was filling with static. He had to focus on his lungs or else they would stop working.

"Quackity? I'm going to turn the lamp on, that'll give us a little bit of light. Okay?" 

Warm, golden light suddenly filled his narrow vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly. His brain worked overtime to try and process his surroundings over the unbearably loud pounding of his heart and wheeze of his lungs. 

"Quackity? Do you know where you are? You're safe at home, in your bed. Everything's okay. It was just a nightmare. It's over now, okay? You're safe. You're safe here with me, I won't even touch you. I'll just stay right here unless you want me to move, okay? Can I stay right here?"

Quackity thought he could feel his guts wriggling inside him. He gagged again. 

"Shhhh-sh-sh, just breathe. In and out. You're okay."

He wasn't okay. He was gagging and suffocating, and he was scared. He was so fucking scared.

"Quackity, I'm right here. I'm right here for you and I'm staying right here as long as you need. You're not alone. I'm here."

He had to breathe. How could he start breathing again? He didn't remember. It felt impossible.

"I'm right here." 

Quackity trained his eye in front of him and concentrated, waiting for the roar of static in his skull to converge into a word.

Pillow. He could see his pillow. It was white. With some effort, he raised his eye and turned his head to another item. Lamp. His chest hurt, like he was dying. Like he was having a heart attack and falling the the floor to be ripped apart and buried--

"Hey, Big Q, you look warm. Can I move your blanket so your legs aren't covered? Is that okay?" 

...Wilbur. He could see Wilbur, his fluffy hair and deep, anxious eyes. Wilbur was kneeling beside the bed, watching him. His hands hovered in front of him.

"Quackity? Can I move the blankets? I'll try not to touch you, okay?"

Quackity didn't really understand what he was talking about, but he heard the questioning tone and saw the concern shadowed in his expression. Mutely, he nodded. Wilbur reached forward, and then something was shifting and sliding against Quackity's legs, and the stimulation was repulsive. He gagged again, this time triggering a sob that sounded almost like another cough. Then the feeling was gone, and his legs were free. He zeroed back in on his lungs. Thankfully they hadn't stopped working while he was distracted. 

"How is that? Better?"

He had to slow them down. He tried to take a deeper, slower breath, but quickly ran out of oxygen and reverted to rapid and shallow, afraid that he would suffocate if he didn't. He had to try again, slowing his lungs by just a fraction. Then a tiny bit more. He wasn't dying. His heart hurt like a knife in his chest. He wasn't dying. He was in his bedroom. 

He wasn't sure how many minutes passed in silence. He wasn't sure how many times he stared and the nightstand and mentally named the few objects on top of it -- lamp, glass, pen, communicator. He wasn't sure how long he spent waiting for his heart to quiet down. 

Eventually, Quackity shifted onto his side, then sat up.

"...Wilbur?" he said, slightly raspy. He cleared his throat.

Wilbur's face flooded with relief at the sound of his voice. "Quackity," he said, "Hey. Are you okay?"

"That's a pretty fuckin' stupid question," Quackity mumbled. Wilbur looked delighted at the criticism.

"I know," he said, "Sorry. I don't really know what else to say. Are you... do you need anything? Some water or something?"

Quackity shook his head. He tried to stretch, then winced as the base of his wings seized up. They were always more sensitive in moments like this. 

"Are you okay?" Wilbur asked again, then seemed to realize what he had said and backtracked, "Shit, I- I meant are you- can I help? Are you-- okay? Fuck--"

Dumbass. Quackity's lips curved toward a smile for a fraction of a second. 

"Wings hurt," he grumbled. Wilbur was immediately shuffling on his knees, craning his neck to see. 

"Please, can I look at them?" he asked, and Quackity wearily gestured for him to get back up onto the bed. Wilbur scrambled up and scooted over next to him. "If they're sore, I could try to help. If it's okay with you."

"They just get all..." Quackity waved a hand vaguely in front of him. "...tender. And cramp up."

"May I touch them?" Wilbur's hand hovered eagerly in front of him, but awaited Quackity's response. Quackity couldn't wrap his head around why the hell Wilbur looked so... excited. That had to be a bad sign, right? But he was so tired, and the cramps in his wings were so uncomfortable, and Wilbur said he could make them feel better, so...

"Okay," he sighed, "Fine. Gently." He turned his back to Wilbur and settled cross-legged, bracing himself. He felt Wilbur shuffle around to get situated, too, before grazing his fingers through Quackity's feathers. 

And oh, it had been so long since he let anybody touch him there. He exhaled shakily as slender hands felt along the slope of the limbs, closer and closer to the base. When he reached the base, Wilbur paused for a moment. Then, he began to massage. He was being gentle, but the Quackity's hypersensitive nerves lit up instantly, and he cried out before he could stop himself. 

"Sorry," Wilbur said, but he didn't stop. He pressed the pads of his fingers into the knotted tendons in an agonizing but delicious rhythm. "Tell me if it's too much." Quackity only hmphed in response. Distantly, he wondered how the hell Wilbur seemed to know just the right places to squeeze and knead to make his wings flutter involuntarily.

"Tha-ah-t's good," Quackity breathed, "Just a little-- mff --little higher..." Wilbur followed his direction, and Quackity pressed his lips together to repress a whine at the intensity of the sensation. It was all pinpoint fingertips, digging just deep enough and rubbing just hard enough to loosen aching muscles. Pressure appeared like a sunburst, burning through the tension, and then faded away as gentle palms smoothed over the skin and ruffled feathers. "Holy f-fuck," he breathed.

"They're so beautiful," Wilbur murmured. He traced a deep line into the joints on either side, and Quackity keened. Instantly, his hand clapped over his mouth and his face was burning. "It's okay," Wilbur reassured, though it did nothing to quell his embarrassment, "That means I'm doing it right, right?" Quackity could only bite his lips and breath deeply through his nose. Wilbur pressed the pads of his thumbs into Quackity's flesh at just the right angle, and suddenly Quackity felt one of his wings smacking Wilbur in the face.

"Sorry," he said, not really sorry.

Wilbur breathed out a little giggle and ran a hand through the feathers of that wing. "So perfect."

"W-what?"

"They're perfect," Wilbur repeated, "They're every bit as gorgeous as always. Even more so when I can look at them up close like this..."

"No, they're n-" Quackity was cut off by a sharp breath as Wilbur massaged a little more vigorously. Bastard.

"They are. I've never seen anything so precious in my life," he insisted, "And so soft..." He leaned in, and a rush of hot breath fanned across Quackity's back. Quackity shivered as Wilbur's cheek brushed against downy fluff. Goosebumps prickled his skin all over. "I want to kiss them.'

"W-Wil--" Quackity started.

"Please?" Wilbur wasn't just voicing a thought, he was asking permission. 

For a moment, Quackity thought, I could say no to this. But then Wilbur's hands were back at work, kneading his resolve into puddy. "Go on," he breathed.

Wilbur made a delighted noise and began pressing eager kisses all along the ridge of one wing, then doubling back to reach the other. He gave up massaging and simply cradled them in his hands and carded through the secondaries, taking care to straighten any feathers that he ruffled by nuzzling his face into them. He hummed in contentment.

"...so perfect... smell so good..." he mumbled in between kisses. Quackity's face was burning. He could feel Wilbur's heavy inhales and his hands caressing him, and it was heavenly. His wings stretched to their full span and encouraged the touches, despite the shame that still came over Quackity in waves. "...want to kiss all the pain away, make them feel as perfect as they are..."

"Fuck, Wilbur--" Quackity shivered again and buried his face in his hands. Then, he practically squeaked in surprise as Wilbur's lips travelled up his spine, trailing kisses from the downy wing joints up onto bare skin. 

"Is this okay?" Wilbur murmured against his back, and fuck, the way his breath hummed against the goosebumps on Quackity's skin had Quackity's head spinning.

"I... don't know..." he whispered. Wilbur's lips drew back, leaving a cold spot on his back. Quackity instantly missed the warmth of his touch. 

"That's okay. How do you feel?"

"Mmm," Quackity huffed, "Confused."

"I'm sorry." He could hear the grimace in Wilbur's voice. "I got carried away. I know that was kind of... sudden. I swear I didn't mean to spring that on you out of nowhere, especially if you didn't want--"

"Wilbur," Quackity interrupted, "It felt good. I... enjoyed it."

"Oh." Wilbur sounded relieved. "Okay. Um, good, then." There was a short pause. "Y'know, I wouldn't be opposed to doing this again sometime if you, y'know, think it helps. Relieve tension and whatnot." Quackity took that as the sign that he was finished and turned around to face him.

"Yeah, it um, it really... you really have a way with, um, your... hands." Quackity cringed the second the words were out of his mouth. Wilbur's lips twitched with a poorly suppressed grin. He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to say something unforgivably stupid, and Quackity raised a hand to cut him off. "Don't. Don't say anything. Just nod."

Wilbur's shoulders shook with repressed laughter as he obediently nodded his head. Even Quackity came close to slipping into a smile, but he warded it off.

"Maybe next time hold off on the..." Quackity grimaced again. "Compliments."

Wilbur tipped his head to one side, a playful gleam in his eyes. "Why? I only said what was true."

"Stop," Quackity said seriously. Wilbur's amusement faded into concern.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I've told you before," Quackity muttered. 

"You think they're ugly?" Somehow, Wilbur sounded genuinely hurt on behalf of the wings. Quackity looked to the side. "Quackity, you used to show them off all the time. What happened? Is it because they look a little different now? Because I'm serious when I say that the brown is beautiful--"

"It's not that," Quackity said, "I don't think it's bad that they changed. That's just how adult wings are, if anything I'm glad they didn't stay the same for my whole life."

"Then..." Wilbur's brow furrowed as he apparently searched for another explanation. Quackity could see the exact moment he realized what it was. "Oh, Quackity..."

Quackity's eyes widened. That wasn't condescension in his voice. That wasn't mockery. 

That was sorrow.

"Who was it?" Wilbur asked gently.

Quackity's wings folded in. "What?"

"Who told you that they weren't gorgeous?" Wilbur leaned forward slightly, eyes deep and searching. Quackity faltered. "Was it him?"

He didn't even say the name. He didn't even say the name. He didn't even say the name. He didn't even say the name. He didn't even say--

"Schlatt," Quackity said quietly. "He hated them. Used to grab them when he was upset and--" He couldn't finish that sentence. He moved on to the next one. "He thought it was funny, how sensitive they could be. And it was so fucking useless that I had these ugly ass things growing on me and still couldn't fly."

"His opinion was as worthless as he was," Wilbur said, low and steely. 

"Don't say that," Quackity winced, "Please. He was an abusive piece of shit, but not everything he ever said was wrong."

"This was, though," Wilbur insisted, "Telling you all that bullshit about something you had no control over? He wasn't stating a fact, Quackity, he was just hurting you. Because he could. And because it probably made him feel better about his own pathetic ass life when he made you insecure about yours."

"They're not pretty, Wil." Quackity shook his head, "I can brag about a lot of other shit but not this. They're humiliating."

"He lied to you. He said they were ugly and he was lying, because he never saw a beautiful thing that he didn't want to ruin."

"I'm the one who ruined them," Quackity admitted. "Schlatt suggested binding them once, and I jumped all over the idea. I'm the one who figured out how to do it. If I hadn't, maybe I'd at least still be able to glide. It wasn't flying, but it was something."

"They're still valuable even if you can't glide," said Wilbur.

"How?" said Quackity. "What could possibly make these damn things valuable?"

"The same thing that made all that fucking makeup that I wasted valuable," said Wilbur. "They're beautiful. And even more than that, you paid for them! Not with money, but with your time. Quackity, they've been a part of you forever. You've cared for them for years and years, and they're part of who you are. That's what makes them so special to me."

Quackity's heart twisted. He couldn't do this shit. He couldn't, because he knew where it led. He'd been down this road again and again, and it shattered him every time. He couldn't live like that, in purgatory, gluing the pieces of himself back together every day just to keep surviving.

Wilbur's hand cupped his cheek, uninvited, and tilted his face to meet Wilbur's soft gaze. Too soft. Saccharine. Everything about it was wrong, because Quackity had nothing to offer -- Wilbur wasn't even trying to get off, he wasn't asking any favors, he was just there. If his eyes had been full of lust, Quackity would have known how to act, what to say, how to control the situation. But there was only something warm and serious that threatened to burn Quackity alive. 

"You're beautiful, Quackity. In every way." His words fell like a guillotine, spelling out pain and death. "And... I'm pretty sure I love you."

Quackity swallowed hard around a lump in his throat. He grabbed Wilbur's wrist and twisted it, dragging his hand away from his face. Wilbur winced, and he twisted harder. He had to make this one thing clear. He had to make this lesson stick, for both of their sakes. 

"Don't fucking touch me," he growled, forcing his face into something fierce and angry. "I don't need your love."

Wilbur"s voice trembled desperately, just on the edge of breaking. "No. You don't need me at all. But... wouldn't it be nice?" 

"It would be nice..." Quackity murmured. He worked to keep his voice harsh. He was, if nothing else, an actor. "...if you got out of my house."

Wilbur looked like he had been slapped. 

"Go home, Wilbur," Quackity said, softer now, "You know I've never loved you. You know that." 

Wilbur's lips formed the words I know, but no sound came out. Quackity let go of his wrist.

Wilbur fumbled off of the bed and turned away. He started picking up his belongings,  and Quackity felt sick watching him. When he looked back over his shoulder, his face was streaked with silent tears. Quackity averted his gaze. He could feel Wilbur looking at him for a moment, waiting for some kind of goodbye, or at least the simple acknowledgment of eye contact. Quackity gave him neither. The silence grated against his ears until he wanted to scream and fill it up. 

"Goodnight, Quackity," came a hoarse and wavering voice, burning into him, "Sleep well."

Chapter Text

He should have known better.

That was the first thought that dug its claws into Wilbur's brain. He should have known better. Hot tears spilled down his face as he left the penthouse, but he didn't allow himself to make a sound until he was outside, shivering in the biting night air. If he had just thought before he spoke for one primedamned moment, he would have known. He wasn't that fucking stupid. Quackity didn't care about him, he didn't even want him around in the first place, and he'd made it abundantly clear. Wilbur should have known better.

A sob racked his frame as he struggled along the street. Vibrant lights blared on all sides, but none of them would reach his eyes through the stinging blur of regret. He had made it okay, just for a moment. He had made Quackity happy. There had been a moment when their eyes met, and Quackity was flushed red, and his heart had leapt out of his chest and soared through the air. Quackity said it felt good. He said he enjoyed Wilbur's hands, Wilbur's kisses, Wilbur's care. 

And with one stupid sentence, Wilbur had fucked everything up. Just like he always did. He should have done better. He ruined it, not just for himself, but for Quackity. He took a moment of peace and comfort and turned it into a bad memory. 

Wilbur collapsed against the wall of a building. His face was screwed up into an ugly wail, and the tear tracks felt frigid against his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and cried, freely, coughing and hiccupping with the force of his sobs. He didn't give a fuck who saw him. None of them were real. All that was real, all that existed was himself, and Quackity, and the hundred million miles of cold and dark that separated them. It was all his fault. He should have done better.

He didn't remember walking home, but he remembered the deep and raging feeling of being filled up with grief and yet somehow still empty.

He remembered falling onto his pathetic, worn-thin mattress.

He remembered waking up, still wrapped in his trenchcoat.

He remembered sitting in bed and smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette until the air was thick and he couldn't stop coughing.

He remembered staggering to the window and throwing it open to let himself breathe, and instantly hating himself for trying to lighten his own burden. He didn't deserve the fresh air. 

He remembered staring at a kitchen knife as it lay innocently on the counter. I haven't done any of that since I was revived. Yet still his hands twitched the longer he looked at the blade.

He remembered thinking about what Quackity would say if he gave in. Would he even be angry anymore? Or would he just look away in disappointment and disgust? 

He didn't remember what he did next. Only that it hurt, and he deserved it. 

__________

Quackity knew that he should have been concerned when he didn't see or hear from Wilbur for several days. He wasn't. He was relieved. If anything was going to tempt him against his better judgment, it would be Wilbur. He knew that now, and he couldn't afford it. It was a good thing that Wilbur was keeping his distance. It was safer this way.

But his wings were getting sore again.

Weekends brought the usual influx of extra patrons to the strip club. Quackity didn't need to ask ahead of time; he knew that the manager would be thrilled if he showed up to perform. He didn't do it often, but when he did, he could count on a positive response. That was what he needed. The spotlight. The eyes on him. The praise. 

So he sought it out, he stripped, he danced. He posed under a spotlight and drank up all of the lust and carnal adoration that was poured out for him. It felt like water on an empty stomach. 

So he took it further. He flirted, he kissed, he picked up a beautiful man and took him home. It felt like chewing gum to try and ignore his hunger.

And when he woke up alone, his wings still ached.

__________

Wilbur stood at the edge of the city, leaning against one of the legs of the sign that welcomed newcomers to Las Nevadas. His hand fidgeted in his pocket, where his cigarettes usually resided. They were all used up now. It wasn't as if they had really helped anyway. He was addicted to something much stronger, he just wasn't sure if it was worth trying for anymore. He would never get the dose he craved. 

The bandages on his arms were too tight. There was a rumble in his stomach, and it was beginning to cramp. It as all too dull, too muffled. It left too many empty spaces inside of him. He was beginning to think he would never be full. 

The sun hung low over the horizon. Dust swirled at Wilbur's heels as he set off walking, shaky but purposeful. Anger, embarrassment, arousal -- it was still heat, one way or another. Love, hatred. He needed something to fill him, and if it was bound to be pain, then he would swallow it like he always did. 

The streets were as busy as always, and he almost got hit twice or thrice while jaywalking downtown. It didn't matter, though, because he found what he was looking for. A smoke shop -- vapor emporium, for the pretentious fuckers who did the lettering on the building -- with windows displaying some of the brands sold within. His eyes flitted over the logos until he spotted one in particular, and he strolled in like he owned the place. He was about to. 

"Alright, I'll give you the easiest choice you'll have to make all night," he declared, grabbing a lighter off of a rack. He drew and lit a stick of dynamite from inside his coat, made direct eye contact with the cashier, and tossed it. "Run."

The resulting explosion, though rather tame, sent any customers shrieking and running for the door. The cashier gave a heavy sigh, looking as though they might cry, and ducked under the counter.

"I've got more where that came from," Wilbur drawled, kicking over a display stand. Tobacco products scattered across the floor. He flicked the lighter on again and turned, opening the front of his coat with a flourish just as the cashier popped back up with a crossbow. 

They looked at each other for a moment. Wilbur's coat was full of TNT, but the lighter was in his opposite hand. The cashier had their finger on the trigger and the crossbow bolt pointed at Wilbur's chest. 

"Oh, come on," Wilbur groaned, "Are you seriously going to fucking shoot me?"

"Honestly, I've been wanting to shoot somebody all day," they replied flatly. 

"Customer service?" Wilbur said sympathetically. 

"Put out the lighter, please."

"Y'know, I wasn't actually going to hurt anyone if I could help it," Wilbur said.

"I'll give you five seconds." 

"Can I talk to your manager?" Wilbur teased.

They shot him. The bolt dug into his right arm, just below the shoulder, and he stumbled back and dropped the lighter. Searing pain shot across his nerves. He bit back a curse as his grimace twisted into a Cheshire smile. 

"Well, fuck you too," he said with a hollow sort of cheer, and dodged behind an aisle. He still had his own lighter in his breast pocket, and he wasted no time in fumbling it open and catching the fuse of some TNT. He placed it haphazardly and backed away just barely out of range. The explosion rattled the shelves and sent bits of debris flying. Hot air licked his face, and he breathed in, letting it burn his sinuses. 

He could hear the cashier finally escaping the building; apparently the damage was already significant enough that there was no use sticking around.

Wilbur watched as fire consumed a shelf full of tobacco, flooding the room with fragrant smoke. A fleeting urge to lay himself down in the flames and burn crossed his mind, but he just moved on to another area of the store and placed more explosives. Another lit fuse threatened his life, just the way he liked it. He jumped back out of range, timing it to the last second so that the curls in front of his face singed slightly. Heat rolled over his skin as flames claimed an entire wall. The smoke was rapidly thickening now, and he was almost surprised at how quickly the place was coming apart. 

He hadn't pulled the bolt out of his arm yet. It tore his flesh and anchored itself deep, satisfyingly painful, until it grew to be too much. His hand gripped the shaft of the bolt, ready to remove it.

A voice in his head told him no. His eyes widened as a familiar weight settled into his gut. You don't fucking deserve this. Lie down and let the flames take you back where you belong. He swallowed hard and used his grip on the bolt to grind it deeper into his arm. 

"Fuck-- AGH! F-FUCK!" Every muscle in his arm seized up, resisting the intrusion, but still he clenched his fists and forced himself to break every base instinct of survival. He breathed heavily through gritted teeth, vision blurring. When he could handle the torture no longer, he let go of the bolt and staggered over to lean against the counter. Blood gushed down his sleeve, soaking a dark crimson stain into the material. He felt lightheaded, although that might just as well have been from the hunger as from the blood loss. Or the lack of oxygen in the smoke-filled shop. His eyes burned as tears dampened his cheeks.

