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Wilbur Soot does not have a soulmate. When the Fates looked down on him and sifted through their list of souls to link him to, they decided not to provide him with an easy romance, or a simple ally, or a best friend. No, no no no no. “Simple” was not in the cards for Wilbur Soot.
When Fate looked down on him and tied his soul to another, they gave him an enemy.
He’d never particularly cared for soulmates. He didn’t want to meet his. Not ever. He had friends and a family, he had Phil and Tommy and Techno. And that was all he ever needed.
Many people on the DSMP were the same, he learned. Plenty of them didn’t care to find their designated “other halves”— which was a ridiculous notion in itself, to be honest. One person is whole on their own.
Then he met Quackity.
And everything changed.
When Alexis Quackity perched himself on a shoddy dirt pillar within the L’Manberg walls, yellow wings framing him like an angel, golden sunlight glinting off butter-yellow feathers, his red string of fate stretching down to Wilbur’s hand, and announced that he would run for L’Manberg office... something in Wilbur shifted.
Quackity wanted a fight. And if that’s what he wanted, oh boy, Wilbur was going to give it to him.
He played Quackity’s game, and he played it well. Insults flew across debate rooms, professionalism shredded in favour of one-upping each other, digging under each other’s skin, and by god, Wilbur fucking loved it.
Quackity did not want a soulmate; that much was clear. With every pointed verbal jab and accusatory, disgusted sneer, he was trying to tear apart Fate’s plans thread by thread.
They were not just soulmates. No, no. They were rivals.
And then, a little under two weeks before election day, they took a walk.
Wilbur wasn’t sure what came over him when he accepted Quackity’s offer to take a walk with him. He would be alone, truly alone, with Quackity for the very first time.
Still, he donned his uniform, preened his chestnut brown wings, and went.
They walked side by side, a distinct change from the way they usually stood, at opposite ends with podiums between them. The red string on Quackity’s left hand, the other end tied to Wilbur’s right, hung slack. Like Fate was satisfied they were spending time together, even if just for a short while.
“Listen, I understand things are not easy right now,” Quackity had said. “Things are tense, to say the least. But... I just wanted to get together and talk to you. I want... I wanna pick your brain for a bit.”
Wilbur paused, looked Quackity up and down. He was dressed in his finest suit, yellow wings preened to perfection, every wrinkle ironed out of his jacket. He looked every bit a put-together president. Something Wilbur could never be.
“P... Pick my brain?” Wilbur repeated, a quiet hesitation to his voice. One of his wings flicked. A nervous tic. He hoped Quackity hadn’t noticed.
“Just get to know you a little better,” Quackity clarified. His own wings, much smaller than Wilbur’s, hung relaxed, yellow feathers just above the tallest blades of grass.
“Okay, yeah, sure,” Wilbur had agreed. What else was he supposed to do?
“What has made you do everything you’ve done up to this point?” Quackity had asked.
“That’s a—that’s a big question,” Wilbur admitted, mulling it over in his mind. A moment of hesitation, another flick of his wing. He strode to the top of the hill to overlook L’Manberg. His L’Manberg.
“I guess it’s just protection for my people,” he said. A cookie cutter answer. A safe answer. “I just want to see them thrive, and I want to see them safe.”
“Hmmm. Protection for your people,” Quackity repeated slowly, as though tasting the words in his mouth.
“Yes.”
And Quackity asked, oh so nicely, to talk to him “off the books.” To talk to him as a person. Not as a politician.
Quackity had glanced down at their shared string, and Wilbur got the unspoken request. I want to talk to you as my soulmate.
Wilbur’s mask faltered, if just for a moment. He wanted to. He so, so badly wanted to. He wanted to know Quackity, side by side, face to face, instead of neck and neck.
But.
“No. The election’s in twelve days.”
Quackity’s relaxed laugh nearly made him change his mind. “I want to genuinely get to know you a little better, you know? It’s a fair request.”
It was a fair request, all things considered. They didn’t truly know each other. Not in the slightest.
He briefly debated flying away from this conversation altogether, but he planted his feet firmly on the ground and said “I’ll try.”
Quackity studied him for a moment. Wilbur felt for all the world like a mouse being eyed by a hawk.
