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Quackity loved the rain. The way it smelled; the way the clouds chilled the air before a storm; the way it showed up so suddenly and disappeared just as fast. How it made his head ache from the drop in air pressure before the storm; how it made the world stop for just a moment as drops rained from the sky while people ran for cover. How rain storms can be angry and violent, raging with a vengeance, or have the gentlest touch known to man.
Quackity was lost in his thoughts, leaning over the glass railing of his home and fiddling with his fingers. He watched rain fall from the grey sky, soaking the ground and turning the dry dirt paths into mud. Drops swiftly slipped down some spare cobblestone steps, getting into every nook and cranny they could. The cold, humid air seeped into his clothes and caused goosebumps to gather on his arms, prompting him to tense up a bit while barely moving from his position. Nevertheless, he still silently watched the bumpy blanket of clouds move across the sky like molasses. It felt like he’d been out here for hours, when at most he’d only walked upstairs and settled himself in this spot about ten minutes ago.
Quackity took up cloud and storm watching a while ago; he wasn’t sure when or how. During the hot summers of years long past, he would go out into the searing heat and observe thunderstorms forming on the horizon, rearing their signature anvil heads as they pressed against the troposphere. He would watch for certain clouds and patterns, and note the weather in which they appeared in a cheap composition notebook that he’d kept to this day. He’d even picked up a meteorology book a while back and started delving deep into the physics and science behind extreme weather, highlighting and writing on the pages until the ink smeared and small tears formed from dogeared pages and wear and misuse. Others thought his hobby was weird; but there was one person who understood his fascination with the world, who listened intently to his ramblings and predictions, and didn’t mind sitting for hours to observe the slowest of slow-moving clouds, even when the weather was less than ideal.
And that person, the one who made Quackity’s heart flip in his chest when they responded with vocabulary only he knew; the one who kept him company as he listened to the drips of rainwater echo in the caverns of Pogtopia while he yearned to be outside but was scared to be spotted by the man he betrayed; the one he was afraid to love but wanted to so deeply,
Was buried in the rubble of his own ruin.
The rain continued to fall.
Quackity inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of wet grass and petrichor before sighing softly. His body slackened deeper into his shoulders, putting more weight on his forearms whose skin had formed indents from leaning on the layer of glass panes that kept him from falling to his death.
Not that he would particularly mind it. Life was so slow without the quick paces of politics and war.
“What are you doing?”
Quackity sensed a presence beside him, tall and thin and lanky, but not too thin that he didn’t take up his rightful space. He felt a small smile creep up his face as he shook his head and chuckled.
“That’s quite the stupid question. You know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, but I needed to announce my presence somehow.” The figure moved closer, and Quackity could feel the touch of worn leather against his bare arm as it leaned down into the same position Quackity himself was in. He could hear the familiar rustle of clothing as it reached into its pocket for a pack of lazily hand-rolled cigarettes.
“You know I hate that, your habit of smoking. That stuff’ll kill you, you know.”
“Oh I know. That’s the whole point of it,” the figure said, fishing out a scratched metal lighter and sticking a cigarette in its mouth. Quackity watched the tall presence flick the lighter open and quickly snatched the thing out of its gloved hands before it could light the cigarette. The figure huffed in somewhat fake frustration, which lit a small, dancing ball of light in Quackity’s heart, a light that he thought was forever lost a long time ago.
“I’m not giving this back,” Quackity teased, gently nudging the figure beside him. He heard the figure laugh, a light, soft laugh, one that lit up a room even at its utmost quietest. The leather adorned arm touching his own wrapped around his back, pulling him gently closer. Quackity instinctually rested his head in the crook of the familiar and warm figure’s shoulder, feeling a prickly cheek and then a soft kiss against the crown of his head.
“Well now what am I going to do with an unlit cigarette?” the figure jokingly whined, a hint of sweetness hidden in the depths of its low voice that Quackity could easily let echo in his head for hours, days even.
“Not light it?” Quackity replied.