He had just pulled out another round of TNT when he heard a voice. 

"Wilbur, stop!"

For a moment, a grin carved itself back into Wilbur's face. He spun dramatically to face the doorway.

He was disappointed. 

"Foolish?" he said, starting to cough. "Wh-where-- hggk --where's Qua--"

"Wilbur, step away from the fire. Walk toward the door. Now." Foolish was accepting no nonsense. Wilbur found his growing frustration barely overshadowed by his mild alarm at finding that he couldn't take another breath without choking on hot smoke and almost doubling over. Pain shot through his wounded arm with every little movement. His head spun.

"--Wilbur! WILBUR!"

This felt vaguely familiar, Wilbur thought as his knees hit the floor. His lungs spasmed uncontrollably, intent on tearing themselves out of his chest. He suddenly became aware that he was dripping with sweat, it was rolling off of his face in great drops and he was too hot. 

Strong arms curled around him, caging him in and dragging him away. Wilbur kicked and thrashed, only driving the nerves in his arm to screech in protest at the movement. Wilbur screeched too, as hard as his throat would allow, but the coughing took over again in seconds.

And then cool air was hitting him, enveloping him, relieving the boiling feeling against his skin. For a moment it felt amazing. Then the realization -- cold, it's cold, I'm losing heat --made him croak out an angry protest. Prime, Wilbur fucking hated the cold.

"Wilbur, cool the fuck down!"  Foolish's voice was harsh in his ear, but it wasn't enough, it wasn't the right voice, and Wilbur was practically sobbing in frustration. "You're-- I'm not letting you cause any more trouble tonight. This is what you get, you hear me?!"

"F-fu-- kaghh --fuck off!" Wilbur managed to wheeze. Foolish did not fuck off. He picked Wilbur up and slung him over one shoulder, helpless as a sack of fucking potatoes. Wilbur struggled at first, but eventually gave up and let himself be carried. As if he could do anything about it besides keep hacking his lungs out.

Foolish was yelling at him, prattling on about unacceptable behavior and fucking destroying people's well earned property and do you even realize how serious this is?! Wilbur wasn't listening. He was uncomfortable in a dozen ways, and the sensations kept him grounded in reality for the time being. He was alive, whether he deserved it or not. 

He was only released once the were outside the city borders. Foolish dumped him unceremoniously on the ground and threatened to dismember him if he touched any more of Las Nevadas's structures. For all his threats, though, Wilbur knew that Foolish wouldn't follow through. Despite being a mountain of a man, all glistening muscle and ridiculously tall, he was as much of a pacifist as anyone on this server could be. Wilbur glared at him as venemously as he could manage, but only sighed once Foolish turned and left him. 

His plan had failed. In hindsight, maybe he should have anticipated that. But Wilbur was never really the type to believe that his Plan A, whatever it may be, was capable of failing. In every situation, no matter how depressed or unhinged his thoughts may be, he was always wildly, unflinchingly, unreasonably optimistic about his chances. Icarus, Techno had called him. Wilbur understood now. Maybe it wasn't optimism, then, but a blind and desperate grasping for purpose. Once he chose his course, he would cling to it, desperately, with reckless abandon. He would go down with his ship. He would die on the hill. He would fly too close to the sun, every single time. 

After all, Quackity was one hell of a sun to orbit.

Wilbur picked himself up off the ground unsteadily and finally, finally tore the crossbow bolt free from his arm, not even bothering to suppress his cry of pain. His arm was trembling and cramping, rendered practically useless by now. He wondered bleakly whether he had any regeneration potions in the van. It was unlikely, but if he really needed them, he could ask Ranboo... he groaned at the thought of dealing with all the questions, though. Maybe he would just root around and see what he could find, or steal some. Or go without. Although the latter option was looking less and less appealing now that he could barely move his injured arm without feeling like his bicep was ripping apart. 

He would try again, soon enough. Same plan, same hope. He would make it to the sun if it killed him.

__________

Quackity saw Foolish's message and chose to ignore it. He knew where Wilbur was, what he was doing. The week of peace had been a trick, then, to lull him into thinking he was rid of the problem. Now, Wilbur fucking Soot was back at it again, making his very existence an obstacle for everyone. 

Four arson attempts -- some more successful than others -- within five days. Foolish was pissed.

He practically kicked down Quackity's office door with the force of his entry one afternoon. Quackity looked up irratably and started to snap something about knocking first like a civilized fucking person, but Foolish interrupted him.

"You need to deal with Wilbur," he said, "I'm not doing this. He doesn't listen to me, and if we can't just arrest him or something--"

"Your incompetence isn't my concern," said Quackity. "If you had the guts to use a fraction of your muscle and back up your words, he wouldn't keep behaving that way."

"You know he's not gonna answer to anyone except you," Foolish argued. "You're all he can even talk about. This has gone far enough, you need to handle it before he blows up something important." 

"And play along with his game, Foolish? I'm not wasting my valuable time chasing delinquents around the borders. He's not going to get what he wants from me by acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum."

"Well, what does he want?!" Foolish was exasperated. 

"Something he's tried to go after before," Quackity muttered, "And he knows that I'm not giving him shit. Anyway, I've confronted him time and time again about his antics. Nothing is going to change if I go after him now."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Swing him a solid left hook and tell him he's wasting his time." Quackity went back to his work, dismissing Foolish with a wave of his hand. Foolish protested, but eventually got the hint that Quackity was done with the conversation and left in a flurry of annoyance.

When he was alone, Quackity sighed. He wanted nothing more than to march down to wherever Wilbur was and tell him off, just to watch the defiance turn to awe in his eyes. As soon as the thought sank in, he jolted. What the fuck? Why would he want that? Quackity wasn't that desperate for attention, of course he wasn't, he could get all the attention he desired from a million better places. And he certainly didn't need to argue with Wilbur to feel powerful. Power rested at his fingertips like the gold rings that he wore on all his fingers except one. 

Quackity's brow furrowed as he sought an answer. He couldn't stop thinking about where Wilbur was, what he was doing, when they would see each other again. Even though it didn't fucking matter, because Quackity didn't care. Wilbur was just an inconvenience, and one that he certainly shouldn't have to deal with anymore. He didn't know why rejecting Foolish's plea to go talk to him made him feel so frustrated. 

The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became, until he realized with a jolt that he just wanted to know whether Wilbur was okay.

As soon as he consciously recognized that fact, a dozen more questions flooded his brain in earnest. Is he okay? Has he been eating? Did I send him home too soon? What has he been doing? How much has he smoked? Is the burn on his hand healed yet?

"...shit." Quackity sat at his desk, horror dawning on ever fiber of his being. He balled his hand into fists and slammed them on the desktop. "Fucking hell!" His chair flew backwards as he stood up and grabbed fistfuls of random objects -- clipboard, stapler, empty mug -- to hurl across the room. They hit the massive safety glass window and clattered to the floor. "Prime damnit, stupid primedamn fucking BULLSHIT!"

He was around the desk and pacing the room before he even cared to think.

"I can't fucking do this bullshit anymore, you stupid fucking asshole! Fuck you!" He grabbed a decorative pillow from the sofa that sat across from his desk and beat the cushions with it. "Fuck--you--stupid--fucking-- BITCH!"

He stood for a moment, breathing heavily, pillow in hand. His head tipped back and his eyes screwed shut in agony. He'd have to be insane to care about that crazy son of a bitch. Really, he'd have to be insane to care about anyone, knowing what he knew of human nature. What he knew of love. Of purgatory. Of trying, really fucking trying, over and over to no avail. That was insanity, wasn't it? Trying again and again when there was no change in sight.

And Prime knew Quackity had rancid taste in men. 

"I am not insane," he whispered. He didn't believe it. 

Chapter Text

[Quackity whispers to you]: Have you eaten today?

Wilbur had been staring at the message for about a half hour now, and his feelings were still conflicting. He had been thrilled when he'd seen a message from Quackity appear on his communicator, but the contents were sort of disappointing. That was to say, disappointing in the same way that a glass of just water on a coffee table could be disappointing, if the expectation had been for something different. 

The communicator buzzed in his hands, and a new message appeared. 

[Quackity whispers to you]: Don't ignore me, Soot. Eat food. Now.

Wilbur blinked at the direct command, but made no move to follow it. Instead, he carefully typed out a message and paused before sending it.

[You whisper to Quackity]: or what

It only took a few seconds for a response to appear.

[Quackity whispers to you]: I'm not playing that game, Wilbur. You need to eat and that's all there is to it. 

Wilbur huffed.

[You whisper to Quackity]: I'll have you know I've eaten plenty today

[Quackity whispers to you]: Bullshit

[Quackity whispers to you]: Starvation is too stupid of a way to die, even for you. Eat.

Wilbur shoved the communicator in his pocket, stumped. Was this Quackity feeling... guilt? Pity? Self-righteous pride? Whatever it was, it didn't really seem to be going anywhere. Unless Wilbur could find a way to twist this into an opportunity. He stretched and wandered toward the burger van. 

"Oi, Ranbus!" he called. He heard a clatter from within and Ranboo's face appeared at the window. "You mind making me a burger? Just a little bit charred, with everything on it."

"Everything?" said Ranboo, but Wilbur was already strolling away, whistling absently as he pulled his communicator out again. No new messages. He reread the short conversation, then started scrolling back through their previous messages. There weren't many, and he knew them by heart. But still, he read them over. He imagined for what must've been the hundredth time a different response he could have given, how an interaction would have gone if he had said this instead of that, how Quackity might have responded. It was routine at this point.

[You whisper to Quackity]: alright, I'm eating. happy?

[Quackity whispers to you]: About time

[You whisper to Quackity]: don't you want to know what I'm eating?

There was a pause. Wilbur could envision Quackity reading the message, rolling his eye, and... would he respond? He wasn't sure. He watched lazily as a few grasshoppers flitted onto the path in front of him, then scattered when he came close. He was just about to give up on expecting a reply, when his com buzzed and an involuntary grin lit up his face.

[Quackity whispers to you]: What are you eating, Wilbur.

[You whisper to Quackity]: Guess :)

[Quackity whispers to you]: No fuck that

Wilbur chuckled at the instant refusal. Ranboo's voice floated over, calling that his burger was ready.

[You whisper to Quackity]: it's not rocket science, big q

He strolled back to the van and grabbed his meal. Ranboo seemed to have taken "everything on it" to heart. The burger was thick with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, relish, french fries, apple slices, an ice cube, and a sizeable helping of rainbow sprinkles. The van didn't even serve anything with rainbow sprinkles. 

[Quackity whispers to you]: Hamburger

[You whisper to Quackity]: bravo

[You whisper to Quackity]: you're a genius

Wilbur attempted to fit the edge of the burger into his mouth. With several moments of awkward fumbling and re-angling his jaw, he managed to take a bite. It wasn't the worst burger he'd ever had, although he did toss out the ice cube. The midday sun beat down on his back as he clambered on top of his trailer and sat on the edge with his feet dangling over the side.

[You whisper to Quackity]: are you out of cigars yet big q?

[Quackity whispers to you]: I've literally smoked one(1) this month. Why?

[You whisper to Quackity]: nothing nevermind

[Quackity whispers to you]: How much have you smoked?

Wilbur elected not to answer that one.

[Quackity whispers to you]: You need to stop that shit. 

[Quackity whispers to you]: Has your burn healed yet?

Wilbur flexed his left hand. The burn had, sadly, healed up when he drank a potion to fix his arm; there was no trace remaining of his brand. Several times, he had considered replacing it but had yet to actually do it.

[You whisper to Quackity]: i haven't decided yet

He wasn't prepared for the cascade of messages that popped up, one after another. Wilbur watched with slowly widening eyes as they appeared. 

[Quackity whispers to you]: Wtf??

[Quackity whispers to you]: Wilbur what the FUCK does that mean????

[Quackity whispers to you]: Tell me you're not burning it back in.

[Quackity whispers to you]: you can't be doing that shit. tell me you're not

[Quackity whispers to you]: You said you were fucking done

Wilbur swallowed. Right. Maybe a glass of just water wasn't the worst thing to find on a coffee table.

[You whisper to Quackity]: listen big q

[Quackity whispers to you]: You said you didn't do that anymore, what happened to that?!

[Quackity whispers to you]: What else have you been doing?!

[You whisper to Quackity]: it's nothing big q i'm fine. i was just joking

[Quackity whispers to you]: I don't believe you

[Quackity whispers to you]: Tell me what the fuck you did

[You whisper to Quackity]: it was just a joke

[Quackity whispers to you]: Don't fucking lie to me.

[Quackity whispers to you]: Wilbur tell me the truth. Did you hurt yourself again?

He didn't want to tell. He didn't have to tell anybody; it was his business and no one else's. He could just lie and say no and be done with the whole thing. He closed his eyes and imagined Quackity, sitting in his office with his shirt all scrunched up to let his wings out in the back, staring furiously at his communicator. Surely he was angry for the same reason he was always angry -- because Wilbur didn't obey his will. That was all. Wilbur told himself that that was all this was. Quackity was yelling at him over text because he wanted Wilbur to do as he was told. All Wilbur had to do was lie, and Quackity would spit one last irritated remark and be done with the matter. All Wilbur had to do was say no.

Wilbur stared at the screen for a long time. In his mind, he saw a glass on a coffee table, but he would never understand it. If Quackity hated him, why was it just water? It was so exhausting, the constant swinging from excitement to bitterness to frustration, and back again. Did he love the ride? Did he hate it? He didn't know anymore.

__________

Wilbur left him on read. Quackity wanted to scream. 

It took him almost an hour longer than usual to finish his work; he just couldn't seem to focus. Restlessness gnawed at his insides. When evening fell, his agitation led him to the outer edge of the city, into the welcome hum of rapidly cooling desert air, where he could walk the perimeter of the border uninterrupted. Just to clear his head. 

He didn't want to talk to Wilbur again, mostly because it was all that his imagination could fixate on. A million tiny whispers told him forward, left, left and onward to the van, to Paradise, but the one voice of reason spoke louder than them all. He just needed to clear his head. He couldn't handle two honey-brown eyes fixed on him, drowning him in their wet, shimmery tears. He walked a little faster. What was Wilbur doing right at that moment? Was he alone, with a cigarette or a knife? He didn't want to have to do that again, he was afraid. He would never say it out loud, not in a million years, but he was so fucking scared of seeing Wilbur like that again. 

The memory was crystal clear in his mind: the cavern in Pogtopia, Wilbur's shadowed eyes, the dark stains on his sleeves, the way he wore more and more layers and tugged at his sleeves when people were around, the splash of indigo-purple bruise that peeked out of his hairline just enough to make Quackity wonder how no one else seemed to notice. He had his suspicions for a long time, but shoved them to the back of his mind until he found Wilbur one night with blood running down his forearm. Quackity had taken the knife away and told him to stop, you need to stop, don't you dare fucking do this to yourself. He knew it wouldn't work when he said it, but fuck, wasn't it just as important to say the words whether they were heeded or not? Didn't it still matter that he took the knife away, even though he knew that Wilbur would just get himself another? He had to do something, and he was so fucking scared.

The brisk wind washed across Quackity's skin, and he took a deep, steadying breath. He was okay. He didn't need to be afraid, because he was alone. The colorful neon lights of Las Nevadas sparkled to one side, and the last rays of sunset spilled over the horizon to the other. It was beautiful. He was okay.

Then, he noticed something. There was a silhouette ahead and to his right, one that Quackity would know anywhere. Tall, lean, coat swishing around his ankles. The man's face was in shadow, but there was no mistake: they were staring directly at each other. Quackity tensed. His mind refused to process and execute any course of action, so he stayed put, waiting. 

The silhouette began to approach.

At that moment, every single anxious thought and feeling that had faded from Quackity's mind for the moment suddenly crashed back over him. His breath caught in his throat, then broke free and began to huff in and out of his chest in short, shallow gasps. His heart took up the new rhythm emphatically, stuttering painfully in his chest with every step that brought the two of them closer together. A familiar slithery feeling crept across his entire body until he felt sick. Shit.

Fuck no. No no no nonono--

Quackity forced his limbs into action, turning and marching away, back toward the city, back toward his home, back toward safety. He couldn't do it.

__________

The next night, Wilbur stood out in the open, waiting until he spotted Quackity walking by again. He was surprised; he hadn't really expected a second chance. The last sunbeams of a dying day bathed the president in gold, and Wilbur took a moment to just... appreciate. Gold had always shone so bright in the warmth of Quackity's complexion. Although, he noticed with a frown, the wings were hidden. 

This time, when Quackity looked at him, Wilbur made no move.  His eyes followed Quackity's path as it curved toward him, then away. He was just passing by, not coming within thirty feet of Wilbur, not even looking at him anymore. He walked as proudly as if he hadn't even seen him or had already forgotten if he did. Wilbur could only sigh as the cold, hollow feeling pulled him back under again. Quackity disappeared.

__________

Quackity woke up in the dead of night, heart pounding in his chest. He didn't even remember what the nightmare was about exactly; it was already growing blurry in his mind. But he remembered empty houses, empty streets, empty beds, empty windows, empty vans, empty ribcages--

It wasn't the first time he awoke straight into a panic attack, and it wouldn't be the last.

__________

Wilbur almost didn't bother standing outside the following night. He knew when he saw Quackity appear on his apparently-new-routine walk that they wouldn't come near each other. Quackity didn't even look at him this time.

__________

It took all of Quackity's strength not to turn his head, but only to sneak furtive glances at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye as he passed. Wilbur didn't take one single step forward, but his heart still fluttered.

__________

Wilbur sighed when he saw Quackity's wings out the next night, out of admiration or relief or both. It didn't matter. The golden feathers were flashing in the buttery light, while the brown hues seemed to shift and shimmer darker and lighter with every confident step that the owner took. They were stretched out purposefully, twitching a little on occasion. At least, Wilbur thought, he would get to look at them until they faded from view. 

Quackity's path curved toward him. Wilbur waited for the step that would mark his turn, the point where he would arc as close as he would get, then orbit back toward the flashing city lights.

It didn't come.

Quackity was approaching him deliberately, not looking directly at him yet, but certain in his steps nonetheless. Wilbur felt something rise in his chest, but he bit his tongue and stayed as still as possible, as if he might scare away the moment if he moved. Quackity came to a stop about five feet in front of him. One burning, dark brown eye was gazing past him, over his shoulder, at nothing.

"Soot," was his only greeting.

Wilbur licked his lips and forced them into a smile. "Quackity. To what do I owe--"

"My wings are sore," Quackity cut him off quickly. Wilbur's fake smile slipped. Was this some kind of mockery? A tease? It would be... a low blow, to say the least. But then again, so was the cutting comment Quackity had made in the car weeks ago, before the party. So was you know I've never loved you. He wasn't sure that Quackity was above anything now. 

"...that's a shame," he said carefully after realizing that he hadn't answered for about five seconds. Quackity's eye flicked this way and that, but didn't land on Wilbur's face. Once upon a time, Wilbur might have wanted to scream look at me. Tonight, though, he was just tired.

"Yeah." At least Quackity was starting to show some obvious signs of discomfort, shifting his weight and blinking more than was perhaps necessary. 

There was silence. Wilbur wished that for once, for fucking once, Quackity would be the one to try and fill it. He didn't. Wilbur wanted to stab himself until all of the sick, miserable, sorrowful feelings inside of him bled out of his system. 

"Well," he said delicately, keeping his voice soft enough not to betray the emotion behind it, "I wish you luck with that, I suppose. And a good evening."

And when Quackity's eye finally snapped to his face, Wilbur turned away.

"Wait--" 

Wilbur stopped, but didn't look back. He listened to Quackity struggling in silence for a moment. Bleeding was seeming like a more and more enticing option.

"It's okay, Quackity," he murmured, trusting the slight breeze to carry the words over his shoulder. "It's fine."

He kept walking away, wishing that Quackity would call out and stop him again, but the only sound was a lone grasshopper's chirping.

Wilbur left the glass of just water on the coffee table, untouched.

Chapter Text

Quackity couldn't sleep. He wanted to, Prime, he wanted to so badly. But one night terror was enough for him to give up on that naive idea for the time being. He sat instead on the low couch in his office, having found his brain unwilling to focus on work either. Surely at dawn, something would distract him, but for now he was just loitering. 

He wanted a drink, but not enough to go get one. It was worth it to be able to say he didn't drink anymore. It was worth it to feel safe waking up in the mornings, knowing where he had been and what he had done. He still smoked though, on occasion. The scent of an herbal cigar swirled in the air around him as he snuffed it out on the ashtray. 

Something was missing. It was a familiar hole, something that had felt empty and uncomfortable for a long time now, but it was always worse when he had nothing to do. It the daytime, he was busy with a million different tasks, and he could fill his mind and forget the quiet ache inside. Now, though, there was nothing to do but dwell on it.

Quackity was lonely. Deeply, devastatingly lonely. The feeling seeped through his every idle thought and gathered in his chest until it actually, physically ached.