Quackity sighed, shoulders slumping just a tiny bit. “Listen, I... I get it. I get what you’re trying to do. I get that you’re trying to protect your people, I get that. You know, you’re trying to save your nation here, but...” He paused. Glanced at the string, which seemed to tug on their fingers, screaming for their attention.
“See, Wilbur, I don’t hate you.”
Could’ve fooled me, Wilbur wanted to say. But he was afraid that would come off as petty, so he swallowed the words.
“I don’t want to affect you, I don’t want to overthrow you. None of this is about fighting, to me.” Quackity met his eyes, a striking warm brown. “I think there’s just a big difference between you and me. And I think that—I like to see the good side in people. I like to think that there is a side to everyone that is willing to work for seeing a better future.” He gave another brief laugh, a bit awkward. “And I think that’s where you and I are very, very different.
“When I got to these lands and I wanted to join L’Manberg,” Quackity continued, “I was told that I couldn’t, I wasn’t allowed to join L’Manberg. And to me that was a lack of belonging. If I have to become president and tear down some walls in order for no one to ever feel unwelcome again, then so be it. I do believe that everyone has a good side to them. And I do believe everyone has something to contribute to the nation.”
Wilbur furrowed his brow, gazing out at the nation he’d built with his own two hands. His wing twitched, itching for the skies.
“Your aspirations of optimism are not going to be subject to my nation’s security, I’m afraid,” Wilbur said. “I completely disagree with everything you’ve said.”
Quackity shrugged, a little awkward, a little nervous. “I mean, agree to disagree, but that’s not what I’m talking—”
“You say,” Wilbur interrupted. A dangerous fire built itself a home in his gut, the same fire that got them into this mess in the first place. “You say everyone has a good side, Quackity, and you’re right! You’re right. Everyone has a good side.”
He turned his back on the sun to face the path down the hill. “But that good side is only there to help themselves.”
He wanted to be done with this conversation. He began to walk away, but the red string, that blasted thing, stretched further, tugging him back, begging. He stopped at the crest of the hill as it yanked insistently at his hand.
He turned to face Quackity. “If you want to really help people, you’re going to need power. You can make a movement, you can make a resistance, you can go out and you can come back and they’ll give you a ticket tape parade. They’ll cheer for you in the streets, but you will change nothing.”
The fire grew. “If you have a revolution, everyone will hate you,” he continued. “You will sacrifice everything and you will lose everything you’ve ever had. But you’ll come back and everything will be changed.”
He strode past Quackity, hands still behind his back, to stand at the top of the hill and stare out at L’Manberg. “And Quackity, if you want to change things, you’re going to need power.” He turned his head to look Quackity dead in the eyes. “That’s what you want, really, isn’t it?”
Quackity averted his gaze. Wilbur took a step toward him. The fire blazed in his stomach.
“Look at me.”
Quackity did, finally. Shadowed by the sunset, his brown irises blended with his pupils, blown wide. Nervous.
His voice was hesitant when he spoke next. “I... I mean—”
“Power isn’t gained from diplomacy,” Wilbur said, fire in his eyes, “and bureaucracy, and giant courthouses suspended in the sky.” He gestured to the stone courthouse in the distance, the red string on his hand flying with the movement.
“It’s gained from swords, Quackity. It’s gained from blades. It’s gained from steel, iron.” He took a few steps toward Quackity, backing him up further, in his face.
“Even if everyone has this good side you’re talking about, anyone who has to prove it has to show their dark side first.
You’re going to have to kill.
You’re going to have to torture.
You’re going to have to maim.”
The fire flickered out.
Wilbur gave a light sigh. “When I look at you, as a fellow outsider,” Wilbur said, shaking his head, the passion gone from his voice, “you’re not ready for that.”
He lowered his gaze. His wing flicked. “I’m leaving.”
He half wanted to launch into the air, fly away, show off his great, nearly full-grown wings in comparison to Quackity’s yellow down, but he was too tired to be petty. He simply walked away.
For the first time, he wondered why Fate hadn’t paired him with Sally instead.
And then.
Oh, and then.
Election Day came, and George was off the grid. Nowhere to be seen. Gone. And Quackity, the little shit, decided to pool his votes with Schlatt. Fucking Schlatt, of all people!
The fire was back.
Wilbur lost a life that day, yes, but he felt like he was being reborn. Exiled from his own country, L’Manberg in the clutches of someone else, and not to mention his fucking soulmate—his soulmate!—was one of the people who took it from him! Ha!
