Work Text:
Quackity didn’t believe in soulmates.
He never had. The idea that two souls could be tied together by fate was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Whether romantic or not, soulmates made no sense. People spent time with others because they wanted to, not because some silly little red string tied their souls together.
That is to say, he didn’t believe that people who followed their fate were stupid. No, he just didn’t care for it himself. There were plenty of people who followed their strings to the people they wanted to spend their lives with and ended up in fulfilling relationships.
Quackity just... wanted to choose for himself. He didn’t want to let the world push him to some random person it had decided was destined to be in his life. He would make friends for the sake of making friends, not because one is linked to the other end of his soul.
When he was invited to the Dream SMP, he found that, overall, it was no exception to that sentiment. Almost no one cared to share who their soulmates were or go searching for them.
Despite that, he learned that some of the residents of the SMP had already found their soulmates. Case in point being Jack and Niki, who had one of the strongest platonic bonds he had ever seen. Along with them were Dream, Sapnap, and George, which did not come as a surprise. The three of them were hardly seen without each other.
But it was when Quackity first visited L’Manberg that he looked down at the red string wrapped around his left ring finger and found it taut, pulling him further into the small country as if something was waiting for him inside.
And he really didn’t want to find out what it was, so he turned and left without a word.
It was weeks later when he first met Wilbur Soot.
He’d joined a call with Tommy and Wilbur out of pure curiosity. He’d never spoken to Wilbur before, but he’d heard good things from Tommy. He wanted to meet the man, just to say he did.
Wilbur was friendly enough. Maybe not quite to the extent Tommy sang his praises to, but he was by no means rude. He’d announced that L’Manberg was holding an election, explained that they were writing policies, and even invited Quackity to visit so they could speak face to face.
And Quackity couldn’t turn down such a polite offer! It had been weeks since he’d seen L’Manberg in person, and he’d love to meet the self-proclaimed president of the nation.
He all but ran into L’Manberg, excited to meet the person Tommy spoke so highly of. His hair was a mess and his tracksuit was wrinkled, maybe not suitable for meeting a president, but he didn’t particularly care. He was excited to be invited into L’Manberg, if only to visit.
He entered the walls of L’Manberg and spotted the pair of them immediately—Wilbur, tall and imposing in his L’Manberg uniform, holding an armful of books, and Tommy hurrying along beside him, all smiles, the president’s right hand man. Wilbur’s uniform was unkempt, the jacket rumpled and the buttons of his shirt done up wrong. Wilbur’s large chestnut brown wings dragged on the ground behind him. The feathers were crooked as if they hadn’t been preened in weeks. It set Quackity a little at ease. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t dressed up for a visit.
Quackity’s ever-present smile faltered, however, as he studied Wilbur. He skidded to a stop mid-stride, pausing on the spot, gaze fixed on Wilbur’s hand.
Wrapped around one finger was a taut red string, the other end stretching across the air, twined around Quackity’s ring finger.
Quackity was almost disappointed. He’d been hoping he would never meet his soulmate, just to give a big middle finger to fate. He didn’t want to be tied to someone else’s life.
Wilbur didn’t seem to care. He carried on the conversation with ease, handing off the pile of books to Tommy and taking the first one, asking Quackity if he’d like to hear their policies as he flipped through the pages.
And if Wilbur didn’t care, Quackity would choose not to as well.
He told them to carry on, he’d love to hear their policies, sure, why not? And Wilbur recited the ridiculous policies Tommy had written, earning laughs from all three of them. Every word spoken form that book was absolutely nonsensical, but that wasn’t a surprise. Quackity wouldn’t expect anything else from the mind of Tommyinnit.
And when Wilbur glanced up at Quackity and said “Now Quackity, name something you don’t like,” Quackity decided that if fate would try to force him to be around people he didn’t want to, he would spite it as much as possible.
“I don’t like any of it, Wilbur!” he’d declared with a smug grin. “I hate all of it!”
Oh, how he wishes he knew back then the absolute storm he’d created with those words alone.
He’d announced that he, too, would be running for president of L’Manberg, offering competition against Wilbur and Tommy’s party, and with that came more parties to debate against and vote for, new members of the server looking for power. It began as some healthy competition, giving voters someone else to consider as a leader other than just Wilbur.