The fingers of one hand danced across the knuckles of the other, subconsciously missing the rings that he wore almost daily. Too many rings, on every finger except one. On every finger except the one that mattered. He didn't think he would every fill that empty space. 

He sat for what felt like eternity. He was so tired. The curtains were drawn over the picture window, blocking out most of the color and light from the city outside. 

He wondered bitterly whether there had ever been a path he could have walked, an option he could have chosen, that wouldn't lead to this -- sitting in the dark, so alone that it hurt. He doubted it. It always led back to this eventually. Quackity knew that now.

He thought about Wilbur -- he had been doing that far too often recently -- and his limbo. Waiting. Always waiting, always alone. Quackity believed him when he said it was his own personal hell. And when he'd finally found his way back to the land of the living, it was to a lukewarm welcome and a lonesome life at the edge of a forbidden country. Quackity didn't understand what Wilbur was still doing here, what he was chasing after. He wondered how long it would take before Wipbur gave up whatever it was and left. 

The thought made the aching so much worse that he almost felt nauseous. 

"Fuck," he breathed, lying down on his side. He curled up and hugged himself. It had been a while since he had allowed himself to slip into such a childish position, even in the privacy of his own office. It had been a while since he cried. How long? He wasn't sure. Actually, he was fairly certain that his left eye didn't produce tears anymore. His wings wrapped around his body in a feeble attempt at comfort. 

All of that time spent carefully building up walls, and for what? He didn't want Wilbur to go away. He was already hurting just thinking about it; if that wasn't fucking pathetic, he didn't know what was. How the hell had he gotten so attached so quickly? Or had it been a gradual process all along, one that he simply didn't notice until the worst possible moment? Either way, it was cruel. 

Quackity was tired. He didn't want to be alone. Not tonight. He couldn't survive it tonight. He reached for his communicator.

[You whisper to Wilbur Soot]: Are you up?

Only after the message was sent did he have the presence of mind to think what a stupid idea this was. And yet, even after recognizing that fact, he found that for once in his primedamned life he couldn't care less. He stared at the screen, praying to all the gods that he had never fully believed in that Wilbur would answer. 

It took eons. Quackity's hope dimmed, but still he watched, because what else was there for him to do? 

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: yeah

Quackity sighed with relief and typed out a response. Then he paused, deliberated, and rewrote it. 

[You whisper to Wilbur Soot]: I'm in my office. Can't sleep. Do you want to come over and talk?

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: what is there to talk about

[You whisper to Wilbur Soot]: Please come over. I can't be alone right now.

Quackity watched apprehensively for a full sixty-seven seconds.

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: on my way

He didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until he let it out. His eyes squeezed shut as he nuzzle his face into the couch cushion. Just a little longer. Wilbur was coming.

The soft knock on the door arrived sooner than he had dared to expect. Quackity sat up straight so quickly that his head spun. He took a deep breath before calling, "Come in."

Wilbur slipped inside without even opening the door very wide, as if trying to keep the inside of the room hidden from nonexistant passers-by. His eyes were instantly fixed on Quackity, examining him, searching for something. 

"Are you alright?" he said quietly. Quackity felt a rush of some emotion but didn't bother figuring out what it was.

"Wilbur, I need you to talk to me," he said, then added a mumbled, "Please."

Wilbur was at his side in a moment, not sitting on the couch as Quackity intended, but rather kneeling with one hand on the armrest beside him. 

"You're going to be okay, Quackity," he said, and he said it with such absolute, unshakeable certainty. "Everything will be okay."

"I..." A response died on Quackity's lips. This wasn't like the first time. Somehow Wilbur's words felt even warmer and sweeter, like Quackity could eat them up and never be hungry again. Was it manipulative if he just let himself be comforted again, with no true cause? 

"What is it, Big Q?" Wilbur asked, "Can I do something?"

"Could you... could you do the thing again?" Quackity requested hesitantly, "With um, my wings?"

Wilbur seemed to pause and consider for a moment, his brow furrowing. "Quackity... how long has it been since somebody touched you?"

"What?" Quackity  drew back slightly.

"I'm serious, I mean-- I mean like, not in a sexual way. Just-- to touch you." A pause. Wilbur seemed to take Quackity's silence as an answer in itself and slid up onto the sofa beside him, sitting perhaps closer than was necessary. But then again, maybe it was completely necessary, because when Wilbur delicately draped his arms around Quackity's shoulders and nestled him against his chest Quackity felt the tension inside him dissolve. He slumped into Wilbur's arms unquestioningly, thinking vaguely that he might regret this later.

Wilbur, for his part, took up his new role as Quackity's body pillow quite quickly and enthusiastically. He shifted to lie propped up against the opposite armrest so that Quackity was leaning heavily on his chest, practically on top of him. Gently, his hands began to explore, rubbing up and down Quackity's arms and massaging little circles into his shoulders and back. He did reach the base of the wings eventually, and while Quackity sighed with contentment, he murmured,

"You know, your message kind of scared me. I thought you might be... you know. Having a hard time. I didn't want you to be alone if you were."

" 'M sorry," Quackity said, and he meant it in a way that he had rarely meant anything he said to Wilbur. 

"Don't be. I'm just glad I can still be of use." Despite the kind words, Wilbur's voice betrayed a hint of bitterness. Quackity felt a pang, but before he could respond, Wilbur was continuing on, burying his momentary reluctance in his usual smug attitude. "Really, it would have been a shame to refuse. It's not every day one gets invited into the president's office. I could steal so many state secrets."

Quackity snorted. "Yeah? And what the hell would you even do with them?" 

He felt Wilbur shrug. "That's for me to know, Q. I can't have you foiling my plans before I've even started."

Quackity meant to scoff, but it came out more like a sigh. "Just don't blow anything else up, okay? That bit is getting old."

Wilbur was quiet. Struck by a sudden thought, Quackity grabbed his left arm and maneuvered it around so that he could see the back of Wilbur's hand. The skin was bare, no mark of a burn remaining. Then, it pulled free from his grasp and returned to the tireless work of touching and massaging all over Quackity's body. It felt so good, and not even necessarily in a physical way. Quackity felt cared for, the way he had back when...

He buried his face in Wilbur's sweater and took a sharp breath of sweat, gunpowder, nicotine to remind himself that it was not strawberry-mango soap or dry leaves and campfire smoke.

"Q... did you just sniff me?" Wilbur's tone was conversational, but the beginning of a smirk was evident in his voice. 

"Your fuckin' coat smells like shit again," was the muffled reply. Quackity felt, more than heard, Wilbur's low chuckle. 

"I'm fairly certain we've established that before. I can't help but wonder then," he teased, "what could have possessed you to think sniffing harder would help anything."

"Shut up." Quackity grumbled. Until this point, his arms had lain limply where they had fallen by his sides. Now, they began to creep their way up around Wilbur's torso, between coat and sweater, to hug him. The finger pads digging into Quackity's tired muscles played melodies in his mind, soothing away every pain. Prime, this was perfect.

Of course, it was too perfect to last. Quackity noticed quickly when Wilbur's breath hitched and stuttered slightly, like he was holding back a cough or a peal of laughter, or... tears, he found, when he lifted his head curiously. Wilbur's eyes had gone red-rimmed and his chin was quivering. 

"Wilbur?" he said, "Are you crying?"

"No," Wilbur lied blatantly as a tear escaped his eye and slipped down his cheek. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, everything's okay." Wilbur laid a hand against the back of Quackity's head to guide his face back down. Quackity resisted. 

"Wilbur, what is it?"

"It's nothing, Quackity, just ignore it."

"I'm not just going to ignore you," Quackity insisted.

"Why not? It wouldn't be the first time!" Wilbur's voice had a slight edge now, and he succeeded in pressing Quackity's head back down into the now-awkward embrace. Quackity, stunned, let him. Wilbur's voice softened again, though it sounded slightly strained now. "Just ignore me like you know you want to. It doesn't matter, Q."

Quackity suddenly found himself swallowing around a lump in his throat. Did Wilbur really expect him not to care? Of course he did. Why the fuck would he expect anything else when Quackity had only ever expressed contempt for him? A guilty weight pressed down on him from all sides. Wilbur's hands kept touching, tracing his skin through the fabric of his shirt, but it felt different. The sweetness of the touches seemed to spoil and go sour, leaving trailing handprints of disease. He shuddered as his body recoiled from the contact. It was sugar upon honey upon syrup all rotting his flesh away, it was too much and it didn't feel good anymore.

"Wil- Stop. Stop touching me." Quackity unwound his arms from around Wilbur's torso and pushed himself up. His wings folded tight against his back. 

"What? Why?" Wilbur's eyes shot wide, and his voice turned pleading, almost on the edge of panic. "I'm sorry, I- I got distracted, I can do better! You said it felt good last time, I can do it even better, I swear, just let me try--"

"Wilbur, what the hell are you-- stop!" Quackity untangled himself from Wilbur's grasp and stumbled up onto his feet. "Just stop, I'm done being touched, okay?"

Wilbur looked like he was going to cry again, but he swallowed it and didn't protest any further. He started to get up, finally swiping at his face with his sleeve, and shuffled toward the door. It took Quackity a moment to realize that he was about to leave.

"Wait, Wilbur, don't go!" he blurted out, and his cheeks felt slightly warm. 

Wilbur paused, turned back, and gave him the most utterly confused, exhausted, hurt look that he had ever seen. 

"Quackity," he croaked, "Do you want me here, or not?" 

"I do!" Quackity said, face no doubt flushing more and more with each desperate word. "I want you to stay, please don't fucking walk out right now."

Wilbur stared at him, mouth open, and raised his arms in an incredulous what-do-you-expect-from-me shrug. 

"Okay?" The word was an answer, but the tone was a frustrated question. It left Quackity feeling like he had missed something important. 

"Wilbur, I- I dont-- you--" Quackity stuttered, but it was hard to think straight when Wilbur was just looking just as openly bewildered as Quackity felt. "...What the fuck is happening right now?!"

"You tell me!" said Wilbur.

"No, Wilbur, I'm serious. I don't understand--"

"And I'm supposed to have all the answers?! I don't know, Q, I really fucking don't know. I'm sorry, okay? But I don't know what you want from me!"

"I just want you to be here with me!" Quackity admitted, "I want your company, just for one night."

"I don't under-- what the hell does that mean? You've already refused the one thing I had to offer you, what do you expect to gain from this? I have nothing left for you, Quackity!" A terrible thought seemed to occur to him, and his face contorted as tears once again began to fall. He looked away. "Unless you want me to fucking confess my love again so you can spit in my face and send me home? Would that make you happy?" 

Quackity's mouth opened, but he had no words. An invisible hand tightened around his throat, keeping him silent.

"Would it make you happy, Quackity?" Wilbur repeated, and when he received no answer, he said, "I love you. I love you, I fucking love you so much that it hurts. Now for the love of fucking Prime, just put me back in my place and be done with it!" His voice broke at the end. Quackity needed to say something, but he couldn't find the right end of the sentence to begin with. He just watched as Wilbur scrubbed furiously at his damp cheeks.

"...Wil..." he managed. Wilbur paused, then looked Quackity in the face again. Their eyes met, and suddenly Wilbur looked horrified. 

"...shit," he breathed. He turned his face away again and beat the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Fuck me! I can't fucking-- Qua-- I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- fuck me, I can't go ten fucking seconds without-- I'm sorry!"

"What?" Quackity gestured widely at nothing, regaining his voice. "Wilbur, I should be the one apologizing, I fuckin- I treated you like shit! You deserve an apology from me!" 

"An apology for what?" Wilbur cried, "All I've done is fuck things up and push you past your limits, and I finally get it, okay? I get the hint. You made yourself clear and I ignored you, but I'm not going to ignore you anymore. I know you don't want me around, I'll just- I'll leave you alone. For good."

"No, you don't understand, that's not what I--" Wilbur was reaching for the doorknob. Quackity's entire gut leapt at the sight, and his wings flared out to their full extent as he shouted, "Wilbur, don't fucking leave me!"

Wilbur startled away from the doorknob as though it had burned him. Or, well. As though he cared if it had burned him. 

"...I-I fucked up." Quackity's hands clenched and unclenched anxiously. "I don't hate you. I- Prime, of course I don't hate you. Wilbur, you scared me. When you said that you loved me, it scared the shit out of me because I don't know if I can do that anymore. I don't-- I don't think I can be in love. But I don't hate you, and I'm dead serious about wanting you around, I- I need to talk to you, I need to see that you're okay, and it's fucking killing me, but..."

He trailed off, and there was a silence. Quackity squirmed under its weight. Wilbur was just standing, staring at the ground, processing. At least, Quackity hoped that was why his expression was utterly unreadable. 

"You... seriously think that I'm worth your time?" he said eventually.

"Yes," Quackity nodded instantly, and he almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it -- a month ago, he would have cringed at the very thought, but now he announced it loud and clear. "Yeah, I do."

"Well," Wilbur was still speaking so carefully, like he was reading and rereading a script in his mind just to make sure he got it right. "I don't know if I believe you."

The words felt like a slap across the face. Wilbur continued.

"But... I want to. If this is real, I want to believe it. And if it's not... could we still pretend, just for tonight?" He looked up, and there was a hollow sort of resignation behind the tiny smirk that curled his lips. "Pretend that everything is fine between us. Pretend that you trust me, and pretend that I deserve it."

"But..." It's not pretend, Quackity wanted to scream, Why don't you listen to me? This is real.

"You're a good actor, Q," Wilbur whispered, and with one final swipe of his sleeve, his tears had vanished, replaced by a faint smile that couldn't quite hide the exhaustion behind it. 

Wilbur stayed the night.

Chapter Text

Wilbur blinked his eyes open wearily. A sliver of sunlight was beaming in from around the edge of the curtain. There was a gentle rhythm of warm breath against his collar and a comforting weight draped over him. Quackity. He was so beautiful like this, with his hair slightly messy and his wings slumped like a blanket over his sides. All was quiet and peaceful. Wilbur wished they could stay like this forever.

You seriously think I'm worth your time? 

Yes. Yeah, I do. 

Wilbur gazed at the angel sleeping on top of him and imagined it. The two of them together. Talking daily, still bickering and cussing, but no longer hiding behind the ruse of rivalry. Spending time together, genuinely. Waking up like this, morning after morning, close enough to feel one another's heartbeats. Feeling full and happy and free from the restless nothing that threatened to consume him every day. 

He didn't really believe it could happen. No, there was something else Quackity was looking for. Wilbur wasn't sure what it was yet but he would find out. He would find out what Quackity wanted from him, and he would surrender it. Whether it was his service, or his attention, or the blood out of his fucking veins. He would give it up, whenever Quackity asked. 

If he wasn't careful, he would start tearing up again. That was what had started the train wreck last night; all he had wanted was to help, whatever that entailed. He had gotten so overwhelmed by the moment. The softness of it could perhaps have been mistaken for intimacy if he didn't know the truth -- that he was nothing more in Quackity's mind than a means to an end. Quackity would have shared the same damn "softness" with anyone who was willing to shower him in attention and care for his wings. It was that realization that had made Wilbur start crying in the first place.

He cried so much nowadays, he thought, over every little thing. He had always been reactive like that. Quackity, though; Wilbur didn't remember the last time he saw Big Q cry. He kept himself guarded behind that mask of his.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Quackity startled awake. 

"Wha- who's..." He blinked and raised his head to look around. A thin strand of drool still trailed from his mouth down to a wet spot on Wilbur's sweater. Cute.

"G'morning," Wilbur murmured, his voice low and husky from sleep. The knocking on the door repeated, louder this time. 

"Shit," Quackity muttered, clambering off of Wilbur without a second thought. Wilbur let out an oof when the heel of Quackity's hand dug into his stomach briefly, and he was quickly shushed. Quackity worked to groom his hair and straighten his obviously slept-in clothing, panicking quietly. "Oh Prime, that's probably Foolish, or-- fuck, am I supposed to meet with Purpled today or tomorrow? Shit shit shit-"

"Should I hide?" Wilbur questioned, and Quackity shushed him him again before replying with a vigorous nod. Wilbur slid off of the sofa -- leaving an impression in the pillowy cushions -- and squeezed underneath it. A moment later, the trenchcoat which he had taken off before falling asleep was shoved under the couch after him. He was still shuffling around, trying to get comfortable and completely hidden, when a third insistent knock was cut off by Quackity opening the door. 

"Purpled. You're early, aren't you?" Despite how unprofessional he surely appeared, Quackity's voice was nothing short of its usual brisk, confident tone. 

"I wanna wrap this up quick," grumbled a sullen voice. 

"I understand, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait a minute or two. If you wouldn't mind discussing things over a quick coffee, just across the street, we could--"

"I'm not looking for a breakfast date, bossman." He exaggerated the nickname in what Wilbur could only assume was a mockery of Tubbo's typical affectionate tone. "Just let me in for ten minutes so we can get it over with." A pause. "You look like shit, by the way." 

"Oh, fuck you." Quackity dropped his polite facade, and Wilbur had to repress a giggle at his sudden switch in demeanor. There were footsteps, and the door closed. From his awkward position, Wilbur could only see a sliver of the room at ground level. A pair of shiny black dress shoes walked by -- Quackity's, he must've pulled them on while Wilbur was busy hiding. The laces were undone. 

"Hey man, I'm not the one who arranged this meeting," drawled the younger voice, "I woulda just texted you, but noooo, you've gotta do all the formal bullshit."

"If you count documenting important procedures to avoid future legal issues as 'formal bullshit,' then yeah," Quackity snapped.

"You're the president, can't you just, like, snap your fingers and the legal issues go away?"  Purpled was taunting now. Wilbur watched his white and violet high top sneakers stroll around the side of the couch and stop directly in front of his face. He sat down, presumably, and started bouncing his heel.

"Whatever," Quackity huffed, "Now listen..."

Wilbur was quickly finding that there was no way to fit under the sofa without constant pain somewhere. His arm was tingling, pinned underneath him. Why was this couch so fucking low? Quackity and his short ass furniture. He tried not to make a sound while he shifted positions. 

Quackity was talking about something or other that Wilbur didn't care enough at the moment to think about. Some business thing. What Wilbur was focused on was the sneaker that suddenly jumped backward a bit and landed within inches of his nose. That... might be an issue. Especially when the shoe was still bouncing restlessly like the kid was ready to jump up and sprint at an instant's notice. Wilbur cautiously tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go except maybe out from under cover on the other side of the sofa -- probably not his best option, either. He wished he had thought to look for a closet, or tucked himself onto the windowsill and shut the curtain, or something. Buy he hadn't, so he stayed where he was, scowling.

He tuned in briefly to Quackity and Purpled's conversation, but now that he had missed the first part, none of it made sense. He resolved to simply keep still and let his mind wander until this was over. That resolve was quickly broken when, without warning, the heel of the sneaker jerked back and clocked him directly in the bridge of the nose.

An involuntary cry of pain escaped his lips before he could muffle it. 

Purpled stopped speaking mid-sentence and went completely still. "...what the fuck was that?"

Wilbur cupped a hand to the front of his face, eyes watering. Shit, that was going to leave an ugly bruise.

"-nothing, it's none of your concern--"

"-there a fucking person under your couch?!"

"-not your business, don't look--"

The ache spread to Wilbur's entire skull and probably wasn't going away any time soon. He repressed a groan. Purpled was on his feet now, and then a black denim clad knee hit the floor, and all Wilbur could think was, Ow-ow-ow-ow-- oh shit, I'm gonna be found. 

"Purpled!" The sound of hands striking a wooden desktop. The scrape of a chair being flung back. Wilbur's eyes went wide as he listened, silent and breathless, to what came next. It could have been a growl, or the warning rattle of a venemous snake. It was the single most authoritative tone he had ever heard cross his rival's lips, and it was fucking terrifying. 

"Do. Not. Look. Under. The couch." 

Purpled retreated.

A slight shuffle, perhaps of paper, then the clinking of coins. Quackity's voice again, low and predatory: "You won't speak a word of this to anyone."

"...what the fuck..." was the defeated whisper under Purpled's breath. 

"I'll contact you regarding the job if necessary. Get out." Wilbur's heart picked up an excited rhythm. In his mind's eye, he could see Quackity's deadly stare, those vividly burning eyes, and the vision made him shiver. Shit, his body always seemed to take interest at the worst moments. He didn't quite catch what Purpled muttered as he left, hustled out by his president; he was too busy recovering from the thrill of listening to such a sudden and concentrated surge of anger and command.

Quackity sighed heavily once the door was firmly shut. "You couldn't keep quiet for two more minutes?" 

"He fuckin' kicked me," Wilbur groaned, dragging himself out of his hiding place. 

Quackity looked like he was inclined to say something rude, but held back. Instead, he asked, "Are you good?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm concussed and bleeding out, whatever," Wilbur brushed it off. Quackity squinted suspiciously at what was no doubt a rapidly bruising spot in the center of his face. Wilbur pretended not to notice as he stood up and gathered his coat. "Anyway, I expect I should be going then, before I get a chance to ruin another little presidential rendezvous."

