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Quackity had always wanted a small wedding. Something private, with a nice venue and a handful of close friends. Nothing flashy for the ceremony and something loud and fun for the reception. He didn’t want anything big, hell he would’ve settled for something with just his fiances and an officiant. But he still wanted something. Something beautiful and full of all the love he had.
In El Rapids, Karl had joked that they should have it in Church Prime, just to “finally do it already”. He had done that a lot, pushed them to get things over with sooner rather than later. Maybe it was funny once. Now it just felt prophetic.
They would still plan a wedding though. They’d whisper about details as they fell asleep, or laugh at shitty ideas while fixing up their home. Sometimes George would chime in to critique their decor choices or guest list. Quackity had mentioned inviting Tommy and George hadn’t stopped bitching about it for a week.
Of course their planning never got farther than looking for someone with the proper qualifications to officiate the wedding. It had been shelved for more important things. Like an exile, and some poor preemptive action, and a fight that took a bit more than some teeth, and the second end of a nation. Everything had been more important. There was always something else to do, to worry about.
Quackity had thought about the wedding as he watched the rain dampen the last few embers scattered about the crater in front of him. Everyone else had left to do their own mourning (or celebrating, depending on who you asked). The only two left to see the sun peek through the dark clouds over their nation were Quackity and Tommy. The boy hadn’t moved in nearly an hour now.
“You know, I wanted to get married here,” Quackity had said, voice hoarse.
Tommy didn’t respond, in fact he barely even blinked as Quackity spoke. The kid still looked like he was watching his home die.
“I’d…I’d,” He had laughed and ran a hand over his face. “I was so fucking excited. We almost did it! We almost fucking did it man.”
Quackity had choked out another laugh, this time sounding much closer to a sob. He curled in on himself and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. His gut felt heavy as his own words sunk in. The realization that this dumb, wishful fantasy wasn’t ever going to happen almost made Quackity gag.
“Fuck,” he had quickly wiped his face of the few tears that slipped past his hands.
Tommy had scooted closer and wrapped an arm around Quackity’s shoulders. The movement was stilted but held a shared kind of grief. Normally Quackity would have scoffed at thinking that he was the one of the two who needed comfort, that it was the teenager that was comforting him. But now, looking at eyes that seemed too sunken and mature for such presumed youth, he couldn’t even think of laughing.
The next time Quackity had thought of the wedding was when he stared at a now empty and abandoned El Rapids. Face covered with bandages and steps heavy, Quackity had stared at the second place he considered home and had never felt more lost.
Even as he stumbled across the island, calling out to people he knew weren’t there, Quackity thought of the wedding.
He was going to make a venue. At Las Navadas, he was going to make a venue.
The city was already made, his dedication to his fiances was already nearly finished.
And yet his home was empty. Their island in the sky was void of any life save for the plants and shitty garden.
He later destroyed that island, mind full of pain and confusion.
Even still, he thought of the wedding again and again. Quackity had thought of the pastel bouquets that Niki had helped him pick months ago (she was more willing to help Karl usually but for some reason, she had made an exception this once).
Some nights when the bed felt too big or the world too vast, he would bring out the notebook he kept. It was covered in doodles and stickers placed there by two other sets of hands. The notes were scribbled and messy, never specific enough to get a picture of their plans. The notebook was nearly full as well. Pages of their ideas seemingly never ending in some hopeless romantic wet dream. Quackity had thrown out the notebook the day George told him about Kinoko Kingdom.
He remembers when Slime ( Charlie, his name was Charlie) had asked about it, the wedding. Quackity was giving one of his many speeches on life and humans when his friend interrupted him. They were passing by the wedding hall when the other pointed it out. Quackity had stopped. The white walls and neat aisle seemed to return his glare. It was beautiful. He wanted to burn it down.
“That’s…that’s what you should avoid, alright? That shit isn’t worth your time.”
Quackity had glared at the venue a little longer before briskly walking away. Charlie had picked up on the change in mood as they walked away and didn’t say much after that. The city felt a bit emptier after that.
The two of them had ended up on the Needle, as per usual, by the time the sun had set. Their conversation had fallen some time ago, Charlie seemingly out of questions and Quackity lost in thought for the nth time that day. As he looked out over his city, Quackity thought about the rings resting against his chest and the two much newer, elegant ones locked away in a box somewhere. The sight of his city brought pride as it brought sorrow.
Charlie had turned to him abruptly, poking him lightly in the side.
“Quackity from Las Navadas, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Quackity had muttered.
The response didn’t seem to satisfy his friend but he didn’t bother correcting himself. He let Charlie think over his next inevitable question.
Instead Charlie turned back toward the city, body positioned to mimic Quackity’s. That brought a small smile to his face.
“You know Slime, I think I would’ve asked you to be my best man. You could’ve helped with my vows and everything,” Quackity’s voice faded, head lost in the idealistic what-ifs.
Even now he could picture it, Charlie in a brand new suit, adding slightly ominous but meaningful antidotes as Quackity rehearses his vows. It’s hard to imagine Charlie in the same world as Karl and Sapnap, but he doesn’t care. He’ll imagine it anyway.
Charlie had given him a bright smile, even as he asked, “What’s a best man Quackity?”
He had laughed. His explanation had been short and he was pretty sure Charlie had no idea what he was talking about but it didn’t matter too much.
“I’d like to be your best human man, I’d be very good at it. Why can’t I be?”
The response had been too fast for Quackity to understand at first.
“There’s no wedding,” he’d said it much sharper than he intended.
Charlie had stared at him, expression unreadable. Then he had rested a hand on Quackity's shoulder with an out of place smile.
"Humans don't always make sense Quackity from Las Navadas. It's okay to be wrong about them sometimes."
At the time, it was only another odd remark from the slime. It always took a while for him to realize the depth behind his friends anecdotes.
Quackity forgot about that conversation not long after, more focused on the pain of seeing his fiances again. Then it was the fear of attack, then the agony of losing his closest friend.
He only remembered that conversation when he passed by the wedding banquet again, arms full of books and various weapons. Just like last time, Quackity stopped. Carefully setting the books down and tossing the weapons to the side, Quackity had walked in. He hadn’t look at the venue in a while, he had forgotten about all the little details it held. The place looked like something Quackity had imagined there in bed, resting against the two people he loved.
The flowers were the same ones he had chosen for Karl, all the same color and type he had scribbled down once. All of the drapery and decoration were a collection of white and golds to match the suits Quackity had picked. Even the seats were doused and practically painted in fire resistance, just in case.
Everywhere Quackity looked in there was a past thought and consideration. The place was so full of the love he was willing to give it hurt .
He thought about burning the building down but his hands couldn’t seem to reach for the flint when he wanted them to. It should be destroyed, should be burned to nothing but crumpled chairs and half hanging bunting. But he couldn’t.
Maybe it was the remnants of the optimist in him, the younger, more naive version of him he thought died to liquor and tnt, but he still hoped. He was still the hopeless romantic who married a man because he wanted to be loved as deeply as he loved others. The same stupid fiance who would visit different places in his free time, to see if he could find the person spot for a wedding. He hadn’t changed. Even after he locked away the wedding rings and hung his engagement rings on a chain.
Quackity was everything he once told Charlie not to be.
And wasn’t that just fucking ironic?