The gentle laugh appeared once more and the figure gently rubbed Quackity’s shoulder, sending a familiar heat through him that felt like the sun had suddenly burned through the clouds, shining bright as if it weren’t turning winter soon. A sensation that made him want to stay in this position forever and never move again, eternally taking in this moment.
“You created quite the metaphor, Q,” the figure said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if smoking kills me, but the cigarette is never lit, the killer is never given the opportunity to quicken the pace of my inevitable death, is it?”
Quackity was silent for a moment, gears turning in his head. “I guess it isn’t, no,” he replied.
“See? You made a metaphor.” The figure kissed Quackity’s head once more. “And you think you’re not good with words.”
Quackity had never felt so loved, so cherished, so seen , than he did right in this moment. He was used to biting, back-handed comments and conditional affection; to being a pawn in a dead man’s great scheme; to being promised he would get what he wanted only for that promise to be yanked out from under him the moment he made his side of a deal. The marks left behind from months of emotional warfare were no longer angry, and no longer smelled of gunpowder and smoke; but they did leave ugly, mottled scars, warping his heart and originally caring soul into something he did not recognize. Something cold, hard, bitter, and vengeful. Something that refused any caring touch, even from ghosts. Something that refused even the slightest notion or feeling of love and affection, in fear that it would be stuck once more in a perpetually spinning cyclone, hailstones battering its fragile form in a painfully familiar pattern, if it got a single taste of those sweet, addicting sentiments.
He didn’t want to love the rain. He didn’t want to love the way it came and went, the way it could leave great valleys and canyons when it disappeared, the way it made all the hidden life forms show their faces, peeking out of their hidey-holes to catch fresh water falling from blue-grey skies. He didn’t want to love how it made his heart soften, how it made him think of old times when things were much simpler, when he was a much warmer, kinder soul. He didn’t want to feel the still-healing scars sting and hiss at its touch, even when it meant no harm. Most of all, he didn’t want to feel the inevitable sadness and empty hole inside of him because he knew it would leave, it always did, but never at the right times, never when he was ready.
He didn’t want to love Wilbur, this enigma of a man who showed a playful side of himself in the way they bickered back and forth during their debates; who was bitter towards Quackity when L’manberg’s former president was exiled to the caverns, yet somehow let Quackity sob and shake quietly in his arms when he felt phantom hands grip him and pull him back to the land he betrayed. He didn’t want to love the man who was supposed to be his rival, his political adversary, his enemy.
But he did.
He loved the rain.
And God, did he love Wilbur.
The pair looked up towards the sky in silence, side gently pressed against side, watching rain fall as the clouds moved across the horizon. Quackity still felt the chill air on his forearms, making him shiver ever so slightly, the movement barely registerable. Nevertheless, he was pulled closer, and his hand was taken by the figure’s free gloved hand. Small circles were traced on the back of his own by a calloused thumb, and soft lips once again touched the top of his head.
Tears pricked Quackity’s eyes against his will as anger bubbled up inside of his stomach. Why was he getting angry? Why did he want to cry? Why did this instinctually feel like he was being led into something? Why did this intimate moment make him want to shut himself off entirely and rip himself from the sweet, tender embrace he was in, something that he had craved for so long? Why did this hurt , as if he was grieving over something that had never happened, something that was never meant to be, something that had blown up right in his face the moment everything felt like it was finally perfectly in place?
Too many questions, self-hatred, and guilt for things that he had no control over filled Quackity’s brain, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep everything in. His heart ached and burned – burned for his country; burned for Wilbur, his rain, his storm, his hurricane; burned for vengeance for all the destruction an anarchist in exile caused. It ached for something that never happened because he didn’t act on it, because he thought he’d had more time. It ached for love, for something to fill the great hole in his chest that was left by two physical entities and seemed unfillable.
Quackity’s breaths turned shaky as his throat closed up, struggling to keep everything together. Almost as if it knew that Quackity was on the verge of tears, the figure removed the arm wrapped around the smaller man and gently turned him to face it.
“Hey, wait a minute,” the figure said, taking Quackity’s chin and tilting his face up. “Look at me.”