"I don't..." Quackity trailed off, considering his words before speaking. Wilbur had often wondered whether Quackity followed a mental script when they were talking, because once in a while he was sure he could see Quackity revising his lines in red pen right in front of him. "Listen, Wil, I'm... glad that you came over."

"Me too," Wilbur said easily, already making for the door. Lie to me again, he thought. Tell me you want to see me soon. For once, Quackity seemed to hear his thoughts and reply.

"Are you doing anything on Saturday night?" he asked, his feet firmly planted in front of the door. 

Wilbur could have said, Just finding out how fast your little lackeys can put out fires. Instead, he said, "No."

"Can I take you to dinner?" Quackity asked. Wilbur paused.

"...is that, like, a euphemism for something?" he said, the ghost of a chuckle hovering around the edges of the sentence. He was halfway teasing.

Halfway.

"What?" said Quackity, "No, it's not-- the hell would it be a euphemism for?"

"I think you know," Wilbur taunted, raising an eyebrow. 

"No, it's not a fucking euphemism. As if I would use one of those anyway." Quackity rolled his eyes. "I'm literally-- I'm‐ I'm asking you out, Wilbur. On a date. Dinner with me, on Saturday evening, if you're up for it. I can pick you up whenever."

"Well... would you want me to dress up again?" Wilbur asked. 

"I don't care," Quackity shrugged, "Formal, casual, I'll go with whatever you pick." 

And shit, how could he say no to seeing Quackity all dressed up again? 

"Formal," Wilbur said. It would be a little harder on himself, but least he still had the fancy outfit that Quackity had provided him the night of the party. 

"Alright," Quackity said, and a quick smile flashed across his face before vanishing. Almost two full days to go yet, but already Wilbur was thinking about how he could get that smile to stick next time. "Saturday, then."

"Yeah. Saturday."

_________

Quackity had given himself four whole days to stress out and overanalyze before the dinner. Thoughts whined at the back of his mind like mosquitoes trapped in a windowsill, repeating a constant mantra over and over: Are you sure? Are you sure you want this? Are you sure? He tried to say yes, I'm sure, be quiet. But the quiet never lasted, and there were always more questions.

On Wednesday, he ignored them all and spent what little free time he had getting a head start on any unnecessary task he could think of. It worked for the day. He was so tired when he got home that he fell asleep before he could fall into a cyclone of too many thoughts. On Thursday though, he had too much time and too little work left to fill it up with. He sat at his desk and worried. 

Before him sat a notepad and a blue fountain pen. He picked up the pen and twirled it between his fingers, then planted the tip on the page and began to make a list. If running a nation had taught him one thing, it was that a mess of anxieties knotted in his brain would get him nowhere. Lists, schedules, agendas, plans were what made things happen. So he took his own expert advice and scrawled a bullet-pointed list of specific thoughts that wouldn't shut the fuck up.

- What if this is a mistake?

- What if it's too late to fix things?

- What if we start arguing again?

- What if I say something I can't take back? 

-What if I'm not what he expected? 

- What if he gets sick of me?

- What if he leaves me alone?

- What if he won't leave me alone?

- What if I end up hating him again?

- What if I love him?

- What if he loves me?

- What if neither of us have any fucking clue what love is?

- I don't want to fall in love.

- I don't want him to fall in love with me. 

- I don't want to hurt that way again.

- Fuck.

- I'm scared.

- Should I cancel? 

- I could cancel.

- There's still time to cancel.

- I can tell him something came up, and I'm busy.

- Would he feel bad if I did that?

- Prime damn it.

He ran out of space on the page and didn't bother turning to another side. He just sat and reread everything he had written, feeling more and more helpless each time he tried to come up with any sort of response. What could he do but wait and put off thinking about it at all?

Quackity would go psychotic if he couldn't put off the date for longer.

__________

Wilbur would go psychotic if he couldn't bring the date any closer. He tried on his dress clothes again, wishing that he could erase the memory of his appearance from Quackity's mind so that he might be at least a little impressed. Well, there was really no chance of that anyway, but still. He just wanted Quackity to like what he saw. Maybe there was another way he could manage that, if he played his cards right... the attempt would hopefully give a positive impression, at least.

__________

Saturday morning, Quackity woke up with a pit in his stomach. He lingered in bed, savored his coffee, hung around after a meeting to talk to people he didn't give a fuck about. He ate lunch on his balcony, trying to enjoy the calm safety of his loneliness while it lasted. He told himself that it was only one evening, but he knew better than that. Unless something went catastrophically wrong that night, he would doubtless want to spend time with Wilbur again. It was inevitable at this point. 

Quackity had a long list of things he hated about himself, but how easily he fell in love would always remain at the very top. He couldn't help it. His heart gave itself up as recklessly as if trying to escape his chest.

The first time he had been in love, it had taken him by surprise, like an overnight storm. One day he was standing on his own two feet; the next, he was swept up in the relentless flood of J. Schlatt with no turning back. So naively proud he had been of the simple, deplorable fact that he would have died for him. Far longer than he should have, he would have died for Schlatt. Even after his charm turned sour and the care and flattery that Quackity had drunk up like water turned to poison. Even when he was pointing an arrow at his lover's heart, a traitorous fragment of his own heart clung to the memory of what it had felt like in the beginning. He never regretted killing Schlatt. He regretted letting him live long enough to destroy so much of who Quackity used to be.

For Eret, it had only taken a love letter or two to consume Quackity's mind. He had sworn he would give Eret everything he had, starting with a kiss. But when the fog of emotions cleared, he found himself alone once again.

Just when he thought he was too broken to ever be wanted again, there was Karl. Beautiful, vibrant Karl with his kaleidoscope eyes and chime-like laughter, so innocent and so mischievous at the same time. Quackity felt so unbelievably lucky to be with him, when surely anyone and everyone would love him if given the chance. He had resolved to love Karl like no one else could -- no one except Sapnap, of course. Because how could he fall for one and not the other? The two were inseperably linked. Sapnap was the hearth and the protector, and Quackity felt safe with him in a way he hadn't felt safe in so long. Sapnap and his short temper and his genuine kindness, as rough-and-tumble as it could be. He couldn't get enough. They had filled something in him that had been painfully empty ever since his first breakup.

But even that wasn't enough. They drifted, they fought, they used each other. Quackity had never loved two people who loved each other before, and nothing could prepare him for the knife that gradually pierced its way into his twice-broken heart as he came to realize that he would always be the third. Karl fucking forgot about him. And Sapnap chose Karl over Quackity, like he always had. Like he always would have even if they had stayed together. Quackity didn't even try to fool himself about that anymore. They would love each other with all they had, and then love Quackity with whatever was left over. And maybe he could have lived on that alone, but then suddenly there were no leftovers for him. His fiancés drifted away and never even looked back. 

Quackity could feel it happening again, against his will. The pull, like gravity, was unavoidable and quickly growing. A flood was brewing. His heart was reaching for Wilbur.

This was surely the worst decision Quackity could make. But between the weight of love and the weight of loneliness, he couldn't. tell which was heavier anymore. 

__________

Wilbur hesitated, licking his chapped lips nervously. His finger hovered over the send button while he considered the message he had typed. Finally, he pressed the button quickly and let out a puff of air.

[You whisper to Quackity]: hey would you mind coming a bit early to help me with something before we go?

Chapter Text

It took Wilbur a full five seconds to find his voice after seeing Quackity standing in front of his van. His eyes flitted over white pants, gold heels, yellow-and-blue patterned vest, blue shirt, creme gloves with Las Nevadas insignias at the wrists, freshly preened wings with subtle beaded ornaments draped over them. He was blushing, Quackity noticed.

"Hey, Big Q. You look... lovely."

"Thank you, so do you," Quackity nodded, then paused. "You shaved." Wilbur reached up and stroked his smooth chin, as if to test the truth of the statement.

"Yeah, I did," he said, and there was the tiniest hint of a smirk at the corner of his lip. Or maybe just a smile. "I uh, was thinking about maybe trying something out tonight, but it occurred to me that I have very minimal experience in the area, so... um, I wondered if maybe you would be willing to help me out, since you seem to be quite the expert."

There was another pause. Quackity cleared his throat. "And what exactly do you need my help with?"

The blush on Wilbur's face deepened. Now that it came down to a blatant question, he seemed reluctant to answer.

"Well, I... here," he forced out, and shoved a shopping bag into Quackity's hands. Quackity hadn't noticed that he was carrying it. Inside lay a bottle of foundation, a large eyeshadow palette, a black liquid eyeliner, a lipstick or two, and some mascara. He looked up and down between Wilbur's nervous expression and the fresh makeup several times before a grin broke out on his face.

"You want my help getting all dolled up?" he teased, and Wilbur glanced away self-consciously before allowing himself a smile when Quackity said, "Because I'd love to, Wilbur."

"Great," Wilbur said, and he immediately returned to his usual nonchalant manner. "I've got a stool in the trailer, not much of a mirror though. I can see my face in it though, so it'll work." 

Quackity had never been inside Wilbur's trailer before. He had made jabs about the man living in a van, but he had always quietly assumed that he had some other lodging, as humble as it may be. A food truck was just not a suitable living space. The trailer that Wilbur evidently spent his nights in wasn't that much better, though. There was just barely space for the two to squeeze past each other in the walking space if need be. The light was dim and flickered sporadically. Quackity took one look at them interior and knew that it wouldn't work. 

"I'm gonna need more light than this," he said simply. Wilbur cleared his throat and grabbed a smudged hand mirror and a small stool that was tucked under the cluttered counter. Too late, Quackity wondered if he was coming across as too critical. 

"Right, well, there's not much sunlight left but--"

"I can paint your face right out here if you're chill with that."

Wilbur chuckled faintly, still looking embarrassed. "Fine, then. Just tell me which way to face."

He set the stool down in the sand and sat upon it, then pivoted to face the light as Quackity instructed him. He did everything, in fact, as Quackity instructed him. It was sort of nice, not dealing with constant friction between them like they usually did. 

"Did you have something in mind, Soot, or do I have free rein?" he asked, surveying Wilbur's face almost the way Foolish surveyed blueprints. 

"Whatver you think will look best," Wilbur replied, staring right back. 

"Close your eyes." Wilbur obeyed. Quackity looked at him for a moment longer. He had rarely allowed himself to appreciate Wilbur's face since the election all that time ago. It wasn't quite simitrical; one eyebrow quirked up a little differently than the other, the bridge of the nose was crooked, a small dimple creased one corner of his mouth but not the other. There was something so spellbinding about the intricacies of imperfection. Although, the greenish bruise that still sat in the center of his face did look a little ridiculous. 

He reached forward and cupped Wilbur's bony cheek with one hand. He used to be pale, but now he was sun-kissed and slightly burnt. He still had a very porcelain complexion, though, and the sharp almond shape of his eyes gave Quackity several ideas right away. He usually only got to work with his own softer features, so the new canvas was exciting in its own way. 

"So what are you gonna do?" Wilbur broke the silence,  his eyes still sealed shut. Quackity plopped the bag of makeup in his lap so he could hold it for him.

"I'm thinking a soft blue smoky eye with a splash of gold at the inner corners," Quackity replied almost without realizing he was speaking. 

"...Oh," Wilbur said, "That sounds... nice."

That response snapped Quackity put of his analysis. "Do you not like it? Would you rather I do something else?"

"No, no," Wilbur said, "I um, was being serious. It sounds... pretty. I'm just not used to it. Sorry, I'm fucking- don't know how to respond to this..." The last sentiment was mumbled awkwardly under his breath.

"It's fine," Quackity breathed, feeling equally uncomfortable but hiding it. They were so close together, and it was so quiet, that it felt wrong to speak at a normal volume. He picked up the foundation bottle and squirted a little onto his fingers. Wilbur flinched in surprise when he began to spread it over his skin, using it to conceal the bruise. A breeze whistled between them. 

It might have taken longer, if Quackity wasn't so acutely and painfully aware of every minute that ticked by. Color dusted over Wilbur's delicately trembling eyelids. Blush highlighted the tops of his cheekbones -- as if he needed any at this point. A few cautious and precise strokes of liquid eyeliner formed sharp cat-eyes. It might not have taken as long, if Quackity wasn't determined to impress Wilbur with the results.

"Open your eyes," he said, and Wilbur obliged. "I'm gonna try just a tiny bit of mascara on you, but you have to try not to blink. Yeah, like that. Just hold as still as you can."

When he was finished, he admired his work for a moment before holding up the hand mirror so that Wilbur could see. The air between them was dead silent. Then, Wilbur looked up a Quackity and broke into a stupid grin. 

"Wow," was all he said. Quackity snorted. 

"It's really nothing much," he tried, but Wilbur was already gazing at his reflection again.

"Fuck," he breathed. Then his grin faltered slightly. "Wait, Q, did you forget, or..."

"What did I forget?" said Quackity.

"Lips?" Wilbur said it like a hesitant request, one that he expected to be refused. 

"Oh-- well," Quackity said, "I don't really wear lipstick, which isn't to say that you shouldn't, but. It's not great on chapped lips, so I just skipped it. I guess--" Wilbur looked mildly disappointed, but hid it quickly. Quackity noticed anyway and jumped to atone somehow by locating his regular lip balm in his vest pocket. "--here."

He uncapped his lip balm and rubbed it gently over Wilbur's lips. Wilbur's eyes went wide, then fluttered shut. Quackity tried to ignore the small gesture, but shit, that was cute. He cleared his throat.

"There. Finished." 

Wilbur seemed to snap back to reality, and he muttered a final thanks before standing up and shuffling to put the stool, mirror, and makeup back in his trailer. He really did look nice, which was quite a feat. The only trace of "scruffy hobo" about him was in the scent of smoke that still clung to him faintly despite his quite obviously having washed. 

When he came back out, Quackity opened the car door for him. He swept his crimson coat under him as he sat, the coat that Quackity had selected under the assumption that he would have to wrestle it onto him. He hadn't; Wilbur had worn the new coat without complaint. If he had some kind of emotional attachment to his old, ratty, brown trenchcoat, it wasn't debilitating enough to stop him from ditching it once in a while. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Quackity said as he started the car. Wilbur shifted a little. 

"You just did, but sure," he replied. 

"How the hell do you wear a sweater and a coat every day when you literally live in a desert?" 

Wilbur chuckled. "It gets pretty damn cold at night. You remember it snows here, right?"

"At night," said Quackity, "But you walk around probably sweating your ass off in broad daylight."

"What can I say? I like it hot," Wilbur shrugged. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly built for heat retention anyway. I can cool off easily enough if it's really bad."

"Whatever you say," Quackity said doubtfully. After a moment, he glanced over and added, "Put your seat belt on."

Wilbur blinked like it hadn't even occurred to him.

__________

When they arrived at their destination, Quackity got out and opened Wilbur's door for him. Such a simple little gesture, yet it felt so massive that he couldn't wrap his head around it. Not a single unkind word had crossed Quackity's lips as of yet, and Wilbur wasn't sure whether to be pleased or wary. Altgough, he supposed it didn't matter whether he took the bait of Quackity's "kindness." The hook was already in his mouth either way. He might as well pretend that the little chivalries Quackity performed for him were sincere. 

The restaurant was dimly lit and humming with calm conversation as soft music wove between the tables. Wilbur tried to think back to the last time he had been in a place like this -- if he ever had. Hadn't he gone somewhere nice for an anniversary or something with Sally? If he had, it wasn't nearly as expensive as this was sure to be. There it was again, Quackity's lavish lifestyle outdoing even his past self. The president was either showing off -- again -- or simply treating Wilbur to something he had no chance at on his own. Either one felt sort of patronizing. 

He didn't have time to linger on it, however, as Quackity took charge the moment they entered the building and asked for his reservation. A waiter led them to a table for two in the back of the room. As they walked, a few heads turned. Wilbur heard little snatches of whispered conversation in their wake as citizens recognized Quackity. Huh.

Then they were at the table, and Quackity was taking his coat and pulling out his chair for him, and the butterflies in his stomach stole his attention from anything else. Low mood lighting rippled across the feathers of Quackity's loosely folded wings. Diamonds glinted here and there among the mottled brown and yellow, strung up on some kind of delicate beaded chain that hung in artistic curves from the ridge of each wing. He watched them glimmer as Quackity sat down, then dragged his eyes back to his date's face. 

"By the way, Soot," Quackity said, "If you'd told me you wanted to try out makeup, I could have just brought mine. You didn't have to buy it all without knowing whether you'd ever use it again."

"I wrecked yours," Wilbur reminded.

"I replaced it," Quackity shrugged.

"I figured you would," said Wilbur, "But still, I feel like that would have been kind of obnoxious of me, asking to use it." 

"Yeah, but when aren't you asking me obnoxious questions?" Quackity replied, flicking his menu open.

"Touche." Wilbur opened his as well, and they both studied their options in silence for a few moments. Wilbur was the first to break it. "Quackity?"

"Yeah?" 

"What the fuck is a foie gras?"

Quackity didnt even look up. "It's pronounced fwah grah. It's like, goose liver. Or duck."

"I'm surprised you allow that, Mr. President," said Wilbur, tapping the menu. "They're slaughtering your brethren."

Quackity rolled his eyes and ignored the comment, saying instead, "It's actually pretty good."

"Wh- you- ah--" Wilbur stared at Quackity in undisguised shock. "...you've tried it?!"

"Yeah, why?"

"That... you're a duck hybrid, aren't you?"

"Yeah." 

"Doesn't that bother you?" 

Quackity looked up at him with quirked eyebrows. "They're animals, Wil. I'm a person. It's not that deep."

"It's still kind of like cannibalism though, isn't it?" Wilbur insisted.

Quackity just shrugged. "Other people can eat duck. I don't see why I should be exempt, even if it is."

"Damn," was Wilbur's only response. Quackity snorted.

"Are you planning on ordering any drinks?" he asked after a beat. Wilbur considered. 

"I mean, I was thinking I might just have whatever you have," he answered. Quackity gave him a weird look. "What?"

"I don't drink alcohol," he said.

Wilbur furrowed his brow. "...actually?"

"Yeah? I haven't in a long time, man, I thought you knew that," said Quackity. "I mean, I guess I used to have, like, a midday brandy or something if I had a headache. But I quit altogether a while ago."

Wilbur nodded slowly. "So you're okay with eating an animal that shares a decent portion of your genetic heritage, but you're not okay with drinking spicy water anymore."

This earned a tiny huff of laughter. "Sure, you could put it that way, if you want to be a dumbass."

"Well, I suppose if you're not drinking anything, I won't either," Wilbur concluded. He caught a subtle look of relief crossing Quackity's face and knew that he had given the right answer.

"I'll probably get a mocktail," Quackity offered.

"Oh good, and I'll just get the dish the foie gras was cooked in, without the actual food in it."

"You might just get nothing, unless you either pay for yourself or quit making fun of me."

Wilbur gave an exaggerated sigh and propped his head on his hand, blowing a few stray curls out of his eyes. "Oh c'mon, you know letting me starve would be terrible for your image."

"Being around you in the first place is terrible for my image," Quackity said, half smirking. Then he faltered and his face fell. "Shit, that was rude. I'm sorry."

Wilbur, who had already opened his mouth to make a snarky reply, hesitated. "Ah... no problem, Q."

The following pause was just long enough to be uncomfortable.

"I'm not afraid of being seen with you," Quackity stated all of the sudden. He gestured to the calm but full restaurant around them. "If it wasn't obvious already. I don't mind if people know."

Wilbur bit at his lip carefully, trying to think of a response. He could taste Quackity's lip balm. Cinnamon. A warm, sugary flavor that probably tasted even better on those soft crimson lips... fuck, he was distracting himself. Focus.

"...so uh," he chuckled awkwardly, "you're telling me I got kicked in the face for nothing?

"What? Oh. Oh, shit," Quackity realized, and laughed. "Yeah, I guess that is what I'm telling you."

Wilbur smiled, pleased that his little observation had come across as funny and not ungrateful. Quackity had an absurdly cute laugh. This night was already starting to settle around him like a comfortable sweater.

Chapter Text

"...can't you just abuse your presidential authority and order them to let me light it?"

"I can make a polite request, if that's what you mean," said Quackity. 

"Alright, you do that and while you're talking, I'll stare at them like I'm about to commit several homicides."

"Do not." said Quackity. 

"How are we doing, sirs? Anything more I can fetch you? Any dessert?" The waiter had returned to take their empty plates.

"Uh, yes. Actually, I have a request..." Quackity's eye darted over to Wilbur, who had indeed begun staring at the waiter as if he had murdered his entire family. Quackity discreetly kicked him under the table to get him to stop. "...ahem, would it be possible to let my..." His brain spasmed trying to figure out whether to say friend or date or companion or-- "...to let him light his own pudding en flambe?"

The waiter blinked, then began to make what seemed to be a doubtful reply. Quackity quickly went on,

"I'm sure it wouldn't be any trouble, you could always bring the dish out and prepare it as usual. It's just that he would really appreciate being allowed to use the lighter for just a moment." With those words, he casually flashed a coin, making sure it caught the light as he flipped it between his fingers. A subtle offer.

