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Quackity woke with a crick in his neck. That was the first thing he noticed, at least.
The second thing was a vague echoing--not necessarily the office he had taken up work, but where that office was. On the top floor of the casino, it was impossible to get away from its aching emptiness, reverberating as though the building was alive and it could not break away from its own construction.
There were no sounds of hammers and pickaxes. Foolish wasn’t there, not that early.
The echoes were simple things: the floor settling, a nail falling, perhaps even mice scurrying. Quackity would have to do something about that. For now, however, he was more concerned with the crick in his neck and the uncomfortable position he’d fallen asleep in across his desk.
“God damn,” he moaned, much like the building, as he lifted himself to a seated position. His back popped, and his wings fluttered. “Last time I try to pull an all-nighter,” he said to himself, but he was lying.
Slowly, he pushed his chair back and got to his feet, leaning back, stretching his arms above his head. He rolled his shoulders as he blinked in the bright sun of the morning. The wide window was just behind his desk, but it illuminated the office completely without curtains. He still hadn’t bothered with curtains. Damn it, another thing for the to-do list.
“Speaking of to-do lists,” he mumbled to himself, eyes set on his attire. He’d have to go find clothes before he inevitably returned to this office. There was still plenty of work to oversee, considering he had failed his all-nighter.
He weighed his options for a moment, tempted to sit back down and get back to work. He was already here, anyhow. What was the use of new clothes?
The thought made Quackity discontent and fidgety. He had been cooped up in that room for almost twenty-four hours now. If he didn’t get out, he might just explode.
“That decision made, I guess,” he said, and grabbed his coat, heading for the door. When he reached for the doorknob, he stopped short, eyes landing on something he had not considered in quite some time.
It was still there, leaning against the wall in the corner. Quackity hadn’t touched it in… weeks? Months?
A bad taste soured his mouth. Something about this--its disuse, gathering dust in the corner, his passing out in an office chair over paperwork and burn-out--it all reminded him of someone he once knew very well. Someone he’d disagreed with so adamantly only to understand when he was gone.
You were right all along…
And I won’t make the same mistake twice.
There were other mistakes to make though, weren’t there? A path like this, too similar, but different. Quackity wasn’t him. He wasn’t like him at all.
And he wouldn’t make his mistakes either.
So he stalked across the room, grabbed the poor thing, disused and abused, and set his sights on somewhere far away from the office and duty.
It was time for a break.
-/-
Wilbur wasn’t a stranger to rising early in the morning. Not in this new life, at least. He enjoyed the sunrise. He enjoyed hearing the first notes of birds in the morning, watching foxes and rabbits emerge from their holes. The world sprung back to life in those moments.
He never grew tired of it--life.
Not like before.
He wasn’t a stranger to rising early, but Wilbur also never went home last night. There was something special about moving through the day without sleep to hold you down. There was something brighter to the air, something lighter in his bones.
The morning air passed through his lungs easier, and it was with this sublime that he walked to the van, climbing first through grass, then through snow, and finally through sand. It was in the mornings that he could cut through Las Nevadas without worry, instead of skirting around.
As he walked along the road past the grand Las Nevadas sign, Wilbur’s eyes caught on the bright metal of the needle, the lush vegetation of the wedding venue, the glimmering waters of the fountain. On this carefree, sleepless morning, Wilbur could acknowledge why Tommy had called it Paradise.
It had been a stretch, a pitiful plea, to name the little ole Ranvan Paradise. Their rickety truck and the spotty patch of land and the plain stone fort… it was not divine. Wasn’t even beautiful.
A rickety old van and some half-built walls used to be beautiful. They used to be enough. But those days were long past.
Wilbur blinked up at the grand casino, still half-built and more than Wilbur had ever seen. L’Manberg had been beautiful, had been a city of its own, but in none of his lives did Wilbur ever see one building to all that space. What did one building need in all that space?
Bitterness threatened to climb up Wilbur’s throat, but he looked away, set his eyes on the horizon. Today was a subtle, sleepless day. Today was for things gliding off his back, and hands slipping through holds.
He turned to go, only to stop halfway. His eyes stuck again to the empty city--and at least L’Manberg was not an empty place, at least it had life, like the sunrise and birdsong and animals awaking from their dens-
No. It was not that sort of day.
Wilbur forced himself from the bitterness once more, took a step closer, far too close to the city, even in those early hours where he would not be caught.
Because there was something he had missed, just past the cascading waters. A figure sat there, distorted by the water like a mirage. As Wilbur stepped closer, notes mixed with the sound of the fountain.
Music.
He stopped himself, only for a moment, before moving forward again. On this remiss and sleepless morning, Wilbur was not afraid of music.
Because he was a poet, but no longer a musician. He could learn again to use his words, but it was too long since Wilbur had made anything beautiful.
He'd almost forgotten, amidst that echoey platform and those formless shadows, what a guitar even sounded like.
