Archive of Our Own

Their footsteps on the metal staircase are loud in the silent city, the reverberations ringing in a disjointed cacophony, clamoring for attention. The dissonance is jarring and crude, but melodic in their paradoxical disharmony. He thinks he could pluck that sound right out of the air, string together the same tune on some old guitar left in the rubble of a different nation. Harsh, violent; it's an admonition crying out to uninvited travelers. Get out, leave. Run. But Wilbur knows when to ignore the warning signs, has become quite good at it in the years both alive and dead.

Instead, he turns his attention to the horizon. The sun hangs low, cutting across the sky and between the buildings like a scar, merciless in preparation for her wayward descent. It's not often a view like this can be seen by anyone other than Las Nevadas's president, the man who rules over this frigid land. A man content only to mollify its chill with nothing but his fiery temper. His nation is a stain upon the once tundra, unnatural and ill-fitting, hot passion sitting upon frozen ground.

It's curious why Quackity chose such a forlorn and unforgiving biome, even more intriguing why he saw it fit to drain it of its natural resources and replace it with one offering even less. But he supposes the simple answer is because he can. To prove he can, for Quackity will stop at nothing if it means he can prove himself. A need for acclaim exacerbated by fear. Always chasing after something bigger and brighter, something better. The election era is proof enough of that. 

It's oddly fitting though, this man who bares his teeth at the world, yet holds a desperate need for kindness within his soul. Wilbur can't help but be drawn to that ferocity, that deep-set anger contrasting with the cool facade he attempts to exude. A man who spits at him to leave well enough alone, curses his name, narrows his eye and gnashes his teeth, but invites him up to his office for a smoke on a paltry whim.

Wilbur is not a friend anymore, barely an acquaintance. He's not a guest or even one of the many potential tourists looking for a quick buck to gamble away. He likes to think he's a rival, actually – a challenge! An investor in Quackity's cause. Oh, and how that should needle the other man. Annoy him enough that he allows this tentative camaraderie, invites the taller man to his balcony to pick him apart. Or so Wilbur presumes. And to Wilbur? Quackity is an endless fountain of entertainment. As beautiful and scorching as the sun that casts shadows behind them when they finally reach the top of the platform.

He itches for a smoke, staring hungrily while the shorter man lights up one of his own; watches in feigned disinterest as his fingers twitch around the tip of his cigarette, grip firm but relaxed. His hair looks soft, long enough to curl at the nape of his neck, expression pensive and, in this quiet moment, open. Shifting shadows dance across his face.

The soft glow of the evening renders him untouchable, ethereal, but Wilbur feels he could reach out anyway. Break this idyllic moment and shatter it into sharp, tiny pieces. Cut himself on its edges. He can almost see the strain around the crinkle of his eyes, the longing in his stance. Even if Quackity cloaks his words in cold disdain, he sees the way he coils, ready at any provocation to lash out, tongue hot and biting. A tightly controlled mess, a loaded gun.

He's a contradictory man living in a reality of his own making.

And isn't that just so – this new Quackity – rich with contradictions; rich with the will to live, shadowed by the ever-present demon of grief nipping at his heels. It's not this life he wants, but it's probably this life he deserves. Not strong enough to hold onto the things he needs, but selfish enough to take what he thinks he's owed. He's alive with that feeling, that greed to make things better. Pining for a life not yet his. Even after all these years, jaded by the history that's lived through him, there's a naiveté that sparks in his footsteps no matter how hard he tries to stomp it down. Wilbur doesn't think Quackity even knows just how alive he is. 

Wilbur himself is a dead thing, dead long before he was stabbed as an offering of pitiful repentance. But although Quackity puts on a clever disguise, he is alive with rage, a deep mourning for the life he thinks he deserves. Why else would Wilbur manage to needle him just so, to incite that wrath if it didn't boil so close to the surface already. Quackity wants to be seen, even if he thinks he shouldn't. He wants to be admired. He mourns every loss in life like a personal slight and he just cares – always caring – about things he would probably be better off turning a blind eye to. He is just so, so very alive in this.

So Wilbur watches and waits, content with the silence, but alert for a cue on when to break it. He's played this game before, years ago – a single year ago for some. Sees the pattern repeat, hears his own rhetoric warped and molded to fit a new mouth. Yet he lets the other man alone for now, admiring his profile as he thinks. Time repeating, time an endless, flat circle. It's ironic how Quackity wasn't even there to experience the repetition, he's choosing to live it instead. Funny that.

As he studies him, he sees the draw of his brow, the furrow that indicates Quackity's lost in his own thoughts. He would bet all his pocket change that he’s thinking about something inane. Maybe the weather, maybe the pile of papers left for him on his desk. Does he even do his own paperwork? Probably. Wilbur had done his own and Quackity had always strove to be better than those before him, eager to tear them down and take what he was owed.

The self-important countenance Q drapes over his shoulders fits better now than it did back then. As the ruler – ah, no – as this president of Las Nevadas: a cold, empty country in the middle of a cold, icy tundra, he has every right to pretend to be whatever he wants, fill the shoes of bigger men. 

It's true, he has always had grand ideas; Wilbur supposes Quackity finally found people willing to carry them out. All's more the pity it will probably ruin him. Wilbur thinks if Quackity ever actually got what he wanted, he'd never even know what to do with it. But it doesn't matter, because that's just who Big Q is: someone who doesn't win. Someone who opens poker halls and takes bet after bet, someone who gambles, taking home millions, and is still only losing, losing, losing. It's thrilling to see.

The man can afford to dress in expensive suits, pressed ties, and fancy shoes. Can afford to adorn his country in sparkling lights and gauche displays of depravity. To feel the thin neck of a wine glass between his fingers and live in the penthouse suite high above his empty, empty city. He can live and live and live because he just has so much to lose. His heart topped off, full to the brim.