"...let me just see if I can arrange something, sir," the waiter deferred. 

After a while, he came back with the dessert, and both guests were pleased to hear that Wilbur was, in fact, allowed to light it on fire. He reached to take it from the waiter, but the waiter insisted firmly on holding the bowl and applying the alcohol whilst Wilbur simply took the lighter and waited for the word to light it up. 

It was an easy task, almost boring if Quackity were honest. Yet Wilbur looked so happy about it, he couldn’t help but keep smiling himself. And against all odds, things got interesting real fucking quick.

How Wilbur managed to set the waiter's sleeve on fire was a mystery to everyone involved, Wilbur included. The waiter dropped the pudding bowl in panic, and Quackity glanced this way and that before his eye landed on a full water glass on a table nearby. He lunged and grabbed it, startling the people at the table who hadn't noticed the waiter's unfortunate situation. Without a word, he doused the flame, soaking the waiter's shirt and slacks in the process.

When the two had settled down somewhat, they both glared at Wilbur, who was laughing uncontrollably. Only once the waiter had stormed off did Quackity start to laugh also. 

Both of them were still chuckling under their breath as they left the restaurant and got back in the car. Wilbur reclined his seat a little so he could put his feet up on the dash, hands clasped loosely behind his head. 

"See, that's exactly why they're not supposed to let us do that," Quackity said as if he was scolding, but he could feel the grin tugging on his lips. 

"It would've been perfectly fine if he'd let me hold the whole bowl," Wilbur declared.

"Yeah, yeah, 'cuz we all know how well things usually go when you're given a lighter." Quackity started the car.

Wilbur huffed in mock offense. "At least I don't have to bribe people to do what I want everywhere I go."

"You couldn't if you wanted to," Quackity laughed. 

"I know, you remind me every primedamn day," Wilbur rolled his eyes. Quackity's mind paused in its playful flow.

"What?"

"I said you remind me of that every day."

"No, I-- what do you mean?"

Wilbur snorted and reclined his seat a little more. "You know exactly what I mean, Big Q. It's always 'Wilbur, you look like shit,' 'Wilbur, you live in a van, what do you know about property value,' 'Wilbur, I've seen homeless panhandlers with better clothes than that,' and all of this from a guy who has two fucking Lamborghinis and a solid gold tooth!" 

He punctuated his scorn with a sharp hah! Quackity bit his tongue to hold back the snippy response that would have jumped out otherwise. Instead, he paused to think about Wilbur's words. 

"...Did I actually say all that?" he asked, though he could guess the answer.

"Every word, darling, and much more." Wilbur sounded nonchalant about the whole thing, but Quackity could feel his gaze on him as he drove. He kept his eye on the road. 

"That was... kind of shitty of me," he said.

"Hm," Wilbur brushed it off, "It's whatever. I never cared to be a rich fucker anyway." 

"Don't do that." 

"Do what?" 

"That." He didn't say, that thing Sapnap used to do when he was pissed. He said, "Don't say it's whatever if you're going to stay mad about it."

"Mad about what?" Wilbur was playing dumb. "What do I have to be mad about? You only said what was true."

"Don't fucking bait me. I shouldn't have made fun of you for having less than I do, it was an asshole move, although I'm gradually regretting it less with every passive aggressive comment you make."

"You really are shit at apologies, aren't you?" Wilbur scoffed.

Quackity gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "Can you just accept it and move on?"

Wilbur pulled his feet off of the dash, sitting up. "No, actually. I don't think I will."

"Why not?" said Quackity.

"Because I think you can do better than that." Wilbur was leaning in now, challenging. "Apologize to me for real, Quackity."

"You're insufferable."

"That's not a great start, but I'll hear you out. Go on."

"You're insufferable, and annoying, and you never wear your primedamn seat belt even after I had you put it on on the way here. You can't even remember to do that." Quackity sighed in frustration, staring straight ahead. A pause. Then, "And it pisses me off that I have to apologize to you for anything, because you've spat just as many bullshit insults back at me. But somebody has to start with this shit, so it might as well be me."

Another pause. Quackity glanced to the side and met Wilbur's eye briefly before looking away again. 

"I'm sorry, Wilbur. I'm sorry for saying a whole bunch of shit to you that probably hurt, even if you didn't show it."

There was a quiet, "Thank you." A seatbelt clicked into its proper place. Quackity eased slightly. 

"There's more," he said hesitantly, before he could pussy out of speaking his mind. "I wanted to apologize for kicking you out of my house that night. It made sense to me at the time, but... I fucked up. Bad. I'm sorry."

This time there was no immediate response. Quackity looked over nervously and found Wilbur staring at his hands with a furrowed brow. He swallowed and waited for some kind of acknowledgement.

"I had a fun time tonight," Wilbur said eventually, and Quackity shrank back into an uneasy sense of having said just the wrong thing. Again. 

"Yeah," he said, "So did I."

It was too final. He didn't like it. There was little room left for conversation after that, despite almost the entire care ride back to Paradise remaining. Somewhere along the way, Wilbur made some comment about the shops they passed on the side of the road. Quackity tried to play off of it, but the banter just wouldn't spark. He felt deflated. 

When they made it back to the burger van, Wilbur unbuckled before the car had even stopped. He didn't get out right away, though; he sat looking at Quackity expectantly. Quackity looked right back, with no idea what he was meant to do or say. The distant lights of buildings and stars shifted subtly against Wilbur's porcelain skin, glimmered against his blue and gold eyeshadow, panted him like a sunken statue miles below the sea. He had never looked quite as entrancing as he did at that moment. 

Then he was leaning in, bridging the distance between them. Quackity opened his mouth to say something, but Wilbur caught his lips with his own and Quackity could only make a muffled mph! before his eye rolled back and he melted into the kiss. 

Chapped skin scratched against soft. Wilbur's mouth worked gently to draw Quackity's lower lip in and suck on it. Without fully recognizing what he was doing, Quackity leaned further into it, letting his jaw go slack as he felt hot breath fan across his face. His heartbeat fluttered. 

And it was over, and Wilbur was pulling back and looking away, and Quackity was becoming aware of the uncomfortable warmth that told him he was blushing.

"...I just wanted to do that and actually remember it this time," Wilbur offered into the silence. He opened his door to get out. 

"...Wil... wait, Wil, there's something--" Quackity had no idea what possessed him to bring it up now, after resolving for so long to pretend he had never done it-- "there's something else that happened, that you don't remember. We..."

Wilbur looked back at him with a sad smile, as if he thought he could somehow know what Quackity was trying to find the words to say. 

"Forget it, Q," he said, "I don't wanna know. I was never meant to remember anyway, was I?" 

Quackity couldn't find a word to say before the door shut, and Wilbur was gone. He sat, speechless, trying to process everything. His brain was far too scattered to manage it.

"Fucking Soot..." he breathed, but even alone, he didn't have the heart to make it sound irritated. He pulled away from the van and started driving back toward the heart of Las Nevadas. 

It was only a few minutes into the trip that his communicator buzzed, and he glanced at it. briefly before swerving hard and skidding to a stop at the side of the road. 

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: next time I'll take you somewhere more interesting than a restaurant 

[You whisper to Wilbur Soot]: Next time?

Quackity watched expectantly as Wilbur took somewhat longer than strictly necessary to reply,

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: idk if you feel like it I guess. if not then nvm

[You whisper to Wilbur Soot]: I'd be down for a second date. If you're chill with calling it that I mean

Another longish pause, and Quacity was getting restless. The answer he received wasn't quite what he hoped for, but at least it was something.

[Wilbur Soot whispers to you]: kk. gnight

"Wilbur, Wilbur..." Quackity sighed. I've played this game more times than you have, he thought, So why do I still have no fucking clue what the rules are?

Chapter Text

Quackity still had serious things on his mind; that much was clear by his brisk pace and the crease between his brows. Wilbur didn't know where he had just come from, but if he had to guess, it was some kind of stressful meeting. Or several, as Quackity tended to cram much more into a single day than most people got done in a week. Wilbur watched him march up the street in his dark blue, pinstriped suit until he was just close enough, then hopped directly into his path and held up a hand in greeting.

"Quackity!" he said. Quackity jolted in surprise and gripped the handle of his briefcase as though he was about to use it as a weapon. Upon registering who it was that had jumped him, he relaxed.

"Shit, Wil, don't do that," he snapped.

Wilbur only grinned. "Are you ready to go?"

"What?" Quackity's brows twisted as he mentally scanned his schedule. "Go where?"

"It's a surprise. Although you might want to wear something a little less expensive." Wilbur looked him up and down appreciatively.

Quackity tugged on the hem of his suit coat. "It's going to have to wait. I'm busy."

"Oh, but it can't wait," Wilbur said, "It's a very time-sensitive affair. In fact, you'd have just enough time to go change and meet me at the border if you hurry right away."

"Wilbur, you can't just show up whenever you want demanding my attention," Quackity huffed, "I actually have important things to do."

"I'm not demanding anything," Wilbur replied, "I'm just saying that if you want to see something cool, you'd better take a break from being such a workaholic and exercise some of the freedom that you like to brag about. I'm going with or without you, anyway."

Quackity glared at him, glanced down at his watch, and flicked his hair out of his eyes. Wilbur suppressed a giggle at his visible annoyance.

"...fine. You have an hour and ten minutes to show me whatever this is, then I need to be back at my office. Deal?" 

Wilbur gave him a mocking salute. "Deal. Now hop to it, Birdie." He spun on his heel and walked away before Quackity could react to the nickname.

He honestly hadn't been sure whether Quackity would bother taking time directly out of a work day to entertain his silly idea of a second date. Hence he couldn't stop smiling when Quackity kept his word, meeting him at the Las Nevadas border near the welcoming sign. He was dressed as simply as Wilbur had seen him in quite some time; just a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that Wilbur quickly realized was going to be supremely distracting. It hugged his chest just closely enough to suggest the subtle curve of his pecs, but remained maddeningly modest in all other respects. Best of all, though, were the wings that fluttered slightly at his back and caught the light in their gold-and-chocolate feathers with every step he took. Wilbur sighed, unabashedly admiring Quackity's beauty until he came close enough to speak.

"Take a picture, it'll--"

"--last longer, yeah," Wilbur interrupted, finally looking away. "The place is this way. C'mon, we gotta be quick now. I don't want to miss it." 

"You're still not telling me where we're going?" said Quackity.

"Nope. You'll find out soon enough. Trust me, it's worth it." Wilbur cheerfully led the way out into the wilderness. Whenever he glanced over, it was clear that Quackity was at a loss for ideas as to wear they might be headed. After a minute, Wilbur said, "So how has your day been? You fire anybody yet?"

Quackity snorted. "Is that what you think I do all day?"

"I would bet it's a favorite activity," said Wilbur, "Seeing as you're such a, shall I say, tasteful critic of other people's skills."

"That's why I just don't hire idiots to begin with," said Quackity.

"You say that, but Foolish hasn't yet managed to keep me out of Las Nevadas for good."

"Could anybody keep you out for good, Wilbur?" 

"Well," Wilbur admitted, "No, not if I still want in. I'd come back." He quickly swapped his confessional tone for something more cocky and taunting. "You couldn't stop me no matter what you did. Like Sisyphus I climb on, no matter what hinderances may bar my way, ever reaching and ever unsatisfied, but certain that every step which strains my mortal body now will soon lead me to the top of the mountain whence I shall finally--"

"Hey Shakespeare, do you know where you're going or are you just gonna walk into that ravine?" Quackity interrupted. Wilbur avoided the ravine and led them in a slightly altered path around it. It wasn't too far, thankfully; Quackity had set a bit of a tight timetable for finishing this little outing. Soon enough, they came upon a slope that dipped down into the small, jagged mouth of a cave buried in the hillside. Wilbur was the first to make the somewhat perilous trek down into it. Quackity looked skeptical, but didn't waste his precious time hesitating. He stumbled a little on the way down, and Wilbur held out his hand with a flourish to offer assistance.

"My esteemed rival," he said with a teasing half-bow. 

"Fuckin' hell," Quackity muttered, though he took Wilbur's hand nonetheless. "Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say, Birdie," Wilbur replied.

"Or that," Quackity said, but any annoyance in his tone was half-assed. A smile played as Wilbur's lips as he led Quackity carefully by the hand. The tunnel they were entering got quite dark in the middle. 

"Ducky?"

"No."

"Duckling?" 

"Abslolutely not."

"What about Angel?"

Quackity scoffed. "Do I look holy to you?"

"Not all angels are virtuous, darling."

"...still a hard pass."

They reached a curve in the tunnel, and a dim glow shed just enough light for them to survey the cavern around them. Low ceilings, a rocky floor jutting down into a large pool of water. The faint trickle of an unseen spring fed the pool and created a soothing background noise. Upon closer examination, one could see that the dim and shifting light was provided by several luminous squid that floated lazily through the deep, clear water. 

"Here we are," Wilbur said, his low voice reverberating a bit.

"This is it?" said Quackity. "You know I've seen glowsquid before, right?"

Wilbur huffed. "Well I've eaten food before, and I didn't complain when you took me to dinner. So hush up and pretend you're having fun." 

"I can't believe you." 

"Just watch!" 

Quackity looked down at the pool of squid. Wilbur bit his lip, waiting. Had they already missed it? Surely not, he had it timed. It had to be any minute now.

"Wow. Look at them. They're squid that glow. Fucking breathtaking." Quackity paused in his sarcastic and, in Wilbur's mind at least, unreasonably bitchy commentary. He had begun to take actual interest in something, and Wilbur tried not to show his excitement. There it is.

The gentle blue light shifted and faded into a deep green, as one singular squid amongst the others changed color. Soon, the others followed, and they began to swim in a peculiar little pattern, almost like a sloppy figure eight. The green shifted quickly to yellow, then white. Each time, the color change was initiated by a different squid, but quickly copied by the others, so that a kaleidoscope of colored light swirled through the cavern. The pod flushed pink, bathing Quackity's awestruck face in a rosy glow. 

"They can change color?" he wondered aloud. "How have I literally never even heard of this before?"

"They only do it a few times, during their mating season. Most people never see it." 

Pink shifted into a vibrant orange. Quackity looked at Wilbur with a wary expression.

"...Wilbur, please don't tell me we're about to watch a bunch of squids fuck," he grimaced.

Wilbur laughed and shook his head. "No, we're not. They're not ready to get it on yet, they're still waiting." 

Quackity's shoulders shook slightly as he suppressed a chuckle at Wilbur's phrasing. Wilbur noticed and counted it as a win. 

"What're they waiting for?" Quackity asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"The rest of the pod," Wilbur said, "They like to gather, like, a shit ton of possible suitors and all swim in a cluster together. Pretty much any squid that was spawned here will come back to mate with its generation. Kind of like a kinky family reunion."

Quackity pulled a face and punched him in the shoulder. "Don't say it like that," he protested, but he was even more visibly amused this time. 

"It's true," Wilbur shrugged, "Anyway, they use the colors to basically do roll call; once they have enough of them, they'll all know that it's time for the fun part, with all the tentacle grabbing and shit."

"Prime, dude-- fucking stop talking about squid sex," Quackity giggled. Wilbur's face hurt, he was grinning so hard. 

"You asked," he reminded. 

"Why do you even know all of this?"

"I know plenty of things, Big Q. And an inordinate amount of them are related to sex and marine biology." 

"Oh, right, semiaquatic ex-wife, I almost forgot," Quackity said.

"I was interested long before that," Wilbur said, "How do you think I met my semiaquatic ex-wife?"

"Prime, Wil. You're kinda fucked in the head, you know that, right?" 

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Wilbur sniffed haughtily. Quackity shook his head and shuffled to the edge of the pool, leaning over to get a closer look at what the squid were doing now.

"How did you know when they were gonna do the  color thing?" he asked as the pod unanimously faded back to their usual electric blue. 

"Well I stumbled upon a pod gathering here a while back and figured it was only a matter of time," Wilbur explained, moving to stand next to him. "So I just kept visiting and eventually figured out what time of day they start their little light show. It's quite a regular time interval, especially for a cave-dwelling creature. Pretty cool, huh?"

Only because he was watching closely for every reaction he could make out in the low lighting did Wilbur catch the little huff of almost-laughter and the way Quackity's good eye darted toward him and crinkled up. His heart swooped, then threw itself against his ribcage in an excited flurry. 

"Yeah," Quackity agreed, "Pretty fuckin' cool." 

He bent over to stare at the squid again, scooting a little closer to the edge of the rockface which sloped down steeply into the glimmering water. 

"I told you it would be worth it," Wilbur said. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm impressed," Quackity said, teasingly reluctant. One of the squid jetted away from the others and cut through the water towards the other end of the pool. Quackity, fixed on its progress, took an awkward, shuffling step to the side, then another. 

"Hey, Q, be careful, you might--" Wilbur's warning came just a second too late. Quackity's foot slipped on the slick stone, and with a yelp of surprise, he splashed into the cold water. Instantly, he was thrashing to the surface and spluttering curses. Glowsquid darted this way and that to avoid the intruder in their collective panic. 

"Fuckin-- motherfuckin- shit, my fuckin' beanie came off!" he yelled, as furiously as if someone had deeply and personally offended him. Wilbur cackled. Quackity did not find it the least bit funny. "Fuckin' c'mon, you dick, help me find it!" 

"It's right there, Q," Wilbur wheezed, pointing. 

"Where?!" Quackity spun himself around scanning the water, but it was dark, and he was half blind and causing far too much commotion into the water to see anything properly.

"Right there, it's floating right there," Wilbur tried to direct, stepping closer to the edge to point. "How can you not-- Quackity it's literally right beside you, okay, just look--"

"I am looking!"

"Dude, chill, it's right there--"

"You come get it then!" Quackity demanded. 

"What?" Wilbur laughed, "No way, you're already wet, I'm not going in there!"

Quackity reached out and groped at the edge of the rock, trying to grab Wilbur's ankles. Wilbur hopped back, out of reach. 

"One way or another, bitch, you're coming with me." Quackity's growl was dark but playful, and oh, clearly that tone did something to Wilbur, because now his heart was bouncing around so quickly that he couldn't tell where it had gone. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. 

"Oh yeah?" he challenged giddily, "Try and make me." 

Quackity hauled himself up out of the water, wings spread wide in a menacing silhouette despite their comparatively diminutive size.

"Oh, I intend to." 

That was it. Wilbur was done for. He bit his lip hard as another shiver nearly made his knees buckle. Thank Prime the lighting was dim enough that Quackity wouldn't notice the tent that was beginning between his legs. He put a hand out to catch himself against the wall. 

"I-I'd like to see you try..." he managed to say. 

Quackity went for him, and he easily dodged, stumbling out of reach. Not for long. Quackity tried again, this time faking him out to one side before lunging to the other and winding and fist into his coat. Wilbur tried to wrestle himself free to no avail; Quackity only tugged him closer. Once they were grappling hand-to-hand, it was an odd match. Quackity was wet and pissed off, and more prone to slipping and stumbling. Wilbur was less muscular and somewhat distracted by the way Quackity's vicelike hands flexed their grip around his own, so tight that he could feel his own pulse beating against his veins. 

Then, all of the sudden, Quackity let go of one of Wilbur's hands and swept his legs off the ground, almost tipping him upside down in the process. Wilbur kicked and failed, all the while shrieking protests. Quackity struggled to keep hold of him, staggering back toward the pool. Amidst cries of no, it's cold, you're cold, let go of me and I won't hesitate bitch, the two tumbled into the water. 

The surface broke about two seconds later, and the clamor of outraged and bickering voices echoed through the cave. All of the glowsquid had darted away and hid, leaving them in pitch blackness.

While Quackity lamented the loss of his prized possession, Wilbur pointed out that he didn't even wear the same beanie every day, so he had no reason to act like this was his only mortal possession. Quackity addressed this reasonable argument by grabbing Wilbur's head and shoulder and dunking him back under the frigid water. Wilbur came up spluttering indignantly, and repaid him in kind. The resulting blind water fight ended with both of them spitting and coughing as they finally dragged themselves back onto land.

"C'mon," Wilbur choked out, "Let's go before something spawns in the dark. I don't have any weapons on me."

"You didn't even-- you didn't even bring anything to light the way!" Quackity accused.

"Well excuse me, but I didn't think we were going for a swim!"

Quackity grabbed Wilbur's arm to make sure they stayed side by side as they fumbled in search of the tunnel exit. He was ranting again, about Wilbur being a dick, or his beanie being gone forever, or some bullshit. As the tunnel slowly lightened on their way out, Wilbur's warm, giddy feeling returned full-force. 

True, Quackity's hair looked a little ridiculous dripping a over and plastered to his face and neck, but his cheeks were flushed pink and his wings were beaded with a million glistening droplets. Most glaringly though, his t-shirt was sopping wet. His white t-shirt. Wilbur couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from his torso; the shirt clung to his skin, practically see-through, revealing every curve and slope of his chest and the darker spots at his nipples that Wilbur had the sudden and inexplicable desire to run his finger over. A flush of heat bloomed across Wilbur's face and another below his belt. 

