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The air smelt of smoke and oil. It was, in a word... obnoxious. The city was obnoxious, in any and every way it could be.
Quackity's feet hurt; a tell-tale sign he'd been out patrolling for far too long. By now he was working overtime, his shift long over.
And yet, he jumped onto the next roof, still.
He felt free on the roofs — untouchable. Of course, he was never truly alone, what with the hero commission practically looming over his shoulder 24/7. But it was a nice thought. A comforting thought.
The sound of car horns filled what should've been silence, realistically. It was long past two in the morning, and yet, Las Nevadas never slept.
Las Nevadas never slept, and Quackity was tired.
He jumped onto the next roof.
As he threw himself forward into a roll over his shoulder to carry his momentum, he noticed a figure standing on the top of a building of flats a few roads over.
What would a person be doing on a roof this late at night? (Early in the morning?)
He took a few steps back, and then started running again; launching himself onto the next roof over. And he repeated this until he was on the roof directly behind the one with the mysterious stranger.
If it were daytime, he'd be able to see more clearly what the person was doing. And yet, it was night, and it was dark, so he could see nothing but a, quite frankly, oddly-shaped, silhouette.
Quackity bent his knees to keep his stance low, and slowly crept closer to the edge of the roof he was stood on. He tilted his head and regarded the figure from afar.
The sides of their shape flowed around with the wind — some sort of loose coat, he deduced.
The hair of the person was fairly close to their head; so short hair, and not much volume, or else it'd be taller.
They were tall, much taller than Quackity, and he himself was only an inch or so off of average height. From his limited view, he guessed that they were about... Six foot four, maybe?
They shifted on their feet, and he thought to himself, what the fuck are you doing?
And then they inched closer to the edge and his eyes widened and he panicked and called out, "Wait! Don't jump!"
The figure frozen and Quackity cursed himself out for calling attention to himself. Well, he'd made his bed, now it was time to lie in it.
He walked backwards to the middle of the roof he was on, gave himself a running-start, and hopped over the gap onto the next building over. By now he was only a few metres away from the figure, and he could make their features out a little better.
Not much, as the blinding city lights were in front of them both, and so they were still shrouded in shadow. But he could begin to make out the colour of his clothes, and he could see a hat and curls.
They were vaguely familiar, he registered, but he filed that thought away absentmindedly, almost as soon as it arrived.
He walked closer and spoke again, "Don't jump, man. It's not worth it."
A faint laugh sounded from the direction of the other person, and Quackity furrowed his brows, and then swore under his breath. How hadn't he realised it earlier?
"Soot," he bit out through his teeth.
He could hear the grin in the other's voice as he replied, "That's still not my name, Spade."
"Nor is that mine, Syren."
He turned his head minutely over his shoulder, just enough to regard Quackity in the same way one might consider something they found particularly interesting.
He nodded slightly, and though Quackity could still barely see his features from where he stood whilst the other was framed by the light, he could hear his voice clearly enough, "Ace."
Quackity closed the gap between them in four long strides. He counted them, just like he counted everything. They were next to eachother, now. A railing on one side, and open air on the other, as they stood and stared at eachother. A standstill.
"What do you want, Soot?"
The vigilante let a small smirk grace his features, accompanied by a slight eyebrow raise. Quackity noticed, now. He was close enough to. Despite the mask covering the others' eyes; he noticed. Just as he always did. Well, not so much notice physically, as much as simply being able to tell
"I could ask you the same thing — here I was, minding my own business, and then suddenly you come over and bother me. Where's my fault in that?"
Quackity scoffed lightly and rolled his eyes, "Cut the bullshit. I'm out patrolling. I see a person on a roof at ass o'clock in the morning; I assume it's a civilian attempting to kill themselves," he shifted on his feet, the wings by his ears flickering in faux disinterest, "And as for you, you're avoiding the question. Why are you out here?"
Syren was silent for a moment; studying him. Not in a negative way; he just... was. It was how he showed care for a situation, Quackity had learnt.
Not that he cared.
He turned back to the skyline, "Same as you, Spade. Patrol."
He paused for a fairly long time.
Quackity didn't interject, because it didn't feel like Syren was finished.
"Running away."
