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Las Nevadas was a dead city, especially during the day. The sun beat off the sand, manufacturing heat that the land sorely lacked. No one wandered the streets, save for the man Wilbur was after. There was no reason for anyone else to be around. The city had nothing to offer yet, nothing was open. Still, it wasn’t the city’s grand attractions that had drawn Wilbur in today. No, it was his own attractions that drew him in, seeking out the city’s lone resident.
He didn’t know why he was so nervous about this, considering everything between himself and Quackity. He’d rarely turned him down before, but those were very different interactions than what he was after today. This wasn’t just some bedroom proposition, it was a question of what they were to each other, a question of where they were going.
He stared down at the chapel and took a long drag off his cigarette. He hoped that with the literal and emotional explosion of their last interaction a few weeks behind them, it would be a good time to approach.
He quietly strode down the road and stopped outside the chapel; if Quackity noticed him, he didn’t say anything. His heart climbed up his throat. He stomped his cigarette out on the ground before slinking in, straightening his shoulders.
“Hey Big Q,” he purred, leaning over the railing next to him but not meeting his gaze.
Quackity grumbled, turning his head away. “What do you want, Wilbur?” he spat, “Haven’t you done enough?”
He swallowed hard. “Well, I was hoping that we could put our differences aside—”
“Not a chance,” he spat back.
Wilbur winced, and immediately tried to mask it by shaking out his hair. “This isn’t some new business venture or partnership or such, I swear.”
Quackity glared at him, one good eye narrowed at him. Waiting for Wilbur’s explanation.
He swallowed hard. This seemed a lot easier at four in the morning. He wrung his hands together, eyes focused on the small pond beneath them. “I–I was wondering, if you maybe wanted to get some drinks together?” He could feel his heartbeat in his head. “Put all of this behind us over some scotch?”
Silence. He shouldn’t have come here. He should have just sucked it up and accepted that whatever fucked up mixture of lust and respect they had had been burnt away, replaced by an all-encompassing hatred. Quackity was good at holding grudges, afterall.
At last, Quackity spoke up. “Do you really think,” he growled, “that my forgiveness can be bought with alcohol?”
His nails dug into his own arms. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything less than suspicion. “I think it’s worth a shot,” he replied. He looked over at Quackity, his eyes boiling with disgust. Below that, though, he swore he could see the tiniest ember of curiosity. “I’d hate for my old fuckbuddy to hate me.”
Quackity snorted. “Really? That’s your plea?” He laughed, surprisingly light but still biting. “Will, you can just say you wanna get drunk and—”
“That’s not what I want!” he defended, throwing up his hands. His face burned. “I just want to hang out like we used to, y’know? Before… everything happened.”
He kept his eyes solidly fixed forward and grit his teeth, not looking over to Quackity as he prepared to get literally kicked out of Las Nevadas. This was a horrible idea from the get-go.
“You really wanna go on a date?” Quackity asked, and Wilbur nearly fainted at the word. “Like a normal, romantic date?”
He quickly straightened his posture and cleared his throat, nodding. “Yeah! Yeah that’s—that’s the idea.”
“Fine.”
Wilbur whipped his head around, eyes wide as he met Quackity’s.
“Be at the club at sunset, and for the love of god do not already be drunk, we’ve got some shit to go over.”
Was he hallucinating? Was he in the midst of heatstroke, or did Quackity just accept his proposition? Heat flooded his face.
“Of course! When have I ever kept you waiting, Big Q?” he replied, doing his best not to stumble over his words.
Quackity waved him off, and Wilbur did his best to walk away at a normal pace despite the butterflies in his chest. He rode his schoolboy excitement all the way back to Phil’s to clean up, feeling like he was floating. He couldn’t believe that had worked! The afternoon passed in a blur as he did his best to make himself presentable.
At last, sunset came, and Wilbur was standing on the entrance road into Las Nevadas. For all its manufactured beauty, the city was breathtaking with a halo of golden light behind it. It almost passed as alive.
