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Thinking has always been Wilbur’s greatest vice.
When there was nothing left to do in the world, when he had no control, he would think. Grasping onto normalcy in the wreck of L’manburg, his greatest creation, he would ponder. It never stopped.
But in some ways, he despised it. It was both the most powerful weapon, and the most rapid downfall to its beholder.
Wilbur used it like a drug back in his Pogtopia days. He excused his paranoia as concern, and his obsessive nature as care. In the end, it was that very corruption that ended in his defeat.
Or his death, which he does not enjoy recalling.
Limbo .
His own personal hellscape. A terror dome, if you will.
Because it's true, Lady Death must’ve known that his mind was his greatest strength. So she took it away from him, just like that.
What will you do once you can’t think muse to yourself anymore Wilbur? What happens when you’ve truly gone insane? Where is your so-called power now?
He had resented people back before his death, but now, the only person he truly loathes is death itself.
And to be completely honest, he’s sure Lady Death feels the same way.
He knows that he’s never been a good person in this world, even before L’manburg, when he had (most of) his sanity.
Deep down, he knows he still isn’t a good person.
Death had it out for him. And it’s almost a relief. No one can detest him more than his own mortality.
Oh .
Well, except Quackity.
Currently, he’s apologized to everyone. Except him.
He knows why he has to say sorry to him, it's obvious. Fortunately, despite his fragmented brain, he can separate his own faults to the faults of others.
But if he must spell it out: He’s fucked up. A lot .
More than a person should, essentially.
He’s held it off long enough (apologizing to the son he barely knew before his rival whom he hurt the worst), and he supposes it's time.
But then again, he almost looks forward to seeing him again.
Every time their eyes meet, some sort of dilemma racks his brain. A feeling he can’t possibly put into words. Something foreign, confusing.
Something tells him it's a complex thought that he probably shouldn’t try to unravel. Especially when he’s this unstable.
He’s never been completely stable, he knows, but if this feeling could be hiding something, he’s not sure he really wants to find what's underneath. It might be the straw that breaks the camel's back, as far as he knows.
He’s not sure if he wants to let that thought seep in. So anyways, back to Quackity.
There’s always been some level of rivalry between the two, an unspoken nod to their own deflating sanity’s, but it's clear that lately, it's been becoming more than just a cordial rivalry. To be honest, he’s not sure how Quackity views him now that he’s alive.
Most memories before his death tend to be a bit hazy, which is to be expected after living (well, not really living-) in a wasteland of numbness for 13 years.
However, everything’s changed a lot since he was gone, and in some ways, he expected it. Coming back to months (Really? Just mere months?) progress on the server shouldn't be so surprising, yet sometimes it's still a shock. There’s a lot of things he’s missed, after all.
(Missing the ultimate ending of his country being the primest example.)
However, in general, things are generally different than limbo (like the fact that he can now eat food for example, which is a conundrum).
But the people are different too, he notices.
Much less fueled by war and power than they are fueled by attachments and their own pursuit of happiness.
Of course, everything boils down to the pursuit of happiness. That’s the only reason why anyone does anything.
Although with Quackity… he can’t really tell.
This new nation he’s built. Is it for power? For entertainment? For
Love
Rivalry?
Quackity’s motives are something he hopes to one day understand. But for now, he’s in the dark.
Before he left on his journey to Las Nevadas, he had wondered whether the man would get somewhat emotional over seeing him back in his country. He wondered how exactly he would feel.
The worried part of him anticipated anger coming from the man, burning hot before he could say a word edgewise. But something more realistic nagged at him. Quackity would be annoyed. It's like him to be annoyed at Wilbur, right?
Of course, Wilbur himself is giddy at the idea of seeing him. The only person he really talks to lately (other than Tommy and the people he’s apologized to thus far), is Quackity.
His burger van is going quite swimmingly, aside from the debatable ignorance from a spineless man called ‘Ranboo’ (who he still hasn’t decided if he dislikes), so he figures apologizing is the best way to continue this growth. Plus, it's just general decency.
All he can hope for is that this conversation doesn’t go how he thinks it will. Granted, Wilbur’s never been an optimist.
His footprints sink into the soft sand below him, the grains grind satisfyingly under his step along with the silence of Las Nevadas.
The nation's sign is still bright, despite the sunset lurking behind it.
He sees these sunsets all the time when he comes to work on the burger van and no matter how many times he sees them they are still pathetically mesmerizing to the man.