Quackity refused to look at the person who was holding his face with the gentlest touch. He sniffed, feeling tears gather on his eyes’ waterlines like pools of seawater left on coastlines after a tropical storm. God, this is so embarrassing, he thought, as he felt a single warm drop leave his eyes and run down his cheek. The figure wiped away the tear before it could reach Quackity’s chin with the same thumb that was drawing circles on the back of his hand just a few seconds earlier. He closed his eyes to prevent any more tears escaping, and he felt a kiss on the wet line left behind on his cheek, taking away the rest of what betrayed him in this now-ruined stormwatching moment.
“I’m sorry,” Quackity said quietly, his voice breaking.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” the figure replied, with such concern and genuine feeling in its voice that it made Quackity’s heart ache more for what was missing.
“No, there is.” Quackity could feel emotions well up in his stomach that he could no longer hold down – anger, sadness, grief, all mixed up in an ugly, dark thunderstorm about to overtake his entire being, seconds away from swallowing him up in a twister and sending him into the depths of its massive updraft. “I ruined this with my stupid fucking brain and now it’ll be awkward and then you’ll leave again because I couldn’t—”
His rambling was stopped by lips pressing against his own in a firm but comforting kiss that cleared his mind of all that troubled him. Gloved palms met Quackity’s face, and his arms instinctually wrapped up and around the back of the figure’s neck, feeling slightly overgrown hair against his forearms and tasting a hint of tobacco on the figure’s breath. His entire body lit up, bright as the morning sun, burning away the thunderhead brewing in his stomach. This, he thought, this is what I was waiting for for so long. He exhaled heavily, breath quickly matching the other’s as he fought against the urge to reach for the figure’s curls.
Almost as soon as they were joined together did they break apart, the figure pulling away and moving Quackity’s hair out of his face. Quackity’s head was almost entirely clear, only thinking of missing the feeling of the tall presence’s warm mouth pressed against his own.
“You don’t need to feel guilty for feeling things, big Q,” the figure said, pressing another soft kiss against Quackity’s forehead. “I don’t know exactly how much you went through, or exactly what that prick put you through–”, it continued, slightly emphasizing ‘prick’, “–but I will never, ever make you feel bad for feeling things.”
Quackity sniffed and took his arms away from the figure’s neck, his nose still runny from the emotions that had overtaken him a minute prior. Before he knew it, he was quickly pulled into a hug, feeling worn leather that smelled like cigarette smoke and cave dust against his face. For a moment he didn’t know what to do – whether he should pull away and face the cold once more, or stay in this position, lips and body still warm from the kiss – but the immense need for genuine, unconditional affection being erased made him stay, wrapping his arms around the figure’s back. He inhaled, relishing in the presence’s scent he so dearly missed, heart feeling full for the first time in what felt like eons.
They stood in that position in silence for a while, Quackity lightly pressing his face into a leather-covered shoulder, the tall figure’s chin resting on Quackity’s head and rubbing small circles on his back, both breathing in unison. The pitter patter of rain on his roof and the sound of rustling clothing, of gentle breaths through noses and the figure’s occasional sigh, made Quackity lose himself in the moment. This all felt like an illusion – the person he’d once shared mutual hatred with, who made his stomach once fill with frustration, loathing and confusion with mixed signals and vague phrases, was right here in his arms. He was tangible, he was solid, he was real.
His heart and his instincts were right – there was something there between them, something more than just political rivalry and personality conflicts that left them exhausted and infuriated by the other’s presence. There was something else in the deep brown eyes of his rival that usually looked at him with contempt or disgusted pity, something else that at the time Quackity couldn’t decipher. Wilbur was always so secretive, and that scared him. It made him want to stay as far away from Wilbur as he could because the man was so unpredictable and most times unreadable. But Quackity and Wilbur were like galaxies, spinning around each other for millenia yet unable to escape their own gravitational pulls and doomed to be destroyed by their lethal orbits. Whether they wanted to be or not, one would always be in the other’s universe; and in Quackity’s eyes, that meant that at least one person would fall for the other.
