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wilbur used to be the one waiting. he'd loiter on the outskirts of las nevadas, sometimes with tommy, and inevitably quackity would find his way there.
it's been months since the last time they played through that routine, but quackity still finds himself drifting to the border anyway.
like he knows, wilbur turns up not long after quackity sat beneath the sign.
scruffy as always, quackity notes. he himself is wearing full business attire, suspenders in place and tie tightened.
a dusty boot nudges at his foot as wilbur tries to start up their little song and dance.
he doesn't rise to any of the bait wilbur floats.
gods, you're impossible. with that, he collapses in a heap beside quackity.
he's unwelcome, like always, but wilbur soot has never been one to care.
at least he offers quackity a cigarette.
quackity stares at it for a long moment. he hasn't smoked in almost a year.
(baby, your lungs, karl had complained, plucking the cigarette out of his hand.
we care about you, q, sapnap added.)
he quit for them. he built this place for them.
karl thinks he's a murderer, and sapnap chose kinoko over him.
he takes the damn thing.
wilbur doesn't even offer to light it. he's never been a gentleman, either.
they begin to smoke in silence.
the burns on quackity's body are still healing, and he tries not to enjoy the pain of them as he inhales the acrid smoke.
why shouldn't he, though? it's not as if there's anyone left to care.
charlie's been gone for months now, with no sign of return, and after all his failed relationships, it's hard not to feel like the problem.
quackity feels like he's finally worn out. like the flame of his ambition has died to mere embers, and he's left to stand in the aftermath.
he wonders if this was how wilbur felt about l'manburg as the war grew beyond his control.
wilbur and sapnap had collided and sparked the original conflict, and quackity knows wilbur relished in fanning the flames.
did he ever realize the damage he'd done to himself before the final blow was dealt?
or did he watch himself tear things apart like quackity had: viewing his own actions as if it were someone else holding the reins, powerless to stop it?
that was how it felt, seeing charlie fall into the lava, holding him as he disintegrated.
all at once, quackity was the molten earth consuming him and a helpless bystander, spectating a tragedy. it felt like part of him died alongside charlie, and he regrets every day that it wasn't him.
two lives left, and yet the ugly creature that lives in his brain had hissed in self-preservation and made him claw his way up onto the fallen sand instead of staying with charlie in his last moments.
he'd used them to thank quackity. did anyone wilbur got killed thank him? tommy would've, he thinks as he stubs out his cigarette on his own knee. it leaves behind a satisfying hole in his good slacks.
fuck, he wishes he were dead.
quackity doesn't voice this. as much as wilbur irritates him, he know better than to mention dying around him.
ironic.
quackity? he asks now, sounding unsure.
imagine that. wilbur soot, unsure.
what.
you're… burning yourself.
quackity looks down. so he is: there's an ugly red welt forming where he still holds the cigarette to his leg.
dream's coming for me, he says, dull. he flicks the burnt filter away and watches it disappear in the sand. technoblade got him out, and he—
they haven't seen each other since the explosion. it might be the longest he's gone, actually, without seeing wilbur's face since they met.
ranboo, wilbur affirms. he lights a new cigarette, takes a pull, then holds it out between two fingers.
quackity leans in. an indirect kiss, they call it. they used to do it for real.
i loved him, you know.
wilbur's brow furrows as he exhales smoke. who?
charlie. they used to shotgun, laughing against each other's lips as they exchanged tainted breaths. i never told him. always too busy finding the next step in the plan, so fucking focused on-on stupid shit, i never stopped to say it. he's gone now.
dead?
quackity laughs, and even to his own ears it's hollow. i don't know. he respawned, after. showed up in his bed like he was just… waiting for me to come get him. he was comatose, wilbur, he says, and the man beside him hums.
whether in sympathy or pity, quackity doesn't know.
he offers the cigarette again.
when quackity moves in, wilbur lifts his chin with a finger until they lock eyes.
eyes, he thinks, are one of the first things to go in death. maybe that's why he wants to finish the job so bad. maybe his body feels the loss of one and craves the easiest way to get rid of the other. maybe he should just do it himself.
wilbur has no scars on his skin. he used to; had a small cut through an eyebrow, the matching set on his chest, a big, jagged thing on his left knee— climbed a tree as a kid, he'd gasped as quackity kissed the bumpy skin there, tore the shit outta my leg on the way up, but the view…— and, of course, the usual suspects in the usual places.
he was left where he was killed. doomsday obliterated the button room, and with it, wilbur.
quackity doesn't know how respawn works. no one does, and he knows even less about revival. somehow, dream managed to bring wilbur back in a brand fuckin' new body, one that looks untarnished by time. one that quackity has not loved.
(he wonders, distantly, if wilbur had to redo his top surgery.)
he's missing, quackity says. he left me a fucking note, and he's gone.
wilbur studies him, calm behind those stupid red lenses of his. give it time, he says, and takes a long, slow drag. he might come home.
wilbur fucking soot has no right to this, to the ugliest, most raw part of quackity's bleeding heart.
fuck you. he pushes wilbur's face away roughly. you don't know shit about him.
i never claimed to, big q. but i know you.
he misses, suddenly, the taste of wilbur's blood in his mouth from last time. misses having the energy to beat the shit out of him, to give wilbur a reason to hurt him back. as it is, he only scoffs.
you're soft, wilbur observes. he made you soft.
fuck you, wilbur, he repeats, ragged.
i like it. his voice sounds rougher than usual. at last, he drops the butt on the ground. you were always trying to be something you aren't, quackity. i meant it when i said you weren't ready for what it would take.
and you just love to be right, don't you.
wilbur's hand lands on quackity's knee. he's good for you. after everything, you deserve someone you can be soft with. i bet he never slept with a knife under his pillow, huh?