He made his way towards the strip club, which was—for once—lit up. A sultry song was humming out from the doors, and red and purple light seeped out from the cracks. Walking in, he had to take a moment to let it seep in. Even being completely empty, it radiated its purpose. The stage lights shined bright spotlights onto empty poles, drawing the eye. Bass-heavy, sleazy music came out at a deafening level from speakers he couldn’t visually locate in the dark, and the club’s lights pulsed with it. He’d have to come back when it was jam packed.
“Damn,” he breathed.
Quackity slipped into stride next to him from seemingly nowhere. “Stop staring at the poles, dumbass,” he chided, grabbing his hand and dragging him back to the bar. “It’s not worth staring when there’s no dancers up there.”
Wilbur snorted. “Don’t you have some experience in that department?” He raised an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his lips. He blinked, mentally reset by Quackity slapping him. Hard. “Ah, damn.”
“If you want a private show, pay me, asshole,” Quackity spat, sliding into a barstool. Wilbur followed suit.
A bottle of scotch and a pair of glasses were already set on the counter. Quackity wasted no time pouring them each their drinks, and wasted even less time downing his own glass. His gaze lingered on the spot on the bottom of Quackity’s lip where the glass had touched, and the scotch had missed his mouth just the slightest. He was almost tempted to lean in and clean it off himself, though he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.
“Oh come on, Big Q,” he started, “Am I really that awful to be around?”
He rolled his eyes, nearly slamming his glass back down. “Don’t you know?”
Wilbur took a sip of his drink and shrugged. “Well, I know I can be a narcissist, and pretty self-centered, but—”
“Not that, Wilbur,” he replied, cutting him off. He gestured to Wilbur’s glass with one hand, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, okay—I suggest you finish that, you’re not gonna like what I have to say next.”
He quirked an eyebrow, although he did as told. “Okay, I’ll bite, what’s this about for you, Big Q?”
Quackity sighed. “So, I don’t know how acquainted you are with my love life, but uh… Let’s say I’ve gotten around.”
“Quackity, you’ve probably fucked every consenting adult on this server,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not news.”
Quackity poured himself another drink. “Yeah, but I also got engaged to uh… quite a few people. And I write my own marriage contracts with some pretty specific language.” He groaned, propping his head on his hands. “It’s hard to explain, but basically, my fiances-and-or-spouses are all legally required to defend me, my heart, something like that. We can’t have any sort of deeper relationship until you defeat all of them.”
Wilbur’s confusion mounted. Either the alcohol was taking effect much faster than usual in his half-rotten body, or Quackity was genuinely making no sense. “What the hell are you on about?”
Quackity looked over at him. “Yeah, uh, I didn’t really…I don’t want this for you. You’re a good man, Wilbur, and I believe that, but you’re about to get fucking demolished.”
With no more warning or explanation, Quackity shoved Wilbur out of his chair. “Hey, what the hell?!”
Quackity snapped, and suddenly Eret jumped into existence in front of him.
“Hey Wilbur,” they chirped, “Hey Big Q, it’s been a while.”
“What the…” Wilbur stumbled, struggling to find his balance. Quackity had drugged him. He’d put something in the ventilation, or his drink, and Wilbur was hallucinating. There was no other explanation.
The metallic sound of Eret unsheathing their axe was definitely real though. “Sorry about this Wilbur,” they started, “Really wish we could’ve caught up some better way.”
“Good luck!” Quackity called, tossing him an iron sword.
“QUACKITY, YOU CHEEKY BASTARD!” he screamed.
Eret swung, and instincts took over. Wilbur threw his sword in front of his chest in defense, his free hand bracing the flat end of the blade to shove Eret’s blow back at them.
Fighting felt a lot like a dance. Wilbur was out of practice and clumsy, but so was Eret in their platform boots and miles of skirt and dress.
“The tits are new,” he commented, swinging at Eret’s cape.
Eret stumbled, fumbling with their clasps to throw the cape off as quickly as they could. “Thanks, I’ve really come into myself since people have stopped trying to assassinate me.”
Wilbur stabbed at their chest, and Eret quickly blocked, although not in time to avoid their shirt being cut. Hoping to end the fight a lot sooner, he used his free hand to punch them in the abdomen—he would’ve aimed for the crotch, if not for the dress. His fit met something solid, and he winced and took a step back, shaking out his hand; he could feel his knuckles bruising already.