Quackity chose to ignore the lack of a heartbeat with his ear pressed against the figure’s chest, instead rationalizing it as too many layers of clothing preventing him from hearing the deep pulse of a living, breathing paradox of a man. He chose to ignore how out-of-character this was for someone he’d known for so long, someone who was charismatic and flirted and hinted towards Quackity, yet never made a single move. He chose to ignore so many things, chalking it up to disbelief and denial. He’d done that a lot in the past; of course he would still be stuck in his ways, all to keep himself sane when his world was all but peaceful and orderly.
Quackity didn’t realize who had done it first, but eventually his and the figure’s arms were no longer wrapped around the other’s back. Quackity had reluctantly pulled his face away from the comforting, earthy scent of the dusty jacket he’d so often buried it into while in the caverns of Pogtopia, or while they were hiding away in the forests when Quackity desperately needed to remove himself from the claustrophobic stone walls of his unexpected safehaven. He turned his eyes towards the sky, noticing that the dark clouds were slightly lighter now, and the rain wasn’t close to a downpour anymore. The rolling undersides of the clouds became more visible and defined as sunlight gradually started burning through the thick layers of grey.
“Do you know what these are called?” Quackity spoke at last.
“Hm?”
“The clouds,” He said, slightly louder. “Do you know what they’re called? Do you remember?”
The figure hummed in thought as Quackity rested his head on its shoulder once more and intertwined his fingers with the gloved ones beside him. “They’re just stratus clouds, right? Especially at this time of year?”
“Close. A, it’s raining. B, look at the bottoms, at the waves. You got the first one right, but there’s more to that name.”
Another pause. Quackity became slightly more nervous as the seconds ticked by. He used to answer so fast. Does he not remember? How would he not? These were the ones we talked about most, the ones that were most in season before he–
Quackity’s runaway thoughts were quickly interrupted by the figure’s deep-voiced reply. “Oh. It’s… nimbostratus undulatus. ‘Cos of the waves in the clouds, y’know, undulating, innit?”
Relief flooded Quackity’s mind. “I knew you remembered it somewhere in that small brain of yours.”
“Wha– what do you mean, ‘ small brain ?’ I thought I was the walking encyclopedia!” the figure protested, playfully elbowing and jostling the smaller man wrapped around its arm.
Quackity giggled, pushing the figure back with the same force. “I’m just being honest! You have a tiny brain compared to me. You may know words, but I know species, and Latin names you could never FATHOM.”
“What the fuck– I know words PLUS the stuff that you’ve taught me. I think that would make me much smarter than you, you and your.. simplistic vocabulary and grammar.”
“You may have book smarts, but I have street smarts.” He puffed out his chest mockingly, making the presence beside him sputter into laughter. “I’ve spent my whole life out there on the field, way more than you have, pretty boy.”
“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” the figure said through guffaws.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Quackity scoffed. He pulled his arm away from the one it was wrapped around, the newly reignited light inside him dancing as his face burned and a slight smile betrayed his falsely frustrated demeanor.
Quackity missed the banter between him and Wilbur, and how it made him feel. Hell, he could even say that he missed Wilbur’s flirting. He missed how he would always leave conversations like these with a flushed face and his heart tripping over itself, and how post-ugly-argument frustration would decay into something more akin to sadness or grief from not speaking for weeks after they happened.
More than anything, Quackity missed when Wilbur would come back around to start it all again. He’d pray to gods he didn’t believe in just to keep their perpetual cycle going for as long as he could.
And for now, those gods granted him his respite, just this once.
“...Hello? Earth to Q?”
Quackity came back from the depths of his mind with a snap. “Huh?”
“Jesus, man, I forgot how lost in thought you can get sometimes. I was about to slap you to get you back on the ground – not that I particularly wanted to, of course.”
Quackity noticed a large hand pressed against his back and a thumb rubbing between his shoulder blades, and he sighed and relaxed more into the shoulder he was resting his head on. The hand that was previously on his back wrapped around to Quackity’s shoulder, closely mirroring the position they were in when the presence beside him first arrived. “You’re certainly one to talk,” Quackity said softly.
“Come again?” the figure asked.