So Wilbur doesn't feel bad doing what he does, coming around to partake in the splendor, seeing all that life his rival has to give. 

He thinks about days in Pogtopia with Quackity ugly, his face smeared with dirt and tears and sanity. Resents the part of the man that wallowed in fear but remained cool-headed in the face of desolation. The man that sat in the grime of his own shit and everyone else's down there and cried and cried and cried for hours and still attempted to talk down the once president turned revolutionary on every hairpin trigger. Brought him back every time, because it was his choices which had put him there and that made him culpable, made him complicit. Just another choice Q made that ended badly for him.

Wilbur's not proud to admit that those days he fucked up a lot; he felt everything too much, immersed himself in those emotions until he couldn't stand it. He fed off of the well-meaning kindness offered his way and reveled in the draining optimism of his peers. He's glad now, that when he looks at the other man, he can still see it – that optimism – remaining ever-present, however muted. He never lost that attitude, the idea that things can be better, but it sits differently on him now. Manifests subconsciously, like a head cold leaving a lasting impression. Thinks, with sudden clarity, he would probably give this man his life – he would give it all to him – and knows, with certainty, that the thought is meaningless. Quackity holds more of his memory, of his emotions and history, than most. He can't tell if that makes him resentful or reverent. Can only tell that it makes him feel. 

But maybe it doesn't matter what he feels: because – in this instance – this one snapshot, with the sun having finally sunk low on the horizon, and the cold snap of the artificial desert around them, the world is imploding, the world is ending. There are stars pulled selfishly from the sky into his eyes. How terrible it is to burn from the inside.

"The world isn't fucking ending, Wilbur." Quackity finally bites out around his dwindling cigarette as if reading his mind, "You're so fucking dramatic."

"Maybe it is, Big Q," Wilbur hums earnestly, wiggling his eyebrows at the shorter man. He turns to lean toward him and light up a smoke of his own. "Maybe we're just seconds away from death."

Quackity simply raises his eyebrows. Lets their cigarettes touch. Inwardly, Wilbur thrills at the disgust that flickers across the other's face. Watching him draw back, the other man blinks thoughtfully, taking an exaggerated look across the sweeping landscape as if to ask, Well, I'm waiting. When it is clear they are not, in fact, rushing towards their untimely and impending doom, he shrugs his shoulders, flicking the ashes from the butt onto the pavement below. "What would you do then – if the world were ending?" 

Wilbur smiles sardonically, takes a deep breath of smoke and holds it in his mouth. Lets the moment linger.

He thinks he says the question casually, the drawl in his voice pronounced, but he can't help but glance curiously at the other man's reaction, wary of eyes hidden behind the reddened tint of a glasses lens. He scowls deeply as Wilbur meets his gaze, blowing the smoke he inhaled back in his direction. Doesn't give him the satisfaction of a verbal reprimand, instead turning away, silent in the face of Wilbur's dramatics. 

They both say nothing, content to float the question for their own reasons. Study it, take it apart and piece it together. Truthfully, he wasn't really looking for an answer, wasn't entirely expecting one. But who would Wilbur be – nasty, wonderful Wilbur – if he didn't always try to answer the questions he knew he couldn't, shouldn't.

"I don't know; what would you do, Big Q?"

Relaxed as they feign to appear, there's a rigidness to the words. He doesn't say it like a question, rhetoric always so easily rolling off his tongue. And he doesn't think Wilbur would care for an answer anyway – probably already thinks he knows what will be said. It's merely a statement to stall for time. But this is just how the man is: asking questions he'll fill in his own answers to, wasting time to hear his own voice, taking up space where he isn't needed. Too much space for a man long dead, in Quackity's opinion. 

He shoves him with an elbow, prompting him to continue, and it can almost be misconstrued as playful if the harsh jut of bone didn't dig so deep, "Nuh-uh. Asked you first, asshole."

Wilbur quiets again in contemplation and Quackity takes the time of distraction to take a good, long look. The bright red sunglasses do little to hide the darkening bags under sunken eyes, the furrows on his forehead deeper than the laugh lines by his mouth. Wilbur looks old. Like time couldn't wait to get her hands on him, to chew him up and spit him out. Death has her fingers dug deeply into the cracks on his skin, and despite this being an irrefutable truth long before the ugly fall from grace, it still unnerves him. No matter what he did – and he did so much – Wilbur never did bend to anything Quackity asked of him then and even less so now. Unflappable and stubborn even at his worst, making it known that any give is by his own poor decision. He's uncontrollable, will pretend to concede at times, but will cut no compromises when faced with what he thinks is true adversary. All or nothing. And, true to style, he will always give Quackity a flat nothing. 

Quackity looks at Wilbur and sees someone who will never commit, happy to have the last word, but not daring enough to ever mean it. False promises spoken through poem. Still, he entertains him. He entertains him, plays their little game, and – and fucking enjoys himself while he's at it! But he will promise himself this (and he keeps his promises): no bets will be made on a revolutionary again when the stakes are high. Quackity knows when a game like that will only end in a loss. When the chips are down and the last card is drawn, he will not so easily be played the fool.

Wilbur chooses that moment to take another drag, the cherry of his cigarette lights up bright red as he inhales before he stubs it out on the heel of his disgusting shoe. When he tosses whatever's left down to the darkness below, Quackity considers what he knows of the man before him – remembers the poor imitation of intimacy in a time past – and can guess the pitiful thoughts that plague him now. For as much as Wilbur prides himself on mystery and misdirection, sometimes he's an open book, just so blatantly easy to read. It goes like this: the last time the world ended for Wilbur, he killed himself. Simple.