i wouldn't know, quackity spits. he'd kill to have a knife, right now. he makes do with drawing his legs closer to his body, painfully moving the burned skin. he never got to share a bed with charlie. there are a lot of things they never got to do.
it's some cruel act of fate that he and wilbur have done them all.
a delicate finger traces the singed fabric, never making contact with his skin.
quackity doesn't remember the last person that actually touched him. probably foolish, pulling him out of the pit. before that… charlie. always charlie, pressing their shoulders together, holding his hand, scratching his back. he never cared where, just happy to be in contact with his favorite person.
fuck, he hates when wilbur is right.
charlie had kissed him like no one else. every brush of his lips had been like balm on a wound, soothing things quackity hadn't even known were irritated.
he thinks he might've been ruined for anybody else.
wilbur's hand is a cool weight still resting on his knee. quackity feels sick.
i was never good for you, quackity, he says quietly. i hope i was good to you, but i think we both know you and i are far too much alike. charlie brings out the good in you.
there's not much left. if any. he's not sure the last of his good didn't burn away with charlie. certainly there's no one around for him to figure that out with.
by design, by design. he takes care of those who take care of him. he remains alone.
wilbur is allowed close only as another form of self-inflicted torture. neither of them are strangers to that.
i think there's still love here, wilbur says. he lifts his hand to brush some of quackity's hair out of his eyes. somewhere.
impulsively, quackity grabs the neck of his sweater and drags him in. their lips crash together at first, but they're too practiced at this for it to be awkward for long.
he was right. charlie ruined him.
love, wilbur had said. was he hoping there was some part of quackity that still cared about him? he pushes wilbur down, down, until his back hits the sand and he's looking up at quackity, breathless.
there has always been room in quackity's heart for more than one person. that's gotten him into trouble throughout his life.
he studies wilbur now, and doesn't see what he's searching for.
but he doesn't need to love wilbur to use him as a distraction, so he kisses him again.
the position they're in is keeping quackity bent over him just so, and he grins against wilbur's mouth at the pain bursting across his skin.
wilbur bites at his lip and he laughs at that too.
i thought you weren't into that, wilbur murmurs.
shut up, quackity tells him.
of course, he doesn't listen. no, he's sitting up, one hand on quackity's back to steady him.
the lava never got higher than his ribs, and quackity's made sure to keep any evidence of it covered. wilbur doesn't know how he lost charlie. he doesn't know the state quackity's in.
their faces are so close like this. quackity tries to kiss him again, and wilbur lets him.
only for a few seconds, annoyingly, and quackity huffs when he pulls away.
what's wrong with you?
the fuck do you mean?
wilbur rolls his eyes. takes a masochist to know one, big q. what's wrong with you?
i don't know what you're talking about, wilbur. he tries to move from where he's found himself on wilbur's lap, but the hand on his back holds him in place.
god dammit.
we can do this again, if you want. that's fine by me, darling. his fingers dig into quackity's waist, right into the unhealed burns. just, y'know. don't lie to me.
fine, he spits.
so, i'll ask you again: what's wrong with you?
quackity sighs and takes the easiest route. he tugs his sleeve up.
what happened?
lava. a lot of it.
wilbur brushes a curious finger along the bumpy skin. quackity wishes he'd take it and squeeze. didn't lose a life, did you?
no.
mmm. he actually leans down and kisses quackity's inner wrist. in all their time fucking around, never once was wilbur so tender with him. you wouldn't want to, anyway. nasty stuff, dying.
quackity hates this, sitting on wilbur's lap, both his hands on him. it's going to give him the wrong idea, make his eyes go all dreamy like they do when he thinks he wants something.
he hates it, so he gets up. wilbur leans back on his elbows and watches as quackity begins to pace.
i know.
wilbur's eyes flick up to squint at quackity. what?
he draws to a halt and pulls at his eye, exaggerating the scar. does this look survivable to you?
how? when?
quackity snorts. doesn't matter.
it does, wilbur says. his tone has gone deadly.
what, are you gonna hunt down whoever did it and avenge me? fuck off with that, wilbur. you're not my fucking boyfriend or some bullshit like that.
this conversation should've ended by now. he starts walking away. wilbur scrambles up to follow.
why not?
first of all, quackity says over his shoulder, you're shit in combat and we both know it. and they both know he was asking two questions. and second, you know why. you know we don't work.
two breakups in six months and two deaths in a year. quackity is fucking killing it in the romance department. he jabs at the needle's elevator button impatiently.
and anyway, you're not getting into las nevadas. i know that's what you really want.
fucking finally, it arrives. quackity steps in, fully prepared to never see wilbur again, but a hand stops the door.
can't i want both? wilbur asks, wild-eyed. you, and your country?
asking for both his heart and his legacy? quackity wouldn't trust him with either.
he tried, a long time ago, and look where it got him.
no. that was a learning experience for him.
it's clinical, to look at his past loves as mistakes to never make again, but it's the only thing he knows.
one: know your partner before commitment.
two: make sure to communicate with them.
three: don't pick a drunk. or a suicidal man. or a mercurial, volatile, wonderful idiot who'll change his mind about you and accuse you of being…
three: don't let anyone too close unless you're prepared for them to be ripped away.
…you know i can't give you that.
wilbur steps closer and actually fucking kneels in front of him. if you don't want to give up your heart, what can i have?
this isn't like him. he wants something, he has to be after something. wilbur soot, letting quackity tower over him? belittle him?
what do you want from me, wilbur?
the elevator is giving him vertigo. it must be moving against gravity that's put this feeling in his stomach. it has to be.
anything you'll give me.
give, he says. like whatever quackity chooses will be a gift.
he doesn't trust wilbur. full stop.
but again, he doesn't need to trust him for this.
he holds a hand out.