"--and now I'm gonna be fuckin' late!" Quackity gestured furiously as they crunched across the desert sand, now fully in the open with the sun beaming down on them. He still hadn't let go of Wilbur's arm. Wilbur didn't mind that one bit. He gladly listened as Quackity berated him for the entirety of the walk back to Las Nevadas, relieved that the former didn't seem to notice his staring.

When they stopped at last at the border, Quackity panted, out of breath from walking and scolding at the same time. Wilbur forced himself to make eye contact. He couldn't decide whether it was a good or bad decision, because he found himself captivated by a sharp, challenging, somehow excited-looking gaze. Quackity stepped closer to him, and Wilbur bit his tongue. 

"You'd better take me out again, Soot," Quackity said in that low, growly voice. This time, there was no way he could possibly have missed the way it made Wilbur's breath hitch and his eyes dart around for anywhere safer to look. A tiny smirk curled Quackity's lips. You bastard, Wilbur thought. "You'd better take me out so we can replace that beanie. Got it?"

Wilbur swallowed and mustered up an dazed grin that he hoped looked smug. "...you'd like that, huh Mr. President?"

"Hah," Quackity huffed softly as he turned away. "I guess we'll see, Soot." 

Wilbur watched him wistfully as he walked away, wings puffed up proudly. His heart had just begun to settle back to its usual residence when a buzz from his communicator alerted him of a new message.

[Quackity whispers to you]: Yes, I think I would like that a lot.

Chapter Text

The coffee maker was finished. He knew it had finished; he had heard it from down the hall in his bedroom. Yet Quackity made no move other than to stretch out his wings a little farther. He had paused in his morning routine to contemplate his sunlit reflection in the full-length mirror. 

His wings weren't particularly sore or tired today, but they still hurt. Nowadays the chronic ache in his joints was always there to remind him that he had fucked himself over, and it would never stop hurting. He was used to it, so much so that it barely felt like real pain, rather a constant, forgettable state of discomfort. And fragility, though he tried to ignore that side of it. It made him feel something far too quiet and shaky to be anger. 

The coffee maker was finished, meaning that by this time he should be dressed and ready to grab his daily caffeine fix and be on his way. But he was still standing there, steel-boned corset clutched loosely in one hand. Why hesitate? He just had to tuck in his wings and slide it on. Tighten it up and hide it with a shirt. It was a simple routine. 

Quackity held the corset up in front of him, then, haltingly, turned and placed it on his dressing table. He tucked a white shirt in as best he could around the base of his wings and adjusted his suspenders before throwing another glance at the mirror, almost anxious.

For a moment, he thought he saw Wilbur's eyes crinkle in a smile.

__________

When Wilbur woke up, it took him a full three and a half minutes to figure out the what time it was, what day it was, and what the hell had happened to him. What had happened, he finally remembered, was that after eating a hearty lunch, he had lain down for an afternoon nap and actually fallen asleep. It ended up being just as weird and disorienting as it was pleasant. He stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

It was already past four o'clock, and he wasn't sure what to spend the rest of his day on. Ranboo was taking the afternoon shift at the burger van all the way to closing time, although if Tubbo showed up the two would probably ditch early. Wilbur didn't particularly care. He wasn't in the mood to talk with anyone. Usually that meant he would while away his time smoking at his trailer home window, or maybe wander out to the middle of nowhere on a lonesome hike and see if he could find another cave worth checking out. But not today. Today, he wanted to be around people. Just as long as they didn't actually talk to him, or look at him, or acknowledge his presence. 

With that mindset, where else was he to go but the heart of Las Nevadas? 

He tried to be inconspicuous despite his rather easily recognizable appearance. Truthfully, he wasn't sure whether or not he was officially banned from the city; every time he had entered it had been either on a specific invitation or with a goal to cause mischief. Hence, he didn't really know if he would be thrown out if he just walked in with no ulterior motive. It was worth a shot. 

Las Nevadas was built like a vortex, Wilbur often thought, each street and alley drawing the wanderer in. Sweeping them along, for better or worse, toward its heart, ever glowing and glittering with neon lights in every color that could snatch an eye but never keep it long. There was always another thing to look at and be dazzled by. The city seemed to have its own smile, just as charismatic and sharp-toothed as its founder.

Wilbur could see Quackity in every color, hear him in every sound. It felt like a long time ago now that he had desired to join this country, back when it was newly born. Now, that wish rushed back to him with ten times its original force, but with a vastly different motive than before. The moment his eyes alit on the space needle, it became his destination. 

The elevator was by no means vacant, and Wilbur found himself amidst a group of aminatedly chattering friends. The noise and clamor of overlapping voices and raucous laughter was familiar in a way that pooled in his chest like bittersweet cough syrup. He listened in. Nobody glared at him. Nobody looked troubled by his presence at all, and he was struck by the sudden realization that there were still people alive who didn't know that he was a villain and a monster, who wouldn't distinguish between Wilbur Soot and an ordinary man. There were people alive who didn't know how many apologies he owed, and how inadequate each of them would be. People who could laugh and talk openly in his presence with no trace of wariness behind their eyes. 

It made him feel... something. Something he hadn't felt, well, maybe ever. It felt like he had a secret, but he wasn't afraid. He just held it like a candle, small and bright and glowing deep inside of his heart. Nostalgia.

This is what it feels like to be haunted, he thought, and maybe he was wrong, but how could he tell?

The elevator tone pinged as the doors slid open, and the rich scents of the needle restaurant washed over him. He strolled out of the elevator, bypassing the restaurant itself in favor of visiting the balcony. Out in the open air, the relaxed aura was even more tangible. Wind whipped through his hair and made the folds of his coat flap. Tourists milled about, enjoying the spectacular view. Wilbur leaned against the railing and thought about... nothing. There was nothing on his mind, nothing weighing on his shoulders and making him want to light up a millionth cigarette. He smiled. It had been so fucking long since he had simply had a good day, all by himself.

And then, all of the sudden, he wasn't by himself. A faint rustle of movement and a warm bump against his shoulder. A familiar scent. He didn't have to turn his head to know who had leaned against the railing beside him.

"Would I be interrupting your evening if I joined you?" The voice was soft. Clouds were gathering, high and thin, veiling the sun. It wouldn't rain. Once the night got cold enough, it would be snow that drifted down over the glimmering cityscape. Wilbur's smile faded, just a little.

"Would it matter if you were?" he asked in return. 

"Yes." The answer was simple and direct, and it took Wilbur somewhat by surprise. He looked over and found Quackity's mismatched, milk-and-coffee eyes staring back at him serenely with not a hint of irony. 

"...no," Wilbur said, matching Quackity's quiet tone. "You wouldn't be interrupting."

"Good." Quackity made no attempt to hide his appreciation of this most basic statement of non-hatred. His faze drifted out over Las Nevadas. "It's going to snow tonight."

"Yeah," Wilbur said. No replying comment. No theatrics. He felt like an actor alone in his dressing room when the show was long over. Except, he wasn't alone. 

There was quiet. 

Quackity's knuckles brushed against his, and he looked down in surprise. His hands dangled loosely over the edge, elbows propped on the railing. There was no way for Quackity's hand to have touched his by mistake; Quackity was deliberately reaching out, brushing against him, offering. And then, before Wilbur could decide whether to reach back, the offer took shape in a string of words that he never thought he would hear. 

"Hold my hand?" 

Wilbur almost laughed out loud, but caught himself just in time, realizing that it might be interpreted wrong. Instead, he bit his tongue and relished in the giddy buzz in his ribs. He obediently wrapped his hand around Quackity's, interlacing their fingers, and squeezed. Quackity's palm was slippery with sweat, like he had just done something that made him incredibly anxious. Wilbur looked over and smiled, but it made no difference. Quackity was looking straight ahead, he realized, and Wilbur was on his left -- his blind side. That wouldn't do. 

With his unoccupied hand, Wilbur reached over and cupped Quackity's cheek, earning a soft gasp as he turned his head until he could see the dark, woody brown of his good eye. Then, purposefully, he smiled again.

He was rewarded with the deep blush that colored Quackity's cheeks. Maintaining the eye contact, Quackity slowly tilted his face to press a chaste kiss into Wilbur's palm. Now it was Wilbur's turn to flush red, if the heat in his face was any indication. He breathed a barely audible "fuck" and pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. A smirk crept onto Quackity's face.

"What's wrong, Soot?" he asked, and though his voice was still quiet, a hint of the familiar charade was seeping back into it now. Playfully taunting. A mild challenge, but a challenge nonetheless, with no doubt that Wilbur would answer. Wilbur's heart eagerly took up the rhythm it knew so well. "Don't you like holding my hand?"

Wilbur rolled his lips between his teeth. Quackity waited patiently for an answer, eye gleaming.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. President," was the answer he got, "Did I seem ungrateful?"

"Maybe a little," Quackity hummed. 

"Then allow me to make it up to you," he said, and without letting himself think twice, he swooped in and pressed a firm kiss into Quackity's cheek. This one was slightly less chaste than Quackity's had been, but neither of them minded. When he leaned back, Quackity was biting his lip, eye trained on his and Wilbur's intertwined hands. There was a rustle of feathers, and Wilbur noticed for the first time that Quackity's wings were on full display.

"How did you know I would be here?" he asked. 

"I didn't."

"...but...your wings..." Had he really gone out with them exposed, just because? Not expecting to see Wilbur at all, not trying to avoid an argument, just... because. Because he wanted to. Wilbur broke into a beaming smile.

Quackity glanced up at him and quickly looked away again. "Shit, Wil, don't look at me like that," he mumbled. 

"Like what?" 

"You know."

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Either way, Wilbur squeezed his hand and said, "Why does it snow but never rain?" 

Quackity looked back out over the city. "Because there's only ever enough moisture up there in the evening after it's been evaporating all day. And the night is cold enough to keep it frozen." A pause. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Did you drive here?"

"No, I walked." 

"So did I." That part was obvious, but neither of them acknowledged it as so. It was quiet again. Woven into the evening air came snippets of conversations that reminded them that they were in public, surrounded by people. A passing murmur brought the words Quackity's boytoy and secretly dating? to both of their ears. They chanced to glance at each other at the same time, met eyes, and burst out laughing; whether in actual amusement or simple awkwardness was uncertain. 

"...do you, uh, wanna walk for a bit?" Quackity asked when his laughter subsided. "Before it starts snowing? We won't be able to see the sunset anyway, with the clouds and all."

"Sure," Wilbur said, "Do you want to shop for that beanie you so desperately needed replaced?"

Quackity, who was wearing a spare beanie at that moment, flashed a glint of his gold fang and said, "Yeah, we better."

Wilbur turned from the balcony, reluctantly loosing his grip on Quackity's hand. Quackity also released his hold, but before they had walked more than two steps, he cleared his throat and offered Wilbur his arm. Like they were a pair of nobles entering a ballroom, or some rich folks strolling down Money Lane, or an old married couple. It was the way Wilbur used to offer his arm to someone else, long ago, someone who had fallen in love with the man Wilbur used to be.

He wrinkled his nose at the proffered arm. Then, he grabbed it and wrapped it around his waist instead, while he elected to throw his arm over Quackity's shoulders. Quackity huffed out a laugh and accepted the altered mode of walking.

People whispered and stared as they left the building. When Quackity wasn't looking, Wilbur flipped them off.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe you didn't get the other one."

"Dude, that one made me look so bald, it wasn't even funny!" Despite his words, Quackity was laughing. 

"This one is blinding, why do they even make hats with glittery trim?"

"It's metallic," Quackity corrected, "And it's gonna look good when I put together the right outfit. It's not my fault you don't understand fashion."

"At least I don't spend an hour and a half picking out a single item from the store."

"At least I don't wear the same coat every fucking day. "

"At least I don't shower in cologne."

"At least I shower."

"Don't pull that card," Wilbur protested, shoving him. "I do wash myself, you know. I just don't have a stupidly fancy fucking walk- in shower with mood lighting and 'rain mode,' whatever the hell that is."

"Fine, fine. Jealously mock my shower, why don't you. Doesn't bother me."

Snow was beginning to flurry down around them as the pair made their way out into the street. Quackity spread his wings wide and looked up, absent-mindedly sticking out his tongue to catch a snowflake. Wilbur laughed.

"You look like you're twelve," he said. 

Quackity shot him a smirk. "Well, on a scale of one to ten, I am."

"You know, you ought to be careful walking the streets. There's always creepy people on the lookout for a twelve such as yourself," Wilbur said, skipping ahead a few steps to disappear into a tight alleyway between two  buildings. His voice was slightly muffled as he said, "See, someone could be waiting right here for you to walk by." 

Quackity rolled his eyes but humored him and strolled out in front of the alley. 

"And then all of the sudden--" Wilbur's hands shot out of the shadows to grab Quackity’s arms. In a whirl, Quackity was yanked into the alley and shoved none-too-gently against the wall, Wilbur's lanky arms caging him in on either side. "--bam! You're done for."

"Hmm," Quackity considered, "And how would you suggest avoiding something like that?"

"Easy," Wilbur shrugged, "Just don't walk around without a known terrorist at your side at all times. Works wonders for scaring off creeps. I would know, I've never once been kidnapped."

"Smart," Quackity nodded, "But I think I have a better plan."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"I'll just walk wherever I want, and if somebody tries to pull some sketchy shit--" Quick as a flash, Quackity slipped his hand into his vest and unsheathed a wicked-sharp dagger, pressing the tip just below Wilbur's Adam's apple. "--I'll just stab the shit out of 'em. How about that?" 

"S'pose that works too," Wilbur conceded. Then, a soft ah! escaped his lips and Quackity's eyes widened. He pulled the dagger away carefully to reveal a tiny prick of red.

"Shit, sorry."

"Hah. Don't worry," Wilbur dismissed, "That was kind of hot." 

"Oh really?" Quackity lowered his voice as he put away the dagger. "Well... then..." 

The height difference between the two made it all too easy for him to lean in slowly and lick the bead of blood off of the taller man's neck, making him shiver. He kissed a gentle apology into the miniscule bit of damaged skin before pulling back. 

Wilbur let out a shaky breath. "You shouldn't do things like that."

"Why not?" Quackity teased.

"Because," Wilbur murmured, stepping closer in the dim lighting until Quackity was pressed between his body and the wall. "It gives me too many thoughts."

"...what if that was my intention?" Quackity tipped his head back, looking Wilbur in the eye but also effectively baring his own throat. Just in case any thoughts needed extra encouragement. It didn't take anything more than that. Wilbur's head dipped, and then there were warm, sloppy kisses traveling up and down Quackity's neck. Hands found their way to his waist and squeezed. All of the sudden, his heart was fluttering as a thrill of excitement rushed through him. "Mmm... someone's eager."

Wilbur found a soft spot just under his jaw to suck on before breaking the contact with a faint pop. 

"Just looked too good not to taste," he replied. Quackity could see the glint of streetlights reflected in his eyes. He wasn't sure which of them started pushing his hips against the other's, but the pressure was there and it was all too obvious what it was doing to both of them. "You're so damn beautiful."

He couldn't ignore how familiar this felt. 

"Wilbur... I need to tell you something." A crease appeared between Wilbur's brows at Quackity’s tone, but he didn't interrupt. "We've done this before. That night, at the party, we..."

"What, you mean-- made out?" said Wilbur.

"More than that."

"...did we fuck?" He breathed the question like he didnt quite believe he was really asking it. 

"Well, no, not really, more like..." Quackity searched for some kind of phrasing that wasn't quite so blunt, but found that there was no delicate way to say it. "...you kind of just humped me until you came. And then I left you on a balcony." 

Wilbur blinked his glossy eyes. Quackity braced himself for anger, or disgust, or betrayal, but when Wilbur opened his mouth--

"Fuck," he whispered, "That's hot."

"Wh- wait, what?" 

Wilbur was already ducking back down to suck and nibble at the other side of Quackity's neck. Quackity grabbed his shoulders and steered him backward to hold him at arm's length. 

"No, no, Wil, it wasn't-- it's not hot, you were drunk, and I shouldn't have touched you. It was a mistake."

Wilbur looked bewildered. "Did I tell you not to? Because that really, really doesn't sound like something Drunk Me would do."

"Well-- no," Quackity admitted, "You were kind of begging for it. But my point still stands, I--"

"Did you even get off?"

"I- no, but that's not the--"

"Then you obviously weren't trying to take advantage of me or anything," he reasoned. "Not that I really would've cared if you were--"

"Wilbur!"

"--only because it's you, and not anyone else. I literally burned your initial into my skin of my own accord that night. We both know that if one of us was forced into something, it wasn't me."

A pause as the implication set in. 

"So," Wilbur said after a moment. "You did nothing wrong."

Quackity shook his head. "It was still stupid. And I shouldn't have done it."

"Listen." Wilbur cupped Quackity's face with one hand. "If it matters this much to you, then I'll say it: I forgive you. Just don't keep beating yourself up over that, okay?"

Quackity sighed and mouthed the word, okay. Wilbur smiled, then leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips that he was not prepared for in the slightest. When he tried to draw back, Quackity put a hand to the back of his head and pulled him back in for a deeper kiss.

It wasn't long before the warmth in his gut and the shivers across his skin returned. He wasn't sure at what point Wilbur's hands had crept up onto his chest, but he certainly took notice when nimble fingers rubbed at his nipples, hard enough to set his nerves alight even through the fabric of his shirt. He nipped at Wilbur's lip playfully before parting from him once more.

"It's too cold out here," he said, "My house?"

Wilbur nodded, though he seemed loath to part contact with Quackity if possible. He kept his arm around him, sides brushing together with every step, as they left the alleyway. Quackity steered them towards his penthouse, stumbling slightly to keep up with his companion's impatient and long-legged strides. Snowflakes spiraled past them, catching the multicolored lights to become falling stars and then die upon the still-warm desert sand.

"I can feel that you know," Wilbur huffed as they made their way to Quackity's door. 

"That's kind of the point of touching, Wil." Quackity rolled his eyes, pretending that he wasn't blushing a little at being called out. His hand had gotten a little lost and wandered under Wilbur's sweater to explore the small of his back. 

"At least you're warm," Wilbur muttered, as if he actually would've complained otherwise. Quackity cut off any further comment he may have made by pushing him against the front door and trying to suck a hickey into his neck while in the process of actually getting the door unlocked and open. When it was, they stumbled into the house and nearly fell over, clinging to each other both for balance and for the sugar-rush high of physical contact. Somebody managed to kick the door shut; somebody managed to steer them onto the sofa before they collapsed. 

"Holy shit, Wil," Quackity groaned as slender hands wove through his feathers. Wilbur, on top of him, paused in lathering kisses upon every available inch of skin. 

"You have no idea," he panted, breath hot against Quackity's jaw, "how fucking long I've wanted this."

Quackity felt something blossom inside him. His heart maybe, if it were anywhere to be found. In the whirlwind of hands and lips and unspoken words, he had lost track of most of his body parts. Everything was a singing, pulsing, jumbled mess of pleasure and warmth and I want to eat this man alive.

"What is it?" he asked, willing Wilbur to spill all of his thoughts right then and there. "What have you been wanting, amorcito? Tell me."

"I want you," Wilbur whispered to the shell of his ear, as if it was a secret. "I want you to take me and use me, do all the things you're afraid you'll regret, and don't ever look back. I want to... ohhh..."

He trailed off as Quackity seized him by the hips and began grinding their clothed erections together. 

"I could just have my way with you, couldn't I?" Quackity hummed. Wilbur only nodded dazedly. "I want you too, Wil. But not on my couch when I have a perfectly good bed, okay?"

For a moment longer, Wilbur seemed reluctant to move, but then he dragged himself to his feet. He pulled Quackity along by the hand, almost running, to the bedroom. Quackity couldn't help giggling at his enthusiasm. 

There was a lamp on the bedside table, which Wilbur switched on. It cast the room in a dim, golden glow and made their shadows on the wall huge and abstract. It glimmered in Wilbur's hungry eyes. He was already on the bed, kicking off his shoes and socks, while Quackity let go of his hand and went to draw the curtains shut. 

"Strip for me, amorcito," he said, "I want to see you." Wilbur was faintly pink in the face, but he lost no time in wriggling out of his coat, then his sweater, leaving him bare from the waist up. From there, he took his time, glancing up at Quackity every few moments as he carefully undid his belt, slid it off, wound it up, set it aside. His fly was undone, his pants sliding down over his knees and then tossed aside completely, and then... Wilbur paused, sitting on the bed in his boxers, and looked up at Quackity. 

Quackity realized that he hadn't moved a muscle since Wilbur had started undressing, too focused on his slender limbs and alabaster skin and the various marks and scars that adorned his body. Just like his face, it was perfectly imperfect, rendered spellbinding by all the intricate little asymetries. 

"Are you going to, uh..." Wilbur began.

"Yeah--" Quackity hastily slid his suspenders off his shoulders, eager to catch up until he realized that he was now being watched closely. He intentionally slowed down. All his experience on the stage served him well; he knew how to make a strip tease enticing. The performance mindset clicked into place, and suddenly he was watching Wilbur's face for all the little signs and reactions that would tell him if he was doing it right. It was all there, all the amazement and hunger and arousal, before he was even halfway done. 