It was just as dramatic and spectacular as any death by stabbing could be. The chilling groans and desperate cries of a man lost to insanity echoing in the cavernous ruins of his own beloved nation. It was unsurprising in all its fanfare. Tragic, but fitting. Wilbur dying for less of a cause and more for the memory. Quackity didn't bother to grieve. Wouldn't shed tears for a man so intent and so insistent on bringing his world down around him. But – and at this next thought, he bites clean through the filter of his own cigarette, tasting ash as flecks of tobacco fill his mouth – at the crux of the matter, it was fitting. A display revealing the person Wilbur truly is at heart. For all his pompous talk, for all his haughty attitude, bold words and bolder showmanship, Wilbur is – and always will be – a natural coward. 

He talks big, wondrous ideas; rallies everyone who will listen to him – and they did listen to him – but, while maybe not the first to run, he always will. Run that is. Flee when the going gets tough. Someone who leaves others behind because he can't bear to face the consequences his actions have wrought. Someone with fantastical ideas and large aspirations, but who cannot and will not follow through. Wilbur is the flame, burning hot and bright before suffocating on his own passions. Beautiful, but fleeting. Dangerous, but finite in his supposed glory.

It would be an apt metaphor, Wilbur himself might even praise it, except it's simply that – a metaphor. Sweet words which undermine the shocking reality of how Wilbur treats his kindness like a privilege to be lost. Cruel with his love and unforgiving in his assessment of others. He wields it like a weapon to be used, a blade so sharp it became a double-edged sword, a wound deeper than the one that killed him. Quackity knows the scars that linger, sees the ones permanently engraved on those the man chose to leave behind. 

No, Quackity is not in Wilbur's shadow, no matter how much the man insists. He's what came after, maybe, but he's a self-made man, someone who laid the groundwork for his own country, who created something prosperous, something good. Something Wilbur could never hope to accomplish. Because for every good Wilbur thinks he's done in that twisted brain of his, it's only led to pain. Wilbur wished to make a statement and he failed. Tried to destroy all he loved and couldn't even do that. A cautionary tale.

And yet. Infuriatingly. There's something about Wilbur that makes him impossible to ignore. Whether he presents himself that way purposefully or because sometimes, sometimes Quackity just can't tear his eyes from the man, it annoys him to no end. A light in the dark only to lead others deeper into the shadows before going out in a fiery explosion. Yeah, Wilbur would get a kick out of that one. He scoffs and waves away the stupid thought. Bastard. 

Chewing at the ash in his mouth, he gnashes his teeth, tries to reevaluate. When Quackity looks at Wilbur, he can only conjure up disappointment. A feeling of loss, like someone who could have been something, but failed when it finally could have meant anything. Someone who loved so much he forgot what that love stood for, what it meant. Doesn't need to remind himself to see the misery, the horror twisted up deep within his eyes. He looks at Wilbur and sees a guy grasping at the past, ruminating on his history, but never stepping off the edge of that precipice, not daring enough to confront it. So selfish and idealistic, so obsessive and controlling of his love it became a burden. Quackity never grieved for Wilbur because that was never part of his burden to bear. Wilbur never cared enough to let him.

"I'd apologize."

"What?"

The words startle him from his thoughts, gaze focusing again on the man's profile and his languid slouch against the railing banister. 

"If the world were ending, I'd apologize." 

Well. What a novel idea.

"To who?"

"To whom."

"Whatever." He throws his hand up, stubbing out his cigarette finally on the spindling rail in front of them, "So you'd apologize. Right. That'd be a lot of people you know. Think you'd even get that done if, you know, the world ended quickly? Or, god forbid, suddenly."

"With a bang?" Wilbur doesn't flinch, raises an eyebrow.

"With a bang." He nods, remaining agreeable. Carefully doesn't think about much more than that. They study each other slowly. Play the game like they always do. Quackity compels him to draw another card, will raise only when it benefits. He lights up another cig.

"My son." The taller man finally admits, looking away, looking like loss. He takes a deep breath while his face remains stony, "For not being a better father. Not giving him what he needed."

All he needed was your attention. It wasn't hard, Wilbur, he thinks unkindly, taking care not to puff too aggressively this time, but allows the play, "Who else?" He asks, seeing an opening, choosing to raise. 

"Tubbo. For underestimating him, for leaving him there with Schlatt." Quackity rests his eyes on the dying sky. "Getting him killed." Doesn't mention his intention to get them all killed. "Phil. For–" and here he hesitates just briefly, "for killing me. For not really giving him a choice in the matter. And everyone else: Ranboo. Niki. L'Manburg." 

Quackity rolls his eye, breaks the soliloquy to comment, "What about Pogtopia, then?"

"Her too."

Another long pause. Quackity flicks more ash from his cigarette while the man across from him stares, assessing. Narrows his eyes slyly, and then, as if gathering his resolve, going all in, splashes the pot on the way: "And you. Quackity. Most of all, to y–"

This bastard. 

This fucking bastard. Quackity throws his head back and laughs. Grips the side of the rail, conscious enough to take the cigarette out of his mouth lest he choke, and rests the palm holding it to his forehead, giant chuckles heaving from his chest. The asshole has the gall to smile at his burst of humor, face splitting in a wide grin as he lifts the red from his eyes and settles them on his head.

"Oh, Wilbur," his face goes through a myriad of emotions before finally settling on wry amusement, "Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur," he laughs again lightly, "you almost had me there. Very close," he wipes a tear from his eye and it's not just for show. 

"I did, didn't I?" Wilbur says dryly, taking out another box of matches from his dirty coat. He pats around his pockets a few times before procuring his lighter. It glints proudly in the setting sun. 

As he watches the taller man flick the wheel, struggling to catch a spark, he hides a grin. He always knew Wilbur was a fool, in awe of the illogical narrative he tries to weave in that turmoiled, convoluted mind, but never would he have believed the man would go this far in his delusions. How ... funny.

