Archive of Our Own

after effects of revival

Quackity doesn't know what death feels like. He got close, once, when Technoblade taught him how much a pickaxe through the skull hurts, but he did not die. Sometimes he thinks he almost saw it, though. That other side. That "light at the end of the tunnel" or whatever bullshit it is most people say when their life flashes before their eyes.

It was warm. Welcoming. A rest, a promise of relaxation he hadn't felt in ages. But before he could truly bask in it, he was clawing back to life, with a pain so unimaginable ringing through his head and an exhaustion so deep it felt like it weighed down his very soul. Fundy had told him, then, that his heart had stopped for less than a minute before they managed to get a health potion down his throat (he said about half of it spilled out the side of his torn open jaw so they had to try again with a second dose). The potion, combined with a regeneration potion that Tubbo poured all over his face, allowed the wound to stitch itself back together as best as possible.

That "best" wasn't all that great. His left eye barely works now and a handful of his teeth had to be replaced. But at least he makes the scar look good.

So yeah, Quackity knows pain. But he doesn't know death. And, moreover, he doesn't know what coming back from death feels like.

When Tommy was revived – he walked out of that prison cell with less light in his eyes and a white streak in his hair and a jagged scar across his temple – he had shrugged it off when Quackity asked if anything was different. He said he felt exactly the same, that it was like he took a long nap and nothing else. Nothing worse. The only proof he was dead at all was the scars he wore and the grief that went through his loved ones.

But Tommy was only dead for three days.

When Wilbur was revived – he waltzed into Las Nevadas with a bright grin and a white streak in his hair and a bandage around his arm – he seemed to be in much the same state Tommy was. He spoke like nothing was wrong, or different. He acted as if he was simply sleeping for the last 164 days and not six feet under in a grave of his own making.

Quackity has come to the conclusion that his act was, in fact, just an act. Bullshit, just like all the words that had come tumbling out of the bastard's mouth when they met again, revived and remade. An elaborate performance put on by a man who had nothing and wished so desperately to seem like he had everything.

In the beginning, this lie entertained Quackity. It's funny, isn't it, to watch someone else so broken cling desperately to their pieces. Much funnier than doing it yourself, at any rate. So he turned his blind eye to all of the quirks, to the holes in Wilbur's stories and the strings that weren't pulled tight enough to hold anything up. He let the performance continue.

Now, though, it feels cruel. Because even though Quackity knew it was a lie, he didn't understand until recently just how large of a lie it was.

Prime, existence for Wilbur must be so difficult now. And while, ages ago, Quackity may have thought that to be deserved, he has found himself caring for Wilbur. After all, you can only watch a man splinter and crack so much. You can only watch the beautiful stained glass shatter under the weight of reality and hope to piece it back together.

The First Crack

Quackity has been dealing with Wilbur Soot for months now. He has wormed his way into Quackity's life like a parasite, digging into his very life blood and sustaining himself on Quackity's own hard work. Wilbur drinks up his sweat and tears like whiskey, and he grins all the while. He's a little sick of it, to be honest.

On the other hand, he's kind of learning to enjoy it. The back and forth, the teasing and the flirting and the violence, the game they play that has somehow turned from one broken man's mania to a mutual obsession built on an understanding only they have. Because that's the truth, isn't it? Wilbur is the only man that truly understands Quackity, and maybe always has been, and Quackity is the only man with even a modicum of a chance of understanding Wilbur.

So here they are, doing their dance. Even now, looking down at the small crater in the city street, Quackity can't help but feel a sort of excitement building up in his chest. He long since stopped trying to stamp it down, instead reveling in it. He feels alive, when spinning and swaying and stepping in time to this fucked up dance of theirs. And here, in the dark of the night, with nothing but a cigarette and some half blown-up redstone lighting the broken street, he feels content.

He brings the cigarette to his lips, sucking in the smoke and letting the warmth settle deep in his lungs. The crater could be mistaken for a creeper explosion, with how insignificant it is, if Quackity himself hadn't seen Wilbur light the tnt.

He lets his hand fall, cigarette held between two fingers, and slowly exhales the smoke into the air.

Where is the bastard, anyway?

He takes a moment to watch the smoke dissipate before slowly surveying the area. The night is still in this part of Las Nevadas. Clearly the explosion was done to garner Quackity's attention, because there really is no other reason to detonate a street on the business block. There is no nightlife here, no citizens to disrupt or panic, just him and a handful of other workaholics. After all, Quackity's office window is the one he saw Wilbur from.

To be expected, he sees no one. Wilbur has seemingly disappeared, although Quackity knows that to be an illusion. Wilbur always sticks close to the explosions he causes, something about how "the heat of it is so refreshing" or whatever. So he knows that the arsonist is here.

He keeps as still as he can while looking around, careful to make as little sound as possible so he can hear when Wilbur moves. It doesn't take long, just a few seconds of stillness, for Quackity to pick up on a shift in the gravel nearby. Without any hesitation, he turns on his heel and heads straight for the gravel parking lot (they haven't had the chance to pave it yet). There's a single car parked there, and he can see that damn jacket flared out underneath it.

He doesn't bother saying anything, just rounds the car. It's when he comes around the hood and is finally able to see Wilbur that he ends up stopping in his tracks.

Wilbur is sitting beside the back right tire, jacket half-taken off on the left side. His sweater is partially taken off as well, with his left arm taken out of its sleeve. It leaves the rest of the sweater to ride up, hanging oddly around his neck and only sort of covering his chest.

"Why the fuck are you stripping in a parking lot?" Quackity asks. He takes a small amount of pleasure out of how much Wilbur startles, having somehow not noticed his approach. He expects some sort of sassy retort, a flirt maybe.

Instead, Wilbur just huffs a laugh and looks back to his naked arm. "Fuck off, I'm not stripping," he states. "Just tending to some bleeding."

At that, Quackity actually bothers to look at Wilbur's arm, taking a drag of his cigarette as he does so. Sure enough, his bicep is bleeding from what seems to be a puncture wound. How Wilbur got that, especially through two layers, Quackity has no idea.

"How did that happen?" He asks, letting the smoke fall from his lips at the same time as his words. Wilbur doesn't bother looking up again. Instead, he squeezes at the wound, making a rush of more blood pour out. "Dude, what the fuck are you doing?"

Quackity gets down to Wilbur's level, batting Wilbur's hands away from his arm and letting his cigarette drop to the ground as he does so. Wilbur stares at the cigarette for a moment, suddenly ignoring the now angry wound, and then reaches down and picks it up between slender fingers. He puts it between his lips, inhaling steadily and making the tip glow a bright orange. Then he takes it out of his mouth, twirls it between his fingers, and presses it to the puncture.

Quackity squawks, sounding impressively bird like, and rips the cigarette out of Wilbur's hand.

"What the fuck?!" he exclaims, quickly putting the cigarette beneath his boot and crushing it into the gravel. Wilbur barely acknowledges him, just runs a finger over the now burnt flesh. The puncture is still visible, but the impulsive cauterization attempt seems to have staunched the blood flow.

"There, now it won't bleed any more until I can get a new bandage on it," Wilbur looks up at Quackity with a blank look. "Unless you plan to arrest me."

Quackity stares at him dumbfounded. He knew Wilbur was unstable, and probably a masochist, but that was a level of self-harm he never expected to see up close. He stumbles for his words, mouth opening and closing several times.

He finds himself speaking before he consciously decides what to say, "Didn't that hurt?"

Wilbur looks shocked at the question, as if the notion he could have been causing himself pain was outlandish. Which, Quackity thinks, is pretty ironic considering how poorly Wilbur has been known to take care of himself.

"'Course not," he mumbles, his eyes sliding away from Quackity's and staring at a point over his shoulder.

He doesn't continue, fingers running up and down the burnt flesh in an almost soothing motion instead. Quackity doesn't push down the impulse to grab at his hand. He pulls Wilbur's hand away from his arm and instead interlocks their fingers so he can't go back to picking at the angry skin.

Wilbur snaps his head down to their hands once they're connected and just stares at them for a moment. Then his thumb starts running back and forth on Quackity's hand, similar to the way he was rubbing over the wound. It's comforting, Quackity thinks.

"I don't feel explosions anymore, you know."

It's a bit of a non sequitur, but Quackity allows the change in topic. Wilbur's mind runs at a pace often too fast for him, so he trusts this is somehow related to the sudden puncture wound and self harm.

"What do you mean?" he questions, hoping that Wilbur will respond in kind and not lock up.

Still with his eyes locked on their hands, Wilbur shrugs a shoulder. "Ever since being revived, I just don't feel the pain of them," his voice lowers to almost a whisper. "It's just heat. And pressure."

"So you seek out pain in other ways, since you can't feel it from the explosions anymore," he tries to fill in the blanks, but Wilbur just shakes his head.

"No, not really," he hums. "I'm not numb to all pain. Most pain I still feel, it's just this wound on my arm and explosions that I can't feel." There's a brief moment of nothing, and then he's smirking and laughing under his breath. "Luckily for you."

Quackity doesn't even know how to respond to that, a flush coming to his face and words stuttering in his brain. So he doesn't, he just ignores it entirely, just like he's ignoring how nice it is to have Wilbur's hand in his.

"What is that wound then? It looks like you were stabbed or something," Quackity briefly looks at the injury in question before returning to studying Wilbur's face.

His eyebrows twitch downwards before smoothing back out, and his mouth sets into a small frown. "I'm not sure," he admits. "It's been there since I was revived. And it never stops bleeding. I wear that bloody bandage on my coat as a reminder, cause I don't feel it so I forget it's there, and then my jumpers end up all bloody and it's a pain to wash out."

Well, that brings more questions, like how the man hasn't bled to death yet. Then again, there's a lot of things that don't make sense about Wilbur. One day, Quackity hopes to solve the mystery that is Wilbur Soot, but tonight is not that time. So, he lands on one more question, and grasps their joined hands just a little tighter before he asks.

"So then why make it bleed? Why burn yourself? Seems like it would make a bigger mess than it's worth."

At this, Wilbur's teeth dig into his lower lip. He chews at the dead skin, and his eyebrows draw in, and he digs his nails into Quackity's hand just a little too much, but Quackity doesn't stop him.

"Because it reassures me that I'm real," his thumb stills, "like how arguing with you makes me feel alive."

Feeling alive. Wilbur says stuff like that a lot, doesn't he? About how certain things, especially pertaining to Quackity, help him feel alive. Is that all he's searching for? The sensations of living? The reassurance that he really is back and not stuck in whatever hell-like limbo he was in before crawling out of his grave?

He couldn't tell anyone why, least of all himself, but something warm blossoms in Quackity's chest from the thought of being that important to Wilbur. To meaning so much to him it helps ground him, helps make him feel real. There is something to be said about the thrill their rivalry gives him, how integral it's become to his every day life. It's been a long time since Quackity has felt this valued. He can't lie and say that Wilbur's obsession hasn't become mutual, that he feels that instinctual need to bite back at every word, follow up to every action, listen in to every plot. Wilbur drives him, and he basks in every moment Wilbur has his attention on him.

When Quackity finally finds his words, they are spoken under his breath, a confession not meant to be heard but put out into the wind nonetheless.

"You make me feel alive, too."

Wilbur's eyes jump to Quackity's, and for a moment there's an understanding. A connection that they hadn't ever put into words or bothered to acknowledge. Quackity knows something is there, and has been there for a long time, and will continue to be there until they actually talk like adults. But for right now they don't need to speak, just be.

And then it's broken, and Wilbur is tearing his hand away and putting his sweater back on and shrugging on his coat and standing up all in one move meant to look smooth and instead looking panicked.

"Well, I caused my chaos, so if it's alright with you, I will be going now!" Wilbur barely waits for a response before practically sprinting away.

It leaves Quackity there, on the gravel lot, a crushed cigarette under his boot, drops of blood in front of him, and a warmth left in his palm from where he already misses the touch.

The Second Crack

It's been a couple weeks since that odd night, and absolutely nothing has changed. Despite what seemed to be an actual genuine moment with Wilbur, Quackity has found the man causing just as many problems as before. Minor counts of arson every other day, larceny on the days between that, with graffiti and vandalism thrown in here and there, and a huge amount of just lurking in the shadows like a lanky version of the boogeyman.