Fate was playing a cruel game with him, of that much he was certain.
He would play Fate’s game. This would be a rivalry—no, a war, for the centuries. He’d stage a revolution, he’d start another war, he’d drag Techno and Tommy and everyone else into it, he’d—
He’d blow up L’Manberg.
Wouldn’t that be a fitting end? He’d blow it up, he’d send it all to hell, and he would go with it. After all, if he couldn’t finish his grand symphony, no one should get to. It was his. His, and Tommy’s, and Tubbo’s. Their L’Manberg. His L’Manberg.
If he was destined to burn fast, then oh, he would burn bright.
The festival came and went. Quackity must have known Wilbur was there. He must have felt the string on his hand move with Wilbur’s every flinch.
They all watched as Tubbo died.
Wilbur had been so close, so close, to blowing it all to smithereens that night. But he couldn’t find the damned button, couldn’t press it in time, and he left his L’Manberg behind again.
Pogtopia was less than comfortable, but he made it that way. Wanted it that way. He wouldn’t be around much longer! Why live his last days in comfort when he didn’t deserve it? Why make things safe when pitching off the side of a walkway and dying upon impact would be nothing short of relief?
His whole speech to Quackity about “protecting his citizens” weeks ago was bullshit now. He couldn’t even protect himself. He didn’t want to.
And then, who shows up at the entrance to Pogtopia but Quackity himself?
He hadn’t expected it. He’d heard, of course, that something had occurred in Manberg, something about Schlatt and the White House, but he didn’t process the details. Every waking minute, every second, was spent wondering if this was the time, the moment to blow it all to kingdom come.
But no. Not the day Quackity arrived. Another day, maybe.
He spoke to Quackity that night. He found Quackity standing at the entrance to Pogtopia, looking up at the moon, the silver glow turning his wings a pale green.
“You don’t care for soulmates, do you?” Wilbur had asked.
Quackity visibly flinched at the acknowledgement of their situation, the red string between them swinging like a pendulum. Saying it felt freeing. Quackity may have been fighting Fate tooth and nail, but Wilbur had given up on that. He embraced what Fate had in the cards for him. No use fighting it.
Quackity cleared his throat, shooting a sideways glance at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye. “Not really, no.”
A crooked grin spread across Wilbur’s lips. “I figured. The way you thwart me at every turn, try to get under my skin. You didn’t want me, did you?”
Quackity sighed. “No. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want anyone, for that matter.”
“But you tried to want Schlatt.”
Quackity tensed at the name of his ex-fiancé. “What does it matter?”
Wilbur shoved his hands back into his pockets. “If it makes you feel any better, I never wanted a soulmate, either. For a while I thought it was poetic, you know, that my soul could be tied to someone else’s. Then I met someone I loved who wasn’t my soulmate and decided I didn’t care for it.”
Quackity raised a brow. “Who was it?”
“Fundy’s mother. She was a shapeshifter. Thought I could say ‘fuck you’ to fate and be with her.”
Quackity shifted, pulling his suit jacket tighter around him. “What happened to her?”
“She left. She gave me Fundy and then fucked off to who knows where. It was just a few years ago, really.”
Quackity snorted. “Fundy’s only a few years old?”
Wilbur shrugged. “Foxes age different.”
Silence fell on the two of them. The moon hung in the sky, glaring down like a spotlight just for the two of them.
Quackity opened his mouth, then shut it, and took a deep breath. “Wilbur?”
“Hm?”
“Do you believe in soulmates now?”
“As soon as I saw you I did.”
Quackity blinked. “What do you mean?”
A smile tugged at Wilbur’s mouth. It may have looked a little manic, but he let it show. “You showed up and immediately started berating me, getting on my nerves, trying to piss me off, and I... I loved it. I love competition, and you gave me the best competition I could ever ask for. Fate knows me too fucking well, Quackity. It didn’t just give me a soulmate, it gave me a rival.” He shot a sideways grin Quackity’s way. “And look at us now. Rivals pulled together as allies for a greater cause. The universe gave me someone I can compete with when I want and rely on when I need.”
He gave Quackity a full on smile then, the flame inside him flickering to life again for just a moment. “You’re perfect, Alex Quackity.”
Wide-eyed, Quackity stared at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words escaped. He clamped it shut again.