He swallowed dryly and turned away from the vigilante. Wasn't like he was looking back, anyway.
They stood in silence for what felt like an age. There were no sounds from the two of them aside from the soft sounds of breathing — which were mostly drowned out by the blaring of car horns and the screeching of tires down on the roads below them.
After long enough, Syren shuffled and fished something out of his pocket. Quackity watched him pull out a cigarette from the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn.
He watched as the vigilante brought the cigarette up to his mouth and held it in between his lips, before raising a hand to the end and activating his power.
The hero had never seen his power up close. Well, he had, but not like this. He only ever saw the sparks destructively. When Syren and he were fighting. He'd seen the flames from a distance, at times when he'd seen the vigilante saving people, but nothing close that didn't have negative intentions.
For the brief moment that Syren allowed a flame to cultivate on his index finger, as he used it to light the cigarette, Quackity was mesmerised. In the past, those flames had never meant anything but annoyance and unpredictability — no matter how much the other was technically a vigilante and not a villain.
But now, it was... beautiful. All he was doing was lighting a cigarette, and yet it was beautiful. It was beautiful and bright and warm; he could feel licks of the warmth from where he stood beside the other — something in his brain screamed at him to get closer, and feel the warmth up close. But that part of his brain was a liar and wanted nothing other than complicated situations. So he ignored it.
Syren brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. He pulled the cigarette away and breathed out the smoke, as well as all his inhibitions. His shoulders dropped and his posture evened out. Quackity wasn't watching for all of these things — he was just observant, he told himself.
"You're staring," the other said, without even looking his away. Quackity quickly forced his gaze back onto the skyline; he couldn't even pinpoint the moment his focus has drifted from it in the first place. He was getting sloppier. He lifted his arms to rest his wrists on the railing in front of him. His fingers twitched and his mind escaped for a cigarette of his own, for an escape.
He shut his eyes and took a deep breath to recalibrate, to self-regulate. When he opened his eyes, he was met with an outstretched arm in front of his face, with a hand holding a lit cigarette.
He blinked suprisedly and shot a look at Syren. The other wasn't looking back — because of course he wasn't — and Quackity hesitantly took the cigarette out of his hand.
He forced himself to keep his movements slow and normal, and his mind quiet and relaxed, as he brought the butt of the cigarette to his lips and took a drag.
It burnt on the way in, as it always did, and the effect hit him in seconds. His heart rate sped up and his brain buzzed euphorically. He hadn't smoked in what he deemed as far too long a time frame. As far as he was concerned, he was overdue one.
His shoulders slumped and he leant more heavily on the railing as he lifted his arm and handed the cigarette back to Syren, who was already watching him.
He didn't turn, to find that out. Being a hero, he'd long since developed the sense of being able to tell when someone had their eyes on him. He could feel it; a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.
It wasn't... Uncomfortable, per se. But rather, something he was constantly aware of. Like a thought settling in the background of his mind — he was never really actively thinking of it, but he was always registering it whenever it happened.
Syren shifted audibly, the fabric of his coat ruffling in the wind as it picked up slightly. He brought the cigarette up to his lips again, and pulled it away as he blew out the smoke. It curled around him in wisps, the wind forcing it to circle around and frame his face.
Paired with the neon lighting of the building opposite them, it made him look ethereal. So unfortunately ethereal that it made Quackity ache for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. His chest throbbed and his heart sped up yet again; the buzzing in his brain and his vision both cleared up — not by a lot, but just enough to sober him to an uncomfortable degree.
It made him hyperaware of everything — of the wind on his face, of the bright lights in his eyes, and of how close the two had gotten, because oh, their shoulders were almost touching, and they'd never been that close without actively being at eachother's throats, and Quackity could feel Syren's abnormal warmth from where he stood; through both of their clothes and the distance between them, albeit small.
He wanted to get closer and feel more of the warmth and—
Oh. He was staring.
He was staring, and Syren was staring back. He couldn't see his eyes because of the stupid mask on his face, but he could, once again, tell he was staring. When had Quackity turned to stare in the first place?
He averted his gaze, and forced himself to look at the floor, but Syren shifted again,— differently, this time. He didn't know how it was different, it just was — and Quackity looked back up; making eye contact to the best of his ability, what with both of their masks in the way. He took the cigarette when handed it, and breathed in the thick bliss.