Wilbur doesn’t blame himself for it, though. There were no sunsets in limbo.
As he steps onto the walkway, bits of sand fall from his boots, reminding him to gather some for the trip home. He typically gets a bit munchy during this time of day anyways.
Stalking down the path, warm desert air forcing the bottom of his trench coat to sway behind him, he rehearses his lines.
This apology isn’t an act (he’s already solved that dilemma), but it might as well be one with how many times he’s practiced apologizing.
He looks to the ground as he meanders on, running through his internal monologue once more. “I’m sorry, Q. For everything. For L’manburg, for pushing you away, for all the things I did before I died-”
“ Wilbur? ” He hears, and for a second, he wonders if he’s imagining it.
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing to see into the distance.
Standing at the needle is Quackity, although from this range, he looks more like a short blob (Quackity would crucify him if he knew that Wilbur called him short, but then again, most people are small compared to Will. Like ants, almost.)
“Is that you, Quackiteee?” He calls to him in a high pitched voice, the man slowly approaching.
Quackity scoffs. “When did you get here?”
“Just now,” Will says, inching closer. “I’m glad to see you,” He grins.
“You would be,” Quackity mumbles, rolling his eyes and sighing.
“What? Are you not happy to see me?” Wilbur taunts playfully, anticipating Q’s next point of banter.
“You could say that. So, Will. What brings you to my country?” He says bluntly.
“Straight to the point today, aren’t you, Big Q. Should I make up a reason for you?” The brunette blinks, relishing the silence after his calculated jeer.
A pinched expression crosses Quackity’s face. “Alright, cut the shit. What are you actually doing here, Will?”
“I don’t know, just roaming,” He grins, eyes darting towards the ‘Las Nevadas’ sign.
“When are you ever just roaming?”
“Fair enough,” The taller shrugs. “Well… to be completely honest with you, I was hoping we could have a bit of a chat, if you will.”
The Mexican studies his face with arched brows. Wilbur wonders if he’s trying to read his true intentions.
“What kind of chat,” Q asks skeptically, making slow and steady rounds around Wilbur. Almost like a predator hunting prey.
“Mm. Just a quick one.” Wilbur carefully follows him with his eyes “I’ve been meaning to discuss a few things with you. Nothing business of course, I’ll save that for another day,” He lies, knowing this will probably be one of the longest apologies yet.
“It’s intriguing, I’ll give you that. But I see something behind your eyes. And to be honest Will, I’m not exactly sure I can trust you,” Quackity clenches his jaw, his expression smooth and calculating.
“..Why is that?” Wilbur asks hesitantly.
“You really don’t know the answer?” Quackity laughs. “You’re talking like you haven’t blown up a nation.”
Ouch. Wilbur will admit, that stung.
“Oh C’mon, Q. That was ages ago! Let’s just talk, alright. No catch, no nothing,” He sighs, speaking truthfully.
The boldly dressed man seems to ponder this.
“I would. If you agree not to blow up my country, that is,” Quackity chuckles, but the stillness of his face hints at him being serious.
“Done,” Wilbur replies, perhaps a bit too quickly. “So, would you like a drink?”
“You're asking me if I want a drink? This place is mine, I could make a drink myself,” He says, gesturing to Las Nevadas behind him.
“Well I doubt you have a drink like this,” Wilbur smirks, pulling his trench coat to the side, revealing a bottle of red wine tucked in one of the many pockets.
“So you just put anything in there, don’t you?” He asks, gesturing to the other’s pockets.
Wilbur hums. “Only things I’m worried about breaking.”
“Is that right? Well, come bring it inside then. Warm wine is disgusting,” Quackity says, turning to walk towards the Las Nevadas entrance.
The brunette doesn’t follow him, instead, stops. “You’re letting me come in?”
“You want to talk, right?” Quackity asks, turning to him.
Wilbur nods. “O-of course. I just thought- you’ve never let me see the inside of Las Nevadas before.”
“That's true, I haven’t. Just.. come in, before I change my mind,” Quackity sighs, but his tone isn’t all that demanding, not like it is usually. His tone is soft.
He doesn’t respond, only follows the man all the way to the doors.
“Follow me. And don't touch anything,” Q says, standing by the door of one of the rooms of the building, specifically one of the bars.
Wilbur hears him, but doesn’t respond, preoccupied with the interior foundation of the establishment. He looks up at the tall ceiling, admiring the space as if he is a child, looking back and forth.