His eyes never left Wilbur’s.
Finally, Wilbur broke their gaze. “I’m going to bed,” he said, although that was a complete lie. He didn’t want to put any pressure on Quackity to respond. He knew he didn’t feel the same. “I’ll see you in the morning, Big Q.”
He descended back into Pogtopia, their red string trailing behind him.
He wondered, however, if Quackity was beginning to see him differently by the time Niki’s birthday rolled around.
Despite the grim circumstances, they threw her a party. A celebration was in order, of course! It was Niki, everyone on all sides loved Niki! (Except for Schlatt, of course, so he was evidently absent from the celebration.)
Wilbur... may have had a little too much to drink.
He started the night off alright. He greeted Quackity with a hug (which surprised both of them, if he’s being honest—perhaps he got a little overzealous), they shared jokes with their friends, had a very intense staring contest...
And then they... made out a little? Maybe? Wilbur’s not too keen on the specifics. He started drinking pretty early.
When BadBoyHalo pointed out that it was weird to do this at a party and Quackity retorted with “What, jealous because you’re single?” Wilbur had an odd moment where his heart skipped a beat and he wondered, does that mean Quackity thinks we’re together?
He disregarded the thought almost immediately. He was busy kissing the back of Quackity’s neck and he could not be happier. (Although, he did wonder how Quackity managed to lose both his shirt and his pants in the short time he’d been here for, but hell, no one would see Wilbur complaining.)
He may have gotten a little too into it, and, without really realizing what he was doing, nipped Quackity on his shoulder, just above his wing. It left a mark, and Quackity berated him for it. Slightly tipsy, Wilbur apologized to everyone in the room for making them uncomfortable with his displays of affection, but would he say he regretted it? Not in the slightest.
Quackity also had a lot to drink that night. Wilbur wasn’t sure if he even remembered it.
At some point, the two of them stepped outside to smoke. Wilbur shouldn’t have picked up the habit in the first place, but it was a hard one to break. Quackity, unfortunately, picked it up as well.
Quackity stuck a cigarette in his mouth and brought out a lighter. It was a slight reassurance that this was an old habit of Q’s, not one that he picked up recently at fault of Wilbur. He flicked the lighter, touched his smoke to the end of Wilbur’s, and lit them both. Orange light flickered across Quackity’s features, eyelashes casting a shadow over his browbone.
Quackity took a deep inhale and breathed out a cloud of smoke. Wilbur was not so elegant. He breathed in, thought about Quackity’s smile as Wilbur kissed along his jawline, and promptly hacked up a lung.
“Look at the stars, Wilbur,” Quackity said, gazing up at the sky. He’d thrown his windbreaker on, but Wilbur didn’t know how he wasn’t freezing in the frigid winter air, especially without his pants.
“It’s—it’s lovely,” Wilbur coughed, one hand braced on his knee and the other held to his mouth in a fist.
“One day, we’ll be part of those stars, Wilbur,” Quackity said. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Wilbur was choking on his own smoke. Possibly both. “One day we’ll be part of those stars.”
Once he finally recovered from his coughing fit, Wilbur turned his gaze upwards. It was just the same exact night sky he’d seen every other night, but gazing up at it with Quackity almost seemed to make the stars twinkle a little brighter.
Soon, they were leaning against each other and drunkenly singing some High School Musical song, taking turns with Quackity’s vape as they stumbled back inside.
In that moment, Wilbur wanted to live.
He didn’t care about L’Manberg, or the TNT beneath it, or that damned button room. He was here, alive, with his friends, with his soulmate, and he wanted to stay that way.
Quackity sang for him that night, both of them absolutely wasted, unable to tune his guitar properly and singing very off-tune, but Wilbur savoured it all the same. And when the party was over and most of the guests had gone home, Wilbur sat down outside with his own guitar and returned the favour.
He couldn’t come up with an original tune on the fly, so he sang an old song of his and changed up the lyrics. As a joke, of course. At least it started that way.
And then, of course, as all things do with them, it spiraled into a competition.
Nothing to start a war about, unlike their past competitions, but that flame in Wilbur still flickered when Quackity started drunkenly warbling about how much he supposedly hated Wilbur. It was terribly out of tune and off beat and was quit possibly the worst thing Wilbur had ever heard, but he was having so much fun, he didn’t care.
