Work Text:
Quackity’s hands shake as if there’s a constant tremor moving through his wrists, pulling his fingers away from doing the right thing. From listening to him.
Things have been strange for a while. He can’t remember some things. Some people. He can’t remember one specific man, but when he saw his face, he knew it wasn’t the first time. He knew those curls, those eyes, that smile. All he managed to do when he saw him, though, was stutter out, “Nice to meet you.” (And he definitely was not blushing.) Ever since that day, it had been impossible to slip a word in. He was busy, understandably so, trying to find his lost daughter.
He’d see him from afar, catch the determined look in his eye, and watch as the man’s mere presence drew him in day by day.
When he finally found Tallulah, it was the first time Quackity had seen him cry. He held her so tightly and securely, as if she could vanish from his grasp at any second. He started humming a soothing tune, one that immediately turned Quackity away out of fear of intruding.
So that’s who everyone had told him about.
That’s who he felt such a strong connection to.
And maybe everyone else was totally right.
—
“Wilbur.”
Wilbur looks up after setting his guitar down on the floor, seeing Quackity standing in the doorway. He smiles wide in an instant.
“Quackity!” He feels the urge to hurry over, open his arms and invite him in, but the man looks reserved and hesitant. He stops himself. “Hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He starts softly, trying to keep the concerned frown off of his face.
“Yeah… um, I think-“ Quackity pauses, reconsidering. “I wanted to talk to you. Wilbur.” He seems to be testing the name.
“Okay. So serious, Q.” He huffs, tucking his hands in his pockets. “What about?”
Wilbur watches the other man sigh and think for a while before he shuffles closer. “This is probably going to be a lot, so I’m just gonna say it all, alright?”
He grows more concerned as he nods slowly.
“I’m not… your Quackity.” he says. “Well, like, I am, but I don’t- I can’t remember anything, okay? I only know because everyone keeps reminding me of that fact. After the—“ he gathers himself, squares his shoulders. “Everyone keeps trying to catch me up. And they keep telling me about you. I don’t know you. Not anymore. I just know that I did. And I know there’s something different about… you.” his cheeks redden, and Wilbur pretends to ignore it. It’s easy, when his stomach is filling with a steady but sure dread.
“You remember… nothing.” Wilbur repeats slowly, trying to not appear too devastatingly disappointed. He swallows hard, playing with the hem of his sweater, then stuffing his hands back into his pockets again. “That- Quackity… What happened? What could have possibly-?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Quackity cuts him off, and Wilbur makes a note to not try to bring it up again. “It’s just… nothing.”
He can’t help the speechlessness that falls over him. To believe that Quackity, his Quackity, could forget everything about him- their relationship- is a little hard to swallow. What else did he forget? Tallulah? Or even his own child? All of those days spent together, gone to the wind.
He fights a deep frown, pushing away his intruding thoughts. He smiles. “Sorry, it’s a bit to take in. But it’s okay, Q. We can… start over. What do you need from me?”
Quackity stares at him doubtfully, but he still shuffles closer. “Mostly, I just want some idea of what things were like. Can I stay with you? Just for a bit?”
The hopeful feeling in Wilbur’s chest soars like a bird, pecking at his heart. This time, his smile isn’t forced. “Of course.”
—
“What other songs can you play then?” Quackity asks, leaning over and knocking his shoulder into Wilbur’s. Wilbur bumps him back playfully, fingers pausing over the frets.
“Lots.” He snickers. His knuckles rap against the wooden surface of his guitar. “Any in particular you’re curious about?”
“Well, I haven’t heard many of your own.”
“Oh. I guess I don’t play them much outside of work.” Wilbur mulls over it for a second. “Alright.”
He positions his fingers over the strings carefully, masterfully, and starts strumming. He doesn’t open his mouth to sing, but he does hum. Quackity leans in close. He watches as Wilbur’s fingertips jump from string to string, delicately sliding along each one to create a beautiful melody. He begins with soothing strumming, but Quackity can sense something else lingering beneath it. He quickly switches to shorter, quieter strums and plucks that build over time. He experiences sounds that are melancholy, angry, and then bittersweet. For about four minutes, Wilbur gets lost in his playing, his eyes slipping shut as his pinched fingers hit the strings harder, faster, then he mumbles lyrics Quackity can’t quite catch each word of under his breath. When he lets the chord sit for a second, Wilbur finally opens his eyes. He glances hesitantly over at Quackity.
“What’s a sextant?” Quackity smiles.
Wilbur scoffs, lowering his guitar by its neck. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why, but I expected your work to be a bit more… rock and roll.”
Wilbur laughs as he leans to the side to set the instrument down. “I do have more exciting songs, but none of those felt very appropriate. Besides, how ‘rock and roll’ can you get with an acoustic?”