Outside, this place looked big. But now that he’s actually standing in it, it's ginormous.
“Has it… always looked this nice inside?” Wilbur asks, only a little bit louder than a whisper.
Apparently Quackity hears him. “Don’t act so surprised. Now, come on.”
He wishes he could stay for another few minutes, just studying the colors and shapes. And the architecture . Oh god, the architecture. It's like something from a book.
Someone is trying to reach him, but he’s far away, thinking and admiring the perfect symmetry of the towering structure-
Suddenly, a hand is gripping his wrist. Touch! His mind screams.
He flinches back, now in the present. His eyes are wide.
“What’s that for?” Wilbur asks, slightly accusing.
“You weren’t responding. Now, c’mon.”
Quackity walks into the bar, Wilbur following close behind him.
Q gestures to the seat, suggesting for Wilbur to sit. He does, and surprisingly, the chair is quite comfy.
Q walks behind the bar and then holds his hand out, gesturing for the bottle of wine.
Will hands it over, but when he takes the bottle, Quackity's hand brushes his. He freezes.
Why did that feel so confusing?
Why did that feel so good?
Quackity must notice his internal dilemma, because when he finishes pouring a glass of wine, he looks up to the man.
“You okay there, Will?” The man asks, looking him in the eyes.
He’s not used to having the man say his name like that. Not harsh, not mean. Not in a voice where he can tell there’s no malicious intention.
Clearing his throat, he mumbles, “Y-yeah, I’m fine. Just uh, your hand.”
“What about it?” The man asks, and Wilbur doesn’t want to spell it out for him.
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” He assures Quackity (or maybe he’s assuring himself).
“Okay…” He leads off, although Will can tell he doesn’t quite believe him. “Here’s your wine.”
The wine swishes in the glass as he puts it down next to Wilbur. He screws the cap closed, and proceeds to take a bottle of water from the mini-fridge on the left. Q walks back around to the seats on the other side, sitting in the chair directly to the right of him.
Will looks down at his wine glass and then looks to Quackity, sitting down on the stool beside him. “You’re not having any?”
“Nah. I’m not a big drinker anymore, you know.”
“I don’t actually. Sometimes I think you forget I spent 13 years in limbo,” He chuckles dryly.
“I didn’t forget. I just thought you would remember.”
A bloated silence fills the space, and Wilbur takes a sip of his wine. It’s exceptional. Goes to show you how good wine is when it's aged.
“Wilbur, why did you actually want to talk? I know you're not just here to drink your sorrows away at my bar,” Quackity says bluntly, almost like a warning.
Does he really want to admit it? He’s been preparing so much, and for what? For him to clam up at the last second and give some half-assed excuse?
“I…” He starts, then clears his throat. “I wanted to come and.. Apologize.”
Quackity just stares at him. He must expect him to continue.
“And.. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For everything.”
He continues despite the tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Is this sadness? “I’m just… I’ve been telling people I’m sorry. Because in Limbo, I had a lot of time to think. 13 years of time, actually,” He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a dejected gasp. Tears begin to prick his eyes, and he struggles to retain them.
“-And I wish I could tell you how much I missed you when I was gone…
“And how sorry I am for L’manburg and all the pain I put you through, and-” He’s full on sobbing now, thick wet tears running down his face like a string of pearls.
“Wilbur-” Quackity objects, but the brunette continues.
“I don’t- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” He says, his head now in his hands.
“Will,” Quackity places his hand on the man’s shoulder. At the sudden touch, he winces. “Wilbur, it’s okay,” He says comfortingly.
“I’ve just hurt so many people, Q. And I’m sorry I’m crying- god I’m a mess-” He says, briefly pausing his sobs before starting back up again.
Through his blurry tears, he can see Quackity’s face. His expression is softened now, looking more concerned than anything.
And truthfully, he can’t blame him. If someone started having a breakdown in his country, he would be pretty concerned as well.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Just let it out,” Q says, rubbing circles on Wilbur’s back. The man leans into the touch.
God, he hasn’t felt like this in so long. Not just the fact that he’s crying (he hasn’t done that in a while either, has he?), but the way that he feels safe. He feels… How do you explain it?
This is a different feeling than he has with other people that he cares about. A deeper connection, like two hearts tethered together to no end. This is more than what he feels with Tommy, with the boy he views as a younger brother.
This is Quackity. And all he wants to do is hold him close until the end of time.
He looks up at the man's scarred face.
“I’m sorry,” He says softly.