"Why did you become a hero, Ace?"
His voice was so achingly soft, and his posture so unbelievably open that Quackity froze for a moment, before his brain registered the question.
His brows furrowed for the second time in the night, and his mouth opened slightly. He shut it and swallowed heavily, thinking of what to say.
"I wanted to make a difference," he settled on saying. It fit, he thought.
Syren tilted his head slightly, watching him. "And have you? Made a difference, I mean."
Quackity mulled his question over in his head. Had he really made a difference? Sure, he'd saved plenty of people, but Las Nevadas was still full of crime.
Then again, those people he'd saved personally... Surely he'd made a difference to them? He hadn't spoken to any of them personally — no, not in the way that Syren or any of the other vigilantes did; in the way of saving them from muggers and small criminals, and taking the time to speak to them and make sure they're okay, though he respected them for it — but he'd helped stop villains during city-wide disasters, which had inevitably saved many people. Surely at least one of those people had felt like he made a difference to them?
"I— I don't know, to be honest," he said, tilting his head to the floor of the roof, "I'd like to think so, but—" He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "Yeah. But— Yeah. I don't know."
They both stood in silence for a few moments. Syren seemed to be content with that answer, but Quackity wasn't looking at him, so he didn't know for sure.
He contemplated his choices for a few moments more, then decided — Syren had already extended an olive branch, what was Quackity doing the same with one more? He reached out with a hand and passed the cigarette back over the small space between them, and he reached out in the only other way he knew of; but the one way he knew he'd never be good at. He wasn't considerate enough, they'd said.
"What about you? Why did— Why did you go into vigilantism?"
The vigilante in question turned back to the expanse of buildings in front of them and tilted his head contemplatively, "Honestly? I couldn't afford to be a hero, so I found other ways to do what I think is right."
He sounded so firm, so assure. Quackity wished he had half as much confidence.
One part of his sentence stuck out, and Quackity cocked an eyebrow, "You couldn't afford to? Becoming a hero doesn't cost any money, though?" He said.
Syren shook his head and took yet another drag of the cigarette. "Not like that. Not financially."
Quackity was pretty sure he got it, now, but he refused to push. He wasn't going to be the reason their first civil conversation in a while (ever?) ended. Not like this, at least.
The silence returned, but it wasn't quite awkward. It wasn't quite comfortable, either. It just was.
Quackity's vision dropped to the cigarette held between slim fingers. They hadn't used it to the full extent, but it had almost burnt out, by now.
He licked his lips and opened his mouth, "Syren, what—"
He didn't get to finish his sentence before he was cut off.
"Wilbur. Call me Wilbur."
His eyes widened, and his head snapped to the side. Syre— Wilbur? No, Syren, wasn't looking at him.
His mouth dropped slightly, disbelief highly evident. "What?"
The other still didn't turn. "You heard me. Call me Wilbur. Not Syren, not Soot. Wilbur."
Quackity opened and closed his mouth a few times, attempting to process.
Names weren't given freely in the world they lived in. Maybe between civilians, but not between people like them. Names were sacred; they could make or break everything.
To give someone your real name was to be vulnerable. It was to be intimate, and to be trusting. It was generally considered worse than giving someone your face.
Appearances could be altered. Names could not. They could in the sense of changing your name, but a person's real name was integral to their identity. The name they chose to go by, in public, in person, and as humans, rather than as heroes, or vigilantes, or villains? That was a secret worth keeping.
Names were something you resonated with. And if you didn't, then you changed it so that you did. Names were personal. Appearances were deceiving. You could look in the mirror and see someone other than yourself. But your name was yours.
And yet, Syren gave Quackity his.
Why?
He swallowed.
Should he...?
No, he couldn't.
He couldn't give up the one thing he had left that was his, and his alone.
Instead, Quackity reached up and gently unclasped his mask from his face.
He kept his eyes shut, but he didn't need them open to guess Syren's— Wilbur's reaction.
Sure enough, when he opened his eyes, the others posture was straight, and yet open. His eyebrows were raised (probably), and yet his jaw clenched.
He extended a hand courteously, "Call me Q," he said.