“What the fuck, do you have abs of bloody steel too?”
Eret laughed, swinging their axe over his head. He ducked. “Nah, I’ve just got a pretty stiff corset on.”
He snorted, slashing his sword at Eret’s skirt to try and chop some of the fabric away. “Shame it’s gonna be all bloody when we’re done here.”
Eret stumbled backwards, tripping over their newly tattered skirt. “You bastard, this thing was a pain in the ass to make!”
He grinned, taking advantage of their momentary lapse in balance to jump forward and shove them down by the shoulders. “I’ll pay you back for it,” he said, and as Eret fell onto their back, he stood over them and pointed his sword at their neck. “Sorry about this, king.”
“No hard feelings. Good luck,” they replied.
Wilbur didn’t get a chance to slit their throat before they vanished into dust. He breathed hard, turning to look at Quackity.
“Are all of these challenges sword fights?” he asked, chest heaving, “I’m way out of practice with this.”
Quackity shrugged. “It’s up to them.”
Wilbur groaned. “Can I at least get a warning of who I’m up against? I was kind of dead for a while, y’know.”
“Oh, suck it up, Soot,” Quackity spat back, “Do you wanna do this or not?”
He sighed. He didn’t get a chance to ask any more questions before an echoed voice drowned out the music of the club, as if the speaker was in his skull.
“Heeeey, Wilbur! What’s up?”
“Oh god,” he groaned.
“Quackity? My sugar pumpkin? You’ve finally called upon me to defend your honor?”
He dragged a hand down his face. Of all the fucking ghosts.
“Schlatt?”
“And from this loser, nonetheless!” Schlatt cackled, his ghost fading into view before him. “Man, Will, I thought I’d never see you again.” He looked him up and down, clicking his tongue. “Jeez, you look like shit.”
It took all of his willpower not to deck Schlatt. “Being revived does that to a man—”
“Well, it’s a bad look on you,” he interrupted.
Wilbur gritted his teeth. “Can we get to the goddamn point?”
Schlatt waved him off, coughing hard. “Listen, originally I had a way cooler game for us to play, but I lost my deck of cards, so—” He clapped, and Wilbur jumped back as a table suddenly materialized between them. “Jenga!”
He drew his brows together, staring across at him. “Really? Jenga?”
He shrugged. “... Glatt.”
Wilbur sighed, grabbing the box of Jenga pieces and dumping them all onto the table. “For Quackity,” he mumbled, taking a bit of care to put the tower together.
Once the tower was set up and Wilbur was certain he’d gotten a splinter from the blocks, he dragged over a barstool and sat down. Schlatt made the first move, and the safest, pulling a block from the top middle. Wilbur took the piece from directly beneath it.
Schlatt booed him. “Playing safe, huh, Soot?”
His next move pulled a random piece out from the middle far too quickly, yet it stayed perfectly stable. Wilbur bit at his cheek, staring at the wooden pieces. He carefully pulled a piece from the top, one of the side pieces. Schlatt pulled the other, and then stared over at him with a mocking grin, silently insisting he pulled that middle piece.
In a lightning quick movement, he pulled the piece, and the tower was down by one full level, still intact.
“You sly bastard.”
As the game went on, Wilbur kept a mental note of each of Schlatt’s plays. It came to a point that he became predictable—what turns he would do something dangerous, what turns he would do something safe. As the tower became less and less stable, starting to wobble with the bass of the music, he found the perfect time to strike.
“So, Schlatt,” he started, “Do you know the story behind the old London Bridge nursery rhyme?”
Schlatt raised an eyebrow at him. “No, it’s just some stupid rhyme about a bridge. Why should I care?”
“Well, the nursery rhyme as we know it today supposedly dates back to the tenth or eleventh century when the Norse invaded the British Isles, and a viking leader supposedly tore it down.”
He pulled a piece by the bottom. Three rows above the foundation. The tower shuddered, but didn’t fall.
Schlatt scrunched his nose. “What do you think you’re doing here, Will?”
He grinned. “The bridge itself has never actually been recorded to have fallen, though, until in the 1830s when it was manually taken down to be rebuilt. It was burnt by many a fire in the 1600s, there was ice damage in the thirteenth century, but it never actually fell.”