Quackity is actually kind of glad for it. This is the dance he knows, something safe and good and not bringing up feelings that he really doesn't want to address.

Which is why he's a little surprised Wilbur has allowed them to be alone again. The two are in the kitchen of Tubburger. The moon is high in the sky, and Quackity had walked into the back from locking up the front door only to find Wilbur still sitting around. He had been here all day, sitting in a booth with nothing but a soda he constantly pestered the waitstaff about refills for. And now he's here, sitting on the kitchen counter like that isn't breaking food safety regulations (which he should know, being the owner of a food truck and all).

They've been silent, so far. Quackity didn't acknowledge Wilbur, other than giving him a passing glare as he grabbed the grill scraper and grill scrub from the cabinet next to his dangling legs. Wilbur doesn't say a word as Quackity gets to work, scraping up the food debris and then scrubbing it down with oil. The noise grates on his ears, the metal scrub meeting metal surface an awful sound that makes him wish Wilbur would talk just to give him a distraction. But Wilbur doesn't, and Quackity keeps scrubbing. There's a brief moment where his pinky hits the grill top, and he swears violently, which garners a stifled laugh from Wilbur and yet another glare from him.

It isn't until after he's on the last step, turning the grill off and pouring another layer of oil down to wipe the surface with, that Quackity finally breaks the silence.

"What do you want to eat?" He asks, not even bothering to glance at Wilbur as he rubs the oil across the grill.

"Wait, what?" Wilbur's tone is startled, like Quackity just asked him to prove quantum theory using french fries or something. When Quackity looks up, Wilbur is looking at him with a confused smile. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been here 10 hours and you haven't eaten anything. You must be hungry, and I've got leftovers that are just going in the trash, so what do you want?" Quackity offers, eyebrow raised and attention now fully on Wilbur. While everything he said was true, the reality is that he's worried about Wilbur. The man looks like he's barely put on any weight since before he died, and when he saw him without his sweater on a couple weeks ago it just solidified his concern. He could count his ribs, for gods sake, and no one who is living next to a food truck they own, and that runs off of stolen resources, should be that thin.

Wilbur looks genuinely perplexed, only shaking his head a little bit and shifting on the countertop. He straightens up, looking a little less relaxed, and brings his arms around in front of him to put his hands in his lap. "I'm not hungry, though."

The rag on the grill top is completely forgotten now.

"You haven't eaten in at least 10 hours, probably longer," Quackity speaks slowly and with a seriousness he can see reflected in the way that Wilbur's eyes widen just the slightest bit. "So don't lie to me. There is literally no reason to starve yourself, you're already skin and bones."

"I'm not starving myself!" Wilbur hastily defends, putting his hands up in a mock surrender. Quackity just stares at him, hoping that Wilbur can understand how stupid that sounds when faced with the current situation. Sure enough, Wilbur puts his hands back down, looking somewhat ashamed. "At least, not purposefully."

"The fuck does that mean, Wil?"

Quackity didn't mean to say the nickname, but when the tension seems to fall away from Wilbur, he doesn't regret it.

Another new step in their choreography, it seems.

Wilbur hesitates a moment, but Quackity can tell it isn't stalling so much as gathering his thoughts. He isn't sure when he came to know Wilbur well enough to read him like that. But some time in the last couple of months, he's learned all of Wilbur's little tells.

He knows the difference between when Wilbur's eyebrows are furrowed and lips turned upright (he's stalling, distracting you, his words are going to be witty yet vague so that he doesn't have to say what he really means), versus when his eyes are wide but mouth still smiling (he's improvising, you actually managed to catch him off guard), versus now.

His mouth is set in a thin line, and his eyes are locked onto a single point in his lap. He looks mostly indifferent, eyebrows smoothed out and body relaxed, but there is a stillness to Wilbur's form that indicates he is deep in thought. After all, even a word smith needs time to craft something new.

After a few seconds, where Quackity finds himself staring at Wilbur maybe a little too intensely, Wilbur looks up and meets his eye again.

"My body doesn't work the same as it used to, before I died," Wilbur begins. This is something that Quackity already knew, although he isn't entirely sure how deep the differences go. Honestly, Wilbur seemed exactly the same until that night two weeks ago.

"One of the things that changed is that I'm just not very hungry anymore," Wilbur continues. "I don't eat as much, and when I do eat it's in smaller portions. It's why I haven't regained much weight. The few times I tried to eat more, I ended up vomiting it all up," he shrugs. "So I'm not starving myself, not really, I just don't need to eat."

The older maintains eye contact, even after he's finished. It gives Quackity the opportunity to decide if Wilbur really is speaking the truth. And, after a moment of searching his face for any tells, he decides that he is. As much as Wilbur likes to weave stories and spout falsehoods, Quackity really can't see a reason why he'd tell such an elaborate lie about this.

"In that case, it's important that when you do eat, it's a good meal," Quackity says, arms crossed and continuing to look straight at Wilbur. It's important to him that he seems completely serious and genuine to the other man, since he's about to propose something incredibly uncharacteristic.

Wilbur huffs a small laugh, "I mean, I try my best, but I don't exactly have a lot of resources."

Quackity tilts his head and raises a brow. "I wasn't finished."

Wilbur holds his hands up in a mock surrender, then nods to Quackity to continue.

"To make sure that you eat somewhat well, I'll let you dine in Las Nevadas once a week, every Friday, supervised. On the house."

The offer is worth it only to see the unbridled shock on Wilbur's face. His mask has slipped completely and his eyes are wide open, mouth agape, eyebrows so high they're practically hidden by his hair. Quackity holds back the laughter that so badly wants to escape, knowing it would ruin the sincerity of the proposal. He also tries not to shift or fidget. He doesn't want to give away just how incredibly out of his depth he is, how extending such kindness to Wilbur feels both horribly wrong and comfortably right at the same time.

Wilbur's shock suddenly disappears, morphing instead to a smug look complete with a halfhearted smirk and narrowed eyes. And yet, Quackity can see something in those eyes. A genuine feeling of hope, although hope for what, Quackity can't be certain.

"Are you asking me on a date, Quackity?" Wilbur asks, such a predictable response and yet it still throws Quackity off.

Because that's what this is, at least a little bit. Even if the romantic intention isn't there, he's asking Wilbur to go to dinner with him once a week. They'd be spending time together with no pretense of rivalry or business. Just hanging out as people, conversing as people instead of enemies, the entire situation brought on by a feeling of care that's snuck up on Quackity and made a home in his hole-ridden heart.

The part of Quackity made up of hurt and distrust recoils at the idea of agreeing. But the part of Quackity that's somehow shone a little brighter in the last few months – the part that still swoons over the idea of flowers in the evenings and soft kisses in the mornings, the part that sees Wilbur and is reminded of those few genuine moments they had before hell opened beneath them on that fateful November day – is willing to do anything if it gets Wilbur to agree to take care of himself. He really has no choice except to agree.

But if he's going to do this, he might as well have some fun with it.

"Y'know what, Soot?" Quackity uncrosses his arms, stepping forward and into Wilbur's space, putting his hands on the counter on either side of the taller. He leans forward just the smallest bit, and he doesn't miss how Wilbur's eyes follow how his shirt opens a little bit more. The red climbing up Wilbur's face is telling enough. "I am asking you out. What do you say?"

He tries to maintain eye contact, although Wilbur is quick to have his gaze roam around. His eyes flicker to and from Quackity's and anywhere else in the room, occasionally finding themselves glancing somewhere else on Quackity's body instead. Every time his stare lands on his chest (or his neck, or his lips, or his arms, or his scar), the elder's face gets a little bit redder. It's absolutely, hilariously endearing.

As soon as that thought crosses his mind, Quackity knows that this new development in their relationship is bound to become something. Whether that something is more hatred – the continuation of a bitter rivalry between two equally broken men – or some other, scarier feelings – mutual understanding, two sides of the same coin or whatever poetic shit Wilbur's said before – he doesn't know. But seeing Wilbur like this for possibly the first time, seeing him stumbling and blushing and looking so unbearably alive, makes him not regret a single choice.

Not to mention, a few "dates" never hurt anyone. And even if they turn into real dates, that could be refreshing. It doesn't mean anything will come of it, it doesn't mean he's inviting heartbreak back into his life, it's just a bit of fun.

As long as Wilbur is taking care of himself. Prime above, when did that become something Quackity was so concerned with?

Before he can spiral any longer, Wilbur's eyes finally meet his and stay there. He tries to smirk, Quackity can tell, but it looks more like a genuine smile, shy and a little unsure.

"Okay," is all he says. But it's enough.

Quackity smiles back, and he tries to look smug but he can feel that he fails. His scar pulls on his lip in that way he's gotten accustomed to feeling when his smile is softer than he means it to be. He still doesn't regret it.

"Alright, then let's go," he grabs Wilbur's hands and pulls him off the countertop, letting go to start walking towards the back door.

"Wait, now?!" Wilbur stumbles and trips in his haste to follow, and Quackity just keeps smiling all the while.

Yeah, he thinks, this could be good.

The Third Crack

What do you do when it's technically your three month anniversary, but in reality it's just been three months since you started going on "dates" with your rival, turned weekly-dinner-date, turned maybe-friend? Well, you reserve the restaurant you've deemed most likely to be enjoyed by your maybe-friend and make sure the menu is catered to his tastes that you've learned over the last few months.

Or, well, that's what Quackity decided to do. It's an excellent excuse to show off not only his wealth but also the prosperity of his country, the opportunities available to his citizens and his guests. It's also been the most date-like dinner Quackity has ever allowed their "dates" to be.

He isn't quite sure how he feels about that.

The night started like any other. Quackity had found Wilbur standing at the glowing welcome sign, leaned against the pole and smoking to pass the time. The smoke from his cigarette circled his head, the light from the numerous LED bulbs making the smoke circle seem almost like a halo sent from heaven. How ironic, Quackity thinks, for someone so sinfully damaged to be made so angelically beautiful.

He approached Wilbur, who smiled and offered Quackity the last drag of his cigarette once he was close enough to be noticed. Quackity took it, as he often did, breathing soul-sand smoke into his lungs before letting the thing fall to the sand below their feet. Then, without a word, he turned and went back towards his country. Even without the tell-tale sounds of shuffling feet behind him, he trusted Wilbur to follow. He always did.

Quackity had tried not to let his eyes drift to Wilbur as they started walking side by side. He had requested the older to dress a little nicer earlier that day — what he actually said was closer to "how about you give a shit about your appearance this time," but that's neither here nor there. What matters is, Wilbur did a damn good job at cleaning himself up.

His coat was still on, but there was new thread on the bottom hem and sleeves where the edges were starting to fray. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but the golden thread was reminiscent of the yellow sweater he often wore. He forewent the sweater this time, instead wearing a clean, yet wrinkled, white button-up. His stained and scuffed jeans had been switched out for well-fitting dress pants that reminded Quackity a little too much of their time on stages and in front of podiums. It helped that they showed off the little bit of curve Wilbur has though.

Even if Quackity claims to hate him, he can't claim he isn't good looking.

The lack of accessories somehow worked in Wilbur's favor. No tie, no necklaces or bracelets, no cufflinks or earrings. Just a simple leather belt around his hips. And, of course, his red-tinted glasses. How anyone could wear those and not look like a douche, Quackity will never know, but somehow Wilbur pulled it off.

Quackity noticed that Wilbur's hair was even properly washed and fluffy. It gave him the sudden urge to pet him like some sort of dog, and that was what finally got him to tear his eyes away.

They walked to their destination with little banter. Over the last few months, their exchanges have gone from witty insults to light teasing. It's still something he's getting used to. And yet, there's something about it that's just as natural as the venom that once poisoned most of their interactions.

Once at the high-scale Italian-style restaurant, Quackity held the door open like a gentleman, then took Wilbur's coat and handed it off to the attendant on duty. Wilbur made grabby hands for it but a smile was plastered on his face the entire time, so Quackity knew he was only playing around.

The attendant led them upstairs to their table quietly. They were sat at a single table nestled next to a bay window that overlooked the city. The lights in the room were lowered to a pleasant level that wasn't too dim. The table itself was simple, with burgundy cloth napkins and golden cutlery laid to the side, two crystal wine glasses placed in their respective places, and a small vase with a single cornflower in the center.

