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His eyes were dulled like he had been sucked of blood. It’s how he felt, too, eyebags burying like trenches under deep brown eyes. All of him was drained of colour, from the inside to the outside.
Messy hair tucked messily under a beanie was enough confirmation - Alex Quackity was a wreck and everybody knew it. Not like anyone was even here to watch, he was alone in his own bar.
Part of it was a bit ironic, surely after the glitz and glamour of owning a casino with a full entertainment haven, he might have been enthused by the action. Rather, he was just bored of it.
He takes another sip from the cup, eyes searching desperately for another drop of brown liquor. It was shameful to fill another glass, even though it was routine. Some time ago he said he would stop after the next glass, but here he was, because not even “the next glass” could really make him forget everything like it used to.
Alex hoped that after a while a dopey smile would tug at his lips now wet with alcohol, but it only sent him further into the hole he was trying to crawl out of.
Logic told him it would be smart to go to bed now, and lock up. But when had he ever listened to his logic when he was drunk?
Quackity always drinks when he is reminded of his past. And when is he not? Especially now his old president Tubbo was his assistant, working under him, ironically enough.
It always brought back memories, and of course he always had to go further back down the timeline. Alex was always stuck in his silly little rabbit holes.
“Tubbo,” the name slips out of his lips like a drunken curse, “Pogtopia…”
It was like he was playing word association with his own past. It always ended up with one name after a few turns, no matter how long he would try and put it off. Maybe his mind would always be connected to him.
“Wilbur.” Eventually ‘his’ name is said, and Quackity sighs into the palm of the hand he’s leaning into. That’s the end of his little memory game.
His hand started to shake as the alcohol finally got rid of any sense he had left, imagine how pathetic he must look? But eventually, he ended up with his cheek pressed against the wood of his bar counter, legs tingling with underuse, and a cup smashed on the floor. The alcohol had exploded onto the linoleum floor like a firework.
I am too drunk to be thinking.
Every passing minute felt like a hundred years, or maybe half a second. The time seemed to be changing it’s own rules even as Quackity stared at his watch. Everything was a blur now, even he felt himself starting to shift away.
It was moments where he was so disconnected from his own body that he wondered if he was even real, if any of that stuff he always thought about ever even happened. It felt like so long ago, like he was watching it back on a grainy recording with some of the tape scratched. Little bits would just glitch out of his memory, other parts looped on replay for hours.
Surely that wasn’t real, he thought, not even sure if he had said that out loud. Sometimes when he was drunk he had a habit of saying his thoughts aloud, not like anyone was gonna be hearing him. Because he was always alone.
At first, his loneliness had been comforting. He could get away from the constant bustle of Manburg, and eventually New L’Manburg cabinet, their bickering made his head hurt and he had too many things on his mind. Too much guilt lay in his stomach to deal with sober.
Even in Pogtopia, he would climb to an abandoned crevice in the ravine and smoke; he had brought a few packs from Schlatt’s stash to Pogtopia with him just in case. It was always fucking freezing in that ravine, cold to his bones. The only source of heat and light, especially that high up, was a poorly strung up lantern and his shitty lighter.
Cigarette smoke did ballet twirls above him, and he would lean back into his arms and forget.
Even then, you weren’t alone, he thought, and he knew that. But there was no point thinking about anyone like that, especially someone who was meant to be his rival now. Well, he had always been his rival publicly.
There was bitterness in the back of his throat. Publicly. It hurt to remember the times in private when Wilbur would join him on a smoke break in Pogtopia. He would push the end of his unlit cigarette onto Quackity’s cigarette and they would light up each other. Literally and emotionally.
Quackity felt his eyes begin to close, he was going to have to clean up in the morning. He hoped Tubbo wouldn’t catch him like this. It wouldn’t be the first time, though. Maybe with Schlatt, and Wilbur, now even him, Tubbo would just accept the fact that his life was cleaning up after alcoholic father figures.
A chuckle accompanied the thought, more terrified than anything; he was not only comparing himself to the two people who had ruined his life, but also assisting a teenager in making his life more traumatic than it already was. Alcohol exploded on the ground like a firework.
Alex couldn’t even force himself to keep thinking about it. His mind was just too blurred to even let him do a slight bit of self-reflection, all he could do was follow the trail of cigarette smoke…
He didn’t need any hints. He already knew what he would be dreaming about.
“I want you to dance with me,” he breathed the words out with cigarette smoke, “please.”
He watched as grey tendrils swirled around in the frosty air. He turned to Wilbur, his eyes poring over the other’s face for any sign of bad intention. There was none.
He looked down from the ledge they sat from, checking that nobody was staring at them. It was fine, who would want to be watching them? They were just two boys trying to survive, like the rest.
His eyes darted around the dark ravine, all but one lamp extinguished, “why?” he was breathless, surprisingly, the damp cold had suddenly become warm around his cheeks.
Wilbur laughed, which caused Quackity to press an urgent finger to his lips. Wilbur widened his eyes, in a ‘sorry’ sort of expression, which made the ravenette let out his own quiet chuckle.
“Because you’re the type of person I want to slow dance with.” a small smile tugged at pink lips. Quackity hoped in his heart that he would elaborate, but it was Wilbur, and he never did. Instead, he splayed out a thin hand in front of Quackity, nodding.
He sighed, “we don’t have music, Wilbur.”
“We don’t need it.” Wilbur whispered like he was doing something impulsive and crazy, which he probably was. That’s how it had been for him, even for Quackity now that he had joined this crazy vigilante group. Impulsive and crazy, Wilbur and Quackity. Word association.
Quackity cautiously lowered his hand into Wilbur’s, using his other hand to grind down the cigarette butt. His eyes never left Wilbur’s wild brown ones, somewhat mesmerised and a little afraid. He was so fucking unpredictable.
