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The sky is an inky black, suffocating the stars with what little light they produce. It's empty and depressing compared to the deceiving glares of Las Nevadas. His pride and joy but oh, so cruel. Unloving and deceptive with all that it is. It's alright though, Quackity's known he's unlovable like he knows his blood spills red.
The moon, a blinding contrast to the sky but akin to Las Nevadas. The scarred man wonders if they're alike in another way.
Perhaps the moon lies about itself too.
Vaguely, he thinks he's projecting, but dismisses it for just the truth. It's factual because it's science; it can be proved. (Like how he'll never go back to being beautiful. Scars and bruises will be stained upon his skin like a birthmark)
Clearing his thoughts, The male notices that its a little chilly out, with a cool breeze that seeps into his once pristine shirt and drains any warmth. He thinks he can feel the air put pressure on his chest and squeeze his lungs, suffocating them like a hydraulic press. Pressing, pressing, pressing and his organs will burst in colors of red (He wishes it were gold)
It almost makes Quackity miss his blue jacket back in manburg, but then he remembers the memories with it and he thinks he'd rather settle for wrapping his arms around himself. Better to keep himself warm than bringing those memories back, he supposes as he trudges toward his safe haven, or at least the only thing that felt like it at this point.
Who knows though, it could be blown to bits at any given moment.
He needs to quit getting attached to simple things like a goddamn building. He also needs to listen to his own fucking advice, if he's gonna be real with himself. Sure says a lot about himself if he doesn't even follow his own words. He would reflect on that later but he's currently busy enough, he reasons. (He is a liar)
Overall, Quackity thinks he needs to do a lot of things, yet he never seems to get around to doing so.
The floor below him switches from sand to hard tile as he walks and he almost trips. He outwardly cringes at the significantly louder clack his shoes make at his mistake and silently praises his need for this building to be private to the public, at least no one heard that (unless someone is following him).
He continues his journey to the top of the needle and presses the button on the elevator.
He's fuckin rich, of course he's gonna have a personal elevator since no one else uses it. Sue him, he's got worse things to worry about.
The elevator announces it's arrival with a ding! And Quackity thinks he quite likes it. The duck wishes things really were so simple. Why couldn't people just be alerted by the press of a button? It's make things in life easier (distantly, he recalls a certain button ruins everyone's life, including his)
He steps into the elevator and unconsciously fixes his shirt. It's ruffled now, like him but he thinks he can at least fix something as easy as his own clothing. He's unfixable with all the damage that he has and is. Quackity is both the victim and the abuser, a paradox of illness and brutality.
His hair is a mess, hair sticking up in different directions and scratching the back of his neck. The feeling makes him want to rip it all out by hand. Maybe that'd be nice; to let it all out and unfiltered pain.
His scar also aches due to the unnaturally chilly weather. The Mexican supposes that's what happens when you build a desert in a place that actually snows. His scar has hurt all day, not quite painful enough to completely dull his senses, nor have him writhing in his bed, but it's distracting and makes him irritable now.
The duck breathes a sigh of relief as he takes a step out of the elevator when it reaches the top of the needle and he's so happy to finally be able to rela-
That. Bitch
On the other side of the balcony, Quackity recognizes that iconic ratty coat, about as tattered and broken as its owner. He is pissed as he marches up to the man and jabs a finger in his chest with about as much force as he can muster.
"What the fuck are you doing here? He screeches with an undignified tone ,offended, by the nerve of the scumbag that dared to waltz into his own place.
Wilbur feigns hurt and seems like he can't decide whether to raise an eyebrow or put his hand up in a harmless manner, "I don't get a warm welcome? Perhaps a drink or something on the house, or even a greeting before immediately berating me?"
"I could give less of a flying fuck about where the fuck you're up and tainting. I was happier in those days you were gone than I've been in my whole damn life. Happier, than the moment Schlatt kicked the bucket."
Quackity does not have time for Wilburs antics now but he has no choice but to bet his fair share of coins in the middle.
The duck flares his wings in an aggressive manner although it does no more than shake out some loose feathers. They've been underdeveloped from the start, binding then clearly hasn't helped either. He needs to stop losing so many feathers. Between ripping them out and natural means by stress, he's not gonna have anymore
Focusing back on the task at hand, Q notes that the others' red eyes speak of a moment of importance as he opens his mouth. (The red reminds him of a red flag) The duck can already sense the pathetic, pity gathering tactic so he isn't surprised when the brunette utters these words.
"You know, I tried to kill myself the other day." Wilbur confesses, and Quackity thinks the sinner is asking for forgiveness.
With the same level of bluntness as the sinning man, Quackity replies, "I'm not surprised. I started to wonder when you'd show up again to annoy me. It got a little boring without you, I almost thought you had done it." His voice lifts a little and changes into something sinister as it's spoken.
It's a low blow admittedly, but Quackity can't help the cruel satisfaction of feeling the way his face shifts into an ugly sneer and his scar twists further with his features, the way spit flies from his lips like acid and rotting butterflies dance in song in his stomach from such a vile statement. It's raw and disgusting, the rush he gets from this.
This, he thinks, is why he is unlovable. He is as unforgiving and ill as the ones who hurt him.
The scarred man doesn't think he'll give this up, even if it means healing. Maybe this is also why he will never be anything but venom. (Wilbur and him are alike aren't they?)
It's exhilarating riling the other up. Why else would he enjoy the agony of the other? He supposed their both fucked up though, because he feels satisfaction as the wolf raises its hackles and lunges.
Wilbur, taking the bait, tenses up and his face contorts into a furious picture of barely concealed anger. On the outside, it seems like he is mildly pissed off.
Quackity knows better. He knows Wilbur is fuming, with anger scorching hot and ready to burn. To blaze a red brighter than any flag and that is the beauty of it.
If Wilbur is a fire, burning bright and violent, then Quackity is the lighter.
He is the gasoline that evokes and highlights the alarmingly empty, dark space, where the other's heart should lie. He is blind in one eye but not to the other's malice. They are enablers to each other's toxicity. It's morbid and vomit inducing but he loves to play this game.
They love this game of tearing each other to skin a bone. Ripping chunks out of another until they are rotting, bodies left out to the crows.
They would have no funeral, because they are unloved. No one will love or miss them. They are all they have, each other and their self sabotaging habits.
It is later though, when they are tired and flies inhabit their corpses when the curtain falls and the actors go home.
It's a cigarette offered by bloodied hands like a carcinogenic apology. An apology to further damage the duck but with the intent of a truce. Just how the ravenette likes it.
There's smoke billowing out of the cancer stick and there's blood leaking from his heart.
They don't talk about it, and they don't mention the damage or how to fix it.
They don't bother to.
Their relationship can be akin to scabs. It's mixed answers whether a scab heals faster when it's picked at or heals slower.
Either way they don't care enough (They are too sick) to fix anything.
So, with ichor dripping like rivers on skin and lungs inhale smoke like second nature, they stand there in silence. Staring at the inky black consuming anything like the black holes where their hearts should be.