The last thing on the table were the menus, which quickly caught Wilbur's eye once they had sat down. It only took a moment for him to skim it before an eyebrow was quirked up and a small puff of air fell past his lips in what could have been a sort of laugh.

"Is this menu personalized?" Wilbur asked, having glanced up from the decorated and laminated paper in front of him to look Quackity in the eye.

Quackity had met his gaze and felt the thrill of victory run through him. It bothers him a little, now, that impressing Wilbur gave him such a satisfying feeling. He also can't find it in him to deny it.

"What makes you say that?" he had questioned instead of admitting outright.

Wilbur smirked in that stupidly attractive way he does when he knows he's puzzled something out, "I don't think the demographic of your normal patrons would care for Tagliatelle alla Bolognese, but I mentioned it being my favorite food and here I find it on the menu."

Quackity hadn't given him a proper response, just a hum, before he looked down to his own menu. He didn't need to confirm Wilbur's suspicions. They both knew he was right.

Wilbur did order the Tagliatelle alla Bolognese, and Quackity was thrilled to see him enjoy it. It had become something of a game to Quackity. To find the foods that Wilbur genuinely enjoyed, to treat him to something properly sourced and well-seasoned, and then to one-up himself every week.

He had made sure to import only the finest ingredients for tonights dinner. None of the pork on the server was good enough to be made into properly cured pancetta, so he sourced some from an overseas server. He ensured that the wine he got with his weekly alcohol delivery was finer than the rest, and the right kind of fruity and aromatic for Wilbur to enjoy drinking it just as much as it could be used to cook. Tomatoes were a pain to grow on this server, and so he spent over a week negotiating with his normal farm traders to get some that weren't quite so shriveled and bland. And of course, the tagliatelle cost a small fortune but was worth every emerald.

For dessert was a perfectly square serving of tiramisu, one to share between the both because neither of them have a real taste for sweets. The espresso soaked into the cookies that made up the cake, along with the cocoa powder dusted on top, added a nice bitterness to it that balanced out the sweetness. A small fortune in of itself, but just as worth it for the shine in Wilbur's eyes as he ate.

After the meal, they ended up in a sleek black car driven by one of Quackity's employees. There's a partition between the driver and the passengers, not unlike a limousine. Quackity sits against the partition with Wilbur across from him. The drive began in silence but awkwardness isn't a part of it.

This is where Quackity finds himself thinking back to the night. To this odd not-date that's been so pleasant but so out of the ordinary for them. Still, even after thinking it through, he can't say that he would do anything different. He doesn't start any conversation, preferring to allow himself this moment of reflection.

Using the silence to his advantage, Wilbur rolls down his window the slightest bit with one hand whilst fishing out his pack of cigarettes with the other. It's a cheap brand, likely stolen from one of the gas stations near the outskirts of town. Quackity is tempted to offer Wilbur one of his better, higher-end ones but instead watches wordlessly as Wilbur sticks a cigarette in his mouth and switches out the carton for his lighter.

Wilbur's hands tremble as he lifts the lighter to his cigarette. Quackity can't pull his eyes away. The flame is unsteady, the lighter gripped tight as if the harder Wilbur holds onto it the less he'll shake. It takes a few seconds more than normal for the cigarette to catch the heat. As soon as it does, Wilbur is removing his finger from the top of the lighter and putting the now-cooling metal back into his jacket pocket. His hands still shake.

"Are you cold?" Quackity asks, finally letting his eyes move up to meet Wilbur's own.

He tilts his head a small bit, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to speak. "Not really, why do you ask?" Smoke pours out of his mouth with the words, the heat and smell of it a welcome familiarity. A small amount floats through the crack of the window in wisps. The rest permeates the cozy backseat of the car.

Quackity gestures to his hand, the one held in front of his face. Wilbur looks to where he points, being met with his own hand and the cigarette held between his fingers, and then looks back up at him with a more pronounced look of confusion.

"I smoke all the time, that doesn't mean I'm cold, Q," Wilbur laughs a little.

"No, I mean the shaking," Quackity notices how the trembling lets little waves of smoke drift in the air in odd patterns. "Your hands are shaking."

Once again, Wilbur looks at his own hand. He waits just a moment and then a smile comes to his face. It's soft, almost, but there's a hardened edge to it. Something almost pitying. "My hands always shake."

"No they don't," Quackity barely waits for the words to be out of Wilbur's mouth before refuting the claim. "I studied your body language fucking obsessively during the election, Wil, your hands don't shake."

Wilbur's smile has grown, and now alongside the pity is a look somewhere between condescension and mania. "Well, obviously not before I was a corpse," he takes a drag of his cigarette as if giving Quackity the space to chime in. He doesn't, of course, and instead waits for Wilbur to let the smoke leave his lips in a thin trail. "I've had this tremor since being revived."

And now Quackity understands the odd smile. Because if that's true – and there's no reason for it not to be true, Wilbur has been awfully honest as of late – then how hasn't he noticed? Has he really been so dedicated to keeping up the appearance of indifference and nonchalance that he stopped observing? How is it he's learned Wilbur's expressions so intimately, but has never noticed that his hands shake?

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it's because he stopped being afraid of looking Wilbur in the eye. Back then, in the country that is now a crater and with two men who were significantly less splintered than now, Quackity feared eye contact. That stupid saying, the "eyes are the windows to the soul" shit, really felt true to him, and nothing was scarier than allowing someone to see his soul. Most of all an entitled asshole named Wilbur Soot, who would take one look at his soul and start waxing poetry about how goddamn awful he is.

It wasn't until Quackity lost in the game of love for the first time that he started looking at people. Because maybe if he wasn't so scared of looking at peoples souls they wouldn't be able to catch him by surprise like Schlatt did. It was only after building walls up in front of his own soul, his heart, his mind, that he tried to look into others souls, hearts, minds.

He's very proud of the skill he has now, even half blind. Just a little eye contact and he can read anyone. Maybe that's why when Wilbur showed up all that time ago, he stopped looking at Wilbur's truly obvious body language and started looking him in the eyes.

Quackity can admit, even as prideful as he is, that Wilbur has very pretty eyes. He never quite found the will to look away once they were back in his life.

How does he respond to this? If he starts talking about Wilbur's eyes, he'll almost definitely end up rambling. That would be awful. He still has appearances to keep up, after all.

Instead of responding verbally, he decides to just lean forward and grab one of Wilbur's hands. The other, still holding the cigarette, is unfortunately unable to be held. After taking his hand, Quackity interlocks their fingers in a way reminiscent of that night a few months ago. The warmth of the handhold, despite Wilbur being so physically cool to the touch, is everything Quackity quietly yearned for.

Wilbur stares at their conjoined hands for a moment. Quackity tries not to analyze his expression, looking away only to glance right back to the other man. After a moment, which Wilbur uses to take another drag, his mouth tilts up into a small smile. They meet eyes and Quackity swears he can feel the others soul.

"Well, if you just wanted to hold my hand, why didn't you say so?"

Quackity can't stop the laugh that tumbles its way out of his throat, a little awkward but so very genuine. He swats at Wilbur with his free hand and does nothing to tamp down the smile.

"Fuck off, you prick."

Wilbur smiles back just as wide, "If I'm such a prick, why are you holding my hand?"

Quackity goes to take his hand back – not because he wants to but to prove a point – and Wilbur just latches harder. The hold is a little painful, now, with Wilbur's nails cutting into his skin and his fingers digging deep into the muscles in his hand. It's still entirely worth it for the brief moment of panic he saw in Wilbur's face as he tried to pull away.

"Looks like the one who really wants to hold hands is you, Wil," Quackity raises a brow.

Wilbur's face burns bright red but he doesn't say anything else. He just puts the cigarette in his mouth one last time, holding eye contact, and then snubs it out on the corner of his jacket.

It's perfectly timed to when they arrive at the private entrance to the Grand Hotel, where Quackity's penthouse suite is located. When Quackity moves to get out, to then let the driver take Wilbur to the edge of the border closer to his own residence, Wilbur follows. Their hands stay together the entire time.

The car pulls away. The Hotel is bustling as always but here, off the back road and in front of the quiet entrance only Quackity has a key to, it's just them. They stand in silence only steps from the front door.

It feels wrong to pull away, Quackity thinks. To end the night like this.

"I liked this–"

"This was nice–"

They speak over each other, both eager to end the silence but with no real idea as to how. They laugh. Quackity feels something light in his chest he's too afraid to acknowledge.

Wilbur starts speaking again before he can get the chance, "Thank you for the date."

Quackity's breath hitches. He can feel his face heat up. He fights the urge to look away from the man in front of him, to maintain that eye contact that so used to scare him. He can feel Wilbur's hand in his, cold yet comfortable, and can feel the tremor that makes its way up his arm. He has no interest in letting go.

"So, this was an actual date?" he asks. If Wilbur says so then it must be, but he won't declare it as such himself. That's too real.

Wilbur shrugs a shoulder, briefly ducking his head before looking back at Quackity. And in his eyes is something. It isn't love, Quackity knows that much, but it isn't hatred. It isn't rivalry, or pettiness, or calculation, or playfulness. It's genuine, whatever it is, and it makes Quackity's head spin and his blood rush.

"Might as well be, I think," Wilbur admits.

"Hm," Quackity hums low in the back of his throat. "Alright then."

Silence again. Why is it so hard to walk away this time? This isn't love, this isn't even a crush he thinks, he hopes, but it's different and new and exciting and who fucking knew that Wilbur might be the answer to his loneliness?

Quackity goes to speak. Wilbur beats him to it yet again, "Can I do something?"

Well, that isn't vague at all.

"Depends what it is," he responds.

Instead of clarifying though, Wilbur's eyes move slightly down. It's brief, but it's all Quackity needs to see to know what he meant.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't even nod his head or breathe any sort of affirmative. He just squeezes Wilbur's hand where it is held in his, and uses his other hand to reach up towards his face. With a gentleness he no longer knew he had, and definitely didn't think he'd ever use for Wilbur Soot of all people, he encourages Wilbur to bend down to his height.

Very little encouragement is actually needed. Soon, there are lips on his and a hand on his waist. His eyes slip shut. For a brief moment, his mind tells him to imagine someone else, because if he's kissing Wilbur Soot, what does that mean for him? But he doesn't want to. He quickly dismisses the idea and lets himself just feel.

Wilbur's lips are chapped and he tastes like smoke and espresso and chocolate. Wilbur's hand on his waist squeezes as gently as the hand in his own. Wilbur's breath comes out in short breaths through his nose, fanning across Quackity's cheeks. Wilbur's face under his hand is surprisingly smooth, the smoothness broken up by where there's peach fuzz and old acne scars. When Quackity lets his hand wander up to Wilbur's hair, running his fingers through it like he wanted to when he first saw the man this evening, he feels nothing but soft strands and tangled curls.

They break apart for but a moment before Quackity pulls him back in. He ends up on his toes, trying to alleviate the bend in Wilbur's back that is sure to end up becoming uncomfortable, but he doesn't even really register doing it. He's too focused on biting down on Wilbur's bottom lip, listening to the soft whine that escapes from the taller's throat, and letting his tongue slip into the others mouth.

He loses time. There is nothing but him and Wilbur and it is wonderful.

When they do, eventually, break away, they don't go far. Quackity pulls just far enough away to take in Wilbur's face, open-mouthed and panting, flushed red and grinning.

With such a gorgeous sight in front of him, Quackity couldn't stop himself if he tried.

"You should come upstairs," he tries to speak but it comes out low and whispered. He watches the shiver that makes its way up Wilbur's spine, and the grin that only seems to get bigger.

Wilbur nods and Quackity can't help grinning right back at the eagerness.

But what is it that really does him in?

Wilbur leans close, letting his mouth brush against Quackity's ear, and he lets out a quiet, "Please."

Whatever they are doesn't matter. Whatever this turns them into doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that Quackity can no longer deny how much he wants the man in front of him, and by Prime is he going to take him.

Their hands are still intertwined as they rush into the building and up to the top floor. In fact, their hands stay intertwined for much of the night.