Things got heated. Words flew, ink and quills wrote down policy after policy, campaigns ran strong, and in the middle of it all were Quackity and Wilbur.
Before debates, they would throw insults and argue back and forth. Even during debates, professionalism was thrown out the window in favour of turning everything into a pissing contest. They poked and prodded at each other’s nerves, learning exactly what to say to get the other riled up. Countless debates ended the same—with each of them unwilling to concede even a single point to the other.
The election began as almost a joke, but with every debate, every scathing remark towards Quackity’s party, every voter one of them managed to sway to their side, it became more and more serious.
This wasn’t what Quackity thought having a soulmate would be like, but he was proud of himself for making it this way. He was spitting in the face of fate. He refused to let the universe shove someone in his face and expect him to care about them just because some stupid little string had latched them together. The competition was preferrable to trying to form some stupid bond with Wilbur. He didn’t have a soulmate—he had a rival.
And he fucking loved it.
He always loved competition, and this was taking it to the next level. He was not only competing against Wilbur, but the universe itself. He would see just how far away he could push his supposed soulmate. He wouldn’t be destined to have Wilbur in his life. He would form his own bonds, connect himself with the people he wanted instead of being pushed around by destiny.
However, a little under two weeks before election day, Quackity did something he thought he would never do; he asked Wilbur to take a walk with him.
At the time, he wasn’t sure what came over him. Perhaps he wanted to see if he could get in Wilbur’s good graces just in case Wilbur won. Perhaps he felt that he could give Wilbur a chance to be the person the universe wanted him to be around. Perhaps he wanted to know why the universe chose Wilbur of all people to handcuff his soul to. He wasn’t sure.
Reasoning aside, the two of them took a walk outside L’Manberg’s walls to a hill overlooking the country. The sun shone down on the black and yellow walls, the flag fluttering in the wind.
“Hey, listen,” Quackity had said as the two of them walked up the hill, “thanks again for taking me up on this offer and taking this walk with me.”
They walked side by side, a distinct change from the way they usually stood in the same room, at opposite ends with podiums between them. The red string on Quackity’s left hand, the other end tied to Wilbur’s right, hung slack between them, no longer pulling them together like usual, satisfied that they had chosen to spend some time together, even if just for a short walk.
“Listen, I understand things are not easy right now,” Quackity had said in an attempt to clear some air between them, set them both at ease as they paused at the top of the hill. “I mean, the debates we had were fucking awful. Things are tense, to say the least. You know, election’s coming up, everyone’s on the edge of their seats, but... I just wanted to get together and talk to you. I want... I wanna pick your brain for a bit.”
And Wilbur had blinked then, confused. He still stood tall, towering over Quackity, back straight. The fabric of his uniform was wrinkled, a few seams torn, but every button, every hair, was perfectly in place, as if he’d forced his appearance to cooperate despite the rips in the fabric and the bags under his eyes.
“P... Pick my brain?” he had repeated, a quiet hesitation to his voice. One of his wings flicked, as if he was nervous.
“Just get to know you a little better,” Quackity clarified. His own wings, much smaller than Wilbur’s, hung relaxed, yellow feathers just brushing the ground.
Wilbur clasped his hands behind his back. The string between their fingers stretched, tugging at Quackity, telling him no, get closer, don’t let him push you away.
“Okay, yeah, sure,” Wilbur had agreed.
And with Quackity’s first question came a response as stiff and political as he had expected from Wilbur. He spoke of wanting to protect his people, but surely, Quackity thought, surely there must be some other reason Wilbur has done everything he has.
“Can I talk to you as a person?” Quackity had asked. “Forget the elections, forget the politics, forget we’re politicians right now. I want to talk to you up close. I want to talk to you as a person.”
Talk to me as my soulmate, was the unspoken request he gave. Tell me why the universe chose you for me.
Wilbur’s façade faltered then, showing confusion, hesitance, maybe even a little fear. “Um... I mean, I appreciate it... but no. The election’s in twelve days.”
“Come on,” Quackity insisted with a good natured laugh. “It’s just you and me. We can drop it, we don’t have to act like politicians right now. I want to genuinely get to know you a little better, you know? It’s a fair request.”