Giggling to himself, he fails to notice the man in question drawing closer, abandoning his faulty lighter, but not the promise of another lungful of nicotine. He steps up beside Quackity, stopping to bend at the waist to dip his head and meet eyes to eye. The shorter man offers him a smile, biting back the slight annoyance at Wilbur's clear lack of boundaries, long past the moment of truly being bothered. If he wants something to ogle at, he'll give him a good show. Whatever Wilbur is expecting here, Quackity will return it tenfold. Lidding his eyes, he looks up at the man through his eyelashes. Donning a coy smile, he fills his voice with poisoned honey, "Really? I didn't realize you wanted to apologize just so, so badly. What's your damage, Wilbur?"

It's whispered into the night, the sun having finally dipped below the horizon. He feels Wilbur's cold fingers cup the side of his face. Even standing directly in the sun as they were before, having no chance at bringing life to his dead extremities. He forgets himself for a second, snorts an unattractive sound, before schooling his features again. Doesn't let his eye leave Wilbur's as he feels a thumb make a path across his cheek to rest on his lips, doesn't let his breath catch. 

They're close enough to breathe the same air, the only thing stopping them is the cigarette pressed between Quackity's teeth. Wilbur seems to arrive at the same conclusion. Before the darker haired man can react, he plucks the stick from his mouth, leaning back to take a deep drag, blowing a plume of smoke out the corner of his lips. He meets his eye. This time Quackity doesn't even pretend to hate it. 

The man – damn him and his need for dramatics – takes his time in answering, taking another lungful. As he lets the smoke swirl and curl in his mouth, he pats around in his pockets again.

"Well, Quackitee," he sings his name with faux cheer, laughing softly. His eyes without the sunglasses are a deep gold, as if the sun fell out of the sky and directly into them: Wilbur, someone so desperate for comfort, he'd leech the planet of its only source of warmth. Quackity thinks distantly if they'd always been this hue, can't seem to remember. He pats himself down again before his eyes get even brighter, seems to have found the object he was searching for, "That's a loaded question if I've ever heard one. And if I know you, you're proper inclined to the 'show, don't tell' routine anyway," he clears his throat, "So instead, I'd reckon I'd get down on one knee."

His eyes widen minutely as Wilbur indeed drops to one knee, wobbling a little on his bony joints before catching his balance again. Taking a small object from his pocket and brandishing it in the other's face with a flourish, he laughs and Quackity can't help but laugh back at him, amusement and incredulity curling in his gut at his brazen delight. Wilbur motions to him and duly, almost instinctively, Quackity gives him his right hand. There's a moment of silence before Wilbur looks up at him, raising a brow, "Now, Quackity, I know you're fairly non-traditional, but in my experience, it goes on the left hand."

"Get fucked, Wilbur," he replies without hesitation, not moving to switch hands.

Wilbur simply shrugs, "All in due time, darling," nodding at him with a solicitous wink before looking down and realizing he's run into yet another problem. Transferring the small object to hang off his pinky finger – still on his knee – Quackity watches silently as he moves both his hands to the fabric that slides up the arm before him. The smooth satin is tight enough that it feels like a second skin. Wilbur drags his fingers from his wrist slowly to the crook of his elbow, and then even higher, stopping intermittently to rest the pads of his fingers in every divot and crease.

As the exploration leads him higher, Quackity suddenly remembers why he wears the gloves in the first place, narrowly managing to hold back a grimace. But to stop Wilbur now would be foolish, akin to admitting defeat, and although he had promised himself he'd never bet on the man again, he certainly will never lose to him. 

The hands pause as they reach the elastic trim spanning the width of his bicep, fingers dipping teasingly beneath the material. Can't seem to stay still.

"Quackity," Wilbur's voice rumbles from deep within his chest, voice hoarse and just on the edge of nervous. But the man standing before him doesn't notice, too preoccupied by bright lights flashing behind his eyelids, the boom of explosions sounding eerily like thunderous applause. A burning pain when he throws up his arms to protect a flawless face.

"Quackity," he says again, stronger this time, drawing his thoughts from the memory. He manages not to tear his hand away, but just barely, gaze sharpening and ears smarting. Pulls his mind from the distant beat of a tragic legend, to the present, sallow culmination of all his subsequent mistakes. Wilbur calls out for a third time, saying his name like a revelation, like glass scraping his throat raw. He watches in polite and detached fascination as his name pours like blood from his mouth and wounds the shape of those lips. Knows his name from that tongue like an old scar, broken and reopened, torn and ripped from his teeth.

His name is familiar in that mouth, always said with intent, but he can hear its peculiarities now. Not spoken with just the misery that renders his voice raw but said with the need for absolution that turns the whites of his eyes paler than the moon. Wilbur is a man trapped. A man who will do what he can to let the world know of his sorrow. He doesn't care what that means for others, doesn't care who that will hurt. Maybe he wants it to hurt. And sometimes – shit – sometimes Quackity has the insane thought that this time he'll let him. This time, he'll let him, with the caveat that this time, he'll have a chance to hurt him back. 

He nods and Wilbur slowly begins to peel back the tight satin, pulling it down off of his shirtsleeves. There's nothing to see here, just another piece of clothing, another layer he won't let anyone unravel, but Wilbur treats this as if it's a religious experience. Carefully pulling down the glove, his turn to become distant and thoughtful.

Quackity can imagine what he's thinking: of a time where he had the world at his fingertips and didn't have a moment to waste on a single, stupid man he believes is beneath him. But that would be unfair and unkind to think, especially when he knows it's not the whole truth. But it is a partial one. Wilbur has always been in love with the man he could be – could have been now – and that is precisely why he seems to hate himself so very much. Quackity is under no illusions he's simply a means to an end, even if neither of them are quite sure what that end may entail. 

