Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Quackity was not a stranger to death. It was a constant. It was familiar. To Quackity, death was like an old friend. It followed him, and fixated on the people he loved. Quackity did not know a life without death. 

He could not name a love without loss. 

The keys were still in the ignition of his car. They’d been there for a while. Quackity’s hands still held the steering wheel tightly, even though the car had been parked in the empty lot for the better half of fifteen minutes. He was preparing to step into the supermarket, which sounded more and more stupid the longer he sat in his car feeling sorry for himself and not going into the store. 

All he had to do was buy a bouquet. His last gift to Charlie. 

There was a little over forty dollars in his pocket. It might be overboard, but he didn’t know, Quackity had never bought a bouquet before. He was the one who received. He was the one who took . Now, it was his turn to give, but all he really had to give was grief. Which wasn’t good enough for Charlie. He deserved better, something better than what Quackity had to give, and definitely something better than a stupid bouquet. 

However, Quackity supposed it was the gesture that mattered most. He cared. He cared so much. Actions spoke louder than words. They always had. 

The supermarket was going to close in thirty-seven minutes. Quackity had to move soon or else he’d miss his chance. Again. He’d meant to buy the flowers this morning, before the service started, but he didn’t. He couldn’t come up with a good explanation as to why. 

His whole body was stiff. Quackity hadn’t moved much lately, nor was he really supposed to, bedrest and all, but this was a different type of stiff. Reluctance. He didn’t want to have to buy a bouquet, he didn’t even know anything about flowers. But he’d been at his best friend’s funeral today, and he hadn’t brought a parting gift with him. 

Guilt and grief didn’t count.

Quackity took a shaky breath. How pathetic. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop his chin from wobbling. He wasn’t going to cry over a bouquet of flowers. He wasn’t.

Quackity took his hands off the steering wheel, finally. Cold sweat. His hands were covered in cold sweat. He wiped it off on his pants. They weren’t particularly nice pants, but they were at least a step up from pajamas. He’d taken his suit off the moment he got back to his apartment after the service. Now, his outfit was the bare minimum of what was deemed socially acceptable. But it was just after nine on a weeknight, so what he wore didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like he’d be running into anyone he knew anyways. 

The wind outside the warmth of his car was bitter. Quackity tugged his jacket a little tighter to his chest. It was only fitting, cold weather for the cold-hearted. February wasn’t supposed to be warm anyways. 

The fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. He hadn’t been to the supermarket in a while, he wasn’t due for new groceries till next weekend. It messed up his routine. Quackity wasn’t supposed to be here on a Wednesday night, he was supposed to be here on Sunday morning. It was an inconvenience, but Quackity couldn’t call it that.

Charlie would never be an inconvenience. 

The store was unsurprisingly empty, which was a relief, because Quackity would probably lose his shit if he saw someone he knew right now. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to buy a bouquet, mumble a quiet thank you and goodnight to the cashier and then go home. He’d bring the flowers to the cemetery tomorrow morning. 

There was a weird feeling in Quackity’s chest when he stood in front of the bouquet display. He wanted it to fossilize. All of the flowers were for Valentine's day, for . . . love. Quackity had so much room for love. It had nowhere to go. 

Maybe that’s what grief was. 

Charlie’s favourite colour was green. Or blue. Quackity didn’t really know, he’d never asked. He wished he had. All plants were green, at least somewhat, so that was a start. But it was nearing Valentine’s day, so of course none of the flowers were blue. 

There were, however, rows and rows of roses. Red ones, pink ones, white ones, yellow ones. They were nice, but as nice as they were, none of them seemed quite right for Charlie. 

Quackity felt his lip quiver. He wanted to cry. It was embarrassing, to be frank, to be twenty-seven in the supermarket, pretty much wearing pajamas and borderline bawling over a bouquet. Quackity loved. Quackity loved so much. Sometimes it made him feel sick, sometimes it made him feel stupid. But never sorry. 

Quackity had never felt sorry for loving before. 