By the time they're off to sleep, when the moon is high and the city below is finally starting to go to bed, every part of Wilbur but his hands – still held in Quackity's – is trembling.

The Fourth Crack

Quackity isn't sure what wakes him up. The room is still dark. Moonlight filters through the window, the usual blackout curtains pulled to the side so that Wilbur could look out the window as he fell asleep.

Quackity hadn't expected that request. But when he had turned the lights off, and Wilbur's voice had met his ears – weak and shaking – asking for the curtains to lay open so that he could still see… well, Quackity is only a man. How could he refuse such a simple ask?

It was nice to fall asleep with someone in his bed again. The feeling of someone in his arms, someone breathing beside him, tangling their legs together, holding hands across the scarred plane of Wilbur's chest – it was something he didn't realize he was missing. Quackity was asleep in minutes.

Which was also nice because it meant no awkwardness. Although this night was amazing, and Quackity is sure they will repeat it, it's such a hard left-turn to their dynamic and he isn't entirely sure how to navigate it. Not to mention the odd shift that occurred even before they were tangled in sheets. Spending so much time and effort in impressing Wilbur, joking around and conversing casually, calling their dinner a proper date. All it brings is more complication, no matter how happy it's made him.

Which, whoa. Wilbur Soot being a source of happiness for Quackity? What the fuck is up with that? It still doesn't feel real. And, like, they aren't lovers. Friends, maybe. Or, friends with benefits, now, would be more fitting. But, still. Friends. He and Wilbur aren't enemies anymore. At least, they can't pretend to be that anymore, because Quackity isn't sure if they ever really were enemies. The last three months, but especially the last 24 hours, has really put their relationship into a new perspective. He isn't entirely sure when he realized that new perspective – whether it was while planning dinner, or at the dinner, or making out behind the hotel, or feeling Wilbur's skin against his, or wiping the tears of pleasure from Wilbur's eyes, or– 

Point is, Quackity is really confused about his feelings regarding Wilbur. So, it's a morning-Quackity problem.

And, seeing as it isn't morning, it isn't yet Quackity's problem.

Wilbur is a still sleeper, apparently, but Quackity isn't. In his sleep, he seems to have turned around in such a way that Wilbur is now lying flat on his back, one arm wrapped around his own shoulders in a sort of half hug and the other still holding Quackity's hand, still lying atop his chest. The comforter has been kicked down, likely by Quackity's moving, and now only covers his hips and legs.

Quackity himself is still curled into Wilbur's side. He pulls himself away just the slightest bit, untangling the hand not in Wilbur's from where it somehow found purchase in Wilbur's hair. As he shuffles, he can't find it in himself to pull his gaze away as easily as his body.

Wilbur looks so at peace in his sleep. His face is smooth, relaxed. And so, so still.

Too still, almost.

Quackity looks down to Wilbur's naked stomach. It lays motionless.

Quackity untangles his hand from Wilbur's. He doesn't shift in response.

Quackity puts his fingers to Wilbur's throat. He feels no heartbeat.

Fuck.

Quackity holds his breath and presses harder into Wilbur's neck, waiting and waiting and there, was that a heartbeat? But fuck, that's not in any sort of regular rhythm, and maybe he's just pressing hard enough he's feeling his own heartbeat because fuck his heart is going so fast and he can feel it in his fucking hands with how much he's trying not to panic right now because fuck the man in his bed might be dead–

Okay, okay, breathe. Quackity exhales his held breath only to breathe right back in, shallow and quick. He tries again but slower. His vision is blurring. It's like 3 in the morning, he can barely think, and he can't tell if Wilbur really is breathing or if Quackity is just shaking too much.

He reaches down to Wilbur's shoulder and shakes him aggressively.

"Wilbur, wake up!" he practically shouts, too stricken with fear to even try to speak in a more appropriate tone for too late at night.

To his relief, Wilbur's eyes shoot open and his body jolts.

Their eyes meet, Wilbur's glossy with sleep and Quackity's glossy for an entirely different reason. Before he can stop it, the tears fall.

"Oh, thank Prime," he lays his head on Wilbur's chest and just breathes.

"Quackity," Wilbur's voice is about an octave lower than normal and gravelly in a way that shouldn't be hot but is, "what the fuck, man?"

Despite the confusion in his words, he doesn't hesitate to lift his hand to Quackity's head, wading his fingers through his hair. The other hand lifts to rest on Quackity's naked back. It's calming in a way he is no longer used to.

"Your heart wasn't beating, and you didn't look like you were breathing," Quackity mutters an explanation. With his forehead pressed to Wilbur's chest, above where his heart should lie, he can feel it now. It's slow, very slow, but a strong and rhythmic beat lies within his ribcage. He brings a hand to rest on Wilbur's stomach, light and barely there, but enough to feel the rise and fall as he breathes.

"Aw, were you worried for me, Quackity?"

He glances up with a glare to see Wilbur smiling down at him, only for the smile to quickly vanish at the sight of his distress.

"Forgive me for having a reaction when I think that the first man I've been intimate with since I was with my fiancés had died in my fucking bed, you prick," he wants to shout. He can hardly get above a whisper. He closes his eyes and mutters under his breath, "Especially since that man was you."

Wilbur's hand stills where it was carding through his hair. When Quackity opens his eyes again, Wilbur is staring at him. His eyes flit around the different features on Quackity's face, searching for the honesty Quackity is too tired to hide away, before looking him in the eye once more.

His hands move to Quackity's cheeks. With a softness Quackity only learned of tonight, he wipes the tears away.

"I'm sorry," Wilbur meets back with a whisper, allowing the mood the adrenaline crash has created to continue on. "I didn't know that would happen."

Quackity sniffs, breaking the eye contact to press his head to Wilbur's chest again. This time he twists his neck a bit, so his ear rests right on Wilbur's sternum. He can hear it clearer now, thump… thump… thump…

He doesn't respond to Wilbur's words, though. Just hums an acknowledgement. Wilbur's hands go back to running through his hair and resting on his back.

"I don't like talking about it," Wilbur's voice has lost some of its gravel but stays low, "but in Limbo, I didn't have, like, human needs."

Quackity moves his hand not on Wilbur's stomach to rest along his upper arm, a pseudo-embrace. His thumb rubs back and forth on the skin there, feeling over the fresh stitches that help to keep closed the never-healed wound.

"You don't have to explain," he offers.

He can feel Wilbur shake his head a bit, "No, I scared you bad. You deserve my theory."

He hums for Wilbur to continue after that.

"I didn't really function like a person. There was no food, no water, no injury. I didn't even need to sleep, I just did it to pass the time," Wilbur's voice hitches but he continues on after a brief moment. "I didn't even need to breathe."

"You were dead," Quackity states bluntly. He can hear Wilbur's breath catch. He presses lightly on Wilbur's belly to encourage him to start breathing again.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I was."

"That must have been hell."

"Oh, it was," Wilbur laughs now but there's no humor in it. "But I think that might be why I slow down when I sleep. My breathing, that is. And my heartrate, but I think that's just always slow nowadays. When I sleep I'm the closest I'll ever be to dead again, so I just default back to being a corpse."

"You're more than a corpse now, though," Quackity turns his head the other way, resting his chin on Wilbur's sternum instead so he can look at the other. It can't be entirely comfortable but Wilbur doesn't protest. "You're alive."

Wilbur smiles.

I wish he'd smile more, Quackity finds himself thinking. I like his smile.

"Only you truly make me feel that way, darling," Wilbur confesses. It's something he's said before, in Pogtopia namely. But also in the gravel parking lot all that time ago. That first real shift to their dynamic.

It means something more, now. Quackity isn't sure exactly how, but he feels it in the way that the words seem to hit him in the chest.

He can't verbalize what he's feeling, and doesn't really want to (that's morning-Quackity's problem and it is not morning yet), so he just pushes himself up to press a chaste kiss to Wilbur's mouth. Wilbur responds in kind, still smiling. It really is a nice smile.

"Am I really the first person you've slept with since your fiancés?" The question is accompanied by the smile turning into a prideful smirk.

Nice smile be damned, the man is still a teasing bastard.

"Yeah, and?" Quackity chooses nonchalant honesty. Truly, he's just curious how Wilbur would respond to that. They so often dance around each other and Quackity is curious what honesty might taste like when spoken between smoke-hot kisses.

Wilbur blinks a couple times. As Quackity had expected, the response has caught him off guard. But then the smirk transitions right back into a smile of pure joy. No words need to be said past that.

When Quackity lays back down and closes his eyes, he hears Wilbur's breathing even out into a barely there push of air and his heartbeat slow further into an occasional presence.

It's comforting though. Because it means he's alive, and Quackity would so much rather Wilbur be alive than dead.

The Fifth Crack

Waking up next to Wilbur is unlike waking up with anyone else. Partly because no matter how wrapped in each other they are, the man is still frigid to the touch. Quackity doesn't mind, as he often runs warm and having a living ice-pack in your bed is actually quite nice.

No, the thing that makes it unlike anything else is the stillness. He doesn't toss or turn in his sleep. He makes no noise, no snores or mumbles or whistles, and even his eyes seem completely static underneath his eyelids.

It's a direct contrast to when he's awake. He's always moving somehow – bouncing a knee, tapping his fingers, chewing his lip, fidgeting with whatever he can grab – and the stillness is nearly unnerving.

So far, Quackity has yet to spend a morning with Wilbur in bed. Quackity is used to getting up at a specific time, 7:25am to be exact, and is normally in the kitchen making breakfast by the time Wilbur comes out of the bedroom. Sometimes he's wearing Quackity's clothes – either a robe or a pair of pajama pants (or a loose button-down, one morning, which made Quackity completely forgo breakfast and instead direct the taller right back into the bedroom). Other times, he's wearing nothing but whatever underwear he had on the previous night, before they were inevitably thrown to a corner of the room. But no matter what, he's always back to his fidgeting, constantly moving self.

This morning is different. By the time Quackity is roused from sleep, Wilbur is already awake. Quackity can tell. If not from the fingers lightly dancing across his bare back, then by the heartbeat beneath his head.

He counted it once, when he struggled to get to sleep a few weeks ago. Wilbur always fell asleep easily, especially after such strenuous activity, which would often leave Quackity drifting off to the stillness that surrounded them. The quiet would only occasionally be interrupted by the slow, slow beat of Wilbur's heart. And even then, Quackity was only aware of it on the nights and mornings he rested on top of Wilbur instead of spooning together.

That night, Quackity had measured Wilbur's heart to beat 20 times per minute.

He has since found that, when awake, Wilbur's heart is much faster. Not nearly fast enough to be normal – the fastest he's ever measured it was a measly 52 beats per minute – but still better than 20.

Quackity's been awake for a few minutes this morning. Or, not quite awake but teetering on the edge of consciousness. He's nearly put himself back to sleep counting the rhythm beneath his ear, but once he notices it's up to 36bpm he finds himself much more alert. That's when he tunes into the rest of his body and feels the light touches across one particular spot on his back, near the nape of his neck. Wilbur is awake.

Wilbur is never awake first.

It's with this thought that Quackity opens his eyes, being greeted to the sight of his open window and the sunlight streaming through. He picks up his head slowly, the back-and-forth of Wilbur's fingers stopping but the hand itself not moving from off his back.

He makes eye contact with Wilbur and the first thing he notices is how exhausted Wilbur still looks. His first thought is that Wilbur must have been awake for a while. His second is how beautiful Wilbur is in the morning light, resting in Quackity's bed like a real lover. This second thought is something he thinks every morning Wilbur stays over. It doesn't feel any less monumental.

"Good morning, darling," Wilbur's voice crackles with disuse, but otherwise is soft and sleepy, befitting of the scene.

Quackity blinks. And then he smiles. Wilbur smiles back. He feels a sense of joy wash over him at knowing he's the cause of that smile.

"How late did I sleep in?" he asks, his own voice much the same as Wilbur's. He clears his throat afterward and grimaces slightly at the phlegmy sound from morning congestion.

Wilbur doesn't bat an eye, just shakes his head a little bit. "None at all, it's the same time you normally get up," he grins. "Your internal clock is as accurate as ever."

That sets off alarm bells in Quackity's head. Fuck, does that mean Wilbur woke up sometime in the middle of the night and hasn't been able to get back to sleep?