There's another lull in conversation as Wilbur continues to pry back the silken material. Centimeter by centimeter, a thorough process that the taller man takes his time with in a demonstration of his showmanship. There's no skin to be seen, Quackity is no fair maiden showing off his wrists, but that doesn't make the experience any less intimate. It gives him time to think, eyes heavy, as he imagines a world where Wilbur would ever apologize, where he'd ever truly get down on one knee. Where he'd actually consider what Quackity wanted. It makes him smile at the absurdity. 

To even consider crying about it would be pitiful.

And finally, the glove comes off, Wilbur tucking it in his pocket and Quackity knows he'll have to fight to get that back. Doesn't feel like it right now, too curious to see how this will play out.

As Wilbur uncurls his pinky, Quackity can finally see what he'd looped on his finger, and it is indeed – as he expected – a ring. But while the self-proclaimed president had been expecting a dime-a-dozen candy store ring pop, or even a college commemoration ring, he hadn't been expecting the delicate thing Wilbur presents him. It's diamond encrusted, the setting silver. An elaborate twist of metal, almost as if to represent wings on either side of a deep, ocean blue sapphire. Quackity stares at him as it's slipped on his finger, the fit too snug and probably won't be removed without an excess of butter and oil.

When Wilbur looks up finally, he falters for a beat before his smile becomes smug, expression haughty. And that more than anything snaps Quackity out of his stupor, "Where'd you get this ugly thing?" He sneers, wants to call it cheap, but knows it's not.

"My ex-wife returned it after the divorce," Wilbur admits, which doesn't really answer the question of its origin. Quackity also carefully doesn't ask the semantics on how she wore it.

He takes the time to admire the thing, pulling his hand free from Wilbur's grasp and holding it up to the moonlight. The diamonds embedded beside the sapphire sparkle while the centerpiece jewel itself reflects their delicate beauty. The intricate setting that frames it creates an illusion, as if it will lift off and fly away. It's nothing short of breathtaking even while sitting on the flesh of its ruined throne.

Wilbur watches him carefully, that smug smile never dimming, but his eyes are shrewd, his attention shifts somewhere along his throat and down his chest. It takes Quackity longer than he's comfortable with to remember what he hides there. What that means. To remind himself that this new ring? It's nothing in comparison to the two that hang around his neck in a silent reminder. Lovingly gifted, expertly crafty. Those would never twist the skin on his finger raw, a perfect fit. 

He lowers his hand slowly, averts his eyes intentionally for the first time that night, running his fingers along the chain. That's right, a perfect fit. No effort to slip on. And off.

Wilbur takes that moment to sigh loudly, an exaggerated whistle of his lungs as they rattle in protest at the simple exercise. Dusting off his pants as if they haven't seen worse, he climbs to his feet. Quackity's cigarette is still pressed tightly between his lips, and he watches him inhale again, eyes dark.

"So how about it? May I take this time to formally welcome you into the Soot family?” he sweeps into a theatrical half bow.

Quackity doesn't bother to stop himself from visibly recoiling, "We're not married, idiot," he chooses to say instead of any of the nastier thoughts he could breathe life to, "Though I suppose it’d be better than your father’s last name.”

“What’s wrong with my father’s name?"

“You changed yours, didn’t you?” Quackity raises a brow.

Wilbur puffs up in mock offense, “I’ll have you know that was an act of rebellion and not because of any hatred for the name!”

Quackity’s expression curdles, “Started early then?”

Wilbur just hums. He looks as if he's about to say something else before erupting into a coughing fit. Smoke trails out from the corners of his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. Quackity dismisses his previous line of thought, expression smoothing out to instead idly wonder just when this body of his will kick the bucket; if, for all the lack of discernible changes from his revival, there's an expiration date after all running on borrowed time, or if Wilbur had always been doomed to such a sickly countenance.

“They can bury us together when we die,” Wilbur muses, “Maybe then I’ll get a gravestone.”

“Like hell. There’s no way I won’t outlive you,” he chooses to address only the beginning of that statement, “For one reason or another.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, “Although, from what I hear, you have a lot of enemies.” He looks pointedly at the scar that runs down the side of Quackity’s face.

“Enemies I can deal with. It’s ‘old friends’ who I can’t seem to get rid of lately.”

Wilbur smiles.

Las Nevadas hums to life below them as if sparking to life at that response, her lights flickering on one by one, spreading outwards in a wave of iridescent neon. Even this new spectrum of color fails to illuminate the ghastly figure in any attractive manner, only choosing to emphasize his gaunt features. Still, his eyes glow with candid resilience. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and licks his lips. He goes to speak–

"This means I'll eat your heart, you know. When you die." 

Quackity hears his own words achingly loud in his ears, though they were whispered between them, said like a confession. A promise.

Wilbur closes his mouth with a snap, teeth clicking together and eyes widening. Whatever useless thought struck from his brain as he processes the words. His sunglasses fall down over his eyes when he jolts back in surprise. Quackity himself isn't quite sure where the thought had come from, let alone how he allowed it to be spoken in an incriminating truth, left shivering in the night air. He hadn't thought of something like that, of a history that cannot discredit his words, for ages now. But the act seems right, fitting. Why shouldn't he eat Wilbur's heart? After all that's happened, why not rip it out of his chest now, hot and still beating? 

Wilbur wets his lips again, hands shaking. He reaches out, eyes bright, and asks despairingly, piously: "You'll eat my heart?"

"Yeah."

"Take that piece of me with you when I'm gone?"

"Yeah, man."

His fingers uncurl Quackity's own from where they'd been gripping his chain, his fingerless gloves just narrowly missing on catching between the gold links. 

"All of it?"

"Yeah, Wilbur," Quackity says softly, should have snapped instead, "All of it."