He loved unapologetically. Charlie had told him that a couple days after they had first met. You love shamelessly, I like that. He wasn’t so sure that was true anymore. Because Quackity was ashamed. He was ashamed his love had led someone to suffer. 

A bouquet was barely enough to make up for it. 

However, he knew Charlie would think it was funny. If someone had told him that Quackity was crying in the superstore over the selection of bouquets, Charlie would never have let him live it down. That, at least, could bring Quackity some sense of comfort. 

=

More often than not, the actions of Wilbur’s younger brother bewildered him. But this time he understood. He could excuse his brother not stopping for snacks on the way to his place since he had just gotten his license, since there was supposedly snow and black ice and shit on the road. Even if the store was only a few minutes away from his house. Even if it was a mild inconvenience. He could excuse it. 

Wilbur was at the superstore now. 

He had been handed a list, actually, of the things he had to buy. He analyzed the crinkled paper under the low light of parking lot lamps. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a long list. Mostly just chips and various chocolates. Specific brand names were scrawled in Tommy’s infamous, almost illegible, impossible to read handwriting. It was mildly endearing that Wilbur had mostly learned to decipher it. 

He folded the paper carefully and slid it into his pocket. It was movie night with Tommy. It wasn’t usually scheduled for Wednesday nights, but with exams being done and whatnot, Wilbur figured why not. Besides, it’s his brother. He liked his brother. Most of the time. He wasn’t a very big fan of being his errand boy though. 

It was much colder outside of his car than Wilbur had anticipated, and he began to regret not bringing his tattered trench coat. He quickly locked his car and dashed towards the front doors of the grocery store. 

Wilbur grabbed a shopping basket by the entrance and officially made his way into the supermarket. He pulled the list out of his pocket to look at it in better lighting. Maybe that would make it more legible. It didn’t. But Wilbur could now clearly make out the word ‘mint-chocolate’. 

The dairy aisle was near the back of the store. Wilbur was glad it was a weeknight, the store was largely empty, aside from a few employees, which meant it was quiet, which meant it was wonderful. Wilbur hated going shopping when the stores were loud and crowded. It was always far too inefficient. 

Wilbur didn’t pay attention to his surroundings. It wasn’t anything new though, that had always been an issue for him, for he was always absorbed in something else. In this instance, it was his little brother’s shopping list. So, when he walked headfirst into someone else, and they both went sprawling to the ground, it wasn’t the first time it had happened.

“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry,” Wilbur started. He reached for his shopping list and grocery basket and pulled himself back to his feet. The stranger hadn’t moved yet, he was still seated on the floor. “Here, let me help you up.” 

The stranger shook his head. 

“Please, I insist,” Wilbur said, extending his hand. 

The man looked at him with a weird expression that Wilbur couldn’t quite name, and then looked away just as quickly. It was weird, definitely weird. However, hesitantly, the stranger took Wilbur’s hand and let him help him to his feet. 

The man’s balance was slightly off-center, and he was trembling. 

“Are you alright?” Wilbur asked. 

The stranger didn’t answer. In fact, he seemed determined not to answer. Instead, he stared intensely at the flower display. Valentine's day, Wilbur’s mind supplied, Valentine’s day was right around the corner. But it was weird. The stranger was acting weird, and Wilbur couldn’t bring himself to walk away. He was mildly worried for the man, so he watched him for a moment or two. Just make sure everything was alright. 

Wilbur eyed the flower display. They were largely roses, red ones at that. He eyed the stranger again. Valentine's day was supposed to represent love, but Wilbur could not see even an ounce of love in the stranger’s eye. He saw only sadness. He’d seen that sadness before.

And then Wilbur had a horrible realization. 

He was not standing beside a stranger. 

“Q- Quackity?”  Wilbur said softly, with a sugar coated surprise. 

The man turned to face him, finally, but he didn’t have the same face Wilbur always remembered seeing. He looked sadder and slimmer than he used to, and a gauze pad secured with medical tape covered his left eye. He didn’t look the same as he did ten years ago. But it was Quackity. It was definitely, undeniably Quackity. 

