Work Text:
The most cruel way for a love to die is to have it fizzle out, like a faulty firework. There’s no big argument, there’s no declaration that things are over. One morning he just woke up and realized he hadn't called his lover in weeks, and he hadn’t called either.
And it’s impossible to believe when just months ago Quackity sat tucked into Wilbur’s side, as he’d played song after song. The angle must’ve been awkward but Wilbur never complained. Every once in a while Wilbur would look over at Quackity, with such a warmth in his eyes and ask him what he thought.
Quackity would laugh, and tell him it sounded the same as all of his other songs. Beautiful, heartfelt, little love poems for him. Wilbur never told him they were about him, but Quackity had been to his concerts, he’d read the lyrics. He knew they were about him.
Then, at the end of the song, Wilbur would set his guitar down, and they’d curl up on Quackity’s old, half falling apart orange couch. They’d turn a movie on, or they’d sit in silence, just idly chatting hand in hand. Eventually they’d fall asleep right there, waking up in the morning with stiff backs but no complaints.
Things had been so simple, Wilbur’s music hadn’t yet taken off, both of them were working shitty part time jobs and soaking up every minute they had with each other.
But of course, the good times couldn’t last forever. Wilbur was gone, and yet Quackity still had that awful couch. They’d always talked about how they were going to cope with the long distance, especially as Wilbur was prepping for his first tour. They never discussed what they’d do if Wilbur got too busy to answer his calls.
Maybe that was their failing.
Maybe they’d talked about all the wrong things, talking about calling every day when they should’ve talked about how they were supposed to cope with spending holidays alone. Or waking up every day expecting someone to be there who wasn’t. Or watching people online theorize who the songs were about, picking random bandmates, like Sally, the redhead bassist or any other women Wilbur interacted with.
And Quackity knew it wasn’t his fault, but his heart needed something to blame and Wilbur wasn’t there to defend himself. If Quackity was being honest, he didn’t think he would even try to defend himself. Instead he’d take Quackity in his arms and murmur apology after apology, pressing kisses into his hair. And all of his problems would fade away like tears in an ocean, the cold that had settled into his body without Wilbur nearby would disappear and thaw his frozen heart.
But Wilbur wasn’t here. And he never would be again. He would never pick up the sweater long forgotten about in Quackity’s closet, he would never sit on Quackity’s couch, he would never play another song for him. Quackity would no longer be his muse, just a shadow of his past.
And so Quackity sat, on the floor between his bed and his desk. Wilbur’s sweater wrapped around his arms, a bottle of whiskey opened and tucked to the side. Quackity was never much of a drinker, but desperate times called for desperate measures and there were few lengths he wouldn’t cross to not feel his heartbreak. He uncorked the bottle and poured it into one of the fancy glasses.
He took a swig of the drink, ignoring the burn as it ran down his throat. Rolling the sleeves of Wilbur’s sweater up, Quackity leaned back resting his head against his bed. Quackity grabbed his phone, which he’d left beside the whiskey bottle, and with shaking hands, opened up his voicemail box.
Wilbur’s voice rang through his bedroom, his voice shaky and desperate. “Quackity?” He said, sniffling. “I-I know you’re not going to answer, I just, if you listen to this, please call me back, I’m sorry, can we please just talk-” Quackity stopped the voicemail, deleting it.
He scrolled, hitting another. Wilbur sounded more tired in this one, the date was later than the first. “I know you aren’t listening to these, I just don’t know what to do, I can’t cancel the tour, you know that.” There was a sigh. “Please just call back Quackity, I need to hear your voice, please. We can work this out-” He deleted that one as well.
Quackity went through, deleting voicemail after voicemail, taking swigs from his drink when the ache became too much to bear. Then, he came to the last one. He stared at it for a moment, the “Wilbur ❤” practically burned into his eyes. It was the latest one, from over two weeks ago. Quackity hadn’t heard from him since.
Hesitantly, Quackity pressed play. Wilbur’s words were slurred, and Quackity could hear noise in the background, talking, music. “I promised m’self I wouldn’t call you anymore, and y’know what? I was never r’lly fuckin’ good at keeping m’ promises anyway .” There was shuffling, and Wilbur spoke to someone else briefly before continuing his train of thought. “I kept thinking to m’self what I did wrong, and why you won’ answer. I think I fuckin’ figured it out.”
Wilbur laughed, a broken bitter thing. “I was never good enough f’r you, I never treated you the way I was ‘posed to. I just… up and left. Find someone better, okay? Someone who would take you with ‘em. Better than me. Jus’ be happy, promise me that, even if you never call back.” And then with a click, the message ended.
Quackity’s finger hung over the delete button, it was almost taunting him, the way the red text stood out against the white, blurring more and more as his eyes grew wet. Wilbur told him to move on, he knew everything Quackity did. And yet something in him kept him from deleting the message, erasing the last traces of Wilbur’s voice from his life. He turned the phone off.
He took another swig of his whiskey, recapping the bottle. He then pushed himself to his feet with a loud crack, taking the glass and the whiskey with him. Wiping his tears as he left the bedroom, Quackity made his way to the kitchen. His curtains were drawn shut, hiding the night’s sky from his view, and the wooden floors were cold under his feet.
Standing over his sink, half-empty glass in his hand. Quackity sighed pouring the remainder of its contents down the sink. “I’m sorry Wilbur.” He whispered, voice weak, to the empty night. “I can’t keep that promise.”
Wrapping his arms around his body, Quackity walked over to the orange couch. He sat down, ignoring how the cushions dug into his skin. In another life, maybe Wilbur would’ve joined him on that couch, his warmth negating any need for a blanket.
In another life maybe they would’ve laughed, and kissed and ranted about their respective shifts at work. They would’ve talked about their future, rented a place together, adopted two cats and a dog. They would have hardships of course, but all hardships are more bearable with someone’s hand to hold. And most importantly, in this other life, they would be happy.
But this was not that life. And in this life, Quackity sat alone, as did Wilbur, thousands of miles away. Tomorrow, Wilbur would go onstage, perform to a crowd that has no idea who Quackity is, basking in the flashing lights and the crowds full attention on him and his band’s music. Tomorrow, Quackity would go to work, and pretend none of this night happened as he nursed his inevitable hangover.
Maybe moving on just wasn’t for him.