And Wilbur had let out a nervous laugh, shifting his wings as though debating whether or not he could fly away and avoid this conversation altogether. He glanced at his feet, then back up, and turned to face Quackity.
“I’ll try,” he said.
And Quackity tried, too. He tried to quit the act of a politician and just talk, but it was hard. Like Wilbur had said, the election was in less than two weeks. What else were they meant to talk about?
But he was optimistic. He was sure he could win and change L’Manberg for the better. He could win, and he could protect the people of L’Manberg, he could welcome in anyone he wanted. It would be a perfect country.
He could do it, he was so certain. And if Wilbur saw that optimism and that confidence, maybe he could concede that Quackity had a point, that he was right about something.
“When I got to these lands and I wanted to join L’Manberg,” Quackity said, “I was told that I couldn’t. And to me that was a lack of belonging. If I have to become president and tear down some walls in order for no one to ever feel unwelcome again, then so be it. I do believe that everyone has a good side to them. And I believe everyone has something to contribute to the nation.”
Wilbur furrowed his brow at that. He gazed out over L’Manberg, the country he’d built with his two bare hands.
“Your aspirations of optimism are not going to be subject to my nation’s security, I’m afraid,” Wilbur said. “I completely disagree with everything you’ve said.”
Quackity had shrugged, saying he would agree to disagree. Wilbur’s tone had become louder, not quite harsh, but bordering on it, and Quackity did not want an unofficial presidential debate on this hill.
“You say everyone has a good side, Quackity,” Wilbur said, stepping forward, “and you’re right. Everyone has a good side. But that good side is only there to help themselves.”
He turned on his heel and began to walk away. The red string stretched further, trying to pull them back to each other. Wilbur stopped at the crest of the hill as if he’d felt it tugging at his hand.
He turned to face Quackity. “If you want to really help people, you’re going to need power. You can make a movement, you can make a resistance, you can go out and you can come back and they’ll give you a parade. They’ll cheer for you in the streets, but you will change nothing.”
He stepped closer, and Quackity stepped back without meaning to, maintaining the distance between them. The red string yanked at his hand.
“If you have a revolution, everyone will hate you,” Wilbur continued, his voice now harsh, yet still quiet, as though to make sure Quackity was listening closely. “You will sacrifice everything and you will lose everything you’ve ever had. But you’ll come back and everything will be changed.”
He strode past Quackity, hands still behind his back, to stand at the top of the hill and stare out at L’Manberg. “And Quackity, if you want to change things, you’re going to need power.” He turned his head to look Quackity dead in the eyes. “That’s what you want, really, isn’t it?”
Quackity averted his gaze. Wilbur took a step toward him.
“Look at me.”
Quackity did, albeit reluctantly. Wilbur’s brown eyes were warm in the light of the sunset, a flame that refused to flicker out, one that would keep burning and burning until it took him and everyone else down with it.
“I... I mean—”
“Power isn’t gained from diplomacy,” Wilbur said, “and bureaucracy, and giant courthouses suspended in the sky.” He gestured to the stone courthouse in the distance, the red string on his hand flying with the movement. He narrowed his eyes and met Quackity’s gaze.
“It’s gained from swords, Quackity. It’s gained from blades. It’s gained from steel, iron.” He took a few steps toward Quackity, making him back up more, nervous from the hardness in Wilbur’s voice.
He spoke as if he knew this all firsthand. Maybe he did.
“Even if everyone has this good side you’re talking about, anyone who has to prove it has to show their dark side first. You’re going to have to kill. You’re going to have to torture. You’re going to have to maim.
When I look at you, as a fellow outsider,” Wilbur said, shaking his head, the anger gone from his voice, “you’re not ready for that.”
He lowered his gaze. “I’m leaving.”
And he turned and walked down the hill, leaving Quackity alone in the sunset, his red string of fate stretching, pulling at him once again to run after Wilbur, the same way it does after every debate.
Quackity couldn’t possibly see why the universe thought linking him with someone like Wilbur was a good idea. No matter how hard his string pulled at him from the other end, he would fight it as hard as he could.
And someone came along who was absolutely perfect for that purpose.
With the election came JSchlatt, a power hungry politician with the intention of ripping L’Manberg up from its foundations and turning it upside-down. His party was strong, their policies set in stone, unwavering.