“About getting lost in thought. You used to get so in your head and no one could get you out for hours.”
“Ah. I can’t deny that, I suppose. Well, I’m in a better place now, yes?”
Quackity hesitated before speaking, his mind focusing on the figure’s choice of words. “What do you mean by ‘better place?’”
The figure was silent, and Quackity felt his stomach start to twist. He used to enjoy the silences between him and Wilbur when they happened, when the two just let their body language speak for themselves instead of their throats.
But Quackity could no longer truly read the body language of the presence standing right beside him with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him close. Even with the affectionate gesture and all that it has done within the past half hour, the unsure silence and uncharacteristic sweetness made him anxious.
“What I meant by ‘better place’ was here. Standing here, with you, watching the rain storm pass.”
Those words that were uttered and promptly processed by Quackity’s ears stunned him. “With me?” he quietly repeated.
A sound of reassurance followed by a quick kiss to the top of Quackity’s head was the figure’s answer. “Why do you think I so gladly took time out of my day to join you and get soaked in total downpours every time you asked? Or the times that you dragged me out of the cool confines of Pogtopia just to watch big storms form when it was their peak season?
“I meant it when I said that my better place is with you, big Q, even during our debates as political rivals. I hate to admit it, but I did miss your absence before you came to me seeking refuge; the times we had together were fun. Everything kind of just… went away when you pulled me away from things to watch the sky for hours, or just sat and rambled to me about your books or weather journals.
“And do you want to know a little secret?” the figure continued. Quackity nodded, though he wasn’t sure whether it would have mattered if he said no or anything at all because it was clear that the figure was not finished monologuing.
“I…” it hesitated for a second, formulating the right words to say. When it spoke again, its words were slow and just a touch lower in volume. “When you sat by me when I was lost in my thoughts, when I was in a horrible place, and just… talked to me about anything you could think of, it really did help me. It may not have looked like it, but I was listening to every single word you said.”
Quackity’s heart thumped hard in his chest at the confession. Out of everyone Wilbur could have responded to, who could have brought him out of his clouded thoughts from their constant visits and check-ins, Quackity was the one he listened to? He was the one who grounded Wilbur, the man who was always almost eerily calm even in the most emotionally charged situations? Wilbur, the voice of reason to his brother’s emotional outbursts? How could Quackity be the one who brought Wilbur out of the dark depths of his self-destructive brain?
“I can see the doubt on your face, big Q,” the presence softly chuckled, making Quackity’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink with embarrassment from being read so easily. “I know I’ve told lies before, but this time I promise that I’m being one hundred percent candid with you.”
The cogs in Quackity’s brain churned, trying to think of something to say. After just a few seconds, he thought of the exact thing to say in response. “Can I be honest with you about something?” he asked.
A sound of approval came from the figure holding Quackity’s shoulder as its hand moved down to the middle of his upper arm. Quackity’s heart burned with anxiety, but he lifted his head off the shoulder it was resting on, took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to finally say what had been on his mind for months.
“I, um…” Quackity almost lost his train of thought at the sound of his heart thumping hard and fast with adrenaline in his chest, but he steeled his mind and dug his fingernails into his palms to bring his thoughts back on track.
“It may or may not come as a surprise to you, but I… the reason why, out of all the people I could have gone to, I went to you for brain dumping about meteorology until my throat was sore, was because it felt like you were the only one who could listen. I tried to tell–” Quackity stopped himself from almost saying the dead president of Manberg’s name, “–I tried talking to the guy who was supposed to be my partner about the stuff I saw, but he always just dismissed me. It felt like no one was willing to listen to me at all, and it drove me insane to not be able to share my findings or studies with anyone.
“But you, you were always there to listen. I know I didn’t talk to you a whole lot about my interests during the presidential campaigns, but when it wasn’t all professional and we just talked, it was such a relief to find someone who wouldn’t shut me out when I started talking about tiny observations, and who would actually give input. It was like I finally found my safe haven for all my thoughts. You probably don’t remember the conversations, but it was so nice to have someone listen and not tell me to fuck off or just zone out on me. And the way that you used the stuff I dumped on you about and had meaningful conversations with me about it, and the fact that you pulled me aside to tell me about the weather patterns or your own forecasts from observing the sky once in a while even when we were supposed to be arguing about politics, really made me feel special. It made me feel wanted, and seen, and all this other cheesy shit that I don’t know if I have the words for.