Obviously it wasn't his real name, but he thought Wilbur could probably tell it was close enough to the truth.
Without prompting, and without being asked to, Wilbur too reached his hands up and peeled his mask off. The final remains of the burnt out cigarette slipped from his hand and dropped to the floor, as he did so.
Quackity opened his mouth, ready to speak, though he didn't know what exactly — something along the lines of, Why? You didn't have to do that — but the unfinished thoughts died on his tongue as the other's mask was fully pulled away, and his breath hitched softly.
Previously, with that godawfully designed mask still on, Quackity could see the man's mouth, and nothing else. Everything up from about the bottom of his nose was completely covered.
Now, he could see his face in full. His eyes were a deep brown, with bags underneath dark enough to rival ash. He really did suit the nickname Soot, Quackity mused.
He had clusters of freckles all over his face, and the dark curls of his hair created a frame that was so fitting, Quackity couldn't even think of denying it.
He was... He was conventionally attractive, and Quackity hated it. No, he was more than that.
He was divine. He was painfully divine, and he was like sun on a cloudy day. It was unfortunate and painstaking, because there were so many things holding them apart, and yet, he looked like golden hour.
Quackity could see Wilbur's eyes tracing his own face, committing each tiny detail to memory, just as he himself was doing. His attention was brought back up to the eyebags on the other's face, and he — once again — hadn't realised how close they'd gotten.
He reached a hand up — slowly, ever so slowly, leaving plenty of space to back out — and gently laid his hand on Wilbur's cheek; thumb softly tracing the edges of the deep circles under his eye.
Gentle. A word he never would've associated with himself, if given the chance. Despite being a hero, someone who's meant to be as light-handed as possible, he would never call himself gentle.
Quackity wasn't gentle; he was prickly, and spiky, and scratchy, and he was a rose. The thorns and the petals both — though, moreso the latter before the accident and the scar.
And yet, here he was, being gentle with Syren, of all people.
The other let his head turn into the hand on his cheek, as one of his own hands came up to lightly hold Quackity's wrist of the hand on his face; his own thumb rubbing circles on said wrist, in turn.
Quackity swallowed dryly. The air between them was warm — not overly so. Just, warm.
Though, when a drop of water hit his cheek, and he looked up slightly to see storm clouds rolling in, Quackity realised that the warmth was simply due to the shitty Las Nevadas weather.
He pulled his hand off of Wilbur's face and let it hang by his side.
He stared. Wilbur stared back.
Wilbur took a step forward, erasing space between them. Quackity didn't move away. He took another step. Quackity still didn't move away.
The other's hand raised slowly, as if approaching a feral animal. He placed it on Quackity's face, gently tracing the edges of the scar.
...He still didn't move away.
Quackity let his eyes drop shut as Wilbur took yet another small step forward. Their chests were lightly touching, now, and he could feel Wilbur's breath on his face.
The fingers brushed the scar once more before retreating, but Quackity kept his eyes closed.
When lips softly pressed against the top of the scar on his eyelid, Quackity couldn't say he was suprised.
Shocked, maybe, but not suprised.
His breath hitched nonetheless.
The lips travelled down the length of the scar, and Quackity shivered. He felt a small smile grow against his skin, and a subtle, barely-there irritation pricked at his skin. Of course Syren was still being an ass.
The lips pulled away from his face, and with the motion, Quackity opened his eyes.
He licked his lips and watched as Wilbur's eyes tracked the motion.
Thunder clapped from above and a few drops of rain hit Quackity's face, forcing the storm he'd briefly acknowledged beforehand into the forefront of his mind.
Though, he hardly paid it much attention as a more pressing matter became apparent. Namely, the lack of space now existing between he and Wilbur. Their breaths mingled, and it was warm, and another drop of rain fell and hit Quackity directly on the top of his head — but it didn't matter, because they were leaning in, and their lips met.
They kissed, and it wasn't perfect. It wasn't 'just right,' either. It just was.
It just was, and they just were.
The rain was more prominent by this point, falling from the sky in a steady stream, screaming at him.
It screamed and it called, just as it always did.
Just as it did when Schlatt tried to drag Quackity into his own suicide.