He pulled himself up so that they were both standing on the edge of the ledge instead of sitting with their legs swinging over it. He felt a little nervous, but that was stupid. What was he, a teenager? Why was he getting butterflies like a giddy kid in love?
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Wilbur’s hand lowered to his waist and very gently held his waist. He felt like he was gonna throw up, maybe from butterflies or maybe just how horribly great this was, “put your hand on my shoulder.”
He was overly aware of how gentle Wilbur was being, like he was a fragile cobweb volatile to breaking at any moment. He felt a smile pull at his lips, Schlatt had never treated him like that. But now was no time to be thinking about Schlatt.
“You’re an idiot for doing this, by the way.” is all he managed to say, he was so quiet it was like a mouse talking. His bashfulness was poorly covered up when he glanced urgently at the rock below his feet.
Wilbur used their held hands to push Quackity’s face to look him dead in his eyes, “you’re still obliging. We’re both idiots.” He felt a little offended at the remark, but he knew it was true. Just two idiots.
He began to move his feet, Quackity poorly following. It was clumsy, it was all too much and all too little, shuffling in the dark ravine, silhouettes dancing on rock walls…
“You look pretty in this light,” Wilbur’s voice echoed in his skull, he felt weak in the knees, the light from the lantern seemed to be getting brighter, “Quackity. Quackity. Quackity.”
“Quackity!” his eyes snapped open, to the sudden brightness of the light above his head. He turned to the random voice, why did Tubbo have to be here, it had been like an hour…
“Wh…” he sat up too quickly, his head feeling like an anchor connecting to his neck, so he rested his head on his hand. This was pathetic, did he hear anything he might have mumbled in his sleep?
The taller man had nothing to say, rather he just sat next to him at the bar. Why was he here? He had forgotten to lock up before he slept, and now this ghost was haunting him even when he was awake.
“Wilbur…” he collapsed his head into the crook of Wilbur’s neck, arms clasping around Wilbur like he was clinging on for dear life. He felt the other man flinch, but he didn’t resist the drunken embrace, rather he just let the ravenette hug for as long as he needed.
It was unusual for two villains to be just… vulnerable. Last time they had embraced each other like this was when Quackity only stood the line of dubious morality, but now he was a villain and so was Wilbur. How times change, maybe it was fate.
“I don’t understand,” Quackity mumbled, his lips brushing against Wilbur’s clothed shoulder, “why anyone forgives us.” Wilbur said nothing, instead wrapping his arms around Quackity. Almost an invitation to let him sob into the unwashed brown fabric of his coat.
The tears were instant and relentless. He wanted so badly to stop crying because it was embarrassing, especially now that Wilbur was dumbfoundedly embracing him in his drunken state. It would be ideal to just snap out of it. But he continued to cry.
“One of those nights, huh?” Wilbur said finally, but there was no mocking tone in his voice. It seemed sincere, but even then it was hard to tell if he was genuine through his intoxication. Quackity nodded into the coat. Ignorance is bliss.
He looked up with watery eyes. He felt stupid, even though he felt a bit comforted. Like he was a child again. “I’m sorry.”
It was a simple statement, but the patheticness of it made even Wilbur look pitiful for him. Quackity, on any other night, would have been mad at his pity. Now he was just too weak to care, he wanted Wilbur even if it meant it was out of pity than romance. Even then…
“Why are you here? To see me?” the words were meant to come out as a doting accusation, but it didn’t hit as well as he wanted it to at all. Wilbur laughed at his patheticness. He felt like a high schooler in love again.
The brunette tipped Quackity’s head so they made eye contact, and his eyes widened. It was like what he had been dreaming about just a few minutes before, Wilbur looking into his eyes like this. Maybe if he wasn’t so intoxicated the look in his eyes would be wild and unpredictable again, but now he had extinguished that light.
Another thing he’d destroyed. Number Three-Million-And-One: The Light in Wilbur’s eyes.
“Maybe I am,” the older man’s voice was unsettlingly doting, but not condescending, “you’re the kind of person I’d visit at two in the morning, Quackity.” The words settled around him like a warm blanket, like two arms in an old trench coat, a shoulder to cry on. Maybe some other night, lips to kiss with, or hair to mess with.
Tonight was not one of those nights.
“You remember when we used to dance, Wilbur? And we used to look at the stars in the ravine together,” he hiccuped like a stereotypical drunk, “you said that one of those stars reminded you of us. Did you know that in Las Nevadas- hic- you can’t see the stars?”
“What are you, a writer?” he could feel Wilbur’s gloved hand pull off his beanie. He didn’t even mind it.
He yawned into the trench coat. “I wanted to be, at some point. Now I’m just an alcoholic.”
Wilbur didn’t say anything. Instead he used the same gloves hand to tame the mess of black hair which had been unkempt for weeks.
“I miss us,” Quackity didn’t know why he was still talking, but if Wilbur wanted him to shut up he would have said it, “I miss this.”
“I think you need sleep.” There was no amusement in Wilbur’s voice anymore. He was concerned for the other boy who lay clinging to his coat.
“I dream about you.” and that’s all he needs before suddenly, Wilbur felt the body clinging to him go limp. Quackity had fallen asleep, all while holding Wilbur like he would never be seen like this again. He was probably right.
He pulled the unconscious Quackity to slump over the bar, like Wilbur had never even showed up before the dream about the ravine.
I dream about you. The words echo in his head like a ghost. He pursed his lips, paused over the sleeping Quackity.
“I dream about you, too.” he whispers quietly, watching as a woozy smile pulls softly into blushed cheeks. With one push of a wooden bar door, Wilbur lets it swing shut.
“Sleep well,” the words go nowhere, “dream of us.”