He was alive, and a little bit drunk, and singing with the person Fate had tied his soul to. What more could he want?
It didn’t last forever.
It was just four of them left: Wilbur, Quackity, Karl, and Niki. As he and Quackity gave a horrible rendition of Party in the USA, a creeper snuck up on them, and exploded.
No one died, or even really got hurt, but the explosion rang in Wilbur’s ears longer than it should have.
He thought of the TNT under Manberg.
He tried to put the thought out of his head, but now that it was back, it stuck. He tried to play it off, crack more jokes, sang another song for Quackity, but his mood had tanked. He was sure it showed in his voice.
Quackity sang him one last song, something a little humorous, yes, but lovely and heartfelt all the same. The flame in Wilbur grew, and grew, and grew, until it threatened to burn him alive.
He faced Quackity, head on, faces inches apart, and he said
“You’re scum.”
Silence, and then laughter exploded from Quackity’s chest. “What? What are you talking about?”
“You heard me. You’re scum, you’re scum.” The fire was in his throat now, licking at his vocal chords.
Quackity glanced away and Wilbur grabbed his chin, turned it back to him with a little too much force, but Wilbur didn’t care. “Look at me, don’t look away from me. Stop being terrified of me.”
A smirk spread across Quackity’s face, lighthearted, playful. He still thought this was a joke. “What? What do you want?”
Wilbur grinned.
“I wanna blow up Manberg.”
The light drained from Quackity’s eyes. His smirk wilted. “Wh...”
The smile on Wilbur’s face only spread as the fire in him blazed, torching his lungs. “And you’re gonna watch.”
Quackity shook his head, Wilbur’s hand slipping from his face. “No, no, no, Wilbur—”
“We’ve come full circle, Quackity, we’ve done it. I’m going to blow up Manberg—”
“No no no, I...” Quackity fumbled in his inventory. “I’ll give you cigs if you calm down—”
Wilbur was already walking away. Into the forest, towards Manberg, toward the button room. He heard Quackity’s footsteps hurry after him, stumbling, crooked, still tipsy. Not Wilbur. His footfalls were as straight and sure as ever.
This was the time. He was sure.
“Wilbur, Wilbur, you gotta calm down, alright?”
“You know, I was gonna wait for a time when there were a lot of people around, because I didn’t want to do this without an audience, you know?”
“No, man, what are you doing? What are you doing?”
Wilbur shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Just follow me, man.” Sure, Q could be there for it. He could be Wilbur’s audience. The one person his life was inextricably linked to, the sole witness to the end of his grand symphony. What could be more perfect?
“I’m just happy I got invited to this party,” he continued, taking a drag. “This was the perfect opportunity.”
A bit of panic leaked into Quackity’s voice. “No, no no no no no, where the fuck are you going, Wilbur?”
He heard Karl and Niki’s voices call out to him when they realized where he was going, much farther behind. They may see it, they may not. He didn’t particularly care.
“No, Wilbur, those—those songs, they had a meaning, and it’s to—to—it’s to... reward your bravery for not—not succumbing to your urge to—”
Wilbur heard him trip and fall, likely on a tree root. He did not turn around to help him up. He kept going.
“Fuck, this is the worst time,” Quackity grumbled. “Shit.”
“It’s fine,” Wilbur called over his shoulder. “As long as you can hear the explosion, I’m happy.”
Quackity’s voice followed him.
“Wilbur, Wilbur, no, fucking listen to me, this is not the time, this is not the time.”
Wilbur almost laughed. “You’re telling me now, you’re acting like you don’t want this, but I can hear it in your voice.” He paused in his footsteps and glanced back, meeting Quackity’s eyes, far behind him, in the light of the moon. “You want chaos as well. You want me to do this, man. You’re just like Techno, you would love it.”
Somehow, that earned a smile from Quackity, however brief. Wilbur turned around and marched on.
“Listen, as much as I love a good explosion, I’ve come to learn that Manberg is a special place. You don’t want to fucking do this. Don’t do something you can’t take back.”
Wilbur quickened his pace. He weaved between trees, sprinted over hills. He was nearly there, he’d press the button and blow up Manberg and no one, not even Quackity, could stop him. They’d all watch. They’d all see as he went up in flames with his symphony.
He was practically vibrating. He would be gone soon, permanently, and so would L’Manberg. He'd be dead. Oh, what sweet relief it would be!
