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It’s cold in the ravine, but they’ve got enough blankets piled up around them to keep warm. Pogtopia is too poor even for beds, but they’re eighteen and they don’t care. There’s nothing that matters more to them than taking down Schlatt.
And it’s a bit romantic, isn’t it? Giving up everything?
…Not quite everything, though. “I’m in love with you, Wilbur,” Quackity admits, fingers tracing the sharp features of Wilbur’s face. He loves every dark eyelash, every acne scar, the arguably elegant shape of his nose. Quackity’s never seen someone so perfect. Wilbur’s too beautiful to be real, and far too beautiful to be Quackity’s. But he is.
“I love you too, Quackity.” Wilbur’s voice is barely more than a whisper, and it makes Quackity so special to be close enough to hear it.
Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking this way. But maybe there is something more important than taking down Schlatt. Maybe he’s just eighteen, and in love.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to think about that. He just wants to stare into Wilbur’s eyes until he’s memorized every single color in that expanse of hazel and gold and green. He wants Wilbur to never stop looking at him like that. He doesn’t ever want to go back to the White House. He doesn’t want to live another moment with Wilbur out of his reach.
Bang!
Quackity’s pen falls to the ground as he jumps to his feet, hand groping around for his ax until he cuts his palm on the blade and curses. Regardless, the ax is raised and his eyes are locked on the intruder.
“Wilbur?”
He sees the resemblance in the man standing in front of him, and despite himself, he lets his eyes wander across the intruder instead of staying vigilant. He’s tall, with the same messy brown hair framing his sharp face.
The eyes are different, though. There’s no love in those eyes. There’s barely even any life.
“Quackity.” Wilbur doesn’t waste a moment in walking toward Quackity’s desk in the center of the room. Quackity’s grip on his ax tightens, despite the pain in his palm.
“How did you get in here?” Quackity exclaims.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
It’s a stupid question. Quackity doesn’t have an answer to it, but it’s still stupid. Unfortunately, while the room is large, Wilbur will reach him any moment, so Quackity has a decision to make. He goes with his gut and thrusts the ax forward so that it’s inches away from Wilbur’s neck.
Wilbur doesn’t even flinch.
“Rather defensive, aren’t we now?” And now Quackity knows for a fact it’s Wilbur- his stupid little smirk hasn’t changed at all.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t be.”
“You know me, Quackity. What’s the matter with you?”
“I knew you. It’s been a long time, friend. If I can even still call you that.”
“Friend,” Wilbur snorts. “Don’t fuck with me like that, Quackity. We were not just friends.”
“We were enemies. We were just pawns trapped together in the center of a chess board, with no way to move forward until one of us was taken out. And that was you. They say you’ve been to hell and back, and with that look in your eyes, I believe it.”
“I suppose you could call it hell. It certainly wasn’t heaven. This, my dear enemy, is heaven,” Wilbur says, and Quackity feels a hand wrap around his ax-hand, thumb stroking it gently. For some reason it feels more like a threat than an act of love.
“You still haven’t explained why you're here,” Quackity says.
“Because I’m back! Where else would I be? With fucking Schlatt?” Wilbur replies, the energy returning to his voice as quickly as it had left.
And then he leans forward until Quackity’s ax is digging into the pale skin of his long neck.
“Put it down,” Wilbur whispers.
Quackity can’t bring himself to disobey. Wilbur doesn’t waste a second once the ax is lowered to leap gracefully onto Quackity’s desk, dirty old boots falling right on top of Quackity’s precious paperwork, and then he leaps down again, now uncomfortably close to Quackity.
Hot breath on Quackity’s face reminds him of different times.
“I missed you,” he whispers, so quietly Quackity can barely hear him, but he feels every word against his face.
Then before he knows it, they’ve switched places and Wilbur’s shoving him against his desk and the edge is digging into Quackity’s ass.
Wilbur’s kissing him, hard, and despite the many signs of this Wilbur had dropped, Quackity is so shocked that he doesn’t immediately kiss back, even though it tastes like Wilbur.
Alarm bells are blaring in his head.
But he kisses back anyways.
Wilbur bites Quackity’s lip hard enough to draw blood for the second time that day. It feels so good, he could die.
Then Wilbur swipes his tongue across Quackity’s lips to clean the red droplets, and says, “God, I missed being alive.”
This isn’t the boy Quackity fell in love with at eighteen. But for some reason he thinks Wilbur is the only man he’ll ever want.