Schlatt’s eyebrows pulled together until they were one and scrunched up his nose, emphasizing the residual lines of stress in his face.
Wilbur snickered. “Frustration’s a bad look on you, Mr. President.”
He haphazardly snatched the piece next to the one Wilbur had pulled.
“And the London Bridge is—”
The tower wobbled; from both the force of Schlatt’s displacement, and its unbearable structural instability. The top few pieces were the first to fall down, having been placed with much less care for structure than the original tower. With a graceless clatter, the tower crumbled down onto itself, until all that remained was a pile of wooden bricks.
“—falling down.”
Schlatt screamed, picking up a piece and throwing it at him. “Oh my god, this is terrible!”
Wilbur leaned back in his chair, cackling.
“I hope you die tomorrow and your next limbo is a massive Jenga tower!”
He cracked his knuckles. “Man, you just don’t know how to hold onto anything, do you? Your liquor, your nation—” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “—your husband.”
Schlatt looked over to Quackity and crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, sugarplum.” He turned back to him, continuing with a ghostly growl, “Maybe the next guy will pummel some respect into this bastard.”
“Glatt out.” With a huff, Schlatt dissipated into dust, taking the table and scattered remains of their Jenga game with him.
Wilbur brushed the dust off his sleeves, waiting for whoever Quackity’s next fiance was. Had he gotten engaged to that BadBoyHalo prick? Or maybe he’d gotten down with Sam? The possibilities were endless when it came to Quackity and his fuck-or-flight response.
All possibilities collapsed when a very familiar pig man appeared in front of him, hair tied up like he’d been reading and staring at him with wide eyes.
“Heh?!” Techno oinked, fumbling for something in front of him. “Where’d I just get magicked to? What’s goin’ on?!” He spun his head around, gaze landing on Quackity. “Did you want a try-two at killin’ me?”
“No, no, Techno, this is—” He broke into uncontrollable laughter, grabbing the counter as he doubled over cackling.
Wilbur stood frozen in place, gaze stiffly darting between Quacktiy and Technoblade. “Quackity,” he started, each word heavy, “Be honest with me: Did you fuck my brother?”
“No, no no I did not!” he sputtered, still giggling as he struggled to try and sit up, “I honestly didn’t think he’d show up, we didn’t even go on that date—”
His gaze hardened into a glare. “Don’t try and lie to me, Alex Quackity. Then why is he here, huh? Did you just happen to slip a ring onto his finger?!”
“No!” Quackity squawked through his laughter, “You think I’d want Philza after me for banging his best friend and his son?!”
“Will one of you please tell me what I’m doin’ in some sleazy club?!” Techno yelled, gesturing outwards and stomping a hoof on the ground.
Quackity waved dismissively. “The details aren’t important, you’ve just gotta fight Wilbur.”
Techno patted down his side, frowning. “Bruh, I don’t have any of my weapons or potions, I’m not even wearin’ armor! Couldn’t you have called ahead or somethin’?”
Wilbur locked eyes with Technoblade as Quackity started sputtering his defenses, how he hadn’t expected Techno to be on his roster of ex-lovers, et cetera. None of that mattered, because he was as good as dead if they actually fought. He might’ve had no interest in fighting him, but if it came down to it, he had no doubts that Techno would do nothing short of obliterate him. There had to be some way around this.
He sighed. “Technoblade, neither of us want to be here, I think you should just surrender and let me have the win.”
Techno tilted his head. “Dude, no way, I’m not losin’ to you when I barely understand why we’re supposed to be fightin’.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, doing his best to fit that same expression he’d had when he was a teenager and was begging Techno not to tell his dad he’d snuck out again. “What if I… polished all your armor?”
Techno shrugged. “Nah, not interested. Armor’s made to get bloody.”
He deflated a bit, hands coming unclasped. “Scrubbed all your farms spotless?”
“Well,” he drawled, “They’re more Phil’s than mine.”
He huffed, standing up straight. “What if I organized your books?!”
Techno reeled, a hand reaching for a sword he didn’t have. “How would I find anything?! You’re like, the least organized guy I know!”