He swallows deeply, pulling Quackity's hand to his chest. The gems on the newly acquired ring glint as they reflect the streetlamps below, traversing the distance between the two. Of its own accord, Quackity sees his hand flatten on the coarse yellow of Wilbur's sweater, the feel of dirt and grime secondary to the rabbit-quick patter of his heart. He feels the beat of it in his palm, feels when the man's breath hitches, falls still, and then restarts twice as fast. He pushes down on his ribcage, thinks of the effort it would take to break it and claw his way past the bone and viscera, how that organ would feel between his teeth. Would it be juicy? Fatty from all the side effects of smoking Wilbur did? Or would it be like Schlatt's? Overlarge, each chamber swollen, the organ walls too thin to really taste much of anything.

He'd eat it anyways, couldn't taste any worse than the bitter aftertaste the man leaves behind after every encounter.

Quackity slides his hand from where it's placed on Wilbur's heart to the middle of his chest. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting. He wonders at death, wonders how Wilbur can leave this plane of existence bleeding out and return whole, unchanged and unmarked. He feels for where he knows the scar should be and is surprised by its lack. He wonders – after all this – if Wilbur even has the capacity to change. 

The white streak in his hair is the only indication of the endless nothing Wilbur experienced. The rattling of the train cars and the flashing of lights as they carry on in a repeating cycle without him bear his appearance no worse for wear. Wilbur came back unchanged. Wilbur came back different. Somehow both statements are not a lie. For all that he sees a stranger in the man before him, recently, it seems like he's one of the only people Quackity can even recognize anymore. Something has changed – obviously, something has changed, but when the two of them fight, when they bicker and pick each other apart piece by piece, somehow, Quackity doesn't fear the outcome, because he knows Wilbur will memorize the placement of each, will remind them just where they stand every time. Quackity knows how to tear the man down, tear him apart with his teeth. Is intimately aware of the character, the depth, and the danger that lurks behind each spoken word. Wilbur is not a threat, not truly, but he is unpredictable for all they seem to understand each other. And that's dangerous for the stability of any nation. 

So Quackity believes that whether his nature proves him incapable of repentance or if it's just sheer, stubborn, self-inflicted misery, Wilbur will not and never will change in ways that will render him unrecognizable. He may say he has, may even say he wants to, but the fact of the matter is: Wilbur is too proud of a man to be anyone except who he already is. The guilt and the regret are not enough to stop him. Dying wasn't, so how could Quackity expect anything different now? A plea ready on his lips, he arrives at the border of Las Nevadas like clockwork, shameless. He continues to demand much from this country and more from her ruler, crazed at the prospect of pulling it all down. But Wilbur will never get that chance. 

While Wilbur waits for Las Nevadas to implode, doing his best to book front row seats as a witness to her downward spiral in Quackity's care, Quackity knows the man will lose interest when she proves prosperous above all else. Whatever his expectations are for the gilded nation, he will prove him wrong. And so too, will Wilbur leave when he realizes this – that Quackity will not bend to his mechanizations. A stubborn man, but a coward all the same. Wilbur will leave one way or another, he'd put money on it. He is a betting man, after all.

Maybe there was a time when he would have allowed it, insisted. Would have let him try his hand at the whole bit, if only to laugh in his face for his fruitless endeavors. But Quackity doesn't have time now to entertain a man hellbent and hellbound. It was his own mistake in history believing he ever could. And yet, with his hand on Wilbur's chest and the man's proposal ring (from God knows where) on his finger, it wouldn't hurt anyone to pretend for just these few moments he'd be willing to sacrifice some time.

Wilbur is an egotistical maniac, but sometimes, to keep him in line, it's beneficial to play into his delusions. His narcissistic nature cannot help but preen with a few carefully chosen words and while it's usually beneath Quackity to give him the time of day, Wilbur will always succumb to his greatest vice: attention.

So Quackity will grant him this, put all his chips on the table and say with confidence: Wilbur will leave again – one way or another. But he will not drag Las Nevadas down with him. If Quackity must grant him a few precious seconds of his time to mitigate that disaster, so be it.

This man is a blight. And taking his heart will be nothing short of an act of violence. As Wilbur had once consumed a land that was not meant to be his, Quackity will consume whatever's left, will take it from him as he took so many things from so many others.

So he slides his hand back up over his shoulders, stands on his toes and grips the back of the other man's neck, forcing him to bend forward, "I'll devour your heart, Wilbur; every last bit. It's more than you deserve."

Wilbur swallows deeply, his lips barely move as he stares straight forward, breath shallow, "I always knew you cared for me deep down."

Quackity laughs loudly, not bothering to move from where his mouth hovers directly by Wilbur's ear, "You think I care about you, Wilbur? You think this is me caring?"

He feels more than sees the man smile, "I think you do, Big Q. I think you do care for me and that's why you always put on such a great show. Why you're always just so angry."

The shorter man scoffs, "That's why I'm angry and not – the trespassing, the vandalism, terrorizing my workers, and stealing from my wares?"

"Exactly."

Another scoff, "Listen to me carefully, Wilbur Soot, because I'm going to only say this once. It will be a cold day in hell I'm ever caught caring for you. You think you're so smart?" At this he threads his fingers at the root of the taller man's hair, wrenching his head back so he can look him in the eye, "I'll devour your heart because that's what you owe me. Don't get fanciful ideas in that head of yours. I'll do it not because you want me to, not because I like you, but because your pathetic waste of space will at least amount to something this way."

Wilbur grins around a mouthful of teeth, "And what? This is your 'charity'?" He opines sarcastically, "You'll suffer me so no one else ever has to? Suffer me as I suffer you?"

"This isn't an exercise in masochism."

"No – no, no, no, Big Q. This is – why, this is an exercise in futility. You think you can stop me? Well, I have news for you, Quackity. No amount of posturing or your silly little speeches will ever run me out of your town. I am – after all – your most humble servant."

"Then get on your knees."

