Chapter Text
A rush of pure freezing water hits Quackity’s face, following his eyes shooting open quickly by reflex. Bright light strains his eyes and envelopes his vision for a moment or two before he lifts his head and gasps for air. Among the bright lights, the first thing he sees is a tuft of brown hair enter his vision, followed by glasses, and a familiar curious look.
“Quackity!” Charlie’s voice beams out upon noticing the other wake up.
“‘Morning, Charlie.” Quackity sighs back tiredly, blinking his heavy and wet eyes.
After his gasp for air, Quackity found himself struggling to breath slightly, taking quick breaths. So, he slowly lets his head hit the cold tile below him with an alleviated exhale. He’s soaked.
“What happened to you? You don’t usually happen to sleep on the floor, Quackity, do you? You have a bed, you know, This isn’t any good for your back–”
“No, no. It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay. Really it’s no problem. I just, uhm, didn’t sleep too well the night before. It’s nothing, Charlie, really.” Quackity pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the cabinets behind him while he raises a hand to grab onto the collar of the shirt, quickly flapping it back and forth to try and air out the shirt in an attempt to either dry Quackity himself, or the shirt.
Charlie seems to believe his excuse with a nod. “Sleep well next time, yeah?”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll try. No promises.”
“You might crack your head open if you take a fall on a floor like this again, so you might have to try harder.”
“Sure, sure. So what’s for breakfast today then?”
“Sorry?”
“For… Charlie, did you forget the groceries again?”
Charlie’s face twists into embarrassment.
“Come on, man. This has to be the tenth time, at least. You know it’s your turn today.” Quackity stares at him as he complains, clearly so impatient at this point.
Charlie mutters in response, “I know. Like you said, I forgot.”
“You would forget it if I wrote it on your face.”
“I wouldn’t be able to see it on my face, so.”
“Whatever, Charlie. It’s rice krispies again, then?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“God, I hate those.” Quackity muttered as he picked himself up to walk off to his bedroom across the apartment. He’s so glad they have a two-room apartment, Charlie’s room just must be a mess. He wonders why Charlie has a two-room apartment on his own, though. Probably something about a friend ditching him. Charlie can be much, but Quackity wouldn’t even do that.
Whatever. He throws on some loose clothes quickly, using a towel to dry his hair somewhat before stepping out of his bedroom and turning on his heel to walk back to the kitchen. Charlie already seemed to be eating a bowl of cereal himself. Quackity reaches up to a high cabinet and takes out a porcelain bowl for his cereal. Initially he thought of passing over breakfast this morning - but after that whole ordeal yesterday, he really should get something in his system.
Like he's done many times before, he pours the cereal right before pouring the milk into the bowl as the oddly unappealing crackle of the cereal sounded off. Quackity grabs a large spoon and slides into the chair across from Charlie, staring down at the crackling cereal.
Maybe he should get the groceries this time.
“So how’d it go?” Charlie cuts in, just swallowing a mouthful of cereal.
Between spoonfuls, Quackity responds. “What? How did what go?”
“The ghost thing.”
“Ohh.” He softly smiles thinking about it. Well, thinking about Wilbur. “It went well, I think. ‘Met this ghost named Wilbur, he was pretty charming.”
“Really? Oh, that’s so sick!”
“Mhmm. I wish I had the time to talk to him more, though. He was nice, you know, nothing like how the media portrays ghosts. We talked about our lives, he talked about what it’s like being dead, all that.”
Charlie nods, letting out a present hum to signify that he was listening despite the spoonful of sugary cereal sitting in his mouth.
“It’s odd, though, There’s one weird thing about Wilbur that sticks out to me. He doesn’t quite remember how he died…” Quackity slowly spins the spoon in the half-finished bowl, sulking. “Which would be so interesting to know.” He scoops up more cereal, stuffing it into his mouth.
“It’s still really cool, though, Quackity. You spoke to a real ghost, man!”
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I just want to know more."
"You should feel lucky that you even know that much. I think you could change lives! You could literally be flowing with money by the end of this all."
“No, no. I don’t want to know more about him for money, Charlie. Not because he’s a ghost, either. I just… want to know him. He's a person, Charlie. Dead or not, this time it isn't about money, it's about him..”