Something landed right in front of him and he screeched to a halt, heart pounding.
Quackity stood in front of him, hands balled into fists, wings spread out to either side. They had grown, Wilbur noticed, molting some of their yellowy down in favour of bright white feathers. How gorgeous they would be when they were fully grown.
Too bad Wilbur wouldn’t get to see them.
“Flying isn’t allowed,” Wilbur muttered.
“You think I care?” Quackity stepped forward, their red string pulling them together. For once, Quackity let it lead him to Wilbur, his hand held in front of him, guiding them closer.
“Listen to me, we can talk about this,” Quackity said. “We have something planned, man.” His voice shook a little, a touch nervous and still drunk. “You know which plan I’m talking about. We’re setting up the meeting, it’s going to happen soon. Just give it one more chance. You don’t have to do this right now. You don’t have to do this.”
He must have seen the desperate, wild look on Wilbur’s face, because he held up his hands in a sort of surrender. “You know what? If—if we foil the meeting, we can—we can go for Plan B. Just... just work with me on this one.”
We can go for Plan B.
A touch of disappointment threatened to snuff out Wilbur’s flame, but hope rose up to take its place. Quackity just gave him permission, if the meeting went awry, to blow up Manberg.
“Really?” he said, voice quiet, unsure if this was even happening. He might still do it. He might still be able to do it. “If... if the meeting goes wrong...”
“As long as you give it a chance. I’ll go through with it if you give Plan A a chance.” Quackity said. He stepped closer to Wilbur, and stuck out his hand. His left one, the one with the string. “Deal?”
Wilbur stared down at his hand. Hesitantly, he placed his own hand against Quackity’s, string slack between them, and shook it.
“Deal.”
Quackity gave a sharp nod. He didn’t let go of Wilbur’s hand. “Okay. I’ll do it, I’ll set up the meeting, and if it goes wrong, I’ll go through with Plan Bomb.”
“When?”
“I...”
“Friday. if the meeting hasn’t gone through by Friday, I’m detonating it.”
Four days. He gave Quackity four days. Unfair, in hindsight, but Wilbur wanted it to fail.
Quackity set his jaw. “Alright. Okay. You’ve given me a timeline. I’ll tell you soon.”
Before Friday.
When Friday came, he gave Quackity an extra day. Quackity would meet with Schlatt and get him to sign a book that would rescind his dictatorship over Manberg. Of course, it did not go to plan.
Moreover, Schlatt found the TNT under Manberg.
Wilbur didn’t stick around to hear much more. He was off, sprinting for the button room as soon as the meeting went sideways.
He heard Schlatt say he did something with the TNT. His heart dropped to his stomach as he beelined for the button room. Plan Bomb was supposed to happen now, right? The explosives would go off, and—and Manberg would be gone.
He reached the button room.
And for a moment, he paused.
Quackity clearly cared about what this country had become, for some reason or another. Destroying it... what would that do?
He called Tommy and listened as Schlatt prattled on, Tommy made threats to kill Schlatt, and Quackity tried to diffuse the situation. Tommy offered to send Wilbur the coordinates of their location. He said he didn’t need them.
Today was the day, he decided.
He couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto his face. This would all be over soon. He would blow it all to smithereens, and he would go with it. He would die today.
“Wilbur, get here right now,” Quackity’s staticky voice demanded through his comms.
Wilbur poised one trembling hand over the button.
He pressed it.
And nothing happened.
His heart seemed to stop beating anyway, just for a moment. No. No, he couldn’t have taken all the TNT, there had to be some left here. There had to be. Otherwise, what was Wilbur supposed to do?
He checked the wall behind the button. He felt like he was going to throw up.
Everything was gone. All of it. Not a single flake of gunpowder to be seen.
He demanded that Quackity and Tommy check Pogtopia, admitted that he pressed the button, and of course, of fucking course, Quackity was all up in arms about Wilbur pressing it even though nothing had even happened. It’s the intention that counts, sure, but no harm done! Except to Wilbur, who was, unfortunately, still alive!
Returning to Pogtopia, the walls filled with hundreds of buttons, was the only relief he’d gotten all day. Any one of them could be connected to the TNT Schlatt moved. Just an ill-timed prank by Fundy, gone terribly awry.