“Just surrender, please!” he blurted. “I—I’ll help you with anything you ask! Please just do not turn me into a bloody pulp, please.” He got on his knees, groveling at his brother’s hooves. “I am literally on my knees begging you, Technoblade. Please.”
There was an uncomfortably long moment of Techno teetering. “Ehhhhh…” This could be over at any moment. Techno could decide to fight, stomp his skull in, and then that’d be it for Wilbur. “Okay, fine, I concede.”
Wilbur jumped to his feet with a whoop, throwing his arms around Techno. “Oh, thank god! Thank you, Techno! Your words are music to my ears!”
Techno shoved him off with a snort, and Wilbur quickly recomposed himself. “Meet at my base when you’re done with…” He looked at Quackity again, who’s gaze was suspiciously low on Wilbur’s figure. “—whatever’s happenin’ here. We’ll work somethin’ out.”
He sighed, pressing his hands together. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
“I’ll just be on my way the—” Techno didn’t get to finish his sentence before he vanished into dust.
There was a moment of almost silence, where neither Wilbur nor Quackity had anything to say but the club’s speakers definitely did, though it was significantly quieter than when he’d entered. He cast a look over to Quackity, who was hiding his face behind what he hoped was a glass of ice water.
Quackity immediately diverted his gaze, and Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Big Q, are you staring at my ass?”
He sputtered, leaning back against the counter. “No, I’m not! I’m just admiring—uh, or, not admiring—”
He snickered. “It’s okay, I’ve got a nice ass. You’re allowed to admire.”
Quackity grumbled to himself, and Wilbur snickered. Some things never changed.
He walked back over to the bar to sit down, hoping for a moment to catch his breath. Of all the ways this night could have gone, fighting for his life in a strip club was not something he could have predicted. “Quackity, if there is a next time, I’d like a little more warning that I need to fight for my life.”
Quackity rolled his eyes. “Well, how was I supposed to know that you didn’t know about this?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I was dead for quite a while should’ve tipped you off, mate.”
Quackity laughed, leaning into his side. “Okay, yeah, maybe that was an oversight.”
“An oversight?!” Wilbur cackled, throwing an arm around Quackity’s shoulders. “Big Q, you underestimate what an oversight is. An oversight is assuming I’d bring my own sword to this fight, not assuming I know about your weird, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World -esque deal with your ex-lovers.”
“Yeah, well—”
Quackity’s sentence was cut off by the club’s lighting turning from purple to red, and then two spotlights appeared on the stage in the center of the club. Wilbur straightened his back and rolled his shoulders as he stood up, trying his best to defy the nerves building in his chest. One spotlight was shifting between pink, purple, and blue, almost looking like a portal to another world. The other was flashing between orange, red, and yellow like there was a beam of fire spouting from the ceiling.
Quackity got up from his stool and pushed Wilbur towards the stage. “Good luck with these two,” he whispered, before retreating back to his seat.
Karl and Sapnap phased into their spotlights like holograms coming into view, looking more like images on a TV until they gained three-dimensionality and turned solid. Karl had a deceptively kind smile on, all for show with a protective glare in his eyes. Sapnap was gripping a netherite sword that glittered with enchantments and wearing an animalistic snarl.
“You’ve got a lot of balls—” Sapnap started, pointing his sword towards Wilbur’s chest, “—going after a taken man, Wilbur.”
Wilbur took an unsteady step back. Sure, his fighting skills weren’t terrible, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Sapnap. Sapnap went toe to toe with Dream. For fun. Sapnap was a fighter by trade. If Technoblade could pound him into a bloody pulp, Sapnap could take that pulp, press it through a sieve, dehydrate it, and leave him as nothing more than a pile of dust—all without breaking a sweat. Wilbur grabbed his iron sword off his belt, clutching it shakily.
“Babe, babe, c’mon,” Karl said, grabbing Sapnap’s hand and lowering his arm, pointing the sword towards the ground. “You’re jumping the gun, we’ve got a challenge for him.”