“Go away Wilbur, please. I can’t do this today,” Q whispered hoarsely. His voice cracked. He didn’t look at Wilbur when he said it. He didn’t look at the flower display either. Instead, he buried his face in his hands and covered his eye. 

It was clear to Wilbur what should happen now. He should leave. He was supposed to leave. He should listen to Q’s wishes and walk away and pretend this encounter never occurred. But there was clearly something wrong with Q, it was wrong to ignore that. Wilbur couldn’t just walk away. He’d done that before.

With slight hesitance, he placed a kind hand on Q’s shoulder. He could feel him quivering. Wilbur wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut. There was nothing he could say that would offer comfort to Quackity, because he didn’t know Quackity. Not anymore. 

But it was almost Valentine’s day, and Wilbur hadn’t seen Q in almost ten years. It wasn’t hard for him to fill in the blanks. Q had met someone new. He was buying flowers for someone new. It didn’t add up though. Wilbur couldn’t understand why that would make Q cry. 

“Who are the flowers for?” he asked quietly. 

“Why would that concern you?” Q snapped, brushing Wilbur’s hand off his shoulder as if it had burnt him.

Wilbur held that hand close to his heart. It was a metaphysical hurt. The bitterness surprised him though. Wilbur never knew Q to be someone bitter, but then again, it was another brutal reminder. He was not Q’s friend, they do not know each other now. 

“You’re crying,” Wilbur observed. 

“I’m not crying,” Q said. He said it like he was trying to convince himself. His teeth dug into the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t working. Clearly, he wasn’t convincing enough. 

Wilbur didn’t know what else to say, but it was an understatement to say it hurt to watch Quackity stare at the flower display with such desperation. Wilbur wanted to help, he just didn’t know how. 

So, he walked up to the display. Wilbur picked up one of the bouquets and rearranged some of the wilted petals. The roses were a dark pink. Most people liked pink, it was hard not to like such a pretty colour. Wilbur was careful to make sure the burlap and plastic sheets still covered the flowers’ stems before holding the bouquet out to Q. Every rose has its thorns. 

Quackity looked at the bouquet inquisitively. Wilbur could see his eye wandering from him to flowers and then back and forth again. He could hear Quackity thinking. It was nice to know some things about Q hadn’t changed. It was reassuring to know he wasn’t standing beside a total stranger. 

“You hate them,” Wilbur guessed. 

“I- I don’t hate them,” Q responded. He eyed the roses with an expression Wilbur couldn’t identify. 

“You hesitated.” 

Q bit his lip. His fingers clenched around the flowers’ stems and the thin layers of plastic and burlap. Wilbur watched the bouquet waver in Q’s quivering hands. A pink petal fell to the floor. Q looked at it lovelessly. Who the hell were these flowers for? 

“They’re not good enough,” Quackity answered flatly. 

“Why not?” Wilbur asked innocently, genuinely.  

“Because they’re not!” Q shouted, shoving the flowers at Wilbur. “None of them are! I’m a bad friend, I’ve never bought a bouquet before and god- ” Q inhaled sharply. “I can’t do this today.”  

Wilbur carefully took the flowers from where Q’s trembling hands had pressed them against his chest. He gently smoothed the petals and placed them back into the water bucket at the base of the display. Q had buried his face in his hands again. He heard the man sniffling. Wilbur let out a heavy sigh, absolutely no weight was relieved.

“You’re not a bad friend,” Wilbur said. He let his hands curl around Q’s wrists. “You were good to me, y’know, when we were friends. And you’re buying someone a bouquet, that’s a nice thing to do. But you’re clearly drunk, Q, do you- ” 

“I am not drunk,” Quackity seethed. Wilbur had never heard him sound so angry. 

So he nodded and amended himself immediately. “You’re not drunk, but you’re clearly not okay because this isn’t normal behavior,” he said warily, waiting for Q’s approval. When there was no protest, he continued. “Let me buy you the bouquet, and if you took the bus here I’ll give you a ride home.” 