Just as it did when Karl's power went haywire and he lost his memories; Sapnap both wordlessly and mindlessly taking on the role of the vessel — obedient to his every whim. And Quackity was left to rot with the core of his own desire.
Just as it was now, when everything was wrong, but everything might has well have been right.
Wilbur kissed him, and Quackity let it happen. He didn't love him — he barely liked him — yet he kissed back nonetheless. Because that was all he had to offer, and all he could let himself receive.
He tasted like bitter and smoky. Like all the chemicals in a cigarette. Quackity drank it in greedily.
Wilbur's hands moved to cradle the small of his back and the crook of his neck: in return Quackity willed his own hands to push through the openings of the other's undone coat, and gently nudge underneath his shirt, too, hands coming to rest on bare skin at his waist.
Wilbur shivered at the feeling, and Quackity took selfish delight in the motion.
He shouldn't, really.
This went against everything he stood for — Syren was a vigilante, and he was supposed to arrest vigilantes.
And yet, here he was, stood on a rooftop at Prime knows what time in the morning. Making out with one.
The rain kept falling, and Las Nevadas kept living.
Could he be blamed for this situation, though, really? He definitely didn't love Wilbur (didn't he?), and he was only here because it was a feeling. Every time one of them shifted, it set his skin alight. Every nerve aflame, because it was touch.
Nobody had touched Quackity like this in years. And so, he stayed.
The kiss wasn't gentle, despite the touch being so. Their teeth clashed, and all Quackity could focus on was the temperature of Wilbur's mouth against his own.
Wilbur tugged him closer, and Quackity, once again, let it happen. Their bodies were flush, the contact blurring into one mess of buzzing, and their silhouette tangling into one incomprehensible shape.
He could feel their heartbeats now, the rhythms out of unison with one another — and yet both unnaturally fast; pulse only increased by desire. The space — or lack thereof — between them was hot and sticky, the humidity from the storm prompting the smell of wet humanity.
The hand on the back of his neck shifted again, settling on his scalp; fingers brushing through the only hybrid feature he'd picked up from his mother. The wings behind his ears fluttered at the stimulation, and Quackity shivered alongside it. The feathers were sensitive, and yet the touch was electric. Intoxicating.
Quackity trailed his fingers across Wilbur's skin — a linear motion. In response, Wilbur stopped fiddling with his wings, and instead tugged on his hair. Quackity stuttered at the motion, a breathy whine escaped his lips, and Wilbur inhaled the sound.
They pulled apart and gulped in air like it was their first experience doing so. Quackity looked at Wilbur, who's eyes were still shut.
He looked... at peace. That was the best way to encapsulate the blissed state of being.
Saliva was still running down his chin, his eyelashes were wet, and his cheeks were flushed to hell and back.
Quackity was certain he himself was no better. His breathing was erratic, and his vision slightly spotty. His eyes felt glassy, and he felt dazed.
They leaned closer again, no words traded; the only thing drawing them back together was a mutual unspoken agreement to not let the moment end.
And yet, despite that, Quackity's comm chose that time to crackle with activity.
"Ace? This is Bee."
Quackity inhaled sharply, not at anything in particular. Wilbur raised an eyebrow — his comm was broken, so he knew Wilbur could make out noise coming from it; however, it wasn't enough for him to fully hear the other side of the conversation.
He raised his hand to press the button on the small machine in his hear, activating the microphone.
"I hear you Bee," his face grew warm at the hoarseness of his voice, so he cleared his throat. "What do you have for me?"
Silence for a moment, before the comm buzzed with a reply, "There's a situation about two blocks away from you. Nothing big, but you're closest."
Quackity nodded, more for the motion than as a reply. "Got it, leaving now."
A few moments without a reply indicated none was coming, so he allowed his arm to drop back to his side.
He swallowed heavily and opened his mouth to speak.
Syren beat him to the chase, "So," he said.
"..So," Quackity agreed.
Syren tilted his head. "I reckon we'll meet again, another time, Q?"
Quackity hesitated before nodding once, swiftly, "I suppose."
The air around them shifted, despite the storm still coming down full-force around them.
"I'll see you later, Syren."
Something in Syren's face shifted at that, but Quackity had neither the time nor the energy to figure out what.
And with that, he reclasped his mask; turned away, and he left.