Quackity huffs and lays back on the mattress beneath them, stretching his wings out. “You have a point there, I guess. Regardless, it was… nice. I see why Tallulah wants you to play for her every night.”
Out of the corner of his eye, the taller man lays down as well, propping his head up with his hand as he rolls onto his side. “Do you have many hobbies, Big Q?”
“Me?” Quackity lets out an awkward laugh. “I mean. Not really. What is there for me to do?”
Wilbur shrugs. “Plenty. What do you like?”
He thinks about it for a long while, frowning. His hands come up in front of his face. He looks at how badly they shake. These hands couldn’t play a guitar like Wilbur, hold a sword like a fighter, or tend to a garden. He finds he doesn’t have an answer. It shouldn’t be surprising that someone so lost and broken wouldn’t be the most confident in what he likes to do, but he still feels a strong sense of shame wash over him at the realisation.
“I don’t know.”
Neither of them speak. Then, Wilbur gets up. He reaches over to a bedside table, picking up an old looking sketchbook and pencil. He offers it to Quackity. “I never use this. Tallulah’s gotten more into music than drawing recently. Why don’t you learn how to draw?”
Quackity raises his brow, taking the book with a doubtful look. “Draw.”
Wilbur nods. “We have some old paints as well. It could be relaxing. Therapeutic. Fun.” He waves his hands around. “People make art for many reasons. You don’t have to take it too seriously.”
“But…” His shaking. He doesn’t know how to say it.
“Give it a try, alright?” Wilbur gives him a reassuring smile, and suddenly Quackity doesn’t have the strength to reject it.
—
As it turns out, the weight of a paintbrush in his hand is comforting. Well, at first it’s daunting. He borrows supplies from Wilbur; one brush, a couple canvases and a set of half-used paints. Wilbur says he can keep them, they’re just collecting dust, but Quackity doesn’t expect to keep using them.
Until he does.
Every day.
He doesn’t know what to paint at first. It’s hard thinking of something worthy enough to paint, and he complains to Cellbit about this. Eventually, he asks Quackity if it has to be worthy. Why can’t he just make anything he wants?
So, he does.
Every day.
He paints trees, animals, people. His friends. His… old friends. He tried painting nightmares, but staring at them in the face made it worse. It starts out very shaky and strange. He’s never been an artist, he’s starting from scratch. But he practises for weeks. Many weeks. He thinks he’s decent. Most importantly, it calms him. His hands don’t tremble. The paintbrush slides across the surface of whatever its painting on with ease, and he can get lost for hours. All of his canvases come from Wilbur, though the man is most certainly buying or making new ones for him, because no one in their right mind owns so many.
Only, he can’t make himself show Wilbur. They keep hanging out, getting to know each other, and it feels right. But one day he asks about his paintings, and Quackity just tells him it’s going well. Maybe it means something that that night he goes home and finds guitars, brown eyes and soft hair on his canvas and paper. He wakes up with his cheek in his paint.
Ugh.
—
“You want to paint me?” Wilbur fails to hide the excitement that bubbles up in his voice. He turns to look at Quackity, who is standing with his hands awkwardly held behind his back. He scowls, looking at the floor.
“Yes. Do you agree or not?”
Wilbur doesn’t even bother to cover up his red face that flushes from the bird fluttering in his ribcage. “Of course! What do you need me to do? Do you need a picture? I can get a couch, a pretty necklace-”
Quackity squawks, waving his arms aggressively. “Shut up! Be serious! Idiot. I want to do it from life. Will you let me?”
Wilbur laughs and scrambles to his feet, running a hand through his hair and readjusting his very real glasses. “Yes, Quackity. You’re the boss, lead the way.” He goes to take a step, maybe Quackity has some kind of studio, but the duck hybrid stops him.
“Actually, I thought we could do it here?” He clears his throat, leaning out the door and revealing a canvas and a shoulder strap bag. “I brought my stuff.”
Giddy, Wilbur nods. “Where do you want me?”
They move to the second floor to Wilbur’s small setup. All he has is an armchair with a coffee table, then a smaller room with his bed and simple belongings. The light is warm. Quackity says it's humble. Wilbur shrugs. As long as it works.
“Sit on the chair.” Quackity orders gently, so Wilbur sits. He doesn’t know what to do, but it turns out Quackity doesn’t seem too stressed. “Just relax, sit… however you would normally sit. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Hard to do that,” Wilbur murmurs coyly. He chuckles as Quackity blushes and starts setting up. He leans back into the stiff cushions of the couch and ponders what pose to do. He decides on resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, propping one foot up on his knee, and dropping his chin in the palm of his hand. He quirks a shy smile at Quackity, who in the meantime has prepared an easel, along with his paints and the canvas. “How long should this take?”