He readjusts his position, straddling Wilbur's waist and pushing himself up on his forearms to better look at the man beneath him. Wilbur's arm that was previously around him just falls and lays limply next to his own head. He's still smiling, even though Quackity isn't, but the smile is getting smaller with each passing second.

"Why are you awake? Are you okay?" Quackity does nothing to hide the concern.

With that, the smile falls. Wilbur opens and closes his mouth a few times but says nothing, until he eventually lands on, "Well, I'm not dying."

"Wilbur, that is not a reassuring answer," Quackity tries not to scold but he's sure it comes out a little harsh. His concern is only growing, and he pushes himself to be seated so he can properly look Wilbur over. He makes sure not to rest too much of his own weight on Wilbur either, more kneeling over the other than sitting atop him. Wilbur doesn't move at all in response, just watches as Quackity looks over every part of him he can.

He looks uninjured, as far as Quackity can tell. At least, no more injured than how they ended their night. And Quackity did as much as he could to soothe every ache and pain during aftercare. By the time they were falling asleep, Wilbur said he felt fine.

And he doesn't look particularly sick, other than the exhaustion that now seems to rest within every part of his body. He's no more or less flushed than usual, and he isn't sweating or shivering, or otherwise seem ill.

Quackity is about to start asking more questions when Wilbur lets out a deep sigh.

"I'm just…" Wilbur pauses for a moment. "I'm in a lot of pain, Q."

"Did you lie to me when you said you were fine last night?"

"No," Wilbur firmly shakes his head. He holds eye contact with Quackity the whole time, letting the other look at his soul and determine the truth of his words.

Still, Quackity squints. "If I find out you're lying to me so I don't feel guilty–"

"Your threats don't really work anymore," Wilbur's frown quickly transitions to a smirk. "Now that I know that you care about me too much to hurt me in any way I don't like."

Okay, he got him on that one.

He maintains his scrutinizing look, quickly pivoting from his original threat. "If I find out you're lying to me, I'll withhold kisses from you for a week."

The look of shock across Wilbur's face makes the threat so worth it, even if Quackity can acknowledge that he doesn't want to actually follow up on it. He would, though, if necessary. He can't be going that soft on Wilbur now.

"That's mean," Wilbur pouts. Quackity kisses the pout off his lips, short and sweet. When he pulls back, Wilbur is already back to smiling sleepily and staring with goddamn hearts in his eyes. "Mm, that's better."

"So are you lying?"

"No, darling, I'm really not," Wilbur shakes his head again, but winces and stops abruptly. He hums out a low, pained groan. "It's just something you don't often see."

Quackity hums inquisitively, not saying anything further. Wilbur knows by now that he doesn't allow for vague comments like that. Considering his history of personal relationships, he much prefers to be transparent about things instead of hiding behind implied sentiments. Which, alright, Quackity can acknowledge is a little hypocritical of himself. But it isn't like Wilbur is the most trustworthy person – or rather, he wasn't. He's proven himself capable of changing for the better.

Wilbur keeps staring at him. It's nice, being stared at as if being worshiped. He always looks at Quackity like Q was the one to hang the moon in the sky, burn the undead in the mornings, allow the crops to grow over time, built the pathways used throughout the land with his own two hands – he could go on. And Quackity can tell, based on the way Wilbur has relaxed with him over this past month of their more intimate relationship, that he must look at Wilbur in some sort of way as well. He isn't sure how, he just knows what he feels.

That he is glad that Wilbur is around. And that he is not so glad to hear that he is apparently in pain so often.

"Talk to me, Wil," Quackity demands in a soft tone. The quiet way he speaks it makes it no less of a command. That's been established between the two in multiple different settings, at this point.

"I wake up before you do," Wilbur starts, much to Quackity's shock. He doesn't wait for Quackity to process that tidbit of information before continuing on, "I've gotten used to waking with the sunrise, and you tend to wake up a little later."

"Why are you always asleep when I wake up, then?"

Wilbur hums. He lifts his arm with what looks like great effort in order to take Quackity's hand. Quackity intertwines their fingers without a second thought. Wilbur uses that to pull him down – there's very little force used, it's barely even a tug with how little Wilbur seems to be able to move at the moment – so that they're chest to chest. Quackity takes it as the unspoken request that it is, and puts his face in Wilbur's neck so that he can speak without looking at Quackity.

For how much he loves staring at him, Wilbur does seem to struggle being vulnerable while looking him in the eye. Quackity understands. It's hard to bare your soul for someone while they stare right at it.

"I go back to sleep because I can't get up without waking you," Wilbur answers, quickly launching into a more detailed explanation. "And then when I wake up again, you're already out of bed and making breakfast or otherwise waiting for me outside the room. I take some time to get the courage to move, and then I go over to the enderchest in the corner of the room," he hesitates, head turning to look at the chest mentioned, "and I take a potion."

Quackity shoots up. Wilbur makes a noise of complaint but Quackity's heartrate is suddenly way too fast for him to be cuddling during this conversation.

"You what?!" The softness is gone from his voice. He only feels a little bad for the way Wilbur flinches at his tone. "You drink potions every fucking morning? Why?"

"Pain," Wilbur responds quickly. "Quackity, I hurt so fucking bad every morning. I wait until you're out of bed, not just because I want to hide the way I medicate, but because if you're in here with me I have no motivation to move."

Quackity's heart stills for a beat or two before continuing to jackrabbit away in his chest. That admission is laced with romanticism, something sweet and heartwarming in the way Wilbur sees him as motivation to get out of bed in the morning. And then he feels godawful for thinking that way because the only reason that was admitted in the first place, and that the motivation is needed in the first place, is apparently because of chronic pain worth taking constant potions for.

He inhales. Opens his mouth to speak. Closes his mouth and exhales. He stares off into the distance as he does it, trying to gather his thoughts. When he looks back at Wilbur, he finds the other still looking to the corner of the room. With a gentle hand, he cups Wilbur's cheek and encourages him look at Quackity directly.

"Is this another revival thing?" he asks.

Wilbur hums noncommittally, "Probably. I was always sort of achy before, and it was always worse in the mornings, but never like this," he smiles as if to play it off as a joke. It doesn't land. Quackity's hand doesn't move, his thumb just starts running back and forth across Wilbur's cheek in slow, soothing motions.

He continues, "It hurts to do anything, now. Breathing, stretching, standing is the fucking worst," Wilbur tries to shrug but the movement is so small it could have just been a deep breath. "Guess it makes sense that a body stitched back together after 5 months in the grave doesn't work quite the same."

Another attempted joke. Keyword: attempted.

"You still shouldn't be taking potions everyday," Quackity states. Of course he doesn't want Wilbur to be in pain, but potions can be dangerous. "That can kill you, Wil."

"It won't–" Wilbur tries to speak, but Quackity is quick to interrupt.

"Do you have any idea how many potion overdoses I've seen since opening Las Nevadas? We've had to put strict regulation on potion trading and selling because of it, the addiction is awful and it's way too easy to OD on that shit," he moves his hand to Wilbur's neck, feeling at his pulse. "Especially when mixed with other drugs," the pulse under his hand is slow and steady, comforting. "And you also smoke way too many cigarettes."

Wilbur's hand finds Quackity's on his neck. He gently takes Quackity's hand off his pulse, twisting his wrist so that he can link their fingers together on that side too. And then he smiles, something soft and warm and much more appropriate for this time of morning then the current conversation.

"Quackity," his name is always sung like a prayer nowadays, "I appreciate your concern. But I've been brewing as long as I can remember. I was ten years old struggling to bake bread, but I had a books worth of potion recipes memorized," Wilbur's smile turns smug. "Not to mention, my nation started as a potion van, remember?"

"Ah yes," Quackity rolls his eyes, "the van that succeeded so well."

Wilbur huffs something between a laugh and a scoff. "It worked well enough! And the second attempt of the whole thing is going even better than the first. Better than the burger van, if nothing else."

"Uh-huh," Quackity tilts his head. "Did you just finally admit that your burger van is failing?"

"No, darling, I'm admitting that my burger van is a front for a very successful potion business that is responsible for the supply of potions in a number of locations within Las Nevadas."

Some of that anger from their time as rivals resurfaces with that statement. It's an instinct so deep down that Quackity isn't sure it'll ever go away fully. Not that he really wants it to, his rivalry and competition with Wilbur is part of what he loves about their relationship. No need to get rid of it entirely just because they gave up on pretending to hate each other.

But now is not the time for petty rivalry.

"If you're such a good alchemist, then what is it you take in the mornings?"

"It's a low-dose, long-lasting regen potion," Wilbur starts. "The recipe I made is about a sixth of a normal regen's strength, but it lasts a good 8-10 hours. Two doses per bottle, three bottles brewed at a time. And I'm not addicted–"

"You take it every morning."

"I'm not addicted," Wilbur pointedly continues, "just because I'm dependant."

Quackity looks him over. "That sounds a lot like what an addict might say."

Wilbur looks Quackity over in return. He lands on Quackity's eyes and raises a brow, challenging him, "It's been well over 24 hours since my last dose. Do I look like someone going through withdrawal?"

And, once again, a point to Wilbur Soot. He certainly doesn't look like he's in any stage of addiction. Not to mention, he's been awfully honest lately.

"Fine," Quackity concedes. "What changed this morning, then? Why tell me now?"

A sigh, "Because I'm an idiot," Wilbur admits, "and I forgot to brew more for my enderchest. So I don't have any. And now I'm too shaky and too weak to properly make it myself."

Quackity inhales sharply, quickly understanding what Wilbur is requesting of him. Potion brewing is something that Quackity is fine at, not too great but not horrible. He can make any standard potion with relative ease. But a potion made from trial and error, perfected by an alchemist who isn't afraid to use himself as a test subject, brewed with what sounds like extremely exact measurements and temperatures? That's something he's not as sure he can do. He really doesn't want to hurt Wilbur with his subpar brewing skills.

"Wil, I'm not sure I can brew something like you can," he verbalizes his concern, hating to turn down such a request but also entirely unwilling to risk harming his partner lover sweetheart friend.

Wilbur looks back at him and smiles, "You can, it's not as hard as you're thinking. I'll guide you the whole time."

"Okay but consider, I don't want to kill you."

Wilbur laughs. It's not his normal, high-pitched one. It's low and tired and looks a little bit like it's forcing its way out of his lungs. But he laughs and Quackity can't help but smile back because no matter what kind of laugh it is, he's learned to appreciate every one.

"You won't kill me," Wilbur reassures. "The worst that would happen is I get sort of high, or I vomit or something. Nothing lethal, I promise."

He takes a breath, slow and deep. He trusts Wilbur when he says that, as he's sure the other has more than enough experience testing these potions to know what is and isn't lethal. And if the potion really is just a modified regeneration potion, then it's even safer. A spoiled regen potion is nothing more than a nausea-inducing weakness pot, it's ultimately harmless.

"Okay, but that means you have to sit up to watch me do it," Quackity states. It's less of a request and more of a demand. If he's going to do this, he's doing it supervised.

"Yeah," Wilbur sighs, "that's fair," he untangles his fingers from Quackity's, letting his arms drop back to the mattress. With a small smile, he pokes at Quackity's leg. "You can get up and get dressed while I find the strength to move."

Quackity bends down to give a quick kiss to Wilbur's lips before climbing off the bed, rolling to his feet with ease.

"Show off," Wilbur jeers. Quackity huffs a laugh before turning back to look at him. He hasn't moved except to turn his head to look at Q as he fishes some clean slacks out from his dresser.

"Do you want me to help motivate you, or leave you be?" he asks, finally finding a pair and pulling them on over his legs and hips. He glances down to clip his suspenders into place, having picked them up off the floor, before looking back to Wilbur.

The taller groans a bit, "Please, some help would be excellent."

Quackity pauses in his dressing, looking to his closet. He was automatically getting dressed to go to work – slacks, suspenders, high socks, dress shoes, button-up, gold chains on his belt, neck, and arms, beanie – but he's barely dressed. He could change, get comfy instead.

"If you get up enough to direct me in this potion brewing, then," he hesitates. He knows what he wants to say, but should he? I mean, Quackity thinks to himself, a day off does sound nice, especially if that day off would be spent with Wilbur.