When George didn’t show up for the election, Quackity found himself faced with a choice.
He could run to Wilbur, let fate string him along, and request that they combine their votes should things go south. Or he could run the other way, fight fate tooth and nail, and propose the same to Schlatt.
And so he did. He yanked his red string with him, ignoring the way it yanked him back, and asked Schlatt to combine their votes. He wouldn’t let Wilbur win. He refused.
When the election came and Schlatt took power, Quackity stood right at his side, staring down at L’Manberg with a smug grin. He was hyperaware of the string stretching down from the stage into the audience where Wilbur stood with Tommy. He knew Wilbur was aware of it, too.
As Schlatt exiled Wilbur and Tommy from their own country, Quackity was there, cheering alongside Schlatt, cheering for the new era they would bring to L’Manberg, cheering for himself for defying fate and choosing his own destiny.
And he chose Schlatt. He chose not to run after Wilbur. He chose to be with Schlatt, to get engaged, to be his vice president. It was freeing, being away from Wilbur, with no way to get to him. It was perfect.
At least, it was for a short while. Quackity was in power, at the helm of the country, finally able to enact the policies he wanted... but only if he got Schlatt’s permission. He was happy with his new chosen soulmate, the one he would spend the rest of his life with... at least, when Schlatt wasn’t calling him names and degrading him in a drunken rage.
The festival was when Quackity really began to second guess his own choices.
He was there when Schlatt declared Tubbo a traitor, when he pressured Technoblade into executing him right then and there on stage, when Schlatt went up in flames from the explosion right alongside Tubbo. Quackity watched it all. He stared out at the flaming remains of the festival, an event that was meant to be a celebration. He watched as Tubbo’s now burnt and bleeding body disappeared, his second life taken, leaving him with only one.
Tubbo was a kid. Yet Schlatt didn’t hesitate to have him publicly humiliated and executed.
Wilbur was there for the festival. Quackity could see his string trailing from his own hand to someone nearby. The shadows hid Wilbur from sight, but he was there, Quackity knew for certain. The string tightened, trying to guide him to the person he knew was somewhere in the darkness.
Maybe Quackity was just stubborn. Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe he was naïve and there was no saving Schlatt. But he ignored those possibilities and stayed at Schlatt’s side, determined to take control over his own destiny. He made this choice, and he would stick with it.
Then Schlatt tore down the White House.
That was the last straw. Quackity couldn’t take it anymore. Between the drunken fights and the constant insults, it all grew to be too much.
So he killed Schlatt, shot him right through the heart, taking his second life. He fled from Manberg, unaware of where he was actually going, but knowing that he had to go somewhere that wasn’t here. He needed to get away from Schlatt.
When he bumped into Tommy in a forest and was taken to Pogtopia, he realized that he’d been unconsciously following the trail of his string.
And he and Wilbur were face to face once again.
They hadn’t properly spoken since that discussion on the hill. They hadn’t even seen each other since Schlatt announced Wilbur and Tommy’s exile. Despite the circumstances, the string between them hung loose, happy that they were together again, in the same room, facing each other once again after all those weeks spent apart.
Quackity thought he’d never have to see Wilbur again. Why did the universe have to drag him kicking and screaming back to him? Why couldn’t it have let Schlatt be a good man? Why couldn’t it have let Quackity stay with the person he chose? Why did it have to shove him right back into Wilbur’s arms?
The first time they had a proper conversation was later that night, after things had calmed down and Quackity was no longer looking over his shoulder every few minutes to see if Schlatt had found them. He was paranoid, still, but relieved all the same. Schlatt hadn’t been a good fiancé, nor had he been a good choice for a new soulmate. Quackity couldn’t exactly cut the string he shared with Wilbur and tie it to someone new, after all.
He stood at the entrance to Pogtopia, gazing out at the stars far above. The feeling of the bow in his hands when he drew back the string and shot JSchlatt through the heart still hung in the back of his mind, tinted with simultaneous feelings of regret and relief. He wasn’t sure which feeling he wanted to latch onto more.
Something tugged at his hand. The thread was moving.
