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Wilbur Soot is beautiful.
Quackity knows this.
From voice, to eyes, to hair and body.
Quackity has never had the best luck with love.
His first was all firey passion, pure and untamed.
It burned him.
It hurt him.
His second and third together were all kisses and cuddles, soft and calm.
But it wasn’t enough.
Like how too much sugar can give you cavities, it left him with a quiet but unbearably painful ache.
They, not to mention, abandoned him too.
The scar across Quackity’s eye is one of many, but it’s left to hold every emotional scar he’s ever had to endure. Every hit, bruise, ache, and anything else is held by a jagged, light pink, scar spanning from his eyebrow to bottom lip. It’s a reminder to how much has happened to him, how much he’s lived through.
He wants to tear the stupid thing off.
He never wants to see, or subject anyone to the ugly thing.
He wants the crimson red to spill from where light off pink used to rest.
But Quackity is president. Quackity cannot let anyone know of any weakness he possesses. It could kill him. He’s incredible at hiding himself from the public, at wearing a mask, at performing and still getting through it.
Usually.
Quackity takes a drawl from his cigaret, he exhales a puff of smoke that frames Wilbur’s face.
Wilbur is covered on scars. Every inch of the man isn’t smooth. There’s acne, and scars, and burns, and anything under the sun that someone could find unsightly is there. Wilbur covers himself in long sleeves and thick fabric, but not because he’s ashamed or displeased with his skin. He has stated to Quackity before that he actually takes pride in his scars. He loves them is what he says. They show just how much he’s been through he says.
Quackity doesn’t know why, but it makes him want to cry.
A lot things have started making Quackity want to cry.
”What are you thinkin’ about?” Asks Wilbur, his voice smells of cigaret smoke.
Quackity could answer honestly…
Or he’ll lie.
”Nothing.” Quackity decides is a good answer. Wilbur raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’ve been staring at me for three minutes now.” Wilbur says, his voice is butter smooth.
Shit.
Quackity feels the blood rush to his face as it’s taken by a vibrant poppy red. “I- I just spaced out.”
“Judging by… this,” Wilbur responds, gesturing at Quackity’s now red face. “You’re thinking about something.”
Quackity sighs.
Wilbur is annoyingly easy to talk to. His demeanor, face, voice, speech patterns… It’s all so welcoming to Quackity. It makes Quackity want to cry into his shoulder, be loved and cared for… anything. And he knows Wilbur is willing to do that. He know Wilbur WANTS to do that.
But they’re supposed to be enemies, rivals, anything but what this is.
But then again, they’ve never been famous for their ability to follow through.
”Everything. You, me, Las Nevadas, us.“ Quackity whispers honestly.
”Oh. And why’s that?” Wilbur questions, scooting slightly closer to Quackity with another drawl of his cigaret.
“Why are you like this?” Quackity asks, Wilbur’s mask of indifference cracks for a moment before repairing itself. “I- You- You’re just too much… You’re perfect. Y- you do anything you set your mind to without fail! It’s fucking exasperating! I- We’re supposed to hate each other! Be rivals, enemies! Not this! But I WANT this! I WANT to be safe with someone finally, be cared for and care! But that’s just going to hurt me. It always ends up hurting me…” Quackity blurts, the words tumbling out of him without his permission. Tears start to barrel down Quackity’s cheeks, his face is red as hics, and hiccups, and squawks, and warbles start to spill from his mouth without his permission. He hates it.
Wilbur silently pulls Quackity close, he wraps his arms around him and cards his fingers through his hair.
It’s silent but needlessly comforting.
Quackity buries his face into Wilbur’s shoulder. His tears soak into Wilbur’s Trenchcoat, he hopes he doesn’t mind.
Quackity can feel himself being lifted, his arms and legs are still wrapped tightly around Wilbur’s torso. He finally starts to quiet down, his cries become silent.
”W- Wilbur?! Why do you have Quackity? Where are you going with him?” Quackity can hear Fundy ask, part of him wants to say something but Wilbur does before him. “Where is his room?” Wilbur asks his son quietly. “I-“ Fundy looks to Quackity who nods. “It’s um, it’s down the hallway to the left…?” Fundy whispers, his ears and tail twitch a bit. Wilbur nods and walks through the hallway, stopping at Quackity’s room and walking in. Wilbur sits himself and Quackity onto the couch, he holds Quackity close and starts to carefully preen the golden yellow wings he’d grown to love.
Wilbur silently thumbs tears off of Quackity’s face, he takes care to wipe them off of his scar especially.