"Okay, okay, I guess so. You seem attached to this Wilbur guy."
"Well, he's like, a friend, y'know? I don't know how he got here, he's not even from here, but I'm glad I met him. He’s something to me."
Charlie hesitates, "Okay, maybe, you should get some help, or something. That's a ghost, and you barely knew him for a day"
Quackity snaps back, "Charlie! He's a person, and he always has been one! There's nothing concerning about being attached to a person. I'd want someone to show me the same respect when I'm dead, if they find me…"
"Okay, okay, chill."
The argument doesn't escalate any more than that, Quackity ignores Charlie until he's finished his bowl. He pushes out of his chair, carrying the cold bowl off to the sink and rinsing it out before opening the dishwasher and chucking the bowl into it, then closing it. It's a bigger deal than Charlie thinks it is, maybe he just doesn't believe in ghosts as much as Quackity does. Quackity knows Wilbur had a life, and deserves respect, Charlie is just misguided. Quackity shakes his thoughts off as he begins to prepare himself to go out to work and grab a coffee.
At the coffee shop, Quackity was confronted with a very brash and unhappy kid. He looked like he only became legal age for a job barely a year ago. He was a young blond boy with bright yellow curls, and dull blue eyes.
Quackity stopped humming as he stopped walking, standing, across the counter from the boy who stared dreadfully back at him. He didn’t even notice he was humming. He was just subconsciously humming some tune that came into his mind as he calmly made his way into the shop. The kid stood, stiff, just across from him.
The blond boy looked left and right with his dull greyish blue eyes, cautiously turning each way with a sense of franticness before looking ahead and making eye contact with Quackity.
“You. Did you know him?”
“Pardon me?” Quackity questioned back, voice laced with concern for the boy.
“W– The person who wrote that song. The one you’re– you’re humming it perfectly.” The boy gestured his hand towards Quackity a bit as he spoke.
“It just came up in my head, kid…”
“It- You- You have to be lying. God, the tune was exact, too.”
“No,” Quackity hesitated, looking down at the name tag on the boy’s apron. “...Tom. I’m not lying. I’m sorry.”
“You- You- Okay, okay. Fine. Just order.”
Both of them seemed like they could've taken the conversation further, but neither of them did. Quackity ordered, and they parted with many questions.
Around three days later, Quackity is in the back of another taxi. He'd already got around with Charlie, and isn't so uptight with him again, as always, they always circle back to being friends. He'd reserved another few hours at the very same building he found Wilbur in once again. The drive there was long, and mostly consisted of Quackity staring out of the dark window, watching the buildings pass by, and the gleams of light pass his vision of the dark environment. His driver was thankfully silent, maybe they judged him for the location he had requested them to drive off to, which made Quackity feel awkward, but he couldn't find himself to care all too much.
He pays the driver and thanks them as he steps out of the car, looking back up at the old, antique-looking house. This location doesn't feel so unforgiving anymore. He adjusts his large, black trenchcoat and steps forwards.
With his bag, Quackity opens the door and steps inside, holding a flashlight to guide himself. His steps weren't too loud, he wore his casual shoes this time. Yeah, he didn't really own Converse, like he mentioned earlier. He's wearing Vans.
He shines his light into a mirror, looking at himself. He has a black cap, a deep blue shirt, a black trenchcoat, as aforementioned, as well as black dress pants.
As eerie as the place was, he enters the situation with a whimsical mindset, calling out a name, "Wilburr?"
Almost immediately, Quackity felt a small push towards the stairs, which sent a shiver through his bones. Any sane person would be freaked out, but Quackity lightly laughed instead. "Okay, I know, I know. Your room's upstairs."
After walking up the wooden and creaky old stairs, he made his way to the same room he'd found Wilbur days before with chipping blue paint and a soft bed set. He sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at his bag. Quackity pulled out a spirit box, placing it down onto the wooden floorboards and speaking into it.
"Wilbur? I'm here."
Once again, the response was static. Then, he felt the same few symptoms of Wilbur appearing again.
The air grew thin and cold, his vision blurred off into something unseeable. He almost felt frozen for a moment before a quick movement shattered that feeling.
“Quackitee~!”