He turned his head to look back at Wilbur, who stood just behind him, leaning against the ravine wall with his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He must have given up trying to appear as a put-together leader, because quite frankly, he looked like garbage. His shirt was torn and spotted with stains, one pant leg completely shredded, hanging on by the barest of threads, the laces of his boots loose. His coat was torn in multiple places and fixed with patches sewn on with painstaking care. Tommy must have sewn the patches.
But his wings were in perfect shape, every loose feather plucked, holding them as high off the ground as he could as though they were a point of pride, the only one he had left. The sight of them made Quackity’s wings curl in on himself, small in comparison. His wings weren’t even fully grown yet.
“Hello, Quackity,” Wilbur said. His voice was flat, lacking any hint of emotion. Even his eyes were dull—once fiery twin suns, now dim flickering embers.
“Hi Wilbur,” Quackity said back. The red string between them tightened, trying to reel them closer.
Surprisingly, Wilbur obliged, pushing off the wall and walking to Quackity with his hand in front, letting the thread lead him. Quackity refused to move.
Wilbur stopped next to Quackity and stood, following his gaze up to the stars. Their knuckles brushed against each other. Quackity jerked his hand away and crossed his arms, the thread pulling him back, insisting that they stay close.
“You don’t care for soulmates, do you?” Wilbur asked out of the blue.
Quackity’s thoughts stopped so suddenly, he swore he could hear a record scratch somewhere in his brain. That was the first time either of them had ever even mentioned soulmates before. He’d been planning to go through life without ever acknowledging that they were connected.
So much for that plan.
Quackity cleared his throat and his thoughts, shooting a sideways glance at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye. “Not really, no.”
A crooked grin spread across Wilbur’s lips. He chuckled, shaking his head. “I figured. The way you thwart me at every turn, try to get under my skin. You didn’t want me, did you?”
Quackity sighed. “No. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want anyone, for that matter.”
“But you tried to want Schlatt.”
Quackity tensed at the name of his ex-fiancé. “What does it matter?”
Wilbur shoved his hands back into his pockets. “If it makes you feel any better, I never wanted a soulmate, either. For a while I thought it was poetic, you know, that my soul could be tied to someone else’s. Then I met someone I loved who wasn’t my soulmate and decided I didn’t care for it.”
Quackity raised a brow. “Who was it?”
“Fundy’s mother. She was a shapeshifter. Thought I could say ‘fuck you’ to fate and be with her.”
Quackity shifted, pulling his suit jacket tighter around him. He wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“What happened to her?” he asked anyway.
“She left. She gave me Fundy and then fucked off to who knows where. It was just a few years ago, really.”
Quackity snorted. “Fundy’s only a few years old?”
Wilbur shrugged. “Foxes age different.”
They both fell silent then, gazing up at the sky side by side. Quackity glanced down at the thread connecting the two of them. He tried to keep some distance, but fate seemed content with them simply being in each other’s presence, the string hanging loose.
Quackity itched to ask another question. It sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring from his lips.
“Wilbur?”
“Hm?”
Quackity took a deep breath. “Do you believe in soulmates now?”
“As soon as I saw you I did.”
Quackity blinked. “What do you mean?”
A smile tugged at Wilbur’s mouth. “You showed up and immediately started berating me, getting on my nerves, trying to piss me off, and I... I loved it. I love competition, and you gave me the best competition I could ever ask for. Fate knows me too fucking well, Quackity. It didn’t just give me a soulmate, it gave me a rival.” He shot a sideways grin Quackity’s way. “And look at us now. Rivals pulled together as allies for a greater cause. The universe gave me someone I can compete with when I want and rely on when I need.”
He gave Quackity a full on smile then, the flames in his eyes flickering back to life for just a moment. “You’re perfect, Alex Quackity.”
And Quackity simply gaped at him, dumbfounded. After everything Quackity had done, Wilbur could really just... say that without even a hint of hesitation? Quackity searched for any trace of a lie on Wilbur’s face, but he was met with nothing but sincerity.
After being with Schlatt, Quackity didn’t think anyone could ever find it in them to think of him as perfect.
Maybe there was more to this whole soulmate thing than he thought.