“I know,” Quackity replies, placing his hands in Wilbur’s.
It’s the sudden jolt of electricity, the man’s warm skin (Quackity just feels so.. alive) that makes him feel like he’s melting. It makes his body quiver, a mix of shock and the thought of ‘ please don’t let go ’ that renders him defenseless in Quackity’s hold.
“Can you forgive me?” Wilbur asks. He wonders if he looks as broken as he feels.
The man takes a sharp inhale. “I… I don’t know.”
After a pause, he speaks again. “Do you… Remember Niki’s birthday party?” Quackity asks.
His eyes light up at the mention. He had forgotten about it. The day they had snuck to the back. Something else happened too, but the memory is too foggy to decipher.
“Pieces of it,” He responds. The scene had gone silent in his brain since Limbo, but calling it back is like unlocking a memory he never knew he had.
“Did you.. Feel anything when we kissed?” Quackity asks hesitantly.
He brightens at the thought. They had kissed, and although he can’t remember a lot of it, he recalls it was one of the most wonderful feelings he’d ever felt.
“I don’t understand, what do you mean?”
“Did you ever love me Wilbur? Or was it… just politics to you?” Quackity asks, louder than he means to.
“No.. of course I cared about you. I- I still do,” The taller stammers.
“But.. Did you ever feel things for me? Love, I guess.”
To answer, he has to look up at the man. Ask himself the same question. Do you.. Love Quackity?
“If I said yes, would you feel the same way?” Will asks.
“I just…” He squeezes Wilbur’s hand tighter. “Want the truth. I’m tired of chasing after people that don't give a shit. People that break my heart."
“Did I- did I break your heart, Quackity? When I left?” He asks, ignoring the way his voice shakes.
“You did more than that, Will.”
“I didn’t.. Know you cared for me like that.”
“I kissed you! What does that mean to you? Of course I cared! And the worst part.. Is that I still care!” He snaps, only until he sees Wilbur’s startled expression does he feel a twinge of guilt at his tone.
“I’m sorry I.. yelled at you like that. I just.. This is hard for me. Because you and I- we’ve both fucked up. So goddamn badly . And I don’t know if we can fix it..”
“I wish it was simple. That you love me, I love you, and…" Wilbur takes a breath. "I wish this hadn’t ever happened.”
“You wish what hadn’t happened?”
“November 16th.”
“You can’t just take responsibility for an entire war. Everyone was involved. And back then.. You weren’t well.”
“I know. And I’m not taking responsibility for it. I just.. wish it didn’t happen,” He admits.
The two sit in silence.
“I’m sorry,” He repeats again, unable to shake the unending guilt that haunts him.
“I know Will, I know.”
There’s an awkward pause, where the only sound the two can hear is the hum of air circulating through the room by means of AC.
“You know Will, I really hate myself for all this.”
“What-” Wilbur asks, before getting cut off by Quackity.
“I hate myself, because despite everything. Despite the war, despite how much you’ve hurt me. Despite how fucked up we are.. I still love you,” He says,chuckling hoarsely. “It’s so confusing. It’s like.. I know what I want . I know how I feel. I just-” His voice cracks. “I’m afraid of the inevitable.”
“And what do you want, Quackity?”
“ I want to kiss you. ”
“So why don’t you? What’s stopping you?” He asks, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach when the man says this.
Wilbur says this because he knows what’s stopping his rival. It’s the compulsive worry that after this, after this wonderful thing will happen, everything will fall apart. That everything he’s ever worked for will crumble at his feet.
Just like last time .
“ Everything ,” The man breathes, and cups his hands around Wilbur’s face.
The clear impact of this is clear on his face, and he almost sputters out an apology. However, he realizes that the man isn’t mad at him. At least it doesn’t look like it.
Looking into the man's eyes is like looking into a galaxy of stars.
“I- I don’t remember the last time I’ve been touched like this,” He whispers.
Quackity’s face has crept so close to his that he can feel the others breath, and smell the man’s cologne.
He can practically hear his heart hammering in chest.
He stares at Q’s lips with anticipation. Their eyes lock, and he can see the passion, the pure desire, in his eyes.
The thought of ‘ what's stopping you?’ pops into his head. He can’t answer the question. There is no reason why he shouldn’t pull in and just kiss the man right now-
“ Just kiss me. We'll have the rest of our lives to regret this, right?” The Hispanic asks, almost as if he can read Will’s mind.
A faint smile presents on Wilbur’s face. “Of course.”