“And I really missed being able to talk with you, or talk with anyone, about meteorology when you were exiled. It fucking sucked, having to lock my brain up and hide my excitement around my political partner. Right before I ran away, before I defected, it felt like I was going to explode because of the shit I went through with that motherfucker, and having to bottle every single thing up. I almost lost my love for stormwatching before I ran off. I felt like a husk, and when I ran of course it felt freeing, but that empty, numb feeling was still there, even when you let me join Pogtopia and let me join the resistance.
“I know what you must have thought of me when I ran to your doorstep after laughing along and not doing anything when you and Tommy were exiled. I don’t care if you say that ‘you were bitter but those feelings went away’, or whatever the fuck you say about how you still liked me, I don’t care. I know that’s a lie deep down, and I know what everyone in Pogtopia felt and thought about me. I tried to prove myself to the best of my ability, and I think I did, but the man, the country , that I betrayed haunted me with every step, and how everyone looked at me made it so much worse. You saw firsthand what that did to me. It sent me crumbling all the fucking time when I saw or something too familiar to Manberg, to him . And being so vulnerable in an already unwelcoming place when I felt like I didn’t have a home anywhere in the world, made me feel so much worse. I just couldn’t say ‘hey guys I’m here, care for some fun storm facts because I feel like I am going to implode in on myself?’, when that was the only possible thing that could have brought me any comfort or security after going through the worst several months of my LIFE and then defecting to the place full of people who hate my fucking guts.
“But regardless of the fact that you resented me for what I did, for what I made you feel like, because I promise that you aren’t what I made you feel like at all, you found me. You found me in the dark corners of the caverns all huddled up and were just there. You didn’t touch me at all at first and I totally understood and still understand that, but just having someone there after months of feeling completely and utterly alone meant so much to me, even after everything, was so fucking important to me, and still is. And when you started doing more than just sitting next to me, when you offered me your hand to squeeze or let me cry and mess up your coat or sweater or whatever you were wearing, and held me tight so that I knew that I was safe, and did all this stuff when I was just a puddle of shattered glass, it made me feel like I was actually something that you thought was deserving of love.
“And then, even though it was really weird of me to just pretend like everything was fine and continue dumping on you about how the change of the seasons affect the troposphere and all the other shit in my head that wasn’t just trauma, you still played along. You didn’t think of me weirdly, and you looked at me like you used to. I fucking loved looking in your eyes and seeing what I used to see during the elections, that warmth that could just envelop me and leave me in bliss. I could just look into your eyes and watch you speak and just watch you exist and that was more than enough for me. You were— you are more than enough for me. Fuck, you are more than enough in general, and I’ll keep repeating it until you actually hear me because I know you don’t believe it.
“You are my rain. You are my atmosphere. You are my storms that I obsess over. You are my extremely complex weather systems that can be unpredictable and dangerous as hell. You are my tornadoes and hurricanes that destroyed my whole world as I knew it. You are my interest. You are my love. Wilbur fucking Soot, I love you. I am in love with you.”
And with those final words, Quackity broke away from the figure’s grasp on his shoulder, turned, took the lapels of its jacket, and without looking, kissed the figure like it was his oxygen that he couldn’t live without – which, at this point, was what Quackity believed with every atom in his body.
Quackity didn’t care if the figure his lips were pressed to said the same thing to him. He didn’t care if he got an “I love you too” or not at this point; it was more than obvious with its previous gestures that it felt at least something like what he did. The kisses on the head, the reassurances, the touching and holding with such tenderness and genuine love like Quackity had never felt before, his immense need for affection and attention finally being satiated. After everything, after months of them being thrown away from each other by their own gravities, they finally collided in one beautiful, climactic explosion.