He doesn't have the energy yet to think too much on that.

"I'll call out of work for the day," he bites the bullet, "and we can hang out and do whatever. Like a day-long date or something."

Chancing a glance at Wilbur, he finds the man giving him a shocked grin. His eyebrows are practically up to his hairline, eyes big and gleaming. His smile is wide, partially open-mouthed with his surprise.

"Aaawww, Quackityyyyyyyy," Wilbur sing-songs in a teasing way. Quackity can feel his face get a little pink. "That sounds awfully domestic."

His face goes from pink to red. "I guess."

Wilbur shuffles a little, rolling to his side with a short groan so he can better look at him. Quackity, for his part, is doing his best to now change out of his slacks and into sweatpants without looking back at Wilbur. He's not doing too great.

Without any preamble, Wilbur asks, "You really into that after Schlatt?"

That catches Quackity off guard. His foot catches in his sweatpants and he nearly falls over himself before successfully tugging them on. When he looks back to Wilbur, the joy has been overtaken with curiosity. "What, domesticity?"

"Yeah."

Quackity frowns as he thinks, reaching into his closet to pull a sweatshirt from a hanger (he doesn't notice until it's on him that it's actually Wilbur's, but he refuses to change out of it once it's enveloped him). Domestic life, huh?

"I mean," he turns to fully face Wilbur as he speaks, "it isn't something I ever really stopped looking for. It's just that my outlook on it has changed. I don't want to be someone's little housewife, y'know? That's all I was to Schlatt," he scowls, spitting the name as if it were poison. "Being with him was like being a fucking 1950's American wife, all sex and chores and nothing else," Quackity feels a shiver go up his spine, remembering that awful excuse of an engagement, quickly trying to push it away from the forefront of his mind. "And then with Karl and Sapnap," disgust is overtaken by sorrow, "it felt similar. Like, y'know, it wasn't just constant disrespect like with Schlatt, but they doted on me. A lot. It felt like I was a trophy wife, or something," he didn't realize he had started staring at the ground. Once he notices, he lifts his head and finds Wilbur smirking at him.

"So you're looking for someone else to be your housewife instead?" Wilbur asks, slowly rolling further onto his side, hand planted to the mattress as if to push himself up.

"What, you offering?" Quackity responds. Wilbur huffs a laugh, but Quackity decides to take the joke further. He stalks up to him, leaning over Wilbur in bed and putting a hand to his cheek. He pitches his voice down, keeping it soft and intimate as he speaks, "You want to be my dolled up, pretty wife?"

Wilbur's smile drops, eyes going wide, and face turning the deepest red Quackity has ever seen it outside of literal sex. He opens his mouth as if to speak but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak. Quackity can't help but to laugh. Not cruelly, more out of surprise than anything.

He leans away, giving Wilbur some physical space. The older is red all the way down his chest, eyes glued to Quackity as if praying to him.

"Wow, that really got you, huh?" Quackity questions. It isn't meant to be teasing, but he's sure it comes across at least a little in that way.

Wilbur finally closes his mouth, swallowing and clearing his throat. His eyes dart downwards, then to the side, then land back on Quackity. "Apparently," his voice sounds a little broken.

Pleasantly surprised, Quackity asks, "What did it for you?"

He gets no response, only a groan and a pout as Wilbur turns his face into the pillow. "This is no longer motivating me to get out of bed, rather crawl deeper into it," comes the muffled reply.

Quackity laughs again, "Fine, fine," he leans down once more to put a kiss in Wilbur's hair. Then he's backing away and grabbing another large sweater from his closet for Wilbur to change into once he's up. "Anyways, no, I'm not looking for a housewife. I want a partner who is my equal. Someone who will care for me just as much as I care for him."

It's the simplest way to put what he's looking for. There's more too it, of course, after the many failed relationships he's had. He knows he's insecure, he knows he has trauma. But all he really wants at the end of the day is someone he can lean on and feel leaned on in return.

There's another groan from behind him. Quackity turns to look at Wilbur, watching as the man slowly pushes himself into a seated position. His eyes stay closed as he makes the journey from horizontal to partially vertical, breathing steady as he adjusts. When he opens his eyes, he looks straight at Quackity.

"I can care for you," he states simply.

Quackity smiles, rolling his eyes. He places the sweater next to Wilbur, turning to fetch him some pants he's left here in the past from the bottom drawer of his dresser.

"I'm talking about more than just sex, Wilbur," he says as he grabs the wool pants, tossing them next to the sweater.

Wilbur just keeps staring at him. There's something in his eyes Quackity recognizes. He refuses to name it.

"I know."

It's spoken so softly, like something admitted in the dead of night to nothing but the stars to hear. That something that is in Wilbur's eyes is in his words too. It's a plea, almost.

All of a sudden, a line Quackity didn't know they were treading has been crossed. Where he was feeling honest and relaxed just moments ago, he now feels exposed and scared. He turns away for a second, collecting his thoughts, willing the anxiety not to evolve into anger. Everything is fine, he tells himself, just move on.

"What are the ingredients for your potion? I'll go grab them while you put that on, if you feel up for it," he knows it's abrupt and awkward but changing the subject is all he can think to do. He tries to ignore the disappointment he sees flash over Wilbur's face.

"Um, right," Wilbur's eyes drift to the ground, every other part of him frozen still. "Water and nether wart, obviously. A ghast tear, 2 slots of redstone, some soul-sand, a phantom membrane, a spore blossom, an apple, and some honey."

Quackity doesn't say anything else, just nods and leaves the room. The trip to his store room – which is hidden in the basement of the building but easily accessible with his own private elevator – is quick. His storage is neatly organized, signs on each chest to list what's in it. He goes to the brewing section and pulls what he needs from there, then to the food storage where the apples and honey sit. He takes a quick stop at his nether chests, grabbing a block of soul-sand and tucking it under his arm. Finally over to his gardening corner, pulling a still alive spore blossom from the chest.

The way chests preserve whatever is put inside is truly a miracle of this world. Quackity hasn't been in a lush cave in ages – this blossom is probably a good year old or so. And yet it looks just as it did when he tore it from the roof of that cave.

He travels back upstairs, feeling much more himself now that there's some distance between the current moment and the conversation that was just had. He finds Wilbur still sitting on the bed, but his legs have been thrown over the side so that he's properly facing the rest of the room without having to crane his neck. He's still pantsless but the sweater was put on. Quackity puts down the ingredients near him so that he can inspect them, ensure that there's enough and that it's all the right quality.

"I'll be right back, gotta grab the stand," Quackity announces, already halfway out the door.

"Wait!" Wilbur calls, holding out the spore blossom. "This needs to get boiled, go drop it in a pot on the stove?"

Quackity nods, grabbing it and heading into the rest of the apartment. He starts in the kitchen. A pot is already set on the stove. He looks into it. It's clean, as far as he can tell. It was probably used for pasta, and then rinsed out right after. It shouldn't be an issue to reuse it, but he can feel his anxiety start to climb at the thought of it maybe causing a problem. So instead he grabs a much smaller, and definitely clean, pot from inside the lower cabinet next to the oven. He fills it with water and puts it on the stove, turning it on the highest setting and putting a lid over it so it'll boil quicker. He sets the spore blossom next to it.

Afterwards, Quackity turns to his home office. He doesn't brew often, but when he does it's in there. The room has big windows, which helps to keep any mishaps from stinking up the apartment, and it's also where he is most often, second only to his bedroom. Well, honestly he might be in his office more than his bedroom. Or, he was before Wilbur became a more regular part of his life. He actually has some semblance of work-life balance now, even if that "work-life" balance is more a "work-Wilbur" balance.

Grabbing the brewing stand from the corner of the office takes little time and just a small amount of care. Brewing stands are luckily quite sturdy and made to move. It isn't too heavy, either. Not when it's completely empty like his is. He heads back into the living area, noticing that the water is already starting to bubble. It isn't boiling yet, but it will be shortly. By the time he puts the stand down and fills it with blaze powder it should be ready.

Heading back into the bedroom, he places the brewing stand on top of his dresser. It's at a good height for him to work this way, while still being within Wilbur's eyesight. Even with Quackity's back turned to him, he should be able to see what he's doing with the brewing stand.

"Okay," he keeps his back to Wilbur, placing blaze powder carefully into the coil of the stand, "how long do I boil the spore blossom for?"

"Not too long," Wilbur says. "Once you drop it in, you should notice it start to lose its structure. The green part on the top will pretty quickly detach from the rest of the blossom, and that's when you want to pull it out."

Quackity gives a quick thumbs up before heading back into the kitchen. Steam is swirling around and above the pot, the water boiling. He lifts the lid, remembering last minute to lean back so he isn't hit with steam in the face. It still lightly washes over him but he tries to ignore it, instead grabbing at the spore blossom and dropping it into the water.

And then he just watches it. Wilbur didn't say to stir it or anything.

It just kind of floats there. The pink of its petals starts to get darker as it soaks with water. Then the petals start to droop more, waving in the water in weird little patterns as the bubbles make it look almost like it's swimming.

It's only a minute or two before the green mossy leaves start floating off of the blossom, just like Wilbur said. When Quackity goes to pick up the flower with some tongs, the moss-like leaves just stay floating in the water.

He barely remembers to turn the stove off, plopping the now soaked-through blossom onto the previously used pot lid and carrying it to the bedroom.

He's shocked to see Wilbur standing now, although he's leaning heavily on the dresser. His legs – he still hasn't put pants on – are visibly unsteady, his eyes half-closed with bone-tired exhaustion. Quackity quickly rushes towards him with the blossom. He puts it down next to the stand, instead sidling up next to Wilbur and offering him something else to lean on.

"What are you doing?" he asks, helping Wilbur back to the bed. Wilbur lets himself fall down with zero grace or care, although he quickly rights himself into a sitting position again so he doesn't get drawn into the warm embrace of the duvet.

"The stand wasn't hot enough," Wilbur answers, watching the brewing stand with a careful eye. "I wanted to get it ready."

Quackity doesn't believe it for a second. He saw Wilbur's hands shaking and the nether wart moved to the dresser. But he doesn't call Wilbur out on the lie, just nods once and walks back to the brewing stand.

Sure enough, three freshly brewed awkward potions are sitting in the stand. He ignores them, going back to grab all of the ingredients from where they lay in a heap on the bed. He piles them on the top of the dresser and then turns back to Wilbur.

"What's the first step?"

Wilbur, visibly shocked that his lie wasn't spoken of, stammers a bit, "Uh, I- um, it's a regen potion. Just brew a normal regen potion first."

Simple enough. Quackity takes the ghast tear out from the pile, the small drop hardened into a rock-like substance. He can crush it easily, putting it down on solid wood and using the heel of his hand to turn the solid tear into small bits that can be more easily fed into the brewing stand. As it melts into the brew, the awkward potion swirls from a deep blue into the recognizable dull magenta color of a regeneration potion. The calcified remains of the ghast tear stick to the sides of the small cauldron sat atop the brewing stand.

"Next?" he asks, facing Wilbur again.

Wilbur is sat ramrod straight, eyes glued to the brewing stand and the way the potions within it bubble and swirl. He barely even glances at Quackity while answering.

"The two slots of redstone dust," he instructs. "It should make it more vibrant."

Quackity wastes no time pouring the redstone in, one at a time. Once the first redstone has made its way to the potions, he pours the second slot in, using a small knife he leaves on his dresser top to help the dust settle and make its way smoothly down the tubes of the stand. Sure enough, the potions brighten to a less dull color, looking to almost sparkle with the extra redstone within it.

"Soul-sand is next," Wilbur doesn't wait to move on, "but it's a very small amount."

Quackity grabs the soul-sand off the dresser top and moves back towards the bed, setting it down between him and Wilbur.

"How much is a small amount?"

Wilbur tilts his head back and forth slowly, looking at the block in front of him. "About… 1/32 of the block?"

"Prime fucking damn, Wil," Quackity looks at the block as well. The block is the standard size for an inventory slot, measuring about the length of Quackity's hand. And Quackity was never great with fractions. "How the fuck do I measure that?"