But here was one now, cradled in Quackity's hands, under sure strums and deft presses.
Here was something beautiful.
-/-
When Quackity heard the scuff of shoes along the pavement behind him, he stopped playing. He did not turn though, wary of the person who had found him so early in the day. His worst fears were realized when the man spoke up.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Wilbur said, voice that cheery, teased-out tone. At least it wasn’t his regular condescension. Nothing infuriated Quackity more.
Quackity looked back, gauging his rival’s stance with an indifferent stare. “I can assure you, nothing I do is for your account, Wilbur.”
Wilbur, however, seemed distracted. His eyes had caught on something, and Quackity thought for a second to be indignant. The gall Wilbur had to ignore Quackity in his own city.
When he traced Wilbur’s gaze, though, Quackity became aware of an embarrassment he hadn’t thought to consider.
He moved the guitar to the ground, propping it against the fountain. “What do you need , Wilbur?” he asked, frustration leaking into his voice. He was hoping to distract the man, but Wilbur’s eyes had followed the instrument to the ground.
“Is that,” he asked, trailing off to meet Quackity’s gaze once more. Quackity swallowed. “Is that my guitar?”
And well, what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said and already knew it to be the wrong move. It was clearly Wilbur’s guitar. Maybe the common eye couldn’t see, someone who hadn’t known the Wilbur who carried it everywhere, the one from before the elections, before their rivalry had even begun.
Quackity had hardly recognized it himself when he found it.
But Wilbur would know. Wilbur would know all too well.
“That’s my guitar, Quackity,” Wilbur said. “How did you get it?”
Okay, a different route then. It wasn’t hard to have the higher ground with Wilbur, after all.
“It was gathering dust in that ravine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Wasn’t like you were gonna use it. You left it.”
Quackity didn’t expect the sudden silence that greeted him. He expected argument, maybe even an urge for the item’s return. Wilbur simply continued to stare at the instrument.
“I’m not giving it back,” Quackity said, guarded.
Wilbur finally looked Quackity in the eyes. A smirk moved to his lips, and he shrugged.
“Can’t say I expected you to,” he said. Wilbur sat on the edge of the fountain, a few feet from his spot. Quackity frowned.
“Expecting to stay?” he asked. “Don’t you have a burger stand to run?”
“Expecting a concert,” Wilbur said. “Play me a song, Q.”
“Why would I do that?” Quackity asked flatly.
Wilbur's cocky grin grew. “Because I asked.”
“Sounds like disappointment,” he said, and Wilbur leaned back on his hands.
“I’m willing to wait.”
Quackity turned to the guitar, ready to pick it up and walk away. He’d had a nice break, and with the arrival of his newest nuisance, he felt no remorse cutting it short. Right as he was about to stand, however, an idea formed, and he placed the guitar back in his lap.
He caught sight of Wilbur’s triumphant grin just as Quackity’s own smirk grew.
“I did learn something while you were gone,” he said, tone all too knowing. “A ghost taught me, you see.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilbur’s face fall. Quackity strummed the first chords of an old, nostalgic song. It was once a hopeful tune. Now it rang like a haunting melody.
Quackity remembered that first day he saw the button room, the words along the walls. Another day, above a re-destructed city, a handful of voices chiming in for one last anthem.
When he reached the second verse, Wilbur stilled. Despite these memories, there was a certain satisfaction in it, in knowing this.
He may act like it, but Wilbur didn’t know everything. He didn’t know the L’Manberg he left behind, and he didn’t know these verses.
Quackity did. Because he was there. He lived it. He stayed.
Through all its hells, Quackity had stayed.
-/-
The lightness of the day curdled as Wilbur heard the song, the tune of his demise. The moment his ghost was mentioned, he knew he'd bitten off more than he could chew.
He could taste the dust on his tongue, the gunpowder from too many days locked in a room wiring TNT. More than that, however, he could feel the heat of a campfire, hear laughter as he stood side-by-side with friends and compatriots for a photo.
Wilbur could hear a boy who had never seen war, who was willing to follow him to the ends of the world. He could hear him singing to the flowers, to the tilled earth. And he was not the only naive one of them, for Wilbur had thought they could survive with their words, could win wars without armor.
And it was strange to hear it now, for he had to move on. He was trying to move on, but Wilbur was stuck in that past, and with words he did not know, lyrics that belonged to that other him, that not-him, it was a past he wasn’t familiar with.
Out of time. Out of place. He looked at Quackity, and remembered how much separated them.
“Did you enjoy the last bits?” Quackity asked, placing the guitar back against the fountain.
Wilbur tapped a nail against the stone, stamping down his frustration. “Doesn’t seem smart to let the ghost add onto it. Idiot wasn’t even a part of L’Manberg.”
Quackity raised a brow. “Where’d you get that idea from? Ghostbur lived in New L’Manberg. He helped rebuild it.”