He finally took his shot. And if this moment, if this kiss that said all the things that Quackity could not articulate, was all that he got, that would be enough.
But when the figure kissed him back with the same ferocity, with the same desperate need for connection, he practically melted and let it take control from the confirmation that his feelings were mutual. His brain was entirely lost and his hands instinctively wandered anywhere they could, releasing the leather lapels they were pulling on, before once again crossing around the back of the figure’s neck and gripping the cloth covering the presence’s shoulders. The figure’s gloved hands first went to Quackity’s face to hold his lips to its own, before travelling down to Quackity’s waist and pulling him close. The pair breathed each other’s air for what felt like an eternity, as if they would suffocate if they ever pulled apart.
Quackity’s heart was so full that he felt like it was about to burst, but he couldn’t care less. He wanted this, he needed this, for so long, and now he finally had it. He had everything he could ever want, right here, right now, and his foggy brain pleaded to the gods for this to never end. He silently begged the figure, hoping that it could be communicated by how hard his fists clung onto its leather jacket, and by how his fingers ran through its soft, somewhat tangled curls, to please stay. Stay where I can see you, stay where I can feel you.
He squeezed his already-shut eyes and pleaded what he should have said a long time ago, before losing the one he loved forever: Stay here. Hold me and never let me go. Please, don’t go away again. For the love of God, please, Wilbur, stay and never leave.
But no matter how much he begged and prayed, Quackity knew that this would have to end. He knew, as his lungs started screaming for fresh oxygen because he was breathing too heavily while wrapped up in the moment, that he would need to break apart from the man he was in love with and now knew who loved him too.
As he heard the steady sound of raindrops falling on his roof and on the ground get quieter and softer until it stopped altogether, Quackity partially broke from the figure to whisper into its mouth, “please stay here, Wilbur, my love, my rain, my everything.” With a slight, infatuated smile building on his lips, he repeated, “Wilbur, my love, my love, my love,” as he gave chaste kisses between each phrase. His hands stopped gripping dusty leather and travelled back up to the figure’s face, fingers gently gliding from animal hide to fabric to skin, briefly toying through the figure’s hair and hearing it sigh once more before they finally rested on its jaw. Quackity felt the stubble of a five o’ clock shadow on his palms as he rubbed his thumbs gently on the figure’s cheeks, remembering the times before debates when Wilbur would appear with tiny pieces of tissue with specks of blood stuck to his face from razor cuts. Motherfucker still does not know how to shave, he thought, softly laughing to himself. If he comes to me with a bloody face I will just do it for him myself.
Quackity’s mind was focused on the feeling of the presence’s prickly jaw until he felt it slightly break away from his lips and mutter something he couldn’t hear.
“What’d you say, mi amor?” he asked, fully breaking away from the presence’s lips and pressing his forehead to the taller’s. He felt the sun finally start to warm up his skin as its rays broke through the cloud layer, but there was no response to his inquiry.
“Wilbur?” Quackity opened his eyes, only to find himself alone, forearms still pressed against the glass railing of his home. He was still in the position he found himself in when the figure — no, Wilbur — first came up and rested himself beside him. He was confused, at first, as he looked around for the man who stole his heart. It took him a full minute for everything to set in, and for him to grasp the now shattered pieces of his very soul.
It wasn’t real. His profession of love, the kisses, the five o’ clock shadow he could have sworn he felt in his hands and on the top of his head, the sound of Wilbur’s voice sweetly saying his shortened name–
It never happened.
Wilbur Soot, the poet, the love of Quackity’s life, the man who blew up his country and both his own and Quackity’s dreams,
Was still dead in a hole in a hill looking over the crater of his unfinished symphony.
Quackity didn’t realize he was crying until he felt hot tears hit his bare forearms, but didn’t bother to wipe away the tracks they left, hoping that there would once again be a gloved hand there to wipe them away for him. He looked up at the sky to see the bright sun burning through a sea of grey, making light reflect off the puddles the rainstorm left behind in its wake.
He clenched his fists and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, until he knew that the pressure would force him to stop crying.
God, Quackity fucking hated the rain.