Quackity hesitates. “We can do it another time if you want-”
“No, no!” Wilbur almost jumps out of his pose, but relaxes again. “I’m just making conversation, Q. I have nothing going on. Tallulah’s reading upstairs. If she needs me, we can pause then come back to it.”
The other man relaxes. He picks up a brush. “Only an hour or two today. We can keep going tomorrow.”
Wilbur nods. He takes a deep breath and gets comfortable. “Let's do it, then.”
—
A sweet melody drifts down the ladder.
Quackity’s feathers ruffle.
The melody pauses, hesitates, then starts back up again.
Wilbur loves listening to that melody. Pride swells in his chest.
Quackity dabs his brush into a different colour. He swirls it around with another. His brush comes up orange.
Wilbur bites back the awkward smile that tries to etch itself on his face. Despite being completely willing, and having done this yesterday already, he’s out of his zone, and he’s not sure if he looks stupid or not. He schools his expression and watches Quackity work away.
He examines his orbs of brown, how they rake over his form to take in every detail and transfer it onto canvas. Then his eyes get caught on the few freckles on his cheeks, dancing across a reddening hue. He really can’t stop the grin that appears this time.
“How’s it going so far, Q?” Wilbur asks. He resists the urge to get up and move. “Almost done capturing my handsomeness?”
He’s met with a scoff as Quackity’s face ducks behind the canvas. “Almost done capturing your huge forehead,” he says, but his tone is soft.
“Ah, good. Was worried you’d leave that part out or something.”
It has been relaxing. Being a live model for someone’s art. Quackity works pretty fast, and the silence they fall in most of the time is comfortable. Yesterday, they did this for two hours. Today, they’ve been here for two more. Only another ten minutes pass by of Quackity stepping back to look at it then stepping forward to adjust details before he finally announces that Wilbur can move. He instantly stands up, stretching his limbs and cracking his back.
“Ugh,” he groans as he shakes his arm out. “I swear I have bones worse than Phil. Decaying and decrepit.”
“You do, old man.” Quackity laughs. His voice carries his regular lightness, but his posture looks shy. He’s examining the canvas. Wilbur is suddenly very eager to see it.
“Well? Is it done?” He steps forward casually despite the tugging in his chest telling him to hurry over.
“Yeah.” Quackity grunts, barely glancing at Wilbur even when he sidles up beside him.
The clever quip he was preparing seeps away as soon as his eyes land on the painting. His smile fades in shock.
It’s beautiful.
Usually, he can’t manage to think of himself in that way. He’s sure he looks fine, but the way Quackity has depicted him…
The painting starts halfway up his calf, fairly close on him but far enough to show most of his figure. The soft, warm light dances off the left side of his face in contrastingly sharp strips caused by the blinds over the window. He expected a portrait, front-facing with eye contact, but Quackity has shown him with his eyes downcast, a small, fond smile playing gently on his lips. He’s included details down to his eyelashes, the wisps of his curly hair. He looks in his element.
Wilbur loses his words. “Quackity…” he breathes.
“I’m still learning,” Quackity stutters. He starts busying himself with quickly packing up his paints. “So, if it’s not that good…”
“What?” Wilbur laughs lightly, tearing his eyes away from the canvas finally. “No, Quackity, this is stunning. Are you sure you only started painting when I suggested it?”
Quackity rolls his eyes, dumping his tubes of paint into his bag. “You don’t have to be a suck up, Wilbur.” The painter is still anxiously reaching for paints, so Wilbur lightly grasps his wrist, then the other. He pulls him closer, stealing his attention.
“Q,” he speaks softly. His thumbs rub the under sides of his wrists.
Quackity’s eyes flit up to meet his. His anxious movements halt. The bird hammers hard against Wilbur’s chest. It steals his breath away.
“I love,” Wilbur pauses. “I love it. You really did make me look handsome. You’re very talented.”
Quackity smiles, sheepishly at first. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Aw, Wilbur.” He slides his hands down to slot them into Wilbur’s. They aren’t shaking. Wilbur’s hand clasps his firmly, and they are large and warm and steady.
“Seriously, I’m way too pretty in this, it’s like you have a crush on me or something.” He teases, leaning a little closer.
Quackity glares now, visibly flustered. “Shut up.”
Wilbur squeezes his hands and laughs again, craning his neck and leaning down to bump his forehead against Quackity’s.
Quackity freezes. Then he squeezes back. He closes his eyes.
—
Quackity’s hands shake too badly to write, or even hold most objects. No matter what he does, he can’t keep them steady and still. But there are two things that help. A paintbrush, and Wilbur’s hand.