Quackity wasn't typically bothered by indecency, but for once he felt a little nervous to pull off his boxers. He put it off for the moment, opting to climb onto the foot of the bed and crawl up between Wilbur's legs, spreading them apart to give himself room. 

"You're so pretty," Quackity said, "It's distracting." Wilbur opened his mouth, but Quackity shushed him, putting a finger to his lips. "Too pretty." He poked at Wilbur's lips, and Wilbur took it as a sign to take the finger into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around as though it were something else. Quackity was already hard, but he felt his cock twitch at that. Wilbur seemed to feel it too, where Quackity was pressed against him, and there was a gleam in his eye as he bucked his hips up.

"Q--" He slid the finger out of his mouth to speak-- "I love looking at you, darling, but would you mind if we hurry the fuck up?"

Quackity grinned, showing his gold fang. "What, not a fan of foreplay?"

"Well, maybe if I hadn't been hard for like half an hour already, I wouldn't mind so much. But I have, and I do, so please, let's just cut to the good part."

"You mean this part?" Quackity slipped a hand under Wilbur's waistband and wrapped it around his length as tightly as he dared. Wilbur made a startled noise, then immediately thrust into the touch to try and create some friction. Quackity soon let go as though he had gotten bored and began to feel around and explore instead. Wilbur looked frustrated at the loss, until a finger began to circle his hole teasingly.

"Have you ever bottomed before?" Quackity asked, applying a little pressure to demonstrate his meaning. 

"No," Wilbur answered, and he sounded hopeful, but Quackity was suddenly a little less certain. He drew his hand back. 

"Mmm, well it takes a little getting used to, so..."

"We can try it," Wilbur said.

"Actually, I think I have a better idea." Quackity leaned over to the nightstand and opened the drawer to find a bottle of lube. He tugged at Wilbur's waistband. "May I?" 

"Yes, Prime yes, of course," he babbled. Quackity fought a smile. It was so cute, how excited Wilbur was as he stripped off his boxers and tossed them aside. Quackity did the same, emboldened by his partner's enthusiasm. Wilbur's eyes immediately fell between Quackity's legs, and his pupils dilated as a flush ran across his cheeks. Quackity could practically see all the dirty thoughts racing through his mind. 

"Do me a favor, Wil?" he said. Wilbur hummed in assent without looking up. "First of all, don't cream yourself just from looking at me. Also--" He took Wilbur's hand and poured some lube onto his long fingers‐‐ "Think you can prep me?"

"Those are two very contradictory requests, but I'll see what I can do," Wilbur winked, finally taking his eyes off Quackity's dick for a moment. Quackity snorted at the response and scooted up to straddle Wilbur's torso and give him easier access. 

Wilbur's fingers were cool against his rim, and goosebumps tingles across Quackity's skin as he pushed in slowly. For all his teasing, Quackity was starting to get impatient too, and he started rocking back before Wilbur had even gotten a second finger in. 

"Who's eager now?" Wilbur teased as he sped up. 

"Just shut up and scissor me open," Quackity hissed, screwing his eyes shut as Wilbur obliged. The stretch around the second finger burned a little, and Wilbur was perhaps a little clumsy with the pacing, but he'd had worse. The third finger came much too soon, but he didn't object. Not when he could see a literal strand of drool dripping down Wilbur's chin. On a whim, he leaned down and licked it up. Wilbur shoved his fingers in so sharply and suddenly that reflex took over and Quackity jerked forward, mouth crashing against Wilbur's. Instantly, there was a tongue probing at his teeth, prying his jaw open to sip inside. Quackity let it happen for a few moments before pulling away. 

"That was a dirty move, Soot," he growled, pretending to be mad. Wilbur grinned. 

"You liked it," he said. Quackity leaned in and bit his lip. Wilbur yelped. 

"Try it again and I might just leave some marks you won't be able to hide."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Wilbur laughed, "I think I liked the knife to my throat better."

"Oh, that can be arranged," Quackity growled. He tilted his head and dipped to Wilbur's throat, opening his jaw wide to let his teeth graze across the skin. A shiver ran through both of them, though for almost opposite reasons. Quackity felt the predatory urge to bite down as hard as he could thrumming through him with every beat of his heart, but he confined himself to a very light, gentle pressure. Fang met skin and dug in, but not quite hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to warn that it could hurt, it could kill if it was intended to. A soft whine escaped Wilbur's chest. Quackity pressed a little harder, mouthed a little faster, and was rewarded with a moan and an involuntary curl of Wilbur's fingers inside him.

So he likes being my prey? Quackity thought vaguely. He filed the idea away in his mind to be explored later.

For the moment, he straightened up, stroked Wilbur's cheek, and said, "You comfy, amorcito?" 

"Yeah," Wilbur breathed.

"Good," Quackity smiled sweetly, "Cause I'm about to ride you into the fucking mattress."

Chapter Text

Wilbur must have died again. He must have died and gone to heaven instead of limbo this time, because what else would explain how he was actually here, in this position?

Lying on top of cloud-soft comforters, gazing up at a dimly illuminated but absolutely fucking gorgeous man -- and not just any man, Quackity. Quackity with his dark hair loose and spilling out of the beanie that he was evidently so used to wearing that he forgot to take it off with the rest of his clothes. Quackity, looking like a masterpiece, an artfully sculpted statue of beauty personified. He was propping himself up on his knees, and his wings were spread out behind him for balance. 

Prime, those wings. They shifted in the lamplight, dark brown blending in with the shadows while flashes of gold stole Wilbur's breath. He was absorbed in the wonder of it all when a hand around his throbbing cock suddenly wiped every thought from his brain. Quackity was slicking him up with lube, and giggling softly at the way Wilbur spread his legs perhaps unnecessarily wide. He knew that to someone like Quackity, he must have looked like a desperately horny teenager, the way he was nearly bursting with anticipation. He didn't care. Quackity was lining himself up to sink down onto him; how the hell could he care about anything else?

From the first press of tight heat around his tip, he was humming his pleasure. Quackity planted a hand squarely in the center of his chest for balance, right over the thick scar that tore across his middle. The heat slid down to envelop his entire length until their hips were snugly fit together. 

"...ffffuck," they murmured at almost the same time, then shared a soft laugh. Wilbur propped himself up on his elbows to study all the shapes of Quackity's body that he had never gotten to see before. Such a harmony of features, he could write a million songs and never capture it. 

"Push your hair back," he said, "I wanna see your face." Quackity tried to do so and found the forgotten beanie still on his head. He huffed out a laugh and cast it aside, sweeping his hair back and away from his forehead. It wouldn't stay there, but at least he tried. "You look so per-- fuck! Perf-fect-"

Halfway through Wilbur's attempted praise, Quackity had started grinding his hips, pushing Wilbur deeper in and sending a steady stream of sweet pleasure rolling through both of them. He raised himself up until only the tip was still inside him, then dropped back down with a breathy umph. Wilbur's head tipped back, eyes fluttering closed. Quackity kept up a slow pace, using him gently. 

"Fuck, Wil," he breathed, "You feel so good."

"Might feel even better if you flip and let me fuck you," Wilbur said, trying to say please, Prime, let's go faster without actually saying it. Quackity chuckled quietly. His walls clenched hard around Wilbur's cock, coaxing out a high-pitched moan. 

"Hmm." He pretended to think about it. "No, I think I like where I've got you right now."

His hands rubbed tantalizing patterns into Wilbur's chest, circling his nipples before he leaned down to take one between his lips and play with it. His movements got a little sloppier as he did, but at least he was speeding up somewhat. Wilbur ducked his head down as best he could to land a kiss on top of his head while he was within range. In reply, Quackity laved his tongue over his nipple once more before straightening up enough to grab Wilbur's shoulders for support. He picked up the pace a little, shifting his hips with each stroke to try and find the sweet spot.

In a moment he hit his prostate straight-on, if the way he hissed a string of curses and rolled his eyes back was any indication. Only then did he begin to fuck himself for real, alternating sharp bounces that punched the air out of him and deep, grinding strokes. Wilbur felt like his grasp on coherent thought was slipping further away from him with each faint slap of skin on skin. Quackity felt like divinity. He felt like liquid fire pouring into Wilbur's veins. He felt like hot, slick heaven, tightening on each upstroke and gasping curses in that honey-sweet voice of his. Wilbur gave up on trying to prop himself up and fell back against the pillows.

His hands found their way to Quackity's soft, plush thighs and squeezed. He could no longer restrain his hips from twitching and jerking, so he went all in and thrust upward as Quackity came down. A surprised moan and a loud rustle of feathers made his eyes snap open wide. 

Quackity was flushed red and shimmering with sweat, strands of jet black hair plastered to his face and neck. He rose up again -- ascended, sang Wilbur's pleasure-drunk mind -- and this time Wilbur gripped his hips to pull him down as he thrust up to meet him.

"OH! Wilbur, f-fuck, mmm..."

With his eyes open this time, he could see the way Quackity's wings went wild, fluttering like they were trying to carry him away. Quackity bit into his lip, but it did little to muffle his noises. 

"Again," he gasped, raising himself up, and Wilbur giddily obliged. "FUCK! Yes, yes, baby, just like that, keep going--"

A cry tumbled from Wilbur's lips at the next stroke, and he felt all of the fire in his veins converge into one spot in his gut, boiling and knotting. 

"Q, please--" He cut himself off with a grunt of effort that quickly turned into a groan as Quackity dropped, wings flapping madly. " 'M close, I'm gonna-- fuck, hah-- I'm gonna cum, can I-- in- inside?" 

"Yes!" Quackity cried, hand flying to jerk himself off in rhythm with Wilbur's thrusts. "Yes, Prime fuck, cum inside me, let me feel you--"

That was all Wilbur needed to tip him over the edge. The fire in his gut burst into waves of rich, heavy pleasure that racked through him as he spilled into Quackity, who rode him through his high and dragged it out as long as it would last. Wilbur shuddered to a stop, aftershocks still coursing through him. Quackity was still moving. Wilbur could feel himself coming down and softening, could feel the friction turning painful, but Quackity hadn't cum yet, and Wilbur would rather die than stop him early. 

"-so good, baby, feels so good--"

And then Quackity was tightening around him too hard, and it hurt. The overstimulation exploded through him almost like a second orgasm, and he threw his head back against the pillows with a strangled cry. It was static in his ears, or a blinding strobe light, or the thrill of a blade slicing through his flesh, and yet it was unlike anything he had ever felt. His heart was pounding and his fingernails were digging crescent shapes into Quackity's trembling thighs, and the overload of sensations seemed to electrify his dick back to life, and he was hard again, and-- 

"--Wil? Wilbur, are you okay? Shit, I'm so sorr-"

"Keep going!" Wilbur panted, because Quackity had stopped fucking moving and suddenly he thought he was going to die if that delicious too much faded even slightly.

"Are you sure? I can just pull off and-" 

"Please, Quackity, fuck!" He tried to roll his hips upward, though it was harder when the muscles in his legs were spasming. "Pleasepleaseplease ride me harder, I need it so bad--"

And thank Prime, Quackity started grinding down on him again, even faster this time, jerking upward and slamming back down. All of the too much slammed into him full-force, and Wilbur was practically screaming with delight. He felt something hot and wet splatter across his chest. Before he even had the clarity to gasp out a warning, he was cumming for the second time. Thrills of pleasure raked across his bones like nails on a chalkboard. They left his head stuffed with cotton and a buzzing under his skin. 

Finally, everything slowed to a stop. Wilbur went limp, trying to catch his breath while his body processed what had just happened. He hissed through his teeth as Quackity carefully pulled off of his dick and collapsed onto his chest, careless of the sticky mess now sandwiched between them. 

For a few minutes, there were only the sounds of steadily slowing breaths and a quiet, contented hum that enveloped them. A pair. Heartbeat against heartbeat, only a thin shield of flesh and bone separating them. Comforting weight keeping Wilbur grounded and helping to slow his lungs. Peace.

A few minutes stretched into a few more. Wilbur's eyes were closed and he felt oh so tired, but before he could drift off Quackity was stirring, caressing his cheek and asking a question. Wilbur hummed. 

"Wilbur? C'mon, open your eyes, amorcito."

With some effort, Wilbur lifted his heavy eyelids. 

"There you are," Quackity smiled, and his eyes crinkled up with something so warm and admiring that Wilbur's vision started to blur. He blinked, letting a tear slip down one cheek. Quackity frowned and kissed it away. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. 

Wilbur mustered up the biggest smile he could and nodded.

"Tired, huh?" Quackity's fond look returned. Wilbur wanted to capture it in a bottle and keep it with him forever. "That-- hah- wasn't quite what I expected, you know."

"Better or worse?" Wilbur mumbled.

"Neither. Just different." A pause. "Though I thought it might last a little longer."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Wilbur groaned, pinching Quackity's bare side. "It's been a while, okay?"

"I should have been ready with a regen potion," Quackity teased. "Wouldn't have had to worry as much about overstimulating."

"Well, if potions are on the table," Wilbur mused, "Then maybe next time I'll chug a strength potion first so you don't have to do so much of the work up there."

"No, I don't think so," Quackity decided, "I'll be the one with the strength potion, and I'll use it to pound your ass until you cum without a single touch."

"Oh fuck yeah." Wilbur grinned stupidly wide at the images that swam through his head. "Name the date, and I'll start brewing the potions."

He felt Quackity's smile against his collar. "You know I wasn't serious, right Soot? A whole ass strength potion? I'm pretty sure that would just hurt."

Wilbur considered. "Well, if I ever piss you off, then consider it a perfectly viable punishment option."

Quackity's laugh was warm against his neck. Wilbur forced a half-hearted chuckle, then muttered, "I mean, in all seriousness, I wouldn't... I don't think I'd be opposed to it."

Quackity lifted himself up a little to better meet Wilbur's eye. His hair was a mess. Wilbur carded one hand through it while the other found the downy fluff at the base of Quackity's wing.

"Let me get this straight--"

Wilbur interrupted, "I mean, difficult considering neither of us are--"

"Shush. Let me get this straight: are you, Wilbur Soot, asking me, Quackity, your longtime political rival--"

"For Prime's sake, don't bring the politics into this," Wilbur groaned. 

"--are you asking me to BDSM with you?" Quackity's eye danced with a playful fire. 

"...I'm just saying that if you were ever interested..." Wilbur said. 

"Yes."

"Wait, actually?"

"Fuck yeah, Wil." Quackity giggled, sounding way too innocent for the words that came out of his mouth next. "I want to pin you down and threaten to rip you to shreds, then watch you get off on it." 

"Prime, Quackity..." Wilbur shivered, despite the exhaustion setting in. 

"I mean," Quackity amended, a hint of hesitance creeping over him, "That is like what you were thinking, right? We'd have to talk it out, but like, if that sounds good to you..."

"So good, baby." Wilbur hugged him tight. "Shit, you make me wanna go for another round right now."

"Alright, chill," Quackity smirked, prying Wilbur's arms from around him. "We need to clean up still. This is kind of just getting gross." To demonstrate his point, he peeled himself off of Wilbur's cum‐splattered stomach and got up. Wilbur couldn't say he minded the stickiness that much when he was gifted the view of Quackity, still shaky in the legs, making his way to the bedroom door with Wilbur's cum leaking down his thighs. 

He wolf whistled, and Quackity flipped him off while obviously fighting a grin. After disappearing for a short while, he returned with a damp washcloth and a tall glass of water. He had already cleaned himself off, as best he could. 

"No shower?" Wilbur asked, disappointed. Quackity shook his head. "Why not?"

"Because." Quackity plopped down on the bed next to him and began to wipe him down. The cloth was warm and soft, and Wilbur hummed before remembering that he was supposed to be pouting. 

"That's not an answer," he said. "Why no shower? Or bath?"

"In the morning," Quackity said. "You can in the morning."

"But I want to with you."

Quackity looked exasperated.

"Wil, if I shower with you right now I'm gonna get hard again," he said bluntly. Wilbur wiggled his eyebrows to show that that was not unwelcome. Quackity smacked his stomach lightly with the washcloth. "Which you are too tired to deal with." 

Wilbur hmphed good-naturedly, unable to deny it. Quackity finished washing him clean and handed him to the water glass, which he drained quickly; all of the panting had left his throat dry. Quackity put on some fresh boxers and pajama pants and tossed a pair at Wilbur, who shimmied them on and then observed. 

The warm, syrupy, contented feeling that Wilbur had been floating in started to seep away when as he watched Quackity pull the comforter out of the way and sprawl out on his stomach under the sheets... on the far side of the bed. There was at least a foot of space between them at the closest point. Wilbur nibbled his lip, anxiety worming it's way into his core. 

Cautiously, he slipped under the sheets as well and scooted closer. Quackity, his face half-smushed into a pillow, put out a hand to keep some distance between them. Wilbur's heart sank with embarrassment, although he didn't understand why.

"...is something wrong?" His voice came out a little smaller than he intended. Quackity turned his head to look at him, his expression unreadable. Or maybe Wilbur's mind was just too muddled to register what he was expressing. 

"No," Quackity said simply. There was a longish moment of silence, painfully awkward, in which both of them seemed to expect the other to do something. Neither of them did. Finally, Quackity broke it, eyes widening as though hed just had a revelation. "Oh, shit, you're a cuddler, aren't you."

The feeling of judgement made Wilbur shrink back. "Hah, no it's- it's whatever," he mumbled. 

"No, Wil, you're fine. I'm sorry, I just usually..." He trailed off. Wilbur was not reassured. Quackity sighed. "Okay. I don't know how it is for you, but I kind of get maxed out on touch after something like this. And none of my past partners have ever been, like, really cuddly after sex. So I just... I'm sorry."

"No, don't be, it's no problem," Wilbur said quickly, the knots in his insides loosening slightly. He mulled over Quackity's words, bewildered. "Um... none of your partners? Didn't you have, like, a thing with... er, sorry, I guess that's kind of personal, but..."

Quackity sighed again. "It's okay. You're thinking of Karl and Sapnap, right?"

"Yeah. Just that, they seem like they would've been the cuddly type."

"They were," Quackity said, "With each other. It wasn't like they were excluding me or anything, I just... have limits. I told them I was feeling smothered, and they took it as 'don't ever touch me after I cum.' Not exactly what I meant, but eh. They tried, right?"

Despite his careless tone, a crease had appeared between his brows. Wilbur thought for a moment, then reached over to gently smooth it out. He scooted back over to his side of the bed and took Quackity's hand in his, now their only point of contact. His thumb stroked lazy circles into Quackity's hand. 

"Thanks for telling me, patito," he said. Then, quietly, he ventured, "Te amo exactamente como eres."

Quackity blinked in surprise. A peculiar expression stole over him, like he was fighting back a reaction. Wilbur held his breath. He was pretty sure he had pronounced the Spanish properly, but still. 

"...when did you learn that?" Quackity asked.

Wilbur shrugged as best he could lying down. "Couple days ago."

Quackity pressed his face into his pillow for a few seconds. When he looked up again his good eye was glossy. "Eres demasiado bueno para ser verdad," he murmured as a tear slipped down his cheek.

Wilbur didn't quite understand it all, but he smiled anyway and traced the shape of a heart into Quackity's hand. 

They drifted off before either one even remembered to turn off the lamp. 

Chapter Text

"...Please don't take my sunshine away."

Quackity's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His hand stretched out, searching, finding only empty sheets beside him. A quiet pool of melancholy welled up in his chest. Through the muffled, static noise of water running in the other room, a voice was singing.

"The other night, dear, while I lay sleeping..."

Oh. This song was familiar. And yet, he couldn't place what words came next. He waited, hazy and sleep-drunk, and listened.

"...I dreamed I held you in my arms.

When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken,

So I hung my head and cried."

Quackity blinked his eyes open to the golden glow of lamplight that enveloped him. Squinting, he rolled over to look at the clock on the far wall. Three in the morning. The idiot was singing in the shower at three in the fucking morning. He reached over and clicked the lamp off to relieved his tired eye. 

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

You make me happy when skies are grey..."

He still felt too groggy and tired to do much of anything. Two more hours, and he would be up and about. He rolled over again, sprawling out across the bed and pushing his face into a pillow. 

"...You'll never know, dear,

How much I love you..."

He thought he said aloud, "Come back to bed when you're done." But he was already slipping back into a drowsy almost-sleep, and the words only passed through his mind. 

"...Please don't take my sunshine away."

__________

When he woke up, something was wrong. All was silent. He felt cold, sheets having slipped off of his back, with nobody in bed with him to warm him up. Quackity got up and looked for his beanie on the floor, only to find that it had been laid nearly on top of his clothes from the previous day, which were folded on the dresser. There was no sign of Wilbur's clothing, or Wilbur for that matter. Quackity frowned. Maybe he was in the living room?

An uneasy feeling crept over him as he listened for any little sound that might indicate another person. There was none. No shuffle, no thunk, no quiet humming, nothing. Goosebumps prickled his bare skin as the air conditioning turned on. He walked down the hallway and into the main living space, glancing into every room as he went.