He pressed a couple of them, just for fun. Nothing happened, unfortunately, but if he pressed enough of them, eventually, something might blow.
Quackity stuck to Wilbur like glue on the night of the 6th. To keep him from pressing any more buttons, he’d said.
“I’m not letting you wander around pressing every button in this god damn ravine, Wilbur,” Quackity said when everyone else had turned in for the night. The two of them sat on the ground, leaning against the dirt that hid the entrance to Pogtopia, gazing up at the stars. They passed a cigarette between them and blew smoke into the cold air.
“They’re probably not hooked up to anything,” Wilbur said. “I could press all of them and nothing would happen.”
“Have you? Pressed all of them?”
Wilbur shrugged. “A good chunk of them, yeah. I think something would have gone off by now, you know?”
“Probably.” Quackity blew a lungful of smoke and handed the cigarette back to Wilbur. “But I still don’t—I don’t want you pressing them anyway. You shouldn’t. Don’t get your hopes up thinking one of these is gonna detonate anything, alright?”
Wilbur sighed before bringing the cigarette to his lips. “Nah, I don’t think anything’s gonna blow. Won’t stop me from trying, though.”
“Of course it won’t.” Quackity brought out his vape. “I got a new flavour. It’s chorus fruit.”
“Chorus fruit?”
“It’s bitter, but it’s got a kick.” He took a hit and passed it to Wilbur.
Wilbur stubbed out the cigarette and lifted the vape to his mouth. Quackity was right; it was bitter at first, and then a fruity tang sizzled across his tastebuds. He took a second hit and passed it back.
“So, what, are you gonna watch me? You gonna sit here and be my little watchdog so I don’t go and blow up Pogtopia, is that it?”
Quackity looked him dead in the eye. “Yes. I’m going to stay here until you either fall asleep or promise not to press any more buttons until morning, at least.”
“I don’t sleep easy, Big Q. Sleep is for the weak.”
“Well, maybe you should fucking try! I don’t want you sleep deprived for the 16th. I want you to get a full night’s rest before then so you can actually think a little more clearly.”
“Bold of you to assume I can ever think clearly.”
Quackity snorted. He huffed out a cloud of vapour and the two of them fell into a mildly tense silence. Wilbur turned the burnt cigarette in his fingers.
“Do you remember Niki’s party?”
Wilbur didn’t know where the question really came from. It just crawled out of his throat, unbidden.
Quackity’s shoulders tensed, just the slightest bit. “I... What do you mean?”
“I mean—I mean, how much of it do you remember? Were you drunk at the beginning, or...”
Quackity tapped his vape against his knee. He leaned his head back until it touched the dirt wall. “We sang to each other,” he whispered.
The string on Wilbur’s ring finger seemed to tug at him, itching him to reach out and touch Quackity’s hand. He refrained, but he was tempted.
“Did you mean everything you sang?”
Quackity shrugged. “Some of it.” He flashed a grin. “I won’t tell you which ones were sincere. I’ll let you figure that out yourself.”
Wilbur mirrored his smile. He kept fidgeting with the cigarette until it was a mess of tobacco and paper. He dropped it in the grass and looked up at the sky.
One day we’ll be part of those stars.
Wilbur would be part of them much sooner than Quackity.
“Would you have kissed me if you were sober?”
Wilbur’s voice was quiet when he asked. He almost didn’t want to know the answer. Silence hovered over them for a solid ten seconds, and then Wilbur gave in and turned to face his soulmate.
A pair of lips met his. He was so startled he nearly pulled away, but Quackity’s hand on his shoulder kept him there.
When they kissed at Niki’s party, it had been rushed, desperate, passionate, and tasted of tequila. This was... different. A chaste, closed-mouth peck.
Quackity began to pull away but Wilbur chased him like a man starved, pressing their lips together, and Quackity let him, hand trailing from Wilbur’s shoulder to the back of his neck. He tasted like chorus fruit, tangy and bitter. It was gentle, lovely, perfect. Everything Wilbur didn’t deserve.
But hell, couldn’t he let himself revel in this one thing?
When they finally separated, he felt Quackity’s left hand press something to his chest. He looked down and saw Q’s vape.
Quackity untangled his fingers from Wilbur’s hair and took Wilbur’s other hand, pressed it to his own over Wilbur’s chest. His heart beat like a drum in his ears. The string between them swayed in the breeze.
“Go to bed, Wilbur.”
Quackity stood, hand slipping from Wilbur’s grasp, and descended into Pogtopia.
The 16th rolled around faster than he’d expected.
Not that he’d wanted to put off the war or anything; he gladly marched on Manberg with the rest of Pogtopia to take down Schlatt. But, he just thought he might have a few more nights to spend looking at the stars with Quackity. That’s all.
The battle, as much as it could be called that, went off without a hitch. They surrounded Schlatt, ready to kill him, and although he ended up having a heart attack and dying on his own instead, he was still dead. So really, a winning outcome for everybody, even if no one got to drive a sword through his chest.
And as Tubbo made his announcements to the members of their nation, New L’Manberg, Wilbur watched Technoblade’s finger twitch for a weapon to hold, so close to summoning his withers right then and there.
Wilbur wandered off to the button room.
The fighting would break out soon. Dream would attack, Techno would join the battle, and everything would go to hell in a handbasket. And Wilbur... well, he would go with it.
“What are you doing.”
What he did not anticipate, however, was his father.
“Phil?”
Footsteps echoed off the stone walls as Philza stepped into the button room. Wilbur’s pulse thudded in his ears.
“You said you were in L’Manberg.”
Wilbur hesitated. He didn’t turn around. “This... this is L’Manberg.”
Fuck.
Phil stepped into his line of sight. His large black wings swept the floor, collecting dust. Wilbur’s wings would grow to look like Phil’s. If he lived long enough, that is.
Phil told him not to press the button. For a moment, Wilbur was almost, almost convinced. His father hadn’t come all this way just for nothing; he came here for Wilbur. Would one of Wilbur’s final actions really be to disappoint his father one last time?
He looked into Phil’s eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed the button.
Amongst the rubble, when he drew his sword and handed it to Phil, asking his father to kill him, he swore he could see the heartbreak in Phil’s eyes. Astonished by this... this madman who had swooped in and replaced his wonderful, loving, creative son, he obliged. He respected Wilbur’s last wish and ran him through with the blade.
Wilbur heard Tommy’s anguished scream across the crater that remained of L’Manberg as he whispered, blood bubbling at his lips, telling Phil who the other traitor was, warning him of Techno’s withers and the coming battle. The last thing he felt was his father pulling the sword from his chest.
With his last little bit of energy, Wilbur turned his head to gaze out at the smoking crater. His red string of fate stretched out over the land, leading to a point somewhere in the distance, obscured by the ruins.
He didn’t even get to see Quackity’s face one last time before his vision went.
And then it came back.
Wilbur opened his eyes to a train car. Crimson light glared down at him from the ceiling as the train rattled. His red string hung limp at his side, now a slate grey, cut off at the end, connected to nothing.
The train slowed to a stop, and its doors opened to a concrete platform. He stepped out, hesitant, and the train sped away down the tunnel, leaving him behind.
And thus his thirteen and a half years in hell began.
This is a part of his life (or death, as the case may be) that he’s not too keen on revisiting. No matter whether it’s simply by memory or not.
For he has just been revived, you see.
Exhaustion settles into his bones the moment he sets foot on solid ground. Revival takes a lot out of a person, it seems. But what does he care, really, when the sun is beating down on his face, bathing him in warmth he hasn’t felt in over a decade.
Thirteen years of sensory deprivation, loneliness, claustrophobic grey walls, and he’s back. He’s back.
Dying was the worst decision he ever made.
Tommy meets him in L’Manberg’s ruins (the crater is much bigger than he remembers; he didn’t think he used that much TNT, but what does he know?). Tommy, Tubbo, and their weird little friend Ranboo try to talk to him, explain what happened, but Wilbur, oh, he's running on too much adrenaline to pay any attention. The wind on his face, the sun on his skin, the ground beneath his feet, it's almost too much, but it's glorious.
The string on his hand, red once again, stretches across the landscape toward something far off in the distance. He knows exactly who it would lead to.
He bids farewell to Tommy and his friends and spreads his wings; no longer a warm, chestnut brown, but a pitch black, fully grown, much like his father’s. He can’t wait to find Phil and show him. He'll be so proud.
He lets the breeze wash over him for another moment, and then sets off, following his string.
Fate has given him a second chance. At life or love, it doesn’t matter.
He will not waste it.