Wilbur hums, "A standard sized cube is about 7.6 inches. Divide the volume by 32, the result is a 2.4 inch cube," he shrugs as if that wasn't insane to pull out of nowhere. "So, get a ruler I guess?"

Quackity stares at the other, who is staring back with wide eyes. He paints the picture of nonchalant innocence.

"Did you memorize that?"

"Obviously. I use the metric system, Quackity, I needed to memorize the American translation in case we ended up in this exact scenario."

Okay, well, he isn't even going to deign that with a proper response. He just nods and then strides to his office to grab a ruler from his desk's junk drawer. It takes a little digging, but Quackity pretty quickly finds the wooden thing pressed against the side the side of the drawer. Once back in the bedroom, ruler in hand, he hesitates.

"Wilbur?" he doesn't say anything more.

"Yes, darling?"

"How important is it that this measurement is, like, exact?"

He gets a small laugh in response. He glances away from the cube and to Wilbur, who is smiling with a little red to his cheeks and his legs criss-crossed in front of him. His hands are hidden away in long sweater sleeves, and his hair is still all mussed from sleep. Quackity ignores the urge to put aside this potion making and just cuddle the man in bed for another hour or three.

"Semi-important," Wilbur's voice brings him out of his reverie. "If there's too much, I might get a little high. Too little, the overall effect might not be as potent."

He must notice the way Quackity's concern is only rising, because he hastily tacks on, "But that would have to be a significant difference in amount! A little too much or too little is okay."

Quackity doesn't have the heart to ask if Wilbur is sugar-coating it for him right now. He decides to just take the words at face-value and measure to the best of his ability. He carefully sinks the ruler into the soul-sand block at nearly 2.4 inches, then pushes down. He repeats this on the other side, making a free-standing pillar of soul-sand. Quackity is grateful that, despite being called "sand", this isn't nearly as messy or unstable as real sand is.

Then he, very very slowly, measures out 2.4 inches from the top and cuts off what should be a 2.4 inch cube. It's a little slanted, and not perfect, but Wilbur said it would be fine. Even now, Wilbur makes no comment, just smiles and nods at a job well-done. Quackity lets Wilbur deal with the remaining soul-sand (possibly a mistake considering the man's odd comments about eating sand in the past) in order to get the soul-sand mixed into the brew.

As it starts to melt and drip down into the bottles, the almost sparkling effect of the redstone smooths out into a soft swirling. It reminds Quackity of paintings he's seen of the galaxy, or the northern lights, or whirlpools far out at sea. Adding to the comparison, the color starts to shift from the magenta of a standard regen potion to a light, allium-reminiscent shade of purple. The more soul-sand drips in, the more the shift continues. Eventually, the potion ends up on the edge of teal, similar to soul-fire, but still not quite there.

"Next?" Quackity looks back to Wilbur.

The soul-sand has crumpled and is now a mess in Wilbur's lap. He looks down at it, eyebrows furrowed and frowning a bit.

"Wil," Quackity starts, "did you try to eat it?"

"Of course not!" Wilbur looks up and makes eye contact easily, looking beyond offended at even the thought. Quackity does not call out that the last time he asked that question, the answer was yes.

"Then what happened?"

"I literally just picked it up to try and move it off the bed and," Wilbur gestures to the pile in his lap, "it decided it was done for the day."

The weird phrasing immediately makes Quackity laugh. He can't help it, not that he wants to, and dissolves into giggles as he makes his way over to Wilbur to start shoveling the sand further onto the bed. He probably should change the sheets and blankets anyway. Now he just has a reason.

They laugh together as they work to get the sand mostly in a pile on the middle of the bed. Easy for throwing in the laundry, Quackity says. Easy to eat, Wilbur replies. He does get a very light smack for that joke.

It's domestic. It's nice.

Quackity doesn't let himself dawdle on it before turning back to the potion. If Wilbur notices, he does not comment.

"Phantom membrane next, nothing special just smoosh it in," Wilbur instructs.

Quackity does just that, using the same knife as he did with the redstone to rip the membrane into bits and then settle it into the top of the brewing stand. The color of the potion changes again. The blueish-purple goes solidly back into purple territory, lightening even further into a nice lavender. The swirls that once resembled the ocean waves are now more reminiscent of the purple particles that follow Ranboo around.

"The spore blossom is next, but that's one I should do," Wilbur's voice comes from behind. "Help me up?"

When he looks to the bed, Wilbur is holding his arm out towards Quackity. His feet are already on the floor, with the last of the soul-sand falling down his legs and onto the carpet.

"Are you sure?" Quackity checks in. He still makes his way over, grabbing Wilbur's arm and taking the other in a much softer grip.

Wilbur nods, "Spore blossom in brewing is the most dangerous thing I've encountered," he admits. "When it's boiled, it makes it safer, less lethal, but it's still very precarious."

He pulls on Quackity then, giving the shorter no choice but to pull in return. Wilbur wobbles to his feet, only somewhat unsteady, before he visibly tenses and starts making steps towards the dresser. Quackity holds Wilbur's one arm over his shoulders, and then wraps his other arm around Wilbur's middle. Once to the dresser, Wilbur lets go, leaning on the dresser in the same fashion as when Quackity found him earlier.

He seems sturdier, now. Like being awake longer has given him a little more strength in his muscles. Quackity doesn't dare walk away though, keeping an arm tight around Wilbur's waist even while he starts to take the spore blossom in hand.

It's something else to see Wilbur work, Quackity thinks. He's careful, precise. Even now, shaking and exhausted, there's a caution to his every move that Quackity almost never sees anywhere else.

Wilbur straightens out the boiled leaves, leaving each petal to be free of wrinkles and curls. With very little strength needed, they part from the pistil. He only focuses on one petal. He folds the petal in half, or tries to. His hands are trembling and he struggles to line up the edges. He tries only a few times before looking to Quackity.

No words exchanged, Quackity takes over. He folds the petal with simple motions, like folding a paper for origami. Once in half, Wilbur mimics folding it again. Quackity does so, the petal now in quarters.

"Use your knife to cut it, but keep it as exact as you can," Wilbur's voice is quiet but no less serious. The importance of precision is clear.

The knife, a little dull with disuse, still makes easy way of the petal. Quackity only needs to put the knife in between the fold and slice upwards to perfectly cut along the line. He does it once more to get proper quarters.

"Wonderful," Wilbur breathes out. "Now put one of the quarters in and just let it melt, no need to bother it."

Quackity does so. Then, putting the knife down and leaving the rest of the flower to be disposed of later, he maneuvers Wilbur back to the bed. He sits down beside him once they're there, taking a small break to let the blossom drip into the brew. He takes his arm back from around Wilbur, instead just grabbing at his hand and holding it in his own. Their fingers intertwine, perfectly pieced together.

"What does it do?" Quackity asks, closing his eyes for a moment and resting his head on Wilbur's shoulder. He can feel it when Wilbur hums his confusion. "The spore blossom, when it's brewed. What makes it dangerous?"

Wilbur hums again, this time in acknowledgement. He puts his head on top of Quackity's. "Spore blossoms, in nature, have no purpose other than to generate spores and particles," he begins. "In potions, it does the same thing but to your adrenaline."

The words make little sense to Quackity, who gently pulls his head away to look at Wilbur with nothing but confusion. "Huh?"

"Basically, ingesting a spore blossom brewed together with nether wart is the equivalent of injecting pure adrenaline into your fucking heart," Wilbur explains, one hand coming up to his chest and mimicking pushing the plunger of a syringe into his flesh.

"And that's dangerous?"

Wilbur's eyes light up and he smiles. It completely contrasts his next words, "Instant heart attack."

A startled laugh comes up from Quackity's throat, sounding a little bit like it was punched out of him. He watches Wilbur but sees no signs of dishonesty. "Holy shit," he mumbles, "you fucking madman. You tested it on yourself?"

"Of course I did," the words are spoken almost as if he has been offended by the mere thought that he would get others involved in his potion testing. "I had an anti-potion on me, I chugged it the moment I felt my heart stop."

"Oh, yeah, cause that's a casual thing to say."

"You asked!" Wilbur's smile grows even as he shouts, playfully pushing Quackity with the hand not still holding his. "And then, because I know you'll ask more, I tried it numerous more times with different dosages."

"Of course you did," Quackity pushes Wilbur back, parroting his earlier words.

Wilbur still seems proud. He disconnects their hands to start gesturing wildly, looking more alive than he's seemed all morning.

"One full spore blossom will immediately kill you, as I discovered. Half a spore blossom is also quite deadly, but you get a couple seconds of feeling the most awake you've ever felt before collapsing into a heap. A quarter is similar, maybe a minute before the heart attack, and an eighth is good for a few minutes. Less than an eighth seems to have the same time frame."

He's adorable, Quackity thinks. It's one of his favorite things, now, to see Wilbur so passionate. As much as knowing Wilbur put himself through literal heart attacks for the sake of science upsets him, he can't deny that it is fun seeing how excited the older gets at recalling it. And, yeah, that might be a little fucked up. But what part of them isn't?

"And that's when I had the idea of boiling it first," Wilbur continues. He doesn't seem to notice that Quackity is only partially listening, too busy studying every part of his face and body as he speaks. "So then I tried an entire boiled blossom, which is the equivalent of an eighth unboiled. Then half, then finally a quarter. Quarter is best when mixed with other items, such as in this, because then it essentially helps to elongate the effects of the potion. If you just want the adrenaline boost, which is great if you've been stabbed and need to force yourself to find medical assistance as Philza and I tested-"

"Wait, what?"

"- then half a boiled blossom is best. Technically, a full boiled blossom or eighth of an unboiled blossom could be good in that situation too, but you have to be sure to work off the adrenaline. Don't just sit around, your circulatory system will fail."

Wilbur stops for just a moment, smiling in that way he always done when he's pleased with himself, before his eyes widen and he gasps.

"Oh my god, I wonder if you could use it to make an aphrodisiac."

"Okay!" Quackity cuts off that train of thought with haste. "That is not what we're here for."

"But are you interested?" Wilbur asks, smirking. "Because I am interested, very interested, in testing this theory. And I would need someone to test it with~" he wiggles his shoulders as his smirk turns to a smile, the teasing very obviously as much a joke as it is a genuine offer.

Quackity huffs, putting his hands on Wilbur's shoulders to stop his little dance. "We can talk about this when you aren't in so much pain, and we aren't actively brewing a potion to help that."

Wilbur's shoulders drop with the added weight of Quackity's hands. He pouts a bit, giving an over-dramatic sigh, "Fine," he drawls. "But we are coming back to this."

"Uh-huh."

A moment of silence as they stare at each other. Wilbur's smiling again. Quackity likes that it almost seems like he can't help it. He can't help it either, if he's being honest. His lips turn upright and he pushes forward to leave a kiss to Wilbur's lips before standing back up and making his way back to the brewing stand.

By now, the blossom has completely integrated into the potion. The only ingredients left are the apple and the honey. Wilbur speaks up before he has the chance to ask, "The entire apple goes in, just cut it into pieces and mash it first. And then the honey is just for taste, so put in about as much as you use for your tea."

Easy instructions are very welcomed at this point. Quackity doesn't hesitate at all, grabbing the apple and using swift motions with the knife to cut it into somewhat even slices. He then cuts each slice into smaller bits, then uses the flat of the knife to crush them. It leaves apple juice all across the dresser top. A little voice in his head tells him to bend down and lick it off. The more sane part of his brain replies with, what the fuck, and disregards the suggestion.

After scooping the mashed apple bits into the brewer, Quackity grabs the honey jar and pours it over the slowly disintegrating apple. He estimates the amount, since Wilbur said it was just for taste. Wilbur has always preferred less honey or sugar in his tea, while Quackity needs a decent serving of honey if he wants to tolerate leaf water. If Wilbur is asking for the amount of honey that Quackity regularly uses, then this potion must taste Prime awful without it.

It takes very little time for the last ingredients to brew together. By the time it's finished, the potion is a deep magenta color and smells like honey and burnt leaves. Quackity carefully grabs the neck of one potion bottle, trying not to burn his fingers on any part of the stand or the freshly brewed liquid. He carries it over to Wilbur, who has no such reservations and immediately takes it in his grasp. The only sign he feels the heat at all is the sharp inhale he takes before throwing the potion back and downing half of it in one gulp.