In Pogtopia, he grew to learn more about Wilbur. He saw a side to Wilbur he’d never bothered to see during the election. Wilbur was funny and caring and intelligent. He was genuinely nice to talk to. They exchanged thoughts about being in office, set their rivalry aside to have conversations about politics, what each of them wished they had done better when they were in power, spoke about past friends and family they wished to see again after everything died down.
Quackity began to enjoy Wilbur’s company. He no longer found himself trying to fight it when the red string on his finger urged him to seek out his soulmate. They spent hours talking under the stars, their red string hanging between them.
But Wilbur was also extremely unwell. He showed Quackity and Tommy the button room, a place he’d visited time and time again, made for the sole purpose of igniting the piles of TNT hidden under Manberg. He was a loose cannon, one lit match away from exploding and taking everyone with him.
Quackity was well aware of Wilbur’s unhealthy mindset, but he suddenly wanted to try. He wanted to try keeping Wilbur around, ignoring the bad things that plagued both of their minds, because he finally had someone who understood. He had someone who was willing to know him for who he was. All of a sudden, he wanted fate to lead him along by the hand and keep him at Wilbur’s side.
Maybe, he thought, maybe he could grow to like this whole idea of soulmates.
Then November 16th happened.
It began with the war. Pogtopia marched on Manberg, armed to the teeth, Quackity at Wilbur’s side. They confronted Schlatt with the intent to kill, to free the country from his tyranny once and for all.
They surrounded him, about to be triumphant in their mission, when Schlatt simply... keeled over. He died right there in front of everyone, not at Quackity’s hands like they’d intended, but of his own. He had a heart attack, caused by the months and months of excessive drinking that drove everyone around him away in the first place.
He died—not with a bang, but with a quiet whisper of that stupid fucking nickname he’d given to Quackity when they were together. Although he had died surrounded by people who hated him, his last words made Quackity feel like Schlatt had gotten the last laugh, like he’d bested Quackity and everyone who hated him.
But he was dead, either way, and Quackity felt... free. After he pushed past the anger of being unable to deliver the final killing blow, he allowed himself to take a breath and realize that Schlatt wasn’t looming over him anymore. He could let go of Schlatt. He could be with Wilbur.
Schlatt may not have gone out with a bang, but Wilbur sure did.
Literally.
Quackity thought that they could take L’Manberg back now that Schlatt was gone. He thought Wilbur might get better, he might recover, he might be content to live there and let Tubbo be the president.
Oh, how wrong Quackity was.
The TNT beneath the nation detonated. Everything they worked so hard to take back went up in flames. Dozens of people respawned, and through the throng of people rushing through the rubble to regather their things, Quackity had one thought.
Where is Wilbur?
He looked down at the string tied around his finger. His heart dropped when he saw it stretching across the ruined battlefield to a hole in the side of a hill, where two figures were just barely visible.
The button room.
Wilbur found his way to the button room.
Quackity found himself rushing forward, desperate to reach Wilbur. His string seemed to agree, tightening around his finger, pulling him through the flaming remains of L’Manberg to his soulmate. He needed to get to Wilbur before something else could happen.
One of the hazy figures in the button room held a sword, glinting in the hazy sunlight. Through the smoke and flames, Quackity faintly made out a silhouette of black wings. It was Philza, Wilbur’s father. What was he doing here? Why were he and Wilbur shouting at each other?
The sword plunged into Wilbur’s chest.
Quackity slowed to a stop, staring in shock as Phil held Wilbur close, gently laying his son down to rest on the floor. Someone shrieked, and Quackity barely registered the voice as Tommy’s, a sound of such grief and horror that it made tears spring to Quackity’s eyes. Tommy’s yell tapered off, voice turning hoarse as it devolved into screaming sobs.
Quackity collapsed the floor, his legs turned to jelly. He stared up at the button room through the haze left behind from the explosion. His eyes stung from the smoke. Tommy’s grieving cries echoed off the crater that remained of L’Manberg, accompanied by Tubbo’s quiet shushing, telling Tommy the war wasn’t done yet, they still had things to do, they can grieve when it’s all over.
Quackity looked down at his hand. The string was no longer red; it was grey, hanging limp across the crater, broken halfway to the button room as if someone had snipped it with a pair of scissors. It lied still as a corpse.
He wanted to throw something. He wanted to stab someone. He wanted to scream and cry and yell until his voice gave out. He just started thinking he could have a future with Wilbur, and the universe ripped him away.