Empty. All empty. 

"Wilbur?" he said quietly. Part of him still clung to the stupid hope that this was a joke, or an oversight, that Wilbur was still in the house and simply didn't hear him calling. If he called louder, surely there would be a response. When he called again, his voice was quieter than the first time. "...Wilbur?"

The silence after his voice faded was deafening. He cleared his throat. He had to call louder. He had to let Wilbur know he was looking for him. 

"WILBUR!"

No response. There was no way that Wilbur wouldn't have heard that. He must be playing some kind of prank. Either that, or... he was gone. He had left Quackity behind in an empty house. 

"No," he murmured, and damn him, he knew it was stupid, but it came out almost like a whine. "No, no, where are you..."

He wanted to wake up, wanted this to be a silly nightmare so he could blame his unconscious mind for being so upset over something so pathetic. Why would Wilbur just leave? It didn't make sense, he wanted to be there. Wilbur wanted to be there, right?

Quackity's wings folded unnaturally flat against his back. Nonononono, dammit, he couldn't handle this. Everything had been going so well; why was it that every time he let his guard down, something like this would happen? It wasn't even a big deal, he tried to tell himself, but the knots still tightened in his chest until it almost hurt to breathe. Images swirled around his brain like a whirlpool in a gutter. 

Empty house. Empty street. Empty bed.

This was a nightmare he'd had too many times before, and he knew where it led. The dark, spiraling trail that his thoughts would propell him along until he couldn't go any further without breaking down.

Empty window. Empty van. Empty ribcage.

White knuckles gripped the fabric of his pajama pants as he struggled to calm the adrenaline before it could begin to flood his system.

Empty. House.

No. Quackity ground his teeth. This is my fucking country. I'm in charge. He forced his eyes to stay open, his gaze burning holes in everything he looked at. But he recognized his coffee table. He owned that. 

Empty.

No, it wasn't empty. There was his coffee table. Right there. Occupying space. Fuck you, nightmare brain.

He raised his eyes to the gilded statement light fixture in the center of the room. He picked that out. That was his. Right there. Filling space. Not empty, not nothing. 

He focused on his lungs for a moment -- breathed in, and held. Pushed against his instincts and forced the air to stay trapped inside his chest. He controlled it, if only for a few moments. It rushed back out, and he took another inhale, deliberately slow. The knots in his chest tried to squeeze his breath into short, shallow gasps, but he wouldn't let it. He had done this before. He could handle it. 

Why is Wilbur gone? Why why why why why--

He was safe. He was fine. He would be okay. 

Quackity sat down on the sofa and leaned back, making sure his breaths came deep and slow. Guiding his mind away from the pull of its tornado frenzy and onto a steady, predictable path. 

The house is empty.

No, it's not. I'm here. And I'm okay.

I'm gonna fucking die alone right now.

No, I'm not dying. I'm safe and okay. 

I'm gonna fucking die alone someday.

But not today. Today, I'm fine. I'm not afraid.

He looked around the room for things to name. Door. Mantle. Rug. Book. Pen. Throw pillow. Coffee stain. Shit, didn't I get that cleaned? Have to add it back onto my to-do list. TV remote. 

He reached out and grabbed the remote, turning the television on. Distraction. That was what he needed. He rifled through familiar and unfamiliar content, looking for anything that could be appealing. Settling on his favorite cartoon, he selected an episode at random and sat watching. His fingers still grasped idly at the fabric of his pants, but the knots were starting to loosen up. 

He wasn't sure how long he sat there. An episode. Two. Two and a half. He stretched his wings out and tried to get the tension in his joints to dissolve. 

The third episode was about to begin when the door handle turned. Somebody was coming in. Quackity instantly scrambled to pause the show. He stared at the door as it opened, revealing Wilbur Soot sheepishly shuffling in with some bags in hand. 

"Where the fuck have you been, asshole?!" Quackity snapped. The forced of the question was somewhat diminished by the way his voice wavered the edges as if about to break.

Wilbur looked alarmed, taking note of Quackity's presence before a look of concern washed over him. 

"Big Q? Are you alri--"

"Answer the fucking question!"

"I-- Qua-- I don't mean to-"

"NOW!"

"Shopping!" Wilbur's eyes were wide as he held up his shopping bags as evidence. "Prime, I was just getting some things for breakfast, didn't you see my note?"

Quackity stood up. "No, I-- you-- What fucking note?!"

"I left a note on the kitchen counter in case you woke up before I got ba--"

"Well I didn't look on the fucking counter, okay?!" His voice did break now, and tears were suddenly threatening his good eye despite all of the good calming down that he had just done. Wilbur was staring at him, and he felt shame burn itself into his face. He looked away, a shitty attempt at hiding it. "I don't know what you expected me to think, I just-- why did you have to--" 

Wilbur's bags hit the floor with a muffled thud, and he was halfway across the room. 

"Quackity, I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't mean to-- fuck, what was I thinking?" Quackity looked up in surprise as he was wrapped in a tight embrace.

"Wha- Wil--"

"I should've waited, I'm sorry, Q, I'm such a fucking idiot."

"It's-- just, whatever." Quackity already felt like dying of embarrassment. It was so stupid. He should never have been this bothered by Wilbur's disappearance to begin with. Now Wilbur was, what, comforting him? Fuck that. "I'm fine, who cares? Just-- stop. Forget it."

"No," Wilbur said simply. 

"Wil..."

"If you want me to stop hugging you, I will."

Quackity scowled and put his arms around Wilbur, just to make sure he didn't actually stop. "Fuck you," he said weakly, burying his face into Wilbur's chest. 

"I know," Wilbur sighed, "I know." Cold hands rubbed circles into Quackity's back. He couldn't decide if it felt good or bad.

Without warning, Quackity hooked his arms under Wilbur's ass and picked him up off of the ground. Wilbur yelped in surprise and grabbed his shoulders to try and keep steady as he swayed, adjusting to the extra weight. 

"Big Q, what--"

"Shut up."

Wilbur obediently clicked his mouth shut, for once. Quackity stumped down the hallway back to the bedroom and kicked the door open. 

"Let go," he said, and Wilbur hesitantly complied. Then, Wilbur shouted in alarm as Quackity launched him as high into the air as he could manage, which must have felt a lot higher than it looked. Wilbur landed with a whoomph on the mattress and bounced slightly. 

Quackity cracked a tiny smile. "Just had to throw you at something, and you're too long for the couch."

"You sure there's no other reason you wanna throw me on your bed?" Wilbur teased, making a sly face that was somewhat ruined by the ridiculous way his hair had splayed out around his head. Quackity grabbed a pillow and whacked him with it.

"Asshole," he snorted.

Wilbur giggled, but then his expression quickly softened into a quiet but poorly disguised concern.

"I really didn't mean to leave you alone, Q," he said, "I thought I would be back before you woke up."

Quackity looked away and shrugged. "I was just confused, 's all. Doesn't matter."

He could feel Wilbur still looking at him. Then, a rustle of movement and a drawer opening. A creak as Wilbur stood up. 

"C'mon." Wilbur touched his arm. "Let's make some breakfast, yeah?"

Quackity followed him to the kitchen. Wilbur had evidently pulled his cigars out of the drawer in his nightstand, for he now offered him one and flicked a lighter open in his other hand. Quackity almost protested, but honestly, a good smoke sounded heavenly at the moment. So he simply opened his mouth and let Wilbur place the end between his teeth before leaning in to light it up. 

Wilbur hurried over to open a window and pull up a chair next to it with a decent view of the entirety of the kitchen. Quackity's face was a little warm when he took his hand and led him over to sit down, like Quackity was some kind of royalty. He decided to ease his embarrassment by playing into the bit, taking the first drag of his herbal cigar and blowing the smoke into Wilbur's face. Wilbur seemed to expect this and sucked in a decent portion of the smoke on purpose before getting overwhelmed and coughing a little. 

"Thanks, peasant," Quackity said lazily.

"-ahem-- My-- kaff --my pleasure, my liege," Wilbur managed to say, bending with a flourish to lay a warm kiss on Quackity's hand. Quackity opened his mouth but couldn't find a word to say. Thankfully Wilbur didn't seem to notice, instead turning to retrieve the shopping bags he had dropped on the floor. 

"Now, I can't believe that in this entire fancy ass kitchen, you didn't even own a waffle maker! Well, fear not. You do now."

"Did you spend my money on a waffle maker, Soot?" Quackity asked.

"Yep," Wilbur popped the p, "You can thank me later. Also, you were out of milk. And chocolate chips. And orange juice. Honestly, man, pull yourself together, you've got a household to feed."

Quackity rolled his eyes. "Right, my entire household of one singular person. Who doesn't even like orange juice that much."

Wilbur gasped, placing and hand theatrically upon his bosom. 

"Yeah, yeah, burn me at the stake," Quackity said, "Apple juice is just better. Or, y'know, double shot espressio."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Wilbur set to work preparing ingredients on the counter for waffle batter. "At least tell me you like bacon."

"Sure," said Quackity, "As long as the syrup from the waffles doesn't get on it."

"Wha- you- bu- but it's sweet and savory, that's the best part!"

"Absolutely not. In this house, we enforce strict flavor segregation."

"Viva la revolution," Wilbur whispered as he searched through the cabinets and drawers to find a whisk. Quackity puffed his cigar and watched the smoke drift lazily toward the window. 

This felt right. Wilbur felt right. Much more right than waking up alone, fussing over his appearance and shoving a bagel in his mouth as he walked out the door to work. This felt purposeful. As though maybe, just maybe, his personal life could be something he enjoyed, instead of just the space in between work and sleep and everything else. 

Prime, he was lonely. He forgot sometimes, how much better it was to live with someone else.

Especially someone who made you laugh at his idiotic egg jokes despite your best efforts. And balanced the whisk on his nose while he waited for the waffle maker to heat up. And forgot to plug in the primedamn waffle maker, so the whole process took about ten minutes longer than it needed to. And confidently declared that you can't measure the proper amount of chocolate chips with anything but the depths of your heart and soul. And then proceeded to spill said chocolate chips across the entire counter because he got overzealous in his attempt to open the bag.

And refused to let you help him with anything because, quote, "You're busy sitting there and looking pretty, that's essential work. Let the peasants handle the details."

Quackity gazed at the man who was making a mess of his spotless kitchen and felt the immense desire to kiss him until he couldn't breathe.

Instead, he settled for smiling uncharacteristically wide and refusing to admit why. And damn if the waffles weren't the best he had tasted in a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Wilbur walked home under a star-speckled sky. Or to be quite honest, he drifted home, feet hopping and skipping at intervals, wandering this way and that like a moth flitting between neon signs and streetlights. He hummed as he went, some tune or other. His thoughts were elsewhere. On a whim, he stretched out his arms to either side like wings, brushing the fingertips of one hand against the sides of buildings he passed. The other hand caught hold of a lamppost at some point, and he swung himself around it a couple times before continuing on his way.

A whole day. A whole day spent at Quackity's penthouse, just the two of them. And he hadn't even been kicked out; he had simply taken his leave when the sun went down and he figured he ought to be back at the van the next morning. 

Wilbur was smiling dreamily when a call of his name snapped him back to reality.

"Wilbur!" Foolish was coming up behind him, and fast. Wilbur spun around to face him, hands in the air.

"I know, I know, I'm on my way out," he said. "I didn't even do anything this time, cross my heart."

Foolish rolled his eyes as Wilbur drew an X over his chest with his finger. "I'm not here to throw you out."

Wilbur blinked. "You're not?"

"No." Foolish eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been with Quackity today?"

"Um..." How was he supposed to answer that? Lie and say no? Say yes, and risk more questions? Quackity had said that he wasn't afraid of being seen in public with Wilbur, that he didn't mind if people knew they were spending time together, but still... he settled for returning a question. "Why do you ask?"

"Beacause he messaged me this morning to say he was sick and wanted his schedule cleared for the day."

"Oh. Well, um, I don't know about that, I didn't even really see him. I'm sure he's fine though, probably just needs time to rest up and--"

"Cut the bullshit, Wilbur," Foolish interrupted, emerald eyes darting all over to take in Wilbur's posture and expression. "You've been with him all day, haven't you?"

"Well..." There was really no point in denying it now, was there? "So what if I have?"

Foolish just looked at him for a moment, mouth set in a hard line. Then, he sighed and said a reluctant, "Thank you."

That caught Wilbur off guard. "...uh, you're welcome?" he laughed.

"But you'd better not be messing with him." The hard expression was back. Foolish straightened to his full height -- the man was massive, he dwarfed even Wilbur -- and folded his shimmering, muscular arms. Wilbur resisted the urge to whistle. "You know if he gets his heart broken one more time, he's gonna-- he'll be unbearable. He'll drink and mope and order me around just for the hell of it, and I'm not dealing with that. So just-- don't fuck this up."

Something in Wilbur shrank back, not at the threatening tone, but at the words themselves. More importantly, the implications. 

"Foolish, my man," he swallowed, "I think you've misunderstood the situation a bit. Um, we're not really-- Quackity doesn't-- it's like a sort of game we play, y'know, where we pretend--"

"Is that what he is to you?" Foolish's arms uncrossed as he stepped forward. Wilbur stepped back. "Just a game?"

"No, I-- not for me, I-- listen, you can take it up with Big Q, he'll tell you. He doesn't actually, like, care that deeply about me." The words slid past his lips like razor blades, sharp and painful and easily slicing him open. For the first time that night, his heart began to sink back down to earth from the cloud it had been floating on. "I-it’s more like a, like a truce."

"Wilbur." Foolish leveled him with a serious look. "Yesterday, Quackity told me that if I saw you loitering around in Las Nevadas, I should just let you be."

Wilbur was about to get whiplash trying to follow the thread of this conversation. "...yeah?"

"And today, he called in sick. Let me put that in perspective: Quackity once came in to work coughing so hard that he threw up, then passed out on his desk for most of the afternoon. And he still scheduled a meeting for early the next morning."

"Oh."

"He also came to oversee a building project once, and thirty minutes in he fainted and had to be drenched in cold water to wake up. Only then did he admit that he had been too nauseous to eat or drink anything the entire day, and the heat had already dropped him on the way there."

"...that's... honestly, yeah, sounds like him."

"So," Foolish pressed, "What do you think it means that he was willing to take a fake sick day just to do whatever he was doing with with you?"

Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek. "Foolish, he's not... listen, just because I can be more entertaining than work, that doesn't mean anything. He probably just finally realized he needed a break." 

In response, Foolish grabbed Wilbur's shoulder and turned him around, pointing at a sign nearby. "Look and that. You see it?"

"Um, the Las Nevadas star thing? The symbol?"

"Everything Quackity cares about, I mean really cares about, has that emblem on it. That's what matters to him, and he won't let anyone or anything that he deems to be a threat get it without a fight. So--"

He grabbed both of Wilbur's shoulders now, in his giant hands, and rotated him back around to make eye contact-- "You can't tell me that he would first let you of all people roam around his prized city with no repercussions if he didn't like you. And you sure as hell can't tell me that he would take time away from his endless, workaholic rat race just to spend time with somebody if he didn't care a whole fucking lot about them."

Wilbur's mouth hung open. 

"So if this is a game to you, then you can get the fuck out," Foolish concluded, releasing Wilbur and propping his fists on his hips. "But don't you dare mess with his feelings, you hear me? 'Cuz he's obviously into you."

"You really think so?" Wilbur's voice came out breathy, like he'd just been knocked flat on his back. Foolish's brow twisted.

"Yeah," he answered, letting his hands fall loose and unthreatening to his sides, "Yeah, I do."

A warm, tingly sensation beginning in his stomach quickly spread through Wilbur's chest and gut, down to his toes and out to his fingertips. He bit his lips to keep from grinning like a fucking dork. It didn't work.

"Quackity is into me," he said aloud, testing the words out. They tasted like candy. They tasted like cinnamon. They tasted like fancy dinner and cavern lakewater and tender kisses and fluffy waffles and mornings without regret. A laugh bubbled out of his chest before he could stop it. "Shit, Quackity is into me, isn't he?"

Foolish was watching him closely. Wilbur grabbed his hand and shook it, much to the former's surprise. 

"Thank you, I fuckin-- I need to talk to him," he decided in a split second, "right now! Goodbye, Foolish, thank you!"

Before he could have time to rethink the decision, Wilbur took off running back up the street he had come from.

Foolish called out after him, "Don't do anything stupid!"

Wilbur wasn't so sure that would be possible from here on out.

He made it back to Quackity's front door and didn't even wait to catch his breath before knocking. Half bent over, leaning one hand on the doorframe, chest heaving. He waited several seconds, then knocked again.

The door opened, shedding warm light across his face. "Wilbur? What--"

"Quackity, do you like me?" Wilbur blurted out. He looked up to see Quackity's stunned expression and rushed on, "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I just-- You don't have to answer if you don't want to, and you can say no, or you can say not like that, or whatever, I swear, I won't be upset--"

"Wilbur--"

"--I won't hold anything against you, I swear, I just wanna know if this means anything to you, after all the stuff we've done together and--"

"Wil--"

"--and, and I know it's probably so fucking annoying to have to hear this from me again, but I really do believe I love you, so I just wanna make sure you know what you're dealing with, because if this is just a temporary thing, I need to know that right off the bat otherwise I might try and--"

"Wilbur!"

"--take it too far, so if you could just let me know whether this thing we have going on really matters to you or not, I don't even mind if you don't love me, I get it, I wouldn't either, but if you like me at all, then--"

Quackity grabbed either side of his face and crashed their lips together. Wilbur made a muffled sound of shock, lips frozen still as he was kissed. After a moment, Quackity pulled back.

"Can I speak now?" he asked, smirking. Wilbur nodded dumbly. "Good. I like you. I like you so fucking much that it's annoying."

Wilbur's brow furrowed as he tried to work out what that meant. Surely not...

"I've been thinking about this all day," Quackity continued, "I want this. Every bit of it, and more. You. I want you."

"...are you sure?" Wilbur said weakly.

In response, Quackity leaned in for another kiss. This time Wilbur returned the advance, dropping his jaw and letting their lips and tongues push and pull gently at one another. Quackity's hand was at the back of his head, steadying him. Keeping him anchored. Hot breaths mingled together and warmed his cheek, and the only sounds were the frantic flutter of Wilbur's heartbeat and the quiet smack of mouth on mouth, learning each other and taking their time. 

Finally, Quackity broke the kiss. "Pretty damn sure," was all he said, a smile audible in his voice.

Wilbur looked at him for a moment, at a loss for words. Quackity looked so beautiful, with his cheeks tinged pink, his mismatched milk-and-coffee eyes filled with sincerity. His lips tasted like cinnamon and his tongue like wintergreen. Wilbur knew that. He would never forget it. No matter what, he would always know that.

"I love you," he said.

Quackity giggled. "You said that already, dumbass. It's my turn."

Wilbur's stomach swooped. 

__________

Quackity wanted to stay in this moment forever because for once, there was not a single anxious thought in his mind when he stood on his tiptoes, leaned in to brush his lips against Wilbur's ear, and whispered,

"I love you, Wilbur."

Wilbur hugged Quackity so tightly that his feet left the floor, and they spun, laughing, right there in the doorway, until they lost balance and toppled over onto Quackity's entryway floor. Immediately, Wilbur was on top of Quackity and peppering kisses all over his face. Quackity wrapped his arms and legs around him and held him close. 

He felt loved. It felt like sunshine after years of snow.

"Does this mean I get to call you patito whenever I want now?" Wilbur said giddily. 

Almost equally giddy, Quackity replied, "You'd fucking better."

"Eres mi patito perfecto. Mi rayo de sol. You're so precious, love." 

"Fuck, Wil, you can't say all the cutesy shit at once, or I'm gonna throw up," Quackity protested, but he would be lying if he said he didn't feel the blush warming his cheeks. Playfully, he shoved Wilbur off of him and sat up. "We're gonna take this waaaaaay too fast, aren't we?"

"Probably," Wilbur chuckled, sitting up beside him. His tone shifted to something a little more serious, though not lacking warmth. "We don't have to, though. I know I can be overbearing, and selfish, and I get stuck in my head sometimes, a lot of times actually, but--"

"Prime, would you stop talking about your flaws?" Quackity groaned, shoving him flat on his back. "I know all that shit. That's why it took me this long to figure out that I like you anyway."

"I'm just making sure--" 

"Zip it, Soot." He put a finger over Wilbur's lips. "I'm telling you right now, I have already overthought this from every possible angle and I'm done hesitating."

"I can't believe this is for real," Wilbur murmured. 

"Oh, esto es de verdad, amorcito," Quackity replied, pinching him to prove it. "I wanna be your boyfriend. Actually, I think I might literally explode if we wait any longer."

"Well shit, at least give me twenty minutes to go find you some flowers or something," said Wilbur. 

"Hmmm," Quackity pretended to consider, "No. You're gonna stay right where I put you, got it handsome?"

"I love it when you order me around, you know that?" Wilbur grinned.

"Does that mean you're gonna do what I say?" 

"Hah! You wish, darling."

"Go get on the couch."

"Yes sir."