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A silent, clear, darkness fell upon the server. But that never stopped anyone from staying awake throughout the night. Not even the hybrid that stood, looming above from atop the needle, golden-stalking eyes watching.
The sky glittered and shifted as stars bursted and moved. The vast ocean of void could shallow the short man whole if it were allowed. But he stayed untouched by the dark. And the city below was also untouched.
Artificial light from the structures shined on the artificial sand, looking like specs of gold. The large buildings illuminated and polluted the dark with their light. Never allowing the birds senses to rest.
And so, his restless eyes were open. Peering down at his city below.
The humid air still made a presence through the breeze that played with Quackity’s raven hair. His fingers tapped on the railing that he leaned against. Thoughts swirled through his head, as always, his mind was running.
A figure made its way over the dunes and Quackity frowned. The long dark jacket the man wore flew behind him dramatically. Quackity could feel the mutual feeling of being watched. He didn’t break the silence of the night though, and allowed the man to approach and enter the building.
It was only a matter of time before the taller male found his way to the other, joining him by the railing.
Silence was finally broken by his deep, british accent, “Hello, Quackity,”
There was a glance in response and a tightening of fingers around the rail.
“Why are you in Las Nevadas, Wilbur?”
Unfeeling, cold words left Quackity’s tongue.
“Oh? Am I not allowed here? You should have told me before I joined you!”
Playful sarcasm always danced around Wil’s tone.
He received a “Tch” and they were greeted by the silent night once more.
It didn’t last long. Never did. As long as the taller man was around, there was always something to be said.
Something to discuss, to sing, to argue. Words and rhythms were never unexpressed by him.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been up here a lot.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, but Quackity wanted to answer.
After a second, “Just clearing my head.”
Quackity’s words seemed to catch the incoming wind and blow away.
But they still fell onto Wilbur’s ears, “Maybe, this would help?”
His voice raised into a higher, more raspy, octave of his voice.
There was some shuffling, the sound of moving fabric. Quackity wanted to look over, but restrained until he heard the faint flick of a lighter.
The orange light highlighted Wilbur’s features. His curly hair, a single separated lock of white curing around a strand. Sunken in eyes looking down and reflecting the light. His lips delicately wrapped around the cigarette in his mouth.
Quackity was entranced by the view and watched as the taller of the two took a hit and breathed out the smoke.
It danced and swirled in the wind.
Wilbur looked like a scene out of a movie.
In a quick movement, he held out the stick to Quackity. Who took it with slight hesitance and put it to his lips.
As he took a hit, “That gives you cancer, Quackity,”
He exhaled a laugh, smoke coming out in puffs through his mouth and nose,
“Shut up, Wil,”
The air around them seemed to become lighter, Quackity’s frame had untensed.
Wilbur smiled softly, “So, what’s up?”
Quackity knew what he was really asking and looked down, the serotonin from his laughter fading.
“What’s your real question?”
Quackity didn’t look over at Wilbur, but he could feel him scooch closer.
A pause, a consideration, “How can I help?”
The hybrid looked over and finally realised how close Wilbur had actually gotten. They were shoulder to shoulder, Wilbur looked down at him with sympathetic eyes.
Quackity hated his sympathy.
The quiet came back. Eyes met eyes for a while.
Quackity wished Wil would move on with the conversation. Bring it to a stupid, lighthearted, topic.
A topic which didn’t involve how badly Quackity wished to lean in.
To do what shouldn’t be done.
To do what shouldn’t be done with his rival.
His enemy.
His friend.
But Wilbur was quiet and so was Quackity.
The hybrid was drawn in, acting on impulses.
And the man leaned down, meeting him in the middle.
As their lips made contact, Wilbur's dry, cracking, ones to Quackitys' smooth ones; Quackity was brought back to their Pogtopia days.
The nights they would talk about a far future underneath the low lamp light. The cold, clammy, claustrophobic cave surrounded the two of them. Not daring to speak above a whisper, due to the possibility of their voices echoing through the cavern. Waking those who should not be awoken.
Sneaking long, almost affectionate, glances at each other. Not an impulsive thought was acted upon because they were dangerous thoughts.
Thoughts that could not and should not be acted upon.
So, the two of them decided on shared cigarettes, glances, and silent conversations.
But that was an eternity ago, almost equivalent to an alternate reality. The trust they once shared in one another was now foreign. Gone in the wispy foe desert wind.
Quackity knew one simple truth:
Trust makes you vulnerable.
Vulnerability gets you hurt.
And that pain causes death.
Therefore, from Quackity's equation, trust gets you killed.
but as they pulled away, and Quackity looked into Wilbur's peaceful dark eyes.
He thought that,
Just maybe,
He was willing to die for this man.