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Quackity has cared for Wilbur before, and Wilbur has cared for him, this he knows so very well.
Back in L’Manburg he remembers his rival as a confident man with a reputation of having a bark much worse than his bite, a leader who always knew what to say and when to say it, though never quite knowing when to back down.
But behind closed doors Quackity remembered him as stressed, awkward, and a little sweaty for some reason.
He’ll never get those nervous smiles and cute giggles he got to witness outside the public eye out of his head, they’ll be there as clear as day until the earth reclaims him.
He’ll never get his wings out of his head either.
Quackity has dug through every history book he could get his hands on, looked at every photo of Wilbur in his revolution uniform, he’s even gone through the displeasure of looking through the very few photos there were of Pogtopia, and each time his wings were never documented. The books would always list him as human, which made Quackity’s memory all the more special.
A night walk to calm his nerves the day before the election results, he remembers sitting on a bench by a lake, when a gust of wind rushed overhead him, and when he looked up he saw Wilbur, his political rival with the most beautiful inky black wings he’s ever seen, he would have blended in with the sky if it weren’t for the moon highlighting his every swoop, turn, and twirl.
He wanted to bring it up to him in the morning, tell him how beautiful his display was, but by the time he was finally able to step off the stage and catch his breath from winning with his then husband Wilbur had already fled the country.
The next time he saw Wilbur he was a wreck, wearing a heavy trench coat weighing down his shoulders that looked almost as heavy as his eye bags that laid underneath deep brown pupils that had a revolutionary spark replaced with malice and apathy. He was able to get close to him in the ravine, finally able to speak to him not as a political opponent, not as a possible business partner, but as a person, something that neither of them had been viewed as in a good minute.
He can remember the conversation clear in his mind still, once again the middle of the night, this time in the ravine, huddled close together on a small bed during a cold night when the winds would howl against the stone walls, when the world seemed so loud yet so quiet.
”I saw you fly the night before the results.” He had mumbled into his shoulder, “You’re beautiful Wilbur.” He remembers how he felt him tense up beneath him, he felt him pause before leaning down into him and sighing, not answering him, but simply acknowledging him.
”Can I see them again?” His words were nothing but a whisper, Wilbur was unwell during Pogtopia, he was unstable, but Quackity was patient, Quackity knew he was a glass window that could shatter at any given moment yet he still tried to clean the grime off him as carefully as he could.
He felt wilbur nod into his shoulder that night, letting his coat sag off him and pulling his sweater up over his head, seeing not only his ribs that just stuck out with his worryingly thin figure but a pair of large black wings that shakily spread out in the cold room, he remembers carefully running his palm against the inky feathers to which he felt them shudder, they were large and intimidating, they fit Wilbur but also stuck out like a sore thumb.
”Beautiful.” He whispered, he made eye contact with Wilbur, “Lord, Wilbur you’re a gorgeous man.” And with that he saw Wilbur crack. His stubborn and apathetic walls crumbled in front of him that night, It was the first time he had seen the taller man cry, the first time he heard him sob, the first time he felt Wilbur cling onto him like he wasn’t real, but it wasn’t the last.
The ghost was still fresh in his mind, most likely because it hasn’t been too long since it died, which still was very ironic to him.
The ghost was kind although, that part Quackity does remember, and Quackity also misses the kindness, he knew the ghost was sad deep down he had heard it say that to him one night when he was half asleep, but it’s that selfish part in Quackity that misses the kindness he got from him.
Wilbur was never kind. During the elections he was respectful, during Pogtopia he was apathetic, but Ghostbur, oh Ghostbur. Ghostbur was sweet, caring, kind.
It’s almost funny how a ghost of all things is what got Quackity to sleep when he was dealing with the aftermath of his altercation with Technoblade. The scar was probably the worst pain he’s ever had to deal with, which is why Ghostbur showing up and trying to take care of him, help the injury heal faster, was a memory he held close, but the comforting moment was now bittersweet knowing that the ghost was gone.
”Do you need any water?” Quackity remembers Ghostbur’s echoey voice asking one night, his cold fingers gently rubbing on top his bandaids almost feeling like an ice pack.
”I’d love that ghostbur.” he remembers how he smiled so softly at him before floating off, Ghostbur was a joy to be around and even better to be cared by. He was gentle, he treated Quackity like he was on his deathbed which while was occasionally a little irritating, it was sweet.
Ghostbur came back up with a glass of water, painkillers, and a bowl of cut fruit, it was unnerving how such an apathetic man had a ghost that was so caring. “It’s soft fruit,” he said, “Banana’s and kiwi’s, you won’t have to chew too much, but I can blend them if you’d like!” caring and sweet and kind, Ghostbur was not like Wilbur.
”Can you just hold your hands against my bandaids again?” he remembers asking, “They’re cold, it’s like a more convenient ice pack.” he watched as Ghostbur smiled, placing the cup and bowl on Quackity’s bedside table and laying next to him, covering the bandaged side of his face with his freezing hands and going on to ramble about his day, old stories, and just some general thoughts to Quackity until he fell asleep.
He and Wilbur have cared for each other countless times, so why is it now that with Wilbur standing in front of his desk that Quackity was upset.
“Can you get out of my office?” Quackity barely even glanced at the taller man, his appearance was enough to put a sour taste in Quackity’s mouth, “You’re so mean to me!” he teased, he sat on one of the arm chairs on the other side of Quackity’s dark oak desk, resting his head in his hands while looking at him and trying to read whatever political document Quackity was skimming through, Quackity didn’t stop his snooping.
”Seriously Wilbur I’d rather be left alone right now.” “Oh but why?” He drawled “You know you love my company, I keep you on your toes whenever I’m around.” Quackity didn’t even have to look up to know Wilbur had some stupid grin slapped on his face, “I actually hate your company Wilbur.” Quackity brushed him off, “I hate so much about you that it’s kinda funny.”
”Oh you wound me darling!” Wilbur put his hand to his heart and looked away dramatically before eagerly looking back at him, “What do you hate about me Quackity? I want to hear everything.”
“Well,” Quackity started, setting the paper he was reading down, “I hate that trench coat, it somehow smells worse than your old one.” Wilbur nods, resting his head in his hands again, waiting for his next remark like he was a student waiting for instructions.
”I hate it when you smoke in here, you stink up the office and then it makes me think of you which makes me more irritated.” “Awww you think of me.” Wilbur remarked as he reached into pocket, obviously for a cigarette, which earned a glare for Quackity.
”I hate how you pull off that stupid white streak in your hair, it’s so dumb looking but you make it work!” “Oh I make everything work.”
”I hate your voice! It rings so clearly in my head whenever I think of you! Same thing with your dumb fucking guitar and those stupid songs you play.” “Oh don’t lie to yourself I know you like my music Q.”
”I hate your wings! I hate how you don’t let me see them and I hate how they’re still so beautiful in my mind!” “I— Quackity are you—“
”I hate how I miss the way you were In Pogtopia!”
The room went quiet, Quackity buried his face in his hands, “I asked you to leave.” he muttered, he could feel Wilbur still staring at him, and flinched away when he felt his hand try to caress him. “You can keep talking, I want to know.” Wilbur’s voice was just above a whisper, Quackity looked up at him with hatred in his eyes, but somewhere in there was heartbreak.
”I hate how I miss you when you were sick,” he started, “You fucking killed yourself and I miss it, I miss how you were so quiet and apathetic but still let me hold you, let yourself breakdown in front of me.” Wilbur nodded, listening to him as if he weren’t saying the most selfish things a man could say.
“And I hate how you’re alive now, I miss your stupid fucking ghost he was so sweet, he was too nice, I didn’t deserve him caring for my scar.” Wilbur put his hand to Quackity’s cheek, this time he didn’t stop him, “And I hate how when you were this awkward but confident president we were enemies, I wish I had that sweet guy in front of my desk today.” “But he is, Quackity I’m sitting right here for you.”
“No, no you don’t fucking get it!” Quackity shoved Wilbur’s hand away, “I hate Wilbur Soot. But I miss Wilbur Soot, the headstrong president, I miss Wilbur Soot the fucking suicidal ravine dwelling maniac, I miss Ghostbur the sweetest little ghost I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” he met Wilbur’s eyes, an apprehensive look as he listened to Quackity speak, “But I hate Wilbur Soot, the tall, white streak, revived bitch, who does nothing but sit in my office and annoy me, and makes me miss what he used to be.”
The two of them were silent, Quackity put his head back in his hands with a heavy sigh, “Just— Just get out Wilbur.” “No.” Quackity looked back up at him, now he was a little irritated instead of upset. “Quackity what are we if we’re not messy, I can’t become what I used to be but I can give you whatever else you want, like holding me close or feeling my wings and you can indulge yourself again, we’re messy I love how we’re messy.” Wilbur had that look in his eye, that slightly deranged glint but not in a malicious way, but in a sick “I really like what we’re doing” way.
”You’ll let me indulge myself?” “Of course, we can be rivals in the public eye but I’ll let you have anything from me in private.” Wilbur was eager, thirteen years of death had made him excitable, clingy even.
“Can I see your wings one more time?” Like clockwork his trench coat was off, a large pair of wings extending out of a two rips in the back of the random green sweater he had on, he shook them a bit, black feathers falling down on the hardwood floor of Quackity’s office, they were still as beautiful as the day Quackity had seen them by the lake the night before the election results.
He ran his palms along them, they were soft, and Wilbur leaned into his touch.
So what if the two caved inside Quackity’s office, so what if the two rivals ended up holding each other tight, so what if Quackity fell asleep in the warmth of Wilbur’s wings and so what if Wilbur let it happen, bringing them both to a couch in the corner and so what if the two dozed off in each other’s grasp. It was to remain behind closed doors, away from any prying eyes.