Chapter Text
Turns out that "finishing the bottle" meant both literally finishing the bottle and sex. Something about hotel beds and being drunk just happened to go so well together, especially when paired with physical contact and the vague start of a headache. It was so overstimulating in the best way. All the feelings bled into each other, and Wilbur felt incredible.
But Quackity was tense. It took Wilbur a minute to notice, his thoughts taking some time to catch up to him. He didn't seem uncomfortable, just upset.
"Hey," Wilbur whispered. Quackity craned his neck up. "You alright? You seem upset about something."
Quackity closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm fine," he lied, unconvincing. "It's nothing."
"You sure? You can tell me if something's wrong."
"It's not important right now. We can talk in the morning." After a second, Quackity turned onto his side, facing away from Wilbur who copied him, the hand that was once on his back now wiping lingering sweat off Quackity's chest with his thumb. He gently kissed his head, his neck, his shoulder, working his way back up again before setting his head back down.
"It's nothing you did," Quackity muttered at the wall. "Just, I don't want you thinking you did anything wrong."
Wilbur was only vaguely comforted by this.
…
When he woke up, Quackity was already awake. He looked like death, scrolling through his phone, pinned down by Wilbur's arm across his stomach. Wilbur felt bad for drooling on his shoulder.
"Mornin'," Wilbur fought the urge to wipe the drool still on his lips onto Quackity's shoulder, instead wiping it with his hand.
"Hey," Quackity responded with a dull smile. "Can you move your arm so I can get up?" Wilbur did so instantly, and Quackity sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He slid out from under the blankets, and Wilbur fixed his gaze on the ceiling as he picked up his clothes.
"Can I use your shower?" He asked. "I really don't feel like walking to my room."
"Yeah, of course."
"Thanks."
Wilbur sat up when he heard the door shut, ignoring his discarded clothes and putting on fresh ones. He sat on his bed, anxiety growing. Everything Quackity said seemed to have an edge, and no matter how many times he reminded himself of how Quackity had insisted he hadn't done anything, he still couldn't help but worry. His heart almost dropped when he heard the shower shut off.
A minute later, Quackity emerged from the bathroom, wet hair dripping onto last night's clothes. He wiped at his eyes, dark blue smudges spreading more as he did. He looked at Wilbur, who looked like he was expecting something.
"What's up?" Quackity asked. Wilbur couldn't tell if he was genuine or feigning ignorance.
"What's wrong?" He asked. "Last night you seemed upset and even this morning you've been tense. You said we could talk about it in the morning, and here we are. Come here. Talk to me."
Quackity frowned. He glanced around the room before walking over to the bed. He sat a few feet away, and Wilbur's stomach churned. Quackity sat silent for a minute before he spoke at the floor.
"You confound me, Wilbur."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I mean," Quackity sighed, frustrated. Wilbur held his breath. "I mean, I can't figure out how I feel about you."
Wilbur felt his heart shatter in his chest. Quackity didn't seem to notice the implosion.
"I mean, you're cute. Really, you're cute, and nice, and you're a good friend but-" he stopped himself, shook his head.
"I sound like an idiot," he sighed. "I'll just-"
"No," Wilbur interrupted. "You don't. Just, keep talking." Quackity's brows furrowed, and Wilbur worried he was too harsh.
"I can't tell how I feel about you. I just can't. Usually I can tell if I like a guy or if I'm just sleeping with him to sleep with him, but you…" the room went silent again for another beat.
"It wouldn't even matter," Quackity spoke again. "You're only going to be here for another week- I'm still pissed they changed the scheduling, by the way- and then you're back off to England. So, I don't know why I'm going on about this."
If Wilbur's heart felt crushed already, it was dust now because Quackity was right. He was angry too that they had changed the scheduling, as if it would have actually extended his stay. He'd be on a flight back home in a week, and he'd never see Quackity again, save from pictures.
"Well," Wilbur sighed. "If you figure out how you feel about me, let me know, okay?" Quackity looked at him like he was insane for a second before his expression softened.
"I will."
Then he stood up and left the room.
…
The day came and Wilbur felt like he was in a dream. The out-of-body feeling was back for the last time. The backstage was so empty, down to twelve people besides the crew. Wilbur made eye contact with Quackity from a distance, and his chest hurt.
Quackity had avoided Wilbur all week since they had spoken. Wilbur would text him to no response (though the messages would all appear read) and never saw him out smoking or in the hotel's hallways. He felt absolutely miserable.
Now, as Quackity walked away from him backstage instead of walking up and beaming about how happy he was to see him, Wilbur really thought his world was ending. Tommy was the only one to notice his brother's grief.
"What's wrong?" He asked, catching Wilbur alone as the final night's audience flooded the venue. "You've been sulking all week, and it's getting annoying."
Wilbur let out a deep sigh and looked down at Tommy.
"You were right," he admitted. Tommy's jaw dropped a bit simply at the admission. "About Q. I like him. I really like him."
Tommy was trying his best not to look excited as he spoke. "And, what, does he not feel the same?"
"That's the worst part. I didn't get a solid answer. He just said he didn't know how he felt."
"Shit, that's worse than a rejection."
"Shut up, Tommy."
Normally, Tommy would do anything but shut up when told to, but the sight of Wilbur with his head in his hands knocked any quip he could have given out of him. He went to the rest of the band to help prepare; they were the first ones to perform that night.
When the audience had been settled into place, there was a small speech by the head judges about how glad she was to see everyone there and how far the three bands had come and talked about the reasoning behind schedule changes, and Wilbur wasn't listening at all. His head felt heavy and numb.
He had no idea how he made it through five songs. He had only been on stage for about half an hour, and he was sure he was going to die. The rest of the band seemed fine; tired, but fine. Wilbur knew his energy was shit, and he couldn't get his head straight the whole time. He felt worse than before.
Wilbur ignored everything until Quackity went on stage. He was hurt, but he would be damned if he didn't give his undivided attention to the band. He hung on every word of greeting Quackity gave the crowd and every targeted message in his lyrics.
" I'm sorry every song's about you ," Wilbur had caught in one song, " I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me ," in another. Listening live felt the same as when he had listened on his phone weeks ago. There was the same sad pit in his stomach. It got worse when it reached the last song.
"I wasn't planning on performing this one," Quackity's voice boomed throughout the theater. "But someone changed my mind. This really is a love song."
Wilbur's chest stung. There it was, the song that Quackity had played for him before he had kissed him. It sounded great live, so loud it threatened to rupture Wilbur's eardrums. Wilbur didn't remember the lyrics at all, just the music. Despite listening to him sing for half an hour already, Wilbur felt like Quackity's voice was going to kill him. Every word felt aimed like a bullet.
When the song ended, the crowd erupted. Wilbur could have sobbed. The song wasn't written for him, but it was sung for him, and it was painful in a beautiful way. Quackity spoke once more before leaving with his band offstage.
"I think I've made up my mind."
And it was over.
The bands were left backstage for another 10 as loud, popular songs were blasted to keep the crowd busy as the judges made a decision. Wilbur still felt stunned. He sat in a numb haze (one more powerful or even meaningful than any he had sat backstage in before) with Tommy ranting anxiously by his side. Right as the bands were being told to move on stage, Wilbur turned to his brother.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Really, I am." And was silent the rest of his time on stage.
The lights seemed brighter or hotter, or perhaps even both. The crowd was large, and the cheers were intoxicating. Wilbur felt less nauseous when he was actually drinking. There was another speech about the great performances and hard decisions, and a vague mention of a runner-up prize. Then, they were ready to announce the winner.
"After much difficult consideration," the judge spoke. "We have come to a decision. The winner of this battle of the bands, which will receive one hundred thousand dollars in prize money, is…"
In the moment of anticipation, Wilbur thought about car wrecks and how people speak about how time seems to slow down and the mind captures every moment and detail like a photograph. He remembered the crowd jumping up and down in excitement, the lights threatening to burn his skin, and Tommy's grip on his arm that he thought might bruise. He also remembered looking over to Quackity who was looking him in the eyes. He was smiling this time, an apology without words that Wilbur was desperate enough to accept without hesitation.
"LILA MORADO!"
And the car crash was over. Screaming cheers erupted from not only the audience but the stage where Quackity, Sam, Purpled, and Noah-Foolish were cheering their lungs out. And while the rest of the stage was drowning in disappointment, Wilbur smiled. He would feel stupid later, cheering for his own loss, but Quackity's grin was infectious.
Then, in a weak moment of adrenaline and recklessness, Wilbur took a few confident strides across the stage to Quackity, and he kissed him. In front of thousands of people, heart beating in his ringing ears, Wilbur held Quackity by the waist and kissed him. Quackity kissed him back the best he could through his grin.
The crowd roared even louder, faint whistles heard all the way upstage. Wilbur didn't realize until he opened his eyes that he had drifted backwards, pulling Quackity with him until they stood on their own between their bands. That's what it felt like, really, that they were their own item between worlds. Wilbur had lost the competition, but he had won the world.
…
"What are you gonna do with the money?" Wilbur asked, cigarette in his still shaking hand. Hours later, he and Quackity were on their section of the curb, hand in hand.
"We're splitting it by five," Quackity's voice was strained yet giddy. "20k each, and the rest goes to the band. Equipment, recording time, all that shit." He took a hit from his vape, neon blue illuminating in the dark.
"I just won a hundred thousand dollars," he sighed on his exhalation. "I still can't believe it. Holy fucking shit." Wilbur swallowed, words on his tongue threatening to spill out. He was scared to ruin the moment, but he still needed to speak.
"What about us?" He mostly whispered. Quackity's giddy grin faltered, and Wilbur hated it.
"Well," Quackity squeezed Wilbur's hand a bit tighter. "I live out west. I'm not asking you to like, move in with me or anything crazy like that, just…"
"I have family in the U.S.," Wilbur said, still trying to connect dots in his brain. "On my mom's side, out west, too. I'm just saying, maybe I can stay with them until we get to a place where you can ask me to live with you." Quackity chuckled.
"You say it like it's such a sure thing." Wilbur smiled, dropped his mostly finished cigarette, and held Quackity's cheek as he leaned down to kiss him. He pressed his lips to Quackity's forehead and smiled.
"I want it to be."