The hairs on the back of Wilbur’s neck stood up. “This ‘challenge’ doesn’t happen to involve a sword, does it?” he asked, eyes glued to that blade. When it caught the light right, he could barely make out the name Nightmare engraved into it. His heart stopped, eyes going wide. Fuck.
Karl giggled. “Only if you’re bad at it!” he chirped. “So, here’s the deal: I’m gonna ask you questions about the Quackster, and if you get it wrong—”
“You’re gonna get real acquainted with this sword,” Sapnap finished, bringing it up to rest on his shoulder.
He was going to be sick. The world was spinning, his heart had long left his chest; he had no clue how he was still on his feet.
“Or, hear me out, you could give up and let Sapnap stab you,” Karl suggested.
He cast a look back at Quackity, to the little silver ring hung by a cord around his neck, then to the matching ones on Karl and Sapnap’s fingers. God. This was it, wasn’t it? The point of no return had long been passed. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He did not want to die by sword to the chest twice. He was not going to die by sword to the chest twice. He let out a shaky breath and peeled his eyes open.
“Well, what’s the first question, gentlemen?”
Karl’s eyes lit up. “What’s the first question?!” he parroted back, using Sapnap’s shoulders to jump up a few times. The spotlights merged into one. “Okay, question number one…”
The club’s music diminished into nothing, fading away to let Karl’s voice echo through the room. All other lights dimmed out, leaving just the spotlight on Karl and Sapnap. For the moment, nothing existed besides himself and the two men on stage.
“What’s the name of Quackity’s skeleton horse?”
“Boner,” he replied quickly, “Though I think he renamed it to um, Ossium? Not sure when. It’s still Boner as far as I care.”
Karl settled into place next to Sapnap, humming for a moment. “Just a minute while I confer with my fellow judge!” He planted a loud, ostentatious kiss on Sapnap’s cheek, and Wilbur could swear he heard Quackity growl behind him. “That’s correct! Next question:
“Before founding Las Nevadas, what country was Big Q the president of?”
Wilbur paused. This… wasn’t Quackity’s first foray into country founding? He should’ve figured, Quackity didn’t seem like a man to be happy with what he had. He closed his eyes, trying to dig into the bluescale memories of his ghost. Quackity, Quackity, Quackity. What had Quackity been up to? The sound of clashing swords, an anvil, a massive hovering mountain over New L’manburg—
“El Rapids,” he replied. He waited a moment, though recognition didn’t flash across Karl’s eyes. “I—I think it had a different name before it was El Rapids. I don’t really remember, it’s not my memory.”
Sapnap leaned in to whisper into Karl’s ear, and his jaw dropped. “Really?!” he whisper-screamed, then leaned back into Sapnap’s ear to whisper back.
Karl straightened himself again. “You got a green light from my fellow judge, and he’s got the next question for you!”
God, these questions never ended. Wilbur sighed, shifting his gaze over.
Sapnap cleared his throat. “Is Big Q a cannibal?”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
Sapnap flashed him a sharp grin that was more akin to a snarl; an attack dog waiting to strike. “Is Quackity a maneater in the literal sense?”
The only way Wilbur could interpret that phrase was in below-the-belt terms, which made his face flush. The entire server knew that, though, it wasn’t trivia. He turned to look at Quackity, but found no help in his ducked head, his face being obscured by his fringe and the hard shadows from the spotlights. Despite it, he tried to pry at his expression for an answer. His shoulders were slumped, perhaps a sign of resignation? Admittance to a terrible sin?
Karl clicked his tongue, making a tick-tock noise. “Time’s not your friend, Wilbur!” he chirped in a sing-song tone.
“Y–Yes?” he sputtered, eyes lingering on Quackity for a moment longer.
“That…”
Sapnap’s gaze hardened and burned, staring down at him. He flickered over to Quackity, then back to him.
“... That’s correct.”
Wilbur sighed. Surely that had to be the last question. How much more could they possibly ask of him? If it was a best of three, he’d already passed. No need for another question, he was done, he’d won. Surely.
Karl hummed. “Okay, last question:”
The air was dead. Wilbur’s heart pounded out of his chest. If he’d only gotten the last question correct by the skin of his teeth, he would certainly get this wrong, and then he was as good as gone. He wondered what Phil would think, seeing the notification Wilbur was slain by Sapnap using Nightmare pop up on his communicator. He hoped he’d be sad.