“Hm,” he said, willing the conversation into the ground. He was impatient to leave Ghostbur behind, leave him on that platform where he belonged. This was his life now, his world, his time. Wilbur decided to change the subject. “You play it well,” he offered.
Quackity narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, Wilbur thought he’d drag them back to Ghostbur. He sighed however, and waved the compliment away.
“Naturally, Wilbur,” he said, sprouting a too-fake grin. They were back to their push and pull. “Naturally. And would you still know how? I’d be so generous to lend you the guitar. Just this once.”
Wilbur couldn’t help but recoil as Quackity picked it up again, offering Wilbur the instrument. He covered it quickly.
“Pssh. I gave that shit up years ago. Why do you think it was gathering dust in Pogtopia to begin with?”
With a strange look, Quackity lowered the guitar. He didn’t ask, however. Thankfully, he did not ask.
When Quackity straightened back up, though, Wilbur noticed him wince, a tension in his wings as he carefully folded them back. With a quick peruse, Wilbur noticed a few of the feathers out of place. It wasn’t horrible, but it certainly didn’t look comfortable.
“Tell you what,” he said, words forming without consent. Wilbur let them. Oftentimes, ideas not thought through were some of his best. Sometimes, admittedly, they put him in more trouble than it was worth, but it was a risk he was willing to take again and again. “Play me a happier song this time, and I’ll preen your wings. It’s so much easier when someone else does it, isn’t it?”
The look on Quackity’s face told it all in that moment. This might have been one of those ideas better thought through.
“I’m capable of caring for my own wings, Wilbur” he said, crossing his arms.
“They look a little rough there, Quackity,” Wilbur pointed out, voice a bit too innocent.
“And why would I let you preen them?” Quackity asked. “Do you even know how ?”
“Sure I do. I learned from dear old dad Philza Minecraft. I’ve preened more than you could count,” Wilbur bragged, and he didn't know why he was pushing to sell Quackity on this. Surely a song wasn’t worth so much effort.
Nevertheless.
“Doesn’t mean I want your hands all over them,” Quackity said. “I bet you never wash them. When’s the last time you showered ?”
“No comment,” Wilbur dismissed, waving the question away with a hand. Quackity gave an unimpressed stare, which Wilbur gracefully ignored, leaning forward with a sly raised brow. “We have a deal or not?”
It took a moment. Quackity looked at him, unimpressed, but considering. It was further than Wilbur thought he'd get. To even be considered, to be under that watchful glare, it was exhilarating.
This was what it meant to be alive.
Then Quackity moved. He nodded slightly, reaching once again for the guitar.
"A happy song, you said?"
Wilbur certainly hadn’t expected that.
-/-
Quackity wanted to say no, wanted to grab his shit and get as far as his city would take him. He didn’t like Wilbur, refused to. He shouldn’t have tolerated the man for this long to begin with, but the opportunity to get under his skin, well, that was always too good to pass up.
This? This wasn’t getting under Wilbur’s skin. This was truce. This was trust.
Trust was hard. It was the only thing he’d ever agreed with this bastard on. Quackity had given too much to trust, given too much to people who had abused that. Trust made you soft, and wars were not won by soft people.
But he was not Wilbur. He could not give into his paranoia, could not let his isolation rule him. Maybe he had made mistakes, and maybe he was scared to make them again, but there were mistakes on the other end he refused to go near.
Quackity was not Wilbur, and so he reached for the guitar. “A happy song, you said?”
Wilbur froze, and there was satisfaction in that, at least. Enough satisfaction that it helped Quackity relax his shoulders, turn so his wings drooped in Wilbur’s direction. He no longer had to look at the other, and that was relieving and worrying all the same. He focused on the guitar.
He started strumming, not waiting for Wilbur's input.
Trusting Wilbur was perhaps not deserved. Trusting Wilbur was maybe even idiotic.
But when hesitant hands found his wings, curled carefully into its plumage like a question, Quackity found that, despite it all, it was a trust he willingly gave.
A missed chord shrieked through the song. Quackity pressed down further onto the neck, metallic strings digging into his fingertips, flat against the wooden fretboard. He put his focus into the song, blinking away memories.
Nevertheless, he remembered the day he'd taught Karl and Sapnap to do just this. He remembered their hesitance despite their eagerness to help. He remembered as they became more sure of themselves, deft fingers finding their way.
So much of life remained bittersweet. These days, memories of them weighed more bitter than sweet.
He shook it away, changing tune. Something a bit quicker, a bit goofier.
Wilbur laughed. "What are you even playing?"
"Who knows at this point," Quackity chuckled along. He shivered when Wilbur plucked a loose feather.
Hands wandered through the golden wings methodically, steady in their search but also warm, comfortable. If he leaned back into them, Wilbur said nothing about it. If Wilbur hummed along to the music, Quackity stayed quiet.
They allowed each other this indulgence.
For they both had things they could not revisit, and on that early morning, the city still and quiet around them, they tentatively found what they had given up.