"Fuck!" Wilbur exclaims as soon as he's swallowed. "That was so much hotter than I remember it being right off the stand."

Quackity can't help but laugh at him as he takes the potion back and caps it. He leaves it next to the stand with the other two, which he also quickly caps and leaves to cool. "It just finished brewing. I would have expected it to be close to boiling, dumbass," he lightly insults while doing so.

Wilbur gives a mocking laugh in return before groaning. Quackity turns to watch as he stands up, stretching his arms slowly above his head. The sweater rides up and Quackity very purposefully does not let his eyes linger on the sliver of Wilbur's stomach that peeks out. Once done stretching his arms, Wilbur lets them hang at his sides and looks Quackity dead in the eye.

He opens his mouth as if to speak but says nothing. Instead he just looks and Quackity looks in return. They have these moments more often nowadays. Moments of silence where they seem to be looking into each others souls, trying to find something that neither of them can explain. Or maybe they know exactly what they're looking for and they're both just too cowardly to say it.

Quackity knows what he's looking for. Fuck, he knows what he finds every time they end up like this. But the word burns through his mind and ends up as a scar on the back of his throat before it can reach the tip of his tongue.

How does one speak of love when all it's done is hurt them? Especially when that love is so suddenly towards a man that is made of ash and blue and blood and regrets and absolute, fucked-up, painful beauty? Quackity does not know love anymore. He isn't sure he's ever known love.

But something about Wilbur makes him want to try again.

Fuck, he really doesn't want to wax poetic about it. That's more Wilbur's thing.

"You feeling better?" he asks instead, pushing aside the terrifying ideals of love before it has the chance to fester.

"Oh," Wilbur seems a little taken aback, "um, yeah. Yeah, I feel a lot better. Thank you."

Silence again. Prime, why can't he do anything other than stare?

Wilbur's pretty. A part of Quackity really hates it, but it's true. Revival has not been kind to the man and yet he's still gorgeous. His body is still nothing but lean muscle and sharp edges, and his hair is often tangled, and the scar across his chest is barely a step up from an open wound, and he has stitches on his arm and in a few places across his stomach and scalp and legs, and his eyes are so dark and devoid of light except for when he's with Quackity and suddenly it's like they're glowing, and Prime fucking damn it Quackity is in love with him. He's so in love and it is so, so scary.

This man left him. He left everybody to chase death, to run away from his mistakes and regrets, to bury himself so no one would have to hear the apologies that fell from his lips. Who's to say he won't leave again?

But as he looks Wilbur in the eye – as he looks into his tired, beautiful soul – he believes Wilbur will stay now. Quackity has hope for the future – for Wilbur's future and their intertwined fate. But he still can't get himself to say it.

"I, um," Wilbur stutters. He still hasn't pulled his eyes away from the stare. "Can I hold you?"

Quackity doesn't wait to take the few steps needed to set himself on Wilbur's lap. Instantly, arms circle around him and hands press cold against his clothed back. Wilbur buries his head in the crook between Quackity's neck and shoulder. His breath tickles but Quackity has no plans to push him away. Instead, he brings his own arms around Wilbur. He threads one hand through his hair, playing softly with the curls at the nape of his neck, and the other rests in the small of Wilbur's back.

"I love being with you," Wilbur whispers.

Quackity forces himself not to freeze up. He didn't say it, but he did say something. Love. Love spending time, love being with, love you. That's all Quackity can hear.

He wants to say it back.

"Simp," is what he replies instead. Because he's a coward.

Wilbur laughs and presses a kiss to Quackity's neck. The moment of vulnerability has ended. Quackity shot it down. Fuck, why did he shoot it down? Aim for the sky and hit a bird on the way, helpless as the plain crashes into the sea with everyone on board. Okay, that's a little dramatic, but that's how he's feeling right now.

He tries to push it away. Right now he can just be. He wants to just be here, with Wilbur, domestic and sweet and painless. So he says no more, and thinks no more, and just focuses on the feeling of Wilbur underneath his fingertips. He breathes in time with him, his chest rising when Wilbur's falls and vice versa. He feels the way Wilbur's heart beats, slow and steady just like their budding relationship.

It's everything Quackity's wanted, and all he needed was a half-dead man to come along and drag him to it. Honestly? He doesn't think he'd have it any other way.

Putting Together the Pieces

Quackity doesn't know what death feels like. He got close, once, but he did not die.

Wilbur did. Wilbur knows intimately the feeling of Death's embrace. Over the past half-a-year, Quackity has learned much from Wilbur. He learned that Wilbur feels like he's dying every day in little ways – scars that were left on his heart, cracks that were left in his soul – from his time in limbo. He's numb, and shaky, and aching, and empty. But he is also sensitive, and steady, and healing, and full of so much love that Quackity didn't know either of them still had.

Quackity swore off of love when his fiance's left him. Love had done him wrong in every way. He'd been manipulated, abused, abandoned. Then Wilbur came along and here he is, feeling so happy. It's like every crack of Wilbur's soul matches Quackity's own. Every scar compliments Quackity's scars, and every touch is putting something back together that Quackity never even acknowledged was broken.

Quackity loves Wilbur, so much.

He still hasn't said it.

The last six months have been a whirlwind as he watched Wilbur's act disintegrate and got to know the real him for the first time. Quackity's a little impressed it only took six months (and months before that of tension-filled arguments and petty squabbles) for them to really peel away the crystalline layers of carefully formed facades and see the splintered, washed out, living creature underneath. He may have done that to Wilbur but he knows Wilbur did it right back.

Two sides of the same coin. Yin and Yang. Halves to a whole. It's nice to have his other half. For the first time, Quackity feels truly understood. He hopes that Wilbur feels the same.

They're lying together in Quackity's – at this point it might as well just be their – bed. He's been taking more time off of work, no longer working through weekends and actually leaving the office on time not just on Friday's but every day. Somehow, he finally has something he cares more about than his work. No matter how menial, he'll choose spending time with Wilbur now. Hell, he's even started using some of his sick and vacation time to have "domestic days," as they've been dubbed.

There's something playing on the radio. It's some jazzy station Wilbur found, generally used for some of the more high-scale bars around Las Nevadas. Quackity would never choose to listen to it himself, but it's good background noise to their lounging. That's all they're doing, after all, just cuddling together.

Wilbur has Quackity held tight to his front, both of them lying on their sides facing each other. Wilbur's right arm, pressed against the bed, is underneath Quackity's body. His fingers, just barely escaped from where it was pinned under Quackity, are rubbing small circles into his hip. His other arm holds Quackity close, elbow pressed gently into the small of Quackity's back, hand held lightly around the back of his neck. Their legs are tangled up, Wilbur's drawn up a bit in order to fit properly onto the bed. It means his right knee is pressed between Quackity's upper thighs, but there's nothing sexual or tense about it. Just another means to be closer. His left leg is thrown atop Quackity, using his heel to draw him in even tighter.

Quackity, for his part, is holding Wilbur just as tightly. His face is buried in Wilbur's chest, but his arms are around the taller man and running up and down his back together. Up and down, feeling the marred skin beneath his fingertips. He feels the ridges of Wilbur's spine, always easy to find because of his lithe frame. He feels over the planes of his shoulder blades, relaxed and just as cold as the rest of him. His left leg is trapped under Wilbur's body weight, his foot going a little numb from where it's pressed into Wilbur's hip, but he doesn't feel stuck. He knows Wilbur would let him go if he asked. His right leg is doing much the same as Wilbur's, using his heel to push into the back of Wilbur's right knee to pull close, close, closer.

It's nothing but warmth, despite how Wilbur is so cool. He hasn't said it, but Quackity knows now that one of the reasons Wilbur loves cuddling is because of that. The man's heat retention must be shit, he deduced a few months ago. He confirmed it when he tried on Wilbur's tattered trench coat a few weeks back. It was weighed down with the amount of material it's made of, immediately causing Quackity to swelter. Wilbur had laughed at him, not because of how hot he got but because of how it was way too big on Quackity. Quackity proceeded to kick Wilbur in the shins (lovingly, of course).

But if Wilbur is wearing that jacket every damn day, in a man-made desert of all places, than he knows Wilbur's coolness goes deeper than just the touch. He's probably freezing all the time. It wouldn't be helped by how thin he is (like before, when he was barely eating because there was so little food and he became nothing but skin and bones until eventually he was in the ground, just bones). But now, with revival on top of it all? It's another one of those things, he guesses.

Wilbur shuffles. Quackity moves with him, allowing his body to be readjusted just the slightest. He doesn't move much, just inches Quackity up a bit and closer so that he can free more of his arm. Once free, the hand previously putting circles on his hip rests further up on his back.

"You're so warm," Wilbur mumbles from where his face is pressed into Quackity's hair. It's probably a little gross, Quackity hadn't properly washed his hair in a bit, but Wilbur doesn't seem to mind the grease.

Quackity just smiles into Wilbur's collarbone, "And you're so cold. It's nice to be able to cuddle for so long without overheating."

A hum meets his ears. Silence once more.

He wants to say it. Wilbur hasn't said it yet, but he knows Wilbur now. He knows that Wilbur won't say it until he does because Wilbur knows him too, knows that if Wilbur took the first step it would be too much.

"Thank you," Wilbur interrupts his thoughts.

"Hm?"

Wilbur pulls away just enough to angle Quackity's head up and look him in the eye. "Thank you," he speaks softly, "for everything."

Quackity's smile doesn't falter, even in his confusion. Instead he presses a short kiss to Wilbur's lips. "What do you mean?" he asks, letting his breath fan over Wilbur's face before he shuffles back.

They're still intertwined, still two bodies so close together they might as well be one. But something about this feels important. Worthy of seeing each other's souls instead of each other's hearts.

"I know that when I was revived, I was a burden," Wilbur admits. He says it as if it means nothing, as if it isn't self-deprecating and sounds so wrong even though Quackity knows it's technically correct. He still can't stop himself from shaking his head, trying to deny it, but Wilbur presses on. "And it's been hard."

"I mean, yeah, our relationship certainly hasn't been standard," Quackity interjects. It's worth it for the smile he gets.

"What I meant was that being revived has been hard," Wilbur says, but gives Quackity a kiss anyway.

"You're talking about all the aftereffects, right?" Quackity clarifies once they're regained their minimal space apart.

Wilbur nods, "Yeah. All these stupid aftereffects of revival. It makes living a lot harder, but you…" he trails off.

Quackity lets him, not asking for anything more. He knows what Wilbur wants to say.

You make life worth it. You make me feel alive. You make me feel like a person. You make me feel loved.

He knows, because he feels the same way. All the way back from the beginning, when Wilbur would wax poetic about being other halves and feeling alive when they fight, he felt it all too. But now there's that last part. The love portion of it all.

I love you, you madman. You brought yourself back into my life when I thought I would forever be alone, and no matter what I did you refused to leave. I love your passion. I love your obsession. I love your intellect, your words, your stupid decisions that leave scars and marks, and I love the kisses you leave on each one.

I love you, Wilbur Soot. I love you with everything I have, everything I thought I'd lost as every bridge beneath my feet burned and burned me with them. I love you with all I am, all that I've created, and all I'll be. I love how you know me. How you understand it without needing the words. I love that you have let me try to understand you, and how you've had the patience as I work out your pieces so I may put them back together with my own stained and cracked glass hands.

"I love you."

Wilbur's eyes go wide. His breath stops. Quackity tries not to show how much he's panicked by his own words. He just keeps smiling, keeps staring Wilbur in the eye. This beautiful, broken man. The only one who could love a man just as broken and beautiful.

He does start to panic a little more visibly when Wilbur starts to get teary-eyed. Quackity can feel his smile shake and his heartrate pick up. But then Wilbur grins wide and sobs at the same time, the tears spilling over his reddening cheeks, and he brings Quackity into a deep kiss. It speaks a thousand words, but it doesn't stop him from pulling away and pressing to his lips,

"I love you too."

Quackity doesn't know death. But he does know her son.

He loves Death's son with all of his heart. And as they lay together, held in each others arms, surrounded by love and burned bridges rebuilt,

he knows that Death's son loves him with all of his undead heart too.