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Quackity stepped outside into the cold January air, the maroon scarf wrapped around his neck and the mask that clung around his ears both doing nothing to stop the icy breeze from perpetrating his lungs and causing him to gasp. He zipped his dark blue coat up and started to briskly walk in the direction of the main street.
In his hand was a quickly scribbled list of groceries: soy milk, rice noodles, honey, red wine. Quackity quickly mapped out the route to the tiny corner shop nearest to his flat in his head, doing so in a matter of seconds. The town wasn't exactly large.
Before long, he was outside the entrance of the place, opening the door tentatively and listening to the creak of the hinges. A bell tinkled above his head as he walked in.
Quackity was the only one in the shop save for the tired-looking cashier, and it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. His footsteps sounded loud and intrusive. Glancing down at the list, he noticed the milk fridge immediately in front of him. Not wanting to look indecisive, he quickly picked out a carton of unsweetened soy milk and went on to the next food on the list. Rice noodles. Unsure of where they would be, he awkwardly walked up to the cashier, who was snapped out of some kind of fatigued trance.
"May I help you?" she smiled, adjusting her raven-black hair that flopped in her eyes.
"Uh... Do you sell rice noodles?" Quackity asked, scratching the back of his neck with a free hand. The cashier nodded, and gestured to the aisle at the very end of the shop.
"It's with the pasta."
Quackity thanked her and quickly walked over to the pasta aisle, picking out a two packets of noodles.
Oh.
He put one back, before suddenly being hit by a sneezing attack. Pulling his mask down and retrieving a tissue from his pocket, he caught most of it. His eyes were left red and bloodshot from the sudden outburst. With the clean part of the tissue, he wiped his forehead. It was warm. Too warm.
Maybe he should pick up some medicine on the way back.
But not now. He had food to buy. His hands were getting full as he nestled the honey in the crook of his elbow so that he could choose the wine with his other hand.
Although the shop was small, there somehow was still a whole aisle of wines to choose from.
Setting the rest of his groceries down on a nearby table, he browsed the aisle for a couple of minutes before picking out a normal-looking bottle. Looking at the label, he didn't recognise it.
He did recognise it.
Quackity stepped back, sore eyes widening as the edges of his vision blurred. This was their wine. Wilbur's wine. All of a sudden, memories of the pair getting drunk on wine almost every week while Wilbur would recount stories from his recording sessions came to the surface.
Memories of the party they held, just the two of them, after Wilbur finally secured a tour date.
Memories of the night before he left, when Quackity cried into Wilbur's shirt, begging to come with him on tour.
Wilbur always said no.
Memories of the first time he ever was drunk on his own, screaming his heart out to angsty love songs from his childhood.
Memories of desperate calls to his other, cut short by terrible excuses of signal or sickness.
Memories of drunkenly sobbing to Wilbur over voicemail. Memories of Wilbur trying to call every single day for three months, no matter what. Memories of three months' worth of missed calls.
The wine bottle slipped from Quackity's grip, and he barely registered the crash of glass on the floor and the sight of blood red wine covering the floor. Quackity took two steps back until his legs promptly gave out from underneath him, and he sank to the floor, tears escaping his eyes.
Rubbing them dry, he looked up to see the cashier standing over him with a slightly concerned expression. He couldn't tell if the expression was for him or the wine rapidly making its way towards the till.
"Sir, you're going to have to pay for that."
Right. The wine.
Quackity stared at the mess, horrified.
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Oh my god," he started. "Holy shit. I did not mean to do that." The cashier shook her head, sighing.
"It's fine. Not like I'm the cleaner. Now get up."
Quackity quickly stood up, his face red and sweating from the apparent fever. He picked his groceries up from the table and payed for them as fast as he could.
He was almost grateful to be back in the crisp air. The experience he had just had was probably enough to give him a headache for the next week.
Maybe the smashed bottle was a metaphor.
Pushing the events of the day out of his mind and wiping his brow, he crossed the almost barren street and made his way to the pharmacy. Right. His cold.
Breathing as deeply as he could, he entered the shop illuminated by bright white lights. This would be fine. Nothing in here reminds him of Wilbur.
Browsing the products that promised ailments to almost every illness, Quackity's eyes landed on a small section for colds. He picked up his usual paracetamol - for the headaches - before he noticed a box of fever tablets. In interest, he turned the box over to read the ingredients. He had always liked reading ingredients of medicines - the complicated words intrigued him.
Stood in a trance reading the back of the fever tablets, Quackity barely registered the footsteps of another person entering the store until the man in question was standing opposite him, on the other side of the shop island. He quickly glanced up, their eyes meeting.
Quackity stared in shock at the man standing before him. The curly brown hair, the dark eyes, the teal sweater. Was the fever making him hallucinate? Or was this--
"Wilbur?"