"Quackity, man! That's quite the escalation for such a declaration. Should I place my hands behind my back as well?" Wilbur grins slyly.

"God, do you ever shut up," he yanks on his hair again for emphasis and pushes the man downwards with his grip. He's keenly aware how Wilbur makes no move to fight him. This position is but a pale imitation of their earlier activities, but it gives Quackity better leverage to lean forward, looking down the bridge of his nose. Wilbur is a tall man, and even like this Quackity has barely a head of height on him. It makes no difference, the point made clear as he glares down.

"We both know the answer to that."

"I offered you a chance, Wilbur."

"You offered me a mockery."

He grips his hair harder, smile still present but thin lipped, "So what are you then? Are you or are you not my 'humble servant'?"

Wilbur tests the hold he has on his scalp, wincing slightly when the other refuses to give. Slowly, he settles his right hand on Quackity's waist, trailing his left down the arm not otherwise occupied. He grabs his hand once again, bringing it forward to press a kiss next to the knuckle where his ring now proudly settles warmly:

"What do you think?"

"I think you're a fucking coward, Wilbur."

Wilbur stills.

"I think you're a wretch. A fool chasing after a sickening high he left in a different life because the sobriety after that was too much to manage. I think you're pathetic; pitiful and misguided, because no one, not even your own father, took the time to properly give you the attention you starved for. You've made all the mistakes you blame him for and more and now your son will suffer for that. Only obsessed with what you think you can't have, you call me second-rate, but you're a has-been, Wilbur Soot. A fucking joke. I think you don't care about apologies at all and if you did, I'd be one of the last on your list. Because – and we both know – at the end of the day, at the end of the world, Wilbur, you will never do what you should be doing, never do what's right for anyone other than yourself. You've always been too much of a bastard to even try. 

"You say I'm the one trying to follow in your footsteps? A second place medal? Look at me! I'm successful; I have everything you've ever wanted. I'll leave a legacy. But you? You're history; one barely remembered."

Wilbur's eyes are flinty as he looks up at him, "Is that all you think, Big Q?"

"I think you're a wreck. I think I could very easily hate you if I cared enough to let myself try," he draws him closer, nose to nose as he bares his teeth, "but then again, when did you ever give a damn what I thought?"

"I gave a damn. In Pogtopia," Wilbur murmurs.

"This isn't Pogtopia."

"I gave a damn then," he repeats. As if his honesty matters now. As if honesty would soothe burn scars and ringing ears, erase the desperation and self-destruction. As if it would change a single action he took then. Because through it all – despite it all – somehow, Wilbur gave a damn.

"You're one to talk, Quackity," Wilbur shuffles forward on his knees, ignoring the sting of Quackity's nails. Not one to be outdone, he continues, "If I'm a coward, then what are you? Never satisfied with what you have, insecure with a good thing you've got going. You want power. You want prestige. You want a legacy. You want to be recognized for what you have, but the truth of the matter is: it will never be enough for you. You'll move onto bigger, better things knowing damn bloody well they will not make you happy. And yet, in trying to move on, move up – no matter what – you'll always be stumbling along behind someone greater than you. Vice president. Second best. Next choice. You try your hardest and you're still passed over for someone else. 

"You – You start wars in a time of peace, man! Tear down walls so they can't tear down yours first. You make enemies of your friends and friends of your enemies because you just can't seem to trust the right people. I may have fucked up quite royally, but you, Quackity, you fucked around and found out. I've made a lot of poor choices, but at the end of that whole mess – at least my isolation was self-inflicted."

Quackity shakes in rage, the thin-lipped smile splitting his face into a wide grin, harsher than the scar that runs through his ruined eye. He doesn't know whether to walk away then and there or be content to simply bash Wilbur's head in and spare them all of the headache. But he won't let Wilbur get the last word. If nothing else, he refuses that. 

He takes a measured breath, tilts Wilbur's head back further, whispers, "You have a lot of nerve for someone not even worth a fucking gravestone. Someone who won't even take the time to properly apologize."

"Do you really want me to apologize to you, Big Q?"

Wilbur looks genuinely curious when he asks, staring up at him imploringly. His eyes flit across his face at the remark and Quackity sneers in reply. His good eye glints brightly in the moonlight, "Regardless of the fact I wasn't talking about me – you wouldn't mean it, Wilbur. Why would I want more lies from you?"

"A sense of security," the man offers.

"Maybe," he shakes his head quickly, amending the statement, "No," seems to struggle with himself for a moment before landing on, "That's what my country is for."

"To be alone."

"No!"

"But you're alone, Quackity."

"Wilbur, I swear to fucking God," at this he finally releases his grip, flexing his fingers to shake some feeling into them. He moves back as Wilbur takes the opening to stand, shooting up with a speed that surprises the shorter man despite his known lack of dexterity. His eyes are intent, face fixated on Quackity's own as it's now his turn to get into the other's space, backing him up against the door to the balcony. 

"You're fucking alone, Quackity. And so am I. And for whatever reason, whatever mistakes we made to get here, that has to mean something."

Quackity stares up at him, won't be cowed. The difference in their height is keenly felt as Wilbur looms over him, face dark and mouth pressed into a thin line. The rage that had burned so hot and so bright earlier, cools. What had felt like just a few seconds from boiling over to leave them both with even more scars to their name, thickens and hardens his skin instead. Faced with the obvious desperation and pitiful tirade Wilbur levels at him now, all he can muster up is a bone-weary sigh.

"Does everything have to mean something profound to you?"

The taller man shakes his head in mock offense, sighs lowly and takes one last drag of the cigarette that has persevered through it all. Breathing out through his nose, he places the cigarette back between Q's teeth, doesn't take his gaze away from his mouth as Quackity closes his eyes and inhales deeply, "No, but what if we want it to?"

When Quackity opens his eyes again, he's greeted by a mournful look. Wilbur looked tired before – however passionate his words may have been – but now he looks exhausted. He can feel his own exhaustion echoing in reply, "You know,” he starts lowly, voice somber, “you may say I’m alone. But I’m surrounded by what I’ve built. My nation is thriving. Where’s your nation, Wilbur?”

Wilbur eyes flash, caught between indignation and remorse. He looks like he wants to argue, but whether it be the soft whirring of the sounds of the city below or the tired look in Quackity’s eye, he deflates. He doesn't look away. It’s moments like these Quackity can see how Ghostbur came to be. A pale imitation of all that Wilbur was; quieter and softer, kinder. A spectre demonstrating Wilbur’s good intentions when Wilbur himself never could. He carried his sorrows, if not his convictions or his memories. Speaking to him was a balancing act between elation and discomfort.

“Sometimes I’d forget he wasn’t you.”

Wilbur still hasn’t looked away, studying his expression intently, “Who?” he asks, seems like he already knows.

“But all I had to do was just look at him for more than one second. Listen to how he talked, listen to what he said. Hell, all I had to do was be within ten paces of him and I’d be reminded. I’d remember. He’d smile at me and I’d know.”

“So how’d you even forget?”

“We all did. I think we all forgot at times.”

Wilbur’s face twists, but he doesn’t raise his voice, captivated by the memories that play out behind Quackity’s eyes. He prompts again: “If it was so obvious, why forget?”

Quackity shakes away the chill that creeps up his spine, the empty cheer that blinks at him through Wilbur’s eyes, “Because we fucking wanted to, Wilbur. God.”

“You wanted me to be there instead?”

He levels a wry smile in return, “Of course not. We wanted to forget what you did. But I never could for long.”

He moves to run his fingers down the scar that trails his left eye but aborts the movement at the last second and looks away, ends up placing his hand on Wilbur’s shoulder instead. “History will forget you, Wilbur, even a ghost you’ve left behind can’t change that. We got over it eventually. We moved on. I moved on. So why. Fucking why are you back now? Why are you here?”

When Quackity meets his eyes again, Wilbur looks caught. He had asked for honesty, wanted answers. Found only more questions.

"You make me," he stumbles over his lines, comes up short, "I want to– Quackity, you must understand, you are so–" stops. Clenches his hand, his teeth. Looks like he'll slam his fist into the wall above Quackity's head, before thinking better of it. He hadn’t expected the earnestness with which Quackity had spoken, that much is clear. 

"I'm not your absolution, Wilbur. I'm not the solution," Quackity suggests quietly. 

"I know that, Big Q. I know that."

Quackity believes him.

"It's just. You are. Not. My absolution, I mean,” he amends, “just. You are. You know–" he groans loudly, sags forward. Burrows his head in Quackity's shoulder and ignores the annoyed tug on his hair he gets in return. The shorter man flicks him in the cheek to further express his displeasure, wrinkling his nose. When Wilbur doesn't budge, he rolls his eyes skyward.

"Where did your eloquence go, Mr. Soot?" It's not exactly teasing, but it's not said unkindly, "Just shut up, Wilbur. Not everything needs to be said with words."

"But you know."

Quackity doesn't reply. His hands have moved from tugging at Wilbur's hair to get him to move, to running his fingers through the thick curls. He thinks it's sort of disgusting, kind of like how everything that makes up Wilbur is. But it's soothing, a balm after the heightened emotions they both experienced. 

They stand like that for what feels like hours. His cigarette has long gone out and he spits it from his mouth onto Wilbur's jacket. 

"Real classy."

"Shut up."

When they finally part from their entanglement, Quackity's muscles are stiff, he can hear Wilbur's bones cracking. The moon hangs high in the sky. Lovely and alone.

"For the record, Wilbur, if you ever truly tried to apologize to me, I'd probably kick you in the teeth."

That startles a laugh out of the older man, he wipes his face and grins down at him, "And after, would you accept it?"

"What do you think?" 

"I think a lot of things, Big Q."

"Yeah. Probably what screwed you up in the first place."

"Very nice."

"Yeah, Wilbur, I'm a fucking delight."

Wilbur smiles and Quackity looks away, twists the ring in his finger. What has probably only been a scant handful of moments tonight feels like a lifetime has passed between the setting sun and now. He wonders if Wilbur still thinks the world is ending. Or maybe it always is for him. The burden of his so-called second chance – perpetually running out of time, wondering when it will finally catch up to him again. That’s always been the problem for them both though. Never enough time. Wilbur needn’t have died to understand that feeling.

"I should leave now. Before Sam comes and hauls me out."

"Sam's busy."

Before Wilbur can take that the wrong way Quackity adds, "It'd be Foolish who kicks you out on your ass. Deservedly."

Wilbur stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, shrugs, "Foolish then. The – uh," takes a hand out, snaps his fingers, "golden one. Taller than you." Seems to find humor in that statement.

"Just get out, Wilbur," Quackity rolls his good eye.

"Alright, Big Q, I know when I'm not wanted." Ignoring the other man's snort at that, he walks to the fire escape leading down. He pauses one last time, but whatever wisdom he was about to depart is interrupted once again.

"It means something."

He snaps his jaw shut, stares at the leader of Las Nevadas, blindsided. His face pales then splotches over. He looks like Death's come for him once again and can’t seem to make up his mind if that’s a good thing this time. Nods once. Twice. Flees.

Quackity watches him loudly make his way down the stairs, the tinny echo making a comical retreat. The chill of the air makes him shudder and already he misses the easy warmth of nicotine in his lungs. He should have quit a year ago. Can’t seem to make it stick. He probably should have kept his mouth shut after all when he feels his cheeks warm. As he flexes his hand, staring at the silver engagement ring resting on his finger, can't find it within himself to regret it. Thinks only of Wilbur leaving. Again.