Chapter Text
Wilbur didn't like a lot of things in his life.
He hated how much pain there was; how much he'd hurt people. He hated Phil. He hated how Phil had married his mum. He hated how his mum had died. He hated how his best friend had left him, he hated how fucked up that entire situation was. I mean, seriously, who just abandons their friend for three years and comes back to ruin their life?
He hated how much he missed Sally. He hated what she'd done to him. He hated how he'd hurt Fundy.
He hated himself too. That was easier for him to critique.
He hated the way his body looked too masculine (he didn't want to question that too much).
He hated the way his eyes were mismatched. He hated the way his hair could never seem to look good, always seemingly falling in front of his face, always frizzing up after being in the wind for less than a second, that stupid grey streak always far too noticeable for his liking. He hated his freckles. He hated the way his clothes never fit him, too skinny for his jumper and coat to stay on his shoulders, belt on the tightest loop, yet he could never bring himself to eat. He hated the way he could see his bones jutting out, practically protruding from his skin. He hated the stupid scar(s).
He hated how tired he looked. He hated how his voice sounded. He hated how he could feel the maggots curling around his brain, how he could feel the flowers twisting around his bones, how no one had buries him, left his corpse to rot, how no one saw the bugs he coughed up.
Even colours had started to dull. What used to be a vibrant sun had turned into a yellow ball of yarn in the sky. The once bright sky looked dusty, devoid of any emotion. Stars looked dim, the moon a taunt. He used to love colours, used to sit and watch the moon with his mum; now it felt false.
Wilbur didn't like alot of things.
But he loved Las Nevadas.
He loved it in the day, when the sun cast a yellow and orange glow, the sun honey-coloured and the quartz buildings a soft caramel. He loved the warmth. Wilbur could sit against a building and bask in the sun. He loved how people were waiting for the sun to set so they could go to clubs (not that they ever closed anyway). He loved how he could see people walking around, some old, some young. He liked watching older couples renew their vows, he liked watching teenagers run excitedly into shops. He liked the way Quackity thought he was intimdating while "threatening" him. Wilbur knew it was empty. He knew the signs; knew how Quackity always looked to the left when he lied, how his wings twitched a certain way, how he'd clench his fists and grit his teeth. He knew Quackity, knew him too well; and they both knew it.
He loved the way he could see how happy Fundy was there, and Tommy. He loved when Tubbo and Ranboo would laugh about Wilbur and Quackity behind their backs while walking down the street.
He loved the pale blue skies, cloudless on a good day.
He loved how the sun set over the buildings, how the shadows grew across the floor. He loved how the skies turned to a buterscotch and cotton candy milkshake, the sky a dusky purple-blue, clouds pink and sun golden. He loved how it reflected onto everything, buildings turning a pretty sort of orange; the soft caramel fading into a dark treacle. He loved watching people start drinking, starting to stumble to the next bar or club. He loved how the sky contrasted where the sun claimed the West and the moons claims the East, how the divide of dusk blue and silk clouds and dawn blue and golden orange clash. Wilbur can never tell if it's in a fight or a dance.
He loved the night the most.
He loved the way the lights hit the windows of Quackity's penthouse; how he knew Quackity was watching the city behind one sided windows. He loved how he could see people stumbling around and knocking things over in a drunken-haze.
He loved how he knew Quackity was watching him from the shadows as Wilbur 'snuck' into whatever bar or club seemed the most busiest. He knew how Quackity followed him in there and pretended as though Wilbur had followed Him.
He loved their little game. He loved how Quackity's ring-clad hands felt as they punched him, loved how he felt the lingering touch for days afterwards until it happened again. He loved the feeling of his head hitting the wall when Quackity threw him against the wall; the dull ache enough to cum in his fucking pants because it was Quackity, and Quackity was near him and Quackity was giving him the time of day.
He loved the feeling of Quackity's hands when he handed Wilbur a drink, when they were both too drunk to process Wilbur wasn't allowed in Las Nevadas. He loved the feeling of Quackity's lips on his neck, teeth biting into his flesh, praising him for doing so much as existing, and Wilbur knows that even though it's sex and it's normal to be like that, Wilbur can't help but feel like he's loved, and the sweetness of Quackity's voice makes a domestic part of his brain - a part he thought was dead until he met Quackity - hum with a pleasant buzz as though he'd taken a shot of whiskey; Quackity's favourite. He wonders if it's wrong not to tell Quackity that he's dead, but when Quackity touches him he feels alive and the words fizz and die in his throat and is replaced by a noise that Quackity kisses away and Wilbur reaches his hand to pull Quackity closer; if he can.
Wilbur took a drag of the cigarette he doesn't remember lighting and the burn of the smoke makes his heart race and he inhales too quick, coughing.
Quackity laughs next to him, breathy and amused. He leans on the banister of the balcony, back resting on the shiny metal, looking over to the side at Wilbur.
He's saying something, and Wilbur doesn't process it; he can't - not when Quackity's so perfect and his lips are moving. They stop, and Wilbur's gaze flicks up to his eyes and Quacktiy is looking at him confused.
"Are you..alright?" Quackity asks, turning around to face the country in a similar way Wilbur is; with his arms over the railing, holding the cigarette Wilbur doesn't remember passing to him and takes a drag.
Wilbur nods. He doesnt trust his voice. He exhales and looks back to Las Nevadas and Quackity hums, doing the same. Wilbur glances over.
Quackity's beautiful, tanned skin in pink lighting, honey eye like gold-dust, and Wilbur can't see his scarred one (much to his dismay), hes sure it's like stardust; bleak grey and pink like a desolate galaxy.
Quackity's like a primrose in a field of orange lillies, a black dahlia in a meadow of dandelions, tulip-coloured lips and scarred skin that Wilbur kinda sort of wants to run his lips against. Quackity's beautiful to Wilbur. Wilbur likes to think he's beautiful to Quackity; but he knows that's not the case. Quackity hates everything about Wilbur, and it's meant to the the same for him, but Wilbur can't help but melt whenever he feels Quackity's prescence.
It's a strange feeling knowing why he feels this way, and professionals would (and have) tell him it's a fake feeling his brain's trying to mimic, but Wilbur knows it's real. He's only felt this way about one other person; someone forgotten by time. People just don't understand him and maybe they never will.
Quackity hands Wilbur the cigarette, and Wilbur touches his fingers as he takes it, before opening his mouth to talk. and his nerves are instantly set alight. Quackity hums again, opening his mouth to say something.
Before he can, Wilbur takes the final drag of the cigarette.
"I love you." He says quickly, dropping the cigarette on the metal floor and stepping on it.
He wipes his nose and sniffs, sighing and starting to walk away.
"I..-I'll go. I'm not even- allowed to be here." He chuckles, turning back to look at Quackity. His heart breaks a little bit. Quackity looks upset, conflicted. He sighs a little bit.
"You can stay. If you want.." He says, gaze flicking to Wilbur and the floor.
"Also pick up your fucking litter, you degenerate."
Wilbur laughs a little, but he obliges, leaning down to pick up the cigarette butt and leaning over the balcony. He holds it in his hand, insepcting it. Quackity raises an eyebrow at him, and Wilbur can't help but annoy him. He flicks it, and leans over a bit more to watch it fall to the city below. He smiles a little at the disbelieving scoff Quackity lets out.
"Are you Kidding me, Wilbur? You could've just walked like..3 fucking metres into my fucking room to put it in a fucking bin or something-"
"Mr Alexis, are you inviting me into your room?" Quackity scoffs hits him on the shoulder and Wilburs nerves set alight again, the place where theyre connected feeling warm and fuzzy, head blurred with whatever drug Quackity laced the air with.
"You wish."
Quackity smiles up at him, a small red tint to his cheeks, before turning back to look at the lights and people down below. Quackity's hand (still on his shoulder, Wilbur notices) trails down his hand, lingering for a few seconds before pulling away. Wilbur pouts and reaches for it again, taking a sharp inhale once he realises what he did. Quackity doesn't say anything, just squeezes his hand gently and Wilbur bites his lip, trying not to cry. He holds Quackity's hand properly, smiling when he looks over and sees that Quackity is smiling.
He exhales and looks out to the city. He can almost feel Quackity's pulse. He's happy here, he decides. He exhales and Quackity's thumb rubs against his knuckle. Wilbur looks at the shining lights of Quackity's country and closes his eyes. The sound of music and people cheering and laughing and Quackity's breathing reaches his ears, which twitch at the noise. His eyes are half-lidded when they open again, lights blurred with tears and he makes a little sound. Quackity's gaze snaps over to him and he curses himself for making a big deal out of it. Quackity shushes him and reaches up to play with his hair, long and curly.
Wilbur's always liked it long. He looks in a mirror and sees something almost reminiscent of himself.
...Maybe he shouldn't think about that too much.
He cries, gripping onto Quackity's waist and hiding his face into his neck, and Quackity doesn't say a word, just sits there and holds Wilbur close. Wilbur thanks him for not speaking.
Purple and pink lights shine on them, and Wilbur's tears smudge across his face and look like glitter and his hairs more messed up than usual and his face is flushed and as he pulls away, Quackity stares at him with such adorating in his eyes. In some weird way, Quackity thinks he's never looked better; eyes dark and shimmering in the light, glittery tears sparkling across his face, lips dark pink and bitten. Hes absolutely stunning in pink lights. Fucking beautiful, Quackity thinks, and he's never been more sure of anything in his life.
They turn back to the city together, hand in hand. The lights changed to a nice teal blue and Quackity's wings flutter happily in the corner of Wilbur's eye. Quackity likes teal. It's airy, peaceful; and so is Wilbur. Behind the tired, manic eyes and the explosive behaviour, Quackity knows Wilbur; inside and out. He knows every inch of his scar tissue, knows how he actually feels, can read him like an open book.
Wilbur thinks he likes that.