Q pulled his wrists away from Wilbur to wipe his eye. “I don’t need you to pay for me out of pity, Wilbur. I’m not that pathetic.” 

“Then think of it as a favor.” 

“I don’t do favors,” Quackity said. There was something weird about the way he said it. “I’m not going to be in debt to you.” 

“I never said you’d be in debt to me,” Wilbur retorted. “I’m repaying you, for- for the bad parts of our past . . . How ‘bout that?” 

“Whatever,” Q scoffed. His voice sounded different. Wilbur didn’t know him well enough anymore to know what it meant. 

After twelve and half minutes of bickering, Wilbur bought a bouquet. Q still hadn’t told him who the bouquet was for, so it was hard to know what kind of flowers to buy. But Wilbur tried, and that was what mattered. The relief in Quackity’s eye when Wilbur handed him the bundle of white roses almost made him forget about the numbers printed on the receipt. 

Q had caught a glimpse of the price at the register and tried to fork over forty dollars, which Wilbur declined. He’d meant what he said. It was his favour. So, Q guiltily put the money back in his pocket. But the gesture. The gesture was kind. 

“Button up your sweater,” Q scolded as they approached the exit, which was awfully bold for someone who’d just spent thirty minutes crying over bouquets to say, but Wilbur did it without word. Clearly it bothered Quackity, so he wasn’t going to question it. 

It seemed like there was a lot about Q that Wilbur wasn’t going to question. 

Once they were out on the supermarket plaza, Quackity tried to bolt. He didn’t get far before slipping on a patch of ice and falling on his ass. He didn’t get up immediately either. So, for the second time in the same night, Wilbur offered his hand. 

It didn’t surprise him that Q didn’t want to take it. Again. So, Wilbur let him lay there.

The plastic and burlap of the bouquet rustled in the wind. The pristine petals, almost white as snow, threatened to wilt. But Wilbur didn’t pick them up. They were Q’s flowers, for someone else. So, they laid there on the icy ground with him. 

When Q finally started to stir, Wilbur offered his hand again. Quackity hesitantly took it. History doesn't repeat itself, but it sure does rhyme. Wilbur clasped the other’s hand tightly. It was smaller than his, and clammy. He couldn’t remember if Q’s hands had always been clammy. 

“Listen Q,” Wilbur said slowly. The other refused to look at him. He fixated on the roses instead. “I know we haven’t spoken in a long time, and I know it’s not my place to ask anymore, but you seem like you need an intervention. Are you gonna be alright on your own, or is something bad going to happen if I let you go home alone?” 

There was no immediate response. Wilbur already knew the answer. The overhead lights of the superstore plaza flickered above them. Their hands still hadn’t untangled. 

“Answer me, Q.” 

“I fucking hate you.” 

“I know.”

= 

Quackity had sat in this seat before, under very different circumstances, in the passenger seat of Wilbur’s crusty old caravan. The car was about the same as he remembered; unkept, unorganized and unruly, with an unprecedented amount of CD’s. Quackity hated it as fiercely as he had when he was fifteen, but it was more nerve-wracking now. There was this unforeseen urge to sit in the driver’s seat. Quackity couldn’t be a passenger. He had to be in control. 

Wilbur noticed his discomfort almost instantly. It kind of hurt to see that he still cared so much. “There’s handles on the right to adjust the seat,” Wilbur supplied. “There’s also butt heaters, if you’re cold.” 

“Th- thank you,” Quackity muttered. Of course that’s what Wilbur thought it was. The seat settings weren’t right for him. That wasn’t it. Quackity fiddled with buttons on the side of the seat, the chair slid forwards. But it was what he chose to let Wilbur believe. 

Wilbur put the keys in the ignition. The engine sputtered. Quackity winced. Maybe this was a bad idea. The engine sputtered again. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe Quackity should just cut his losses and take his car home instead. The engine sputtered a third time before it roared to life. 

It was a fucking miracle. 

Quackity clutched the bouquet tightly as Wilbur pulled out of the parