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Quackity was more irritable than normal. Not that he wasn’t always a bitch to some degree, but it was getting really tiring. Wilbur could deal with him at his normal levels, but this was getting to be too much. He was so fucking sick of the constant whining and complaining and general asshole-ery.
Wilbur was ready to make a change in the world, starting with stopping Quackity from giving him more migraines. So, steeling himself for an argument, Wilbur made his way to Las Nevadas. Not that it was very far, but his point still stood.
Almost the second Wilbur’s foot was in the sand of Las Nevadas, Quackity appeared out of seemingly nowhere. He was grimacing, and looked ready to physically fight Wilbur. Wilbur wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to that, but that wasn’t the goal of going to Las Nevadas, so he decided to keep his hands to himself. For now. Maybe. It was up in the air, really.
“What the fuck do you want, Soot?” Quackity asked, crossing his arms as he stomped closer to Wilbur. It wasn’t quite as intimidating as he thought it was intended to be, since Quackity was stomping through sand. More of a toddler-esque waddle, if Wilbur were to describe it. He suppressed his giggle.
“What, so now I need an excuse to see you?” Wilbur responded. He walked closer to Quackity, making sure to lean just a bit too far into his personal space. Wilbur had his signature Quackity Smirk plastered on his face. “That’s a bit rude, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, you do need an excuse to see me.” Quackity shoved Wilbur’s face away, making the man splutter. “Because I don’t want you here.”
“Unkind,” Wilbur said, throwing a hand up to his chest in mock-offense. He fluttered his lashes exaggeratedly. Quackity’s feathers ruffled. “What if I just want to see you?”
“Bullshit,” Quackity snapped. He pulled his wings closer to himself, then splayed them out, then pulled them closer again. Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “What the hell do you want?”
“What’s up with your wings?” Wilbur got close again, this time circling Quackity to try to see his wings better. Quackity didn’t seem keen on letting that happen, whipping around to face Wilbur.
“Nothing’s up with my wings!” Quackity shouted. He glared at Wilbur. That, of course, was nothing new, and therefore did not hinder Wilbur in the slightest. He tried again to get a closer look at Quackity’s wings. “Fucking- Stop that before I give you a real close look at my wings.”
“When’s the last time you preened them?” Wilbur asked, reaching out for the appendage. Quackity yanked his wing away, stepping backwards to try to keep out of Wilbur’s grasp. Wilbur didn’t let that stop him; he had long limbs for a reason.
“None of your business.” Quackity twisted away again, backing up even further. His feathers ruffled again when Wilbur spoke, only to once again be pulled close to Quackity’s body. Quackity’s face was dusted red, which was oh-so interesting to Wilbur. “What do you know about preening, anyway?”
“I grew up with Phil,” Wilbur said with a frown, ignoring the sarcasm in Quackity’s tone. “Of course I know about taking care of wings. How often are you supposed to preen?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Quackity snapped. He made good on his earlier promise, hitting Wilbur with a wing before dancing back. “Often enough, asshole. My preening habits are for me to know. Why do you even care?”
“Why wouldn’t I care?” Wilbur asked. Quackity froze. His wings ruffled again, giving Wilbur a glimpse at the duller-than-normal colors. When he reached for them, Quackity didn’t try to pull away until it was too late.
“What?” Quackity whispered. His wing twitched in Wilbur’s hold, as if he were trying to yank it away unsuccessfully.
“Why wouldn’t I care, Quackity?” Wilbur repeated, running his fingers through the ends of Quackity’s primaries. Quackity jerked, but his wing stayed firmly within Wilbur’s hands. The feathers were dry, which only made Wilbur’s frown deepen.
“Be-because,” Quackity stuttered, “that’s my problem. You’re not supposed to care. And you’re not-” Quackity pulled his wing from Wilbur’s grasp, stumbling backward. “-supposed to touch my wings. I didn’t give you permission to do that. That’s not something someone just… does.”
“I’m not someone.” Wilbur said. Without pausing, he continued. “Let me preen your wings.”
“ What ?” Quackity hissed. “Absolutely not, I don’t need you to preen my wings. I don’t want you to preen my wings.”
“Why not?”
“Because. Now leave me alone.”
“No. Let me preen your wings.”
“Jesus,” Quackity muttered. He scowled at Wilbur. “Preening isn’t something I’m going to let you do, Wilbur.”
Wilbur raised an eyebrow. Quackity typically preferred to use Wilbur’s surname. That meant he was getting to him. This was going to work, he was going to get Quackity’s wings preened if it was the last thing he did.
“Why?” Wilbur stepped closer.
“Fuck off, that’s why.” Quackity stepped back. It reminded Wilbur of a waltz. He was the one leading.
“That’s not a good enough reason,” Wilbur said. He moved closer again. “Tell me why, and I might back off.”
“I don’t need to tell you shit,” Quackity spat. He sidestepped Wilbur, walking backwards toward the center of Las Nevadas. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Wilbur agreed. “I just wanna know why I can’t. Then I’ll let you go.”
“It’s just a private thing,” Quackity said quickly. Like he wasn’t really thinking. “I barely let my fiancés preen me, why in the world would I let you?”
“Because I’m half convinced you haven’t preened since then,” Wilbur said sarcastically, but paused when Quackity didn’t respond. He felt his face go ghostly pale, more than he was used to. Wilbur felt almost sick. “Quackity please tell me that you’ve preened since you last saw Karl and Sapnap.”
Quackity flinched. His face went red, and he turned and rushed back to where Wilbur knew his apartment was. He didn’t give a response.
“Fuck,” Wilbur muttered. Then, louder, “I promise it won’t mean shit. I promise I’ll fucking, stay silent or whatever if that’s what you need. It’s been months, and you’re supposed to preen multiple times a day, Q. Please, just let me help you.”
Quackity halted, stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned, eyes wide but suspicious. His face was still bright red.
“That’s not,” Quackity croaked, then cleared his throat. “That’s not how it works. And I’ve preened since then, asshole.”
“Clearly not much,” Wilbur replied. “We can pretend, then. Pretend it didn’t even happen, go back to our rivalry. Just, let me help you, Q. This once. Please.”
Wilbur watched the emotions flit across Quackity’s face. Thank God, he was considering Wilbur’s offer. Wilbur was a prick, but he didn’t want Quackity to be uncomfortable when Wilbur could do something to fix it. He saw the exact moment Quackity resigned himself to Wilbur’s whims, slumping in on himself, cheeks fiery red.
“Fine,” Quackity acquiesced. He turned and began walking back to his apartment, slow enough that Wilbur could keep up. “Just once.”
“Just once,” Wilbur agreed. He caught up to Quackity easily, standing behind him. It gave him a better view of Quackity’s wings, which looked dry, disheveled, dirty. Wilbur didn’t even have wings and it made him cringe. How hadn’t he noticed before?
The journey upstairs was quiet, outside of the whirring of the elevator and gentle click of dice from the few guests. Quackity fidgeted with his sleeves the whole way up, looking more and more uncertain. Wilbur didn’t say anything.
When they got up to Quackity’s room, he silently went to the bathroom and retrieved a jar of oil for his wings. He set it gently on the bedside table, thumb lingering for a moment over the label. Wilbur didn’t recognize the handwriting as Quackity’s. He looked away.
Quackity glanced at Wilbur, then began slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Wilbur noticed his hands shaking. For a moment, he felt guilt course through his body, and he grimaced.
“You don’t have to do this,” Wilbur said. It had only been a few minutes, but his voice almost felt scratchy, like it had been years since he had last spoken. “Not if you really don’t want to.”
“You pussying out now?” Quackity yanked off his shirt. At some point he had slipped his suspenders off his shoulders, leaving them dangling near his legs. Wilbur shuffled where he stood. He removed his coat, folding it over the edge of one of Quackity’s chairs. Quackity whistled at him; not unlike a wolf whistle, but more… bird-like. “Sit down, I’ll show you how to do it properly.”
“I know how to preen Phil’s wings,” Wilbur said. He followed Quackity’s instructions, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Quackity thrust the jar into his hands, sitting in front of Wilbur with his legs folded beneath him. Like a flower that had folded in on itself. Did that make sense? Oh God, Wilbur was starting to wax poetic. He had to do this quickly, before it was too late. “Is it the same for yours?”
“Probably.” Quackity shrugged. “Just do whatever, and I’ll hit you if you do it wrong.”
“Okay,” Wilbur said. Quackity flashed him a smile over his shoulder, and Wilbur’s stomach sunk. Oh no, he’s hot . Wilbur shakily unscrewed the jar, dipping his fingers into the oil. When the hell had he lost the upper hand? “Let me know if I hurt you or anything.”
Wilbur ran his slick fingers through Quackity’s feathers, straightening (ha, straight) out any out-of-place feathers, of which there were many. He tried to make sure barbules were hooked together, though it was hard to tell. Quackity fluffed out his feathers every few minutes, allowing Wilbur to properly preen all the feathers he couldn’t previously. Wilbur stripped the golden-brown wings of dirt, as well as a handful of broken feathers that he discarded into a pile on the bed.
It wasn’t too long before Quackity was relaxing into the touch. He occasionally trilled or whistled quietly, as Wilbur tried to carefully rearrange his feathers to be comfortable. The feathers certainly were not healthy, far from waterproof, and nowhere near strong enough to fly, but it was a start. Wilbur got lost in the sensation, getting used to the almost-forgotten rhythm. It was what he had done for Phil when he was young, but the new context made him flush.
By the time Wilbur was done, there was a large pile of loose feathers on Quackity’s bed, and the man himself was almost asleep in Wilbur’s hold. He had never seen Quackity quite so comfortable. He wasn’t sure if it made him want to pinch him or kis- kill. Kill him. Made him want to kill him. Fuck. That was what he meant. Kill .
Wilbur extricated himself from Quackity’s wings, gentle as he smoothed out the top of the coverts and primaries. They were shiny, looking significantly better with just the one preening. It made Wilbur smile, even as he struggled to stand without disrupting Quackity too much. Eventually, he stood, making Quackity blink groggily up at him.
“You goin’?” Quackity asked. He leaned back a bit, to where Wilbur had been, and seemed confused about why he wasn’t there anymore.
“Yeah, Q,” Wilbur said. He securely closed the jar, and began walking to the bathroom. “I have to clean up and go.”
Quackity hummed. He seemed far too out of it to be normal. Had it really been that long since he had been properly preened?
Wilbur entered the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He washed his hands, then wet a rag and wiped down the oil jar. Unsure where it was usually stored, Wilbur just set it on the sink.
“Will you be okay here alone?” Wilbur asked as he exited the bathroom, pulling his trenchcoat back over his shoulders.
“Mhm,” Quackity responded, struggling to keep his eyes open. Wilbur sighed and moved to Quackity’s wardrobe, finding a large jumper for the man on the bed. It didn’t seem like Quackity’s normal style, but Wilbur could tell it was something that had been worn plenty. He grabbed it, then carried it over to Quackity, who thankfully pulled it on without any help. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Wilbur responded. He pulled Quackity’s covers over him, hesitating before brushing his hand over Quackity’s face. “What kind of rival would I be if I just let you go?”
“A shitty one.” Quackity yawned, snuggling into the blankets and jumper. He looked up at Wilbur, eyelids drooping but eyes still somehow wide and pleading. Wilbur wasn’t sure how. Maybe he had been taking lessons from Tommy. “Will you come back ‘n help me again?”
“If you want me to.”
“Mkay.” Quackity’s eyes fluttered shut. Wilbur didn’t move until his breathing evened out. He breathed out a sigh, chest aching. God damn it. God fucking damn it. Wilbur hesitated, then pressed a kiss to Quackity’s hair. He left, using all of his self-control to keep going and not look back. He wanted so badly to be in bed with Quackity.
God
damn
it.