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Damn, does that even work? Quackity cocked his head, eyes fixed on the rusty lighter Wilbur produced from his pocket.
‘F course it does, Wilbur fussed, flicking the worn lid off – or rather he tried to, but had to resign to mechanically pulling the corroded hinge when the device didn’t budge. He ignored the look he knew the other was giving him, pre-emptively shielding the contraption alongside the cigarette hovering above it with one hand, and ignoring the achy roughness his numb thumb met with with each attempt at forcing out a spark.
A new-looking, black and gold, engraved lighter remained vacant in Quackity’s outstretched hand, untouched by the cold, calloused fingers despite the number of arrhythmic clicks of the flint wheel climbing up into twenties, and soon thirties.
It’z an antique, Wilbur sighed – cigarette pinched between his teeth, filter squished already – as though that status exempted the lighter from its one job.
Just like your stubborn need to prove yourself in the weirdest ways, I s’pose. Quackity finally hid his lighter.
You’re juzt jealouz, Wilbur dismissed with a grin as a small, finicky flame finally licked the tip of his cigarette, allowing him to light one third of it before going out again. Regardless, Wilbur inhaled deeply with satisfaction, trying to spread the ember.
Of a lighter that doesn’t work?
Of it being an antique. Maybe it doesn’t work as well as it should, but it’s got class.
Quackity smiled, taking a puff of his own fag. Is that what you say to comfort yourself when you look in the mirror?
Wilbur furrowed his brows, turning to face Quackity. Fuck you mean by that??