Karl flashed him a mischievous grin. This was it. He steeled what few nerves he had left. “Do you love him?”
“Oh come on!” Quackity blurted, “What kind of question is that?!”
Wilbur stood frozen in place as Quackity stormed onto the stage, almost tripping over his own shoes like his legs had fallen asleep. “He’s supposed to be able to win. You can just lie and say he doesn’t, because it’s not an objective question!”
Sapnap groaned. “Well sorry we don’t understand your bullshit.”
“Sorry we’re protective of our literal fiance!” Karl snapped back. “Maybe I don’t want him to win, huh?”
Quackity sighed, and suddenly the lights of the club went up, and Wilbur was not paying attention. He was standing in place, every hair on his body standing on end. The three were yelling, but he didn’t hear them above the ringing in his ears. His eyes were unfocused, and he could swear the world was spinning.
Did he love him? As much as the sun loved the moon. As much as a fish loved the air. As much as a forest loved fire. They would drive each other into the ground in whatever their twisted relationship ended up being, if it became anything at all; if he even lived to see the next day.
Wilbur was pulled back to reality by the sound of a sword being unsheathed. “Oh fuck this,” Sapnap snapped, and suddenly Nightmare was being pointed in his direction. “Listen, you’re dead fucking meat, Wilbur Soot.”
He barely had time to grab his sword before Sapnap jumped. It took all his strength to deflect the blow, forcing him back a few steps. He regained his balance in time for Sapnap swing again, and again, and again. Sapnap kept coming, jumping at his sides, prying at Wilbur’s weak points as he continuously fumbled.
The thing about Wilbur, though, was that he didn’t like playing clean.
After what felt like hours of blocking and failing to land his counters, opportunity struck: Sapnap’s headband loosened, slipping from his forehead and over his eyes. In the moment it took Sapnap to stumble, Wilbur used the flat end of his blade to hit Sapnap’s sword arm at his elbow—right at the nerve.
Sapnap shrieked, dropping Nightmare onto the floor as he stumbled backwards, clutching his arm. “Dude, what the fuck!”
Wilbur grinned; before he had any chance to recover, he grabbed Sapnap’s shoulders and pulled him forward, slamming their heads together as hard as he could.
Wilbur threw Sapnap backwards by his shoulders, his vision dancing with spots. He kicked Nightmare away as they both stumbled apart.
There was a moment of silence, Wilbur just staring down at Sapnap, waiting to see if he retaliated. Sapnap looked up at him, slumped over and leaning on his knees. “Fuck you,” he spat.
Karl came up behind him, pulling Sapnap into a sideways hug. “Well, uh, thanks for playing?” he said. He cast a look back up onto the stage, where Quackity was staring down with wide eyes, then back to Wilbur. Wilbur felt his chest twist as Karl’s eyes fogged over, flashing him a bittersweet smile. “Take care of him, better than we did, okay?”
He blinked. “I…” He looked over at Quackity. The best thing he could do for him was leave him alone. “I’ll try.”
As Karl and Sapnap disappeared into dust, Wilbur’s sword fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He followed shortly after it, falling to his knees with a huff of exhaustion. He’d won. So much for a nice, romantic date. Nonetheless, he’d survived in a much more literal sense than he’d anticipated.
He could hardly lift his head as he heard Quackity’s footsteps approaching. God. He’d initially thought that maybe after a few drinks, he might reach an understanding with Quackity; that they could truly settle their differences and be friends, maybe even a little more than that if he was receptive. Instead, he was sitting on the floor, buzzing with a completely new brand of excitement and pride, yet exhausted beyond words.
Quackity kneeled in front of him, gently tilting his head up by his chin. “Y’know, you’re a stubborn pain in my ass, Wilbur,” he said.
He looked up, trying to decipher the look in Quackity’s eyes through the dim light and the mess of his own hair over his eyes. Whatever it was, it was the complete opposite of what it had been that morning.
Wilbur smirked. “Do you mean that metaphorically or literally?”
“Both.”
And Quackity’s lips tasted like iron, heaven, and scotch.