Soulmates were bullshit.
He tried to move on quick after November 16th. He found himself in a relationship with Karl and Sapnap. At first it was just playful flirting, but he grew to actually care about them. Before he knew it, he was engaged again.
He was happy, truly, he was. He loved Karl and Sapnap. The three of them understood each other. They never mentioned soulmates or past partners they’d had, because that wasn’t important.
Quackity decided that fate was stupid and existed just to get him hurt. He chose Karl and Sapnap. It didn’t matter that they weren’t his soulmates, because he didn’t care. He didn’t want them to be his soulmates. The first soulmate he chose was a drunken bastard, and the one he was actually destined to be with got himself killed.
Soulmates were a hassle. His relationship was not.
When it came to soulmates, however, he and Sapnap could relate, to an extent. After Dream was taken away to Pandora’s Vault, Quackity would sometimes find Sapnap staring down at his hand. Quackity could picture what he saw; one string leading to George, who had been sleeping more and more often as of late, and the other trailing across the landscape to the giant obsidian building far, far away.
Quackity would sit next to him and take his hand, squeezing it, giving him a smile, one that said he understood. Sapnap would smile back, grateful for the comfort, and they would sit there looking at their strings, wondering what could have happened if things ended up different.
“Who’s your soulmate?” Sapnap had asked one night when Quackity caught him staring at his strings.
Quackity looked down at his own hand. The grey string hung from his finger, leading to nowhere. When he first met Ghostbur, he half hoped that maybe all was not lost for him and his soulmate, but Ghostbur was not Wilbur, at least not according to his string.
“Wilbur,” Quackity answered quietly.
Sapnap had looked at him sadly when he said that. Quackity couldn’t blame him. The feeling of losing a soulmate felt like... losing part of one’s soul. No one ever wanted to experience that.
One hand cupping Quackity’s cheek, Sapnap planted a kiss on his forehead, just above the eyepatch that covered Quackity’s missing eye.
“I’m sorry, Q,” Sapnap said, his voice soft.
Quackity smiled, grateful for Sapnap’s sympathy. They sat there on Sapnap’s couch for the rest of the day until Karl came home and pulled them both into a group hug.
Quackity was sure he’d be happy with Karl and Sapnap. They weren’t soulmates—no, Quackity had given up on that entirely. But the three of them loved each other, and what more could Quackity need? The third time was the charm, right? Things would work out this time.
Apparently, Quackity hadn’t been enough for Karl and Sapnap.
One day, Karl just disappeared. He did that often, so Quackity thought nothing of it. He stopped seeing George around El Rapids as well, but he assumed he was just asleep, like usual. It wasn’t uncommon for him to spend days in his home, out like a light.
Quackity really started getting confused when Sapnap disappeared.
That was odd. Sapnap travelled, sure, but he never left without at least a goodbye text or a note on his door. Quackity searched everywhere in El Rapids, but there was no sign of him.
So Quackity began working more on Las Nevadas. He got Sam to help him build and work out the details. It was going to be great—his own country for him, Karl, Sapnap, and George, a place just for them, like El Rapids but better. It would be grand, bright, and beautiful. He couldn’t wait to show it to his fiancés and his friend when it was finished.
He tried to call the others, text them, even sent them mail and left notes outside their houses in El Rapids, but he never received a response, not even one. He began to wonder if maybe they forgot about him.
He met George outside the prison one night, and that turned out to be exactly the case.
The three of them had made a new place, some country they called Kinoko Kingdom. George said that Karl was supposed to tell Quackity about it, and apparently Karl said he did. Karl never mentioned this new kingdom. They hadn’t even spoken to each other in months.
Back in Las Nevadas, Quackity sat in his tower, his one eye fixed on the grey string that trailed from his hand and coiled up on the floor. He pictured Wilbur standing behind a podium, throwing insult after insult across the courtroom with a cocky grin; Schlatt, smiling on stage after exiling Quackity’s soulmate from the country he won; Wilbur in Pogtopia, staring up at the stars, his and Quackity’s hands centimetres away from meeting; Schlatt dead on the ground with a bottle in hand; Wilbur in the button room with a sword through his chest.
