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Quackity doesn’t know why he started letting Wilbur into the casino.
The place still isn’t finished yet, the building cluttered with construction supplies and half-built slot machines. Pool tables are scattered about with stacks of boxes piled on top of them. It's ugly and Quackity had been adamant that no one but Sam and himself could see the inside until it was done (ignoring that one time Purpled walked in by accident). So he doesn’t know what brings him to the decision of letting Wilbur inside, of letting Wilbur touch things. It's not that he’s… soft for the other (frankly, Wilbur annoys the living shit out of him. Did the taller ever shut up?) but when Wilbur had asked him about going inside Quackity hadn’t protested.
They were sitting near the bar, which was the most put together area so far. Quackity is standing on the inside of the counter, good eye switching between looking over the alcohol set on the lower shelves and watching Wilbur. The taller was sitting on a random stool on the opposite side of the counter, using a pack of ragged cards to play solitaire across the free surface. Nimble, soot-stained fingers moved the cards with quick precision; a pair of dark eyes completely focused in on the task at hand behind a pair of bright red glasses. Every now and again Wilbur would pause to think, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and worrying it as he did.
“I didn’t know you knew how to play solitaire,” he says, grasping the top of a vodka bottle and bringing it up to rest on the counter. Solitaire isn’t exactly an interesting thing for someone to know most of the time. It's a simple card game, one to pass time. There’s something about how Wilbur plays though, something about how focused and intense he is about it that catches Quackity’s attention.
Wilbur pauses from where he’d picked up a card, seemingly caught off guard. He blinked for a moment, glancing over to Quackity with furrowed eyebrows. Then the words caught up with him and he dropped the card back onto the table, glancing over at a nearby stack of boxes. “Oh uh- yeah. It's just something I- I learned when I was a kid and then I had… well there wasn’t much to do in- in hell so I just… I’m rather good at competitive solitaire, actually.”
“It's…” Cool. Hot. Cute. “Interesting. I didn’t think solitaire could be competitive, but you’ve always been a sucker for competition haven’t you?”
Wilbur’s face flushed slightly and Quackity couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride at catching the ex-President so off-guard. There's an upwards tilt to the edge of Wilbur’s lips as well, something gentle and vulnerable; a rare combination to find in relation to Wilbur Soot. Quackity has to fight the urge to kiss the other until the small smile turns into a full grin, distracting himself with grabbing cups and filling them with ice. “Well I- I didn’t know any other card games and I thought it’d be fun to try and turn a solitary game into a competitive one so I-”
Quackity listened as his… as Wilbur rambled, voice holding an excitement and confidence that he was well aware not many got to hear from the taller anymore. As much as he wanted Wilbur to shut his fucking mouth sometimes, Quackity couldn’t help but feel lucky as he watched Wilbur gesture wildly with his hands and laugh when he knocked a few cards off the table by accident.
Without truly thinking about it, Quackity poured vodka into one metal cup, watching as it washed over the ice up to half way before he stopped. Then he grabbed another metal cup, sliding the two together and grasping them into his hands before shaking the two. It had been awhile since he’d done this but if he was honest Quackity was curious how Wilbur would react, so he pulled his old memories of leaning Flair back to the front of his mind and tossed the cups up into the air before catching them in the opposite hand. He performed a few more tricks as well, mostly tossing ones, as he slowly created a cocktail. Admittedly, he was a little shocked he still remembered how to do it all, but it's not like he could exactly complain about it.
Wilbur had long since cut himself off from his ramble, eyes wide and lips slightly propped open as Quackity finally slid over the finished drink to him. Grabbing a soda for himself (he could work with alcohol just fine now but Quackity was positive he would die before he could ever truly stomach a glass himself), Quackity finally walked around the counter and grabbed a stool for himself, sitting down beside Wilbur with a sly grin.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
Quackity blinked over at the other with feigned innocence, “do what, love?”
The taller sputtered, face going a violent shade of red. For being so composed most of the time it was laughably easy to fluster the other. A simple nickname or compliment and Wilbur would be like putty in his hands. Quackity was unsure if it was sweet or sad, maybe a mix of both.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Wilbur groaned, voice full of frustration and fondness. Quackity simply rolled his eyes, reaching over and grabbing the man’s coat collar before finally pulling the taller close and kissing him. Wilbur melted into the touch immediately, hands reaching up to cup Quackity’s face gently and tangle into his hair. When they finally pulled away they were both breathing harshly and Quackity snickered quietly. Wilbur frowned at him, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What?”
“You finally shut up.”
“Oh,
piss off!