Quackity was immediately tackled. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision before seeing what shoved him to the ground. It was Wilbur, with his colourless arms wrapped around him.
"Wilbaa~!"
He laughed, embracing the cold hug by wrapping his arms around Wilbur as well. Once the two's laughter died down, they sat up again, across from each other with mutually welcoming smiles.
“I really thought you’d never return…”
“I promised to, Wilbur.”
“You did…”
“I wouldn’t have lied.” Something else was left unsaid.
“Thank you.”
Quackity sighs softly, “I would’ve came back whether you asked me to or not. I like to be around you, you’re… quite nice to be with, Wilbur.”
Wilbur’s eyes lit up graciously with a smile, "You're really the nicest guy who came around this old, rotting place, Quackity."
"Oh, thank you." Quackity replied, looking away tentatively, and if Wilbur noticed the slight pink that painted his cheeks, he said absolutely nothing.
"So, Q. How are you?" Wilbur smiled warmly and lowered his head to lean his cheek on his palm.
"Oh, how am I? Uh.." Quackity looks down at the old wooden floor, contemplating, "Well I'm not sure, really. The night after I left was something interesting."
"Oh? Go ahead, tell me about it."
Then, Quackity pauses to think. There was no actual rhyme or reason to describe what happened during that obscure night, or at least the cause of it. He slept well, he ate well, hell, he was hydrated just fine. So why did he nearly concuss himself by collapsing upon.. What was he doing, trying to grab some sort of snack at four in the morning? It was really weird. When he woke up, he felt compelled to go see Wilbur again, defending their bond with his every whim. It almost feels like home being here at this point.
"I…" Quackity starts, then pauses hesitantly for a moment, "Passed out."
Immediately, Wilbur's expression twists into one of concern. "What? You really passed out? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"
At being bombarded with questions, Quackity shakes his head and dryly laughs. "No no. Pipe down, Wilbur."
"No, that's worrying Q! Explain it, all of it."
Quackity lowered his hand which he was going to start waving dismissively with and turned his head and briefly bit his lip to compress the way his cheeks burned up at the very instance of somebody caring about him just that much — barely at all. Even though it was such a small act of caring, he felt like he hadn't faced affection like that in ages. Maybe it was just Wilbur.
Internally, he shakes his head to himself. He shouldn't be so.. like this.
So he sighed, looked at Wilbur, and explained it all. "I don't know. On my drive home I felt so fatigued, at home it only got worse. I looked like shit and washed my face, after that I went to take something from the pantry before I swear everything just went black."
Quackity pauses.
"Then, I had this really odd dream.. About.. well, it's hard to explain."
"I'm sure it was, Q. I hope you don't feel the same tonight, I don't want to think that it was because of me…" Wilbur muttered that last part, but Quackity could hear it nonetheless.
"I'll be fine, it'll be nothing I can't handle if it happens again. I made sure I was hydrated and all that before I came, though."
"Shouldn't you always make sure you're hydrated?"
"Yeah but," Quackity tilted his head to the side slightly, "Ehh.. I'm fine most of the time."
A light smile tugged on the corners of Wilbur's lips, but Quackity could tell he still might've been a bit worried. "Right.."
Their slow and tense conversation faded as they kept talking. The two started to conversate normally, The two learned more about each other slowly, and more about what it's like to be living or what it's like to be dead.
"Your family seems to be much bigger than mine, Wilbur. I had just lived alone with my mother, no siblings, nothing."
"That's not even it," Wilbur smiled softly while he thought, "I had a younger brother, Tommy. Like my father, he had blond hair, but it was curly, and his curls were much tighter than mine. He was a really bright and bubbly kid. 'Mean and loud on the outside, but he was truly soft when you knew him well."
"He.. what?" Quackity pauses. That description fits the barista he met just days ago quite well. His name was Tom, and he had curly blond hair. "Did he have blue eyes?"
"Yes, yes he did. Q, how- why do you ask?" He looks at Quackity suspiciously as he asks, but his tone was hopeful.
"I think I might've met him."
Then, Wilbur's eyes lit up, "You- You what? How was he?"
"I… Well it's complicated. He was a barista."
"A barista? Oh, of all things. That boy didn't want to be some barista, he wanted to be up on a stage! He wanted to entertain!" Wilbur gestures his hands up, either in frustration or enthusiasm. Quackity couldn't tell. "Tommy told me about every dream he had. He wanted to be a comedian, or do slam poetry, even."
The ghost continues, "Quackity, are you sure it's even him?"
"I think so."
"Oh."
"I… Well, continuing what I was trying to say, I came into the shop humming. I didn't really know I was humming until your brother pointed it out, and he was all freaked out. He interrogated me oddly about some person who wrote the song. It might've been you, really."
"Well, how did the song go?"
"Uhm, well. I don't know if this is exact, but," Quackity begins to hum to Wilbur, Wilbur listened and nodded along.
"That's… that's it. that is my song. I was writing it for him. I just finished it before I died. It was his and his only."
"Oh. I'm sorry, Wilbur. I guess you're having an effect on me."
"You- I just- We were so tight-knit, and he.." The ghost looks down, "I wonder what he would've thought when I…"
"When you.. died?"
"When I…"
"...Wilbur?"
"When-"
Then, the ghost disappeared right then, right at that important moment. Wilbur never got the chance to elaborate — and Quackity had a feeling whatever he was about to say was much deeper than just dying. Quackity knew Wilbur could still hear him if he stayed in the room, but he just wasn't sure what to say. So, he stood up, tidied his things, and left in silence.
Things weren't different.
On the ride home, Quackity felt like he was on the brink of unconsciousness. The dim scenery out of the window was hard to make out, all of the trees, houses and street lights blurred together. His eyes were being quite lazy, they barely could keep themselves open.
Walking into his home was tough, like dragging a ragdoll stuffed with weights pulling it down every second. Somehow, Quackity manages to drag himself into his room, disregarding doing anything that night at all.
So, he plumnets into bed, letting his vision sleep to black as he doesn't bother to change, and barely kicks his shoes off over the edge of his bed.
—//—
He breathes in a thin, raspy breath of air. It's a bit of a hassle to get air in his lungs, but it doesn't surprise him. It's been like this for ages. Though, he can recall a time where it was easier for him to breathe than this. Nevertheless, he has a guitar in his gloved hands, and his blond brother at his side. He can't quite recall what the room looks like other than the bef and some of the floor, but he didn't acknowledge that. This is the moment.
The boy by his side, when they look at eachother, he can tell the blond is no older than about fourteen or fifteen. Against his expectations, the young boy looks up at him with an apathetic, uncaring expression. The boy used to look up at him with a glow in his eyes, like he was looking up at a king.
He felt like nothing more than a jester when they exchanged glances now.
"It's about the fifth time you've asked me to play you this song this week." He complains.
His complaint is countered with, "It's going to be the sixth time if you give me another excuse about being busy despite the fact you have, like, nothing to do, prick. I don't see you going out, you have basically no friends, and you still haven't finished the song so I know you're not working on that."
"Would you fuck off my case if I played it now?" He retaliates back, leaning over to grab the case of his guitar swept under his bed.
"Yes, Wil! Exactly! That's what I'm asking for!"
"Then you don't get to ask again after this."
He opens the guitar case, opening the zipper snd pulling the guitar out of the fabric case.
There was a temporary silence between the two before the soft strumming of guitar keys flooded the atmosphere. Soft, beautiful playing against fingers corroded with scars from the very strings that echoed the sound. The boy he was playing to didn't look at him, the boy looked down at the guitar. If he kept asking for the song, why didn't he seem to like it so much?
Singing joins the tune of the guitar, singing that used to be much softer when the two in the room were younger boys. The thought is ignored and the singing only continues. But not forever, all sound in the room but the distant fan slows to a stop.
"Are you happy?" The brunette says after finishing the song.
The blond replies, "No." and crosses his arms.
"What? Why?"
"You didn't play it right, Wil. You wrote the song for me… You're supposed to look like you still care about me. When you play it, you're supposed to play it like you're playing for me. It- It- That's all I was looking f or, Wilbur."
The brunette pauses with hesitation, "Tommy, I'm just tired."
The blond angrily stands up at that, turning to walk away. "No, no. I see how it is now. I can't believe I keep- Whatever, Wilbur."
As the other storms out, the brunette sputters out, "Tom— Wait—"