Quackity’s anguished cry was an echo of Tommy’s mournful scream on November 16th, but no explosions were there to drown out the sound, no one at his side to gently shush him, no life or death battle forcing him to quiet his heartache. The sound of the wind was the only companion to his scream, carrying his voice to the borders of Las Nevadas.
Quackity let himself cry for the first time in months.
He visited Wilbur’s grave later that night. Tears tracks stained his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He had torn off his eyepatch; Karl had given it to him long ago, and he didn’t want it with him, not if Karl couldn’t even bother to tell him they left.
Quackity’s wings had long since shed their yellow down, growing beautiful white feathers. When his wings first began to mature months ago, Sapnap joked he would look like an angel when they were finally full grown.
He let them drag across the stone leading up to Wilbur’s shrine, collecting dirt and dust with every step. The white feathers were almost grey by the time he stepped foot on the gold and lapis that made up the shrine.
The tip of a grey string poked out of the ground between blocks of gold. The string was frayed and dirty, splayed across the stone like a dead worm. Quackity avoided stepping on it as he walked to the grave. He left a book there, a written final goodbye to the person he’d tried to avoid spending his life with for so long. He wished he knew he’d regret that decision.
Las Nevadas grew as a country. Quackity recruited new citizens and built up his nation. It was a glorious place, a safe haven for Quackity and everyone else he’d invited to live there. It was months and months of hard work, finally pulled together into a nation that would never meet the same fate as its predecessors. It was beautiful. It was paradise. Quackity could never ask for anything more.
Still, he caught himself glancing down at the grey string every so often, twining it around his fingers, wishing something was pulling on the other end.
And now it is.
He doesn’t understand. He woke up at sunrise to the feeling of the string pulling on his hand, a sensation he hasn’t felt in months. And now he sits on his bed, staring down at his hand in confusion.
The once grey string is now bright red again, leading across his room and out the door to something beyond his tower.
He gazes after it, baffled. He’s never heard of someone gaining a new soulmate after the death of their first. Has the universe given him a fourth chance? Has it given him someone new, trusting him not to mess up this time like he had with Schlatt, Wilbur, Karl, and Sapnap?
Does he even want to try again?
He almost decides against it as he gets dressed for the day. He doesn’t need to know who it is. He’s done. He’s done with soulmates. He’s given up. He won’t let the universe get his hopes up.
But he has to admit... he’s curious. When he leaves the Needle and begins walking along the road leading out of Las Nevadas, he realizes he’s following the string to wherever it leads, and he decides to keep following it no matter how much his common sense screams at him to ignore it.
As he walks, he finds himself speculating about who it might be. Could it be Eret, the king he had a brief fling with after Schlatt’s death, the one supposedly born with no soulmate? Maybe it’s Karl, also free from the strings of fate, finally given a connection to Quackity that might prove to Karl that he was never meant to be forgotten? Or perhaps it’s a friend, like Sam, which would give the two of them an excuse to hang out and just be friends instead of business partners. Could it be someone new he’s never met before, someone who knows nothing of his past and won’t be able to judge him based on his past mistakes?
He's almost giddy thinking about the possibilities. He swore he gave up on soulmates, but he can’t help but be excited. This may be his chance to fix things, to be a good person, to not fuck up something good.
His pace quickens into a jog, then a full out run. He’ll follow his string and get another chance to do something right.
The thread leads him closer to the Las Nevadas sign. He breaches the crest of the hill, bringing the base of the sign into view. His smile stiffens, then falters, then slips from his face completely.
A man stands toeing the border of Las Nevadas. His long tattered coat sways in the wind. The patches on his clothes, once sewn with painstaking care, are now peeling off, some of them missing, their threads frayed and loose. His wings are now black instead of the chestnut brown they used to be. They drag across the sand, the feathers covered in a layer of dust and grime as if they haven’t been preened in ages. A large bloodstain cuts through the front of his yellow sweater, right where a blade had jabbed through his flesh months ago. The red string on the end of his hand leads directly to the one tied around Quackity’s ring finger.
Wilbur Soot dares to give him the barest hint of a smile. His eyes sparkle with something that may be excitement, happiness, hope, mischief; Quackity can’t tell.
“Hello,” Wilbur says. “Have you missed me?”