Chapter Text
A soft tune of a piano plays in the background, the duck-hybrid humming to the gentle tune. He sat at a large wooden desk, his office, in his country. His Las Nevadas. His country he’s been working so hard on, trying to put together only the best people, only the best for Las Nevadas. His wings lightly raised in a gentle motion, his gaze fixated on a calendar. Only the best is what his country deserved, he decided.
A pen in hand, he delicately crossed off the passing days. He then slumped back into his chair, letting out a small frustrated huff. He brought a hand to rub at his temples, his wings fluffing up against the chair.
Visiting Dream everyday wasn’t a simple task, managing his country and dealing with Sam whining wasn’t exactly as easy either. He was starting to absolutely dread visiting Dream, that itch to just raise his axe and end it right there. He didn’t care about the book, who cares about the stupid book anyways? He scoffed, his nose bridge wrinkling up.
Removing his hand away, he glanced down at the scattered papers around his desk. He scooted forward, observing his desk carefully. A few casino chips were scattered in random spots, crumbled papers in every corner, and in the middle was a simple list. Simple tasks, easy jobs.
Yes, simple tasks. Easy jobs...
He let out a small groan, leaning forward and resting his head onto his desk, using his arms as some sort of pillow. His gaze flickered forward to glance at his window, bright orange and yellow hues peaking through the curtains. His eyes grew heavy, demanding eternal rest, demanding his body to rest. His wings settled off to the side, the soft keys of the piano in the background soon faded, finally shutting his eyes.
He awoke in nothing but a white void, his eyes fluttering open rapidly. His vision blurry, clouded, he could only make out a taller figure in front of him. His vision cleared slowly, but surely, eyes narrowing at the mysterious figure. His wings fluffed up, rising up in alert as he took a step back, as he nervously went to reach for his axe. Yet, there was no axe there.
The taller figure had their back turned to him, the figure seemed to be in a large trench coat and gentle waves of chocolate curls peaking through the large collar of the trench coat. Quackity’s heart skipped a beat for a moment.
The figure turned slowly, turning to face Quackity.
And there he was, L’manberg’s first President, L’manberg’s traitor, enemy, but still his old friend.
Wilbur stood before Quackity, a gentle, warm smile welcoming the other boy. Quackity merely just gaped at Wilbur, when was the last time he dreamt about Wilbur? Why did he feel so real? Wilbur didn’t say a word, only slowly opening his arms to Quackity.
Quackity’s eyes widened, hesitating, that’s when everything went red, his wings lowering at his sides. Wilbur gave Quackity a confused look for a moment. Quackity seemed to move on his own, rushing into Wilbur’s embrace. He practically threw himself at Wilbur, his wings drafting over Wilbur as the taller stumbled back, seemingly caging him in, almost like the hybrid was trying to protect him.
Wilbur wrapped his arms around Quackity, tightly, securing him. Quackity buried his head into Wilbur’s shoulder. This was his old friend, his old cabinet member, a person who’s presence he once enjoyed but missed dearly. His old friend who shared his wisdom with him time and time again, but Quackity was too proud to even listen. He regrets that now.
Quackity clung onto Wilbur desperately. This was the only positive contact he’s had in months. The two slump to the floor, Wilbur keeping the poor, desperate, duck-hybrid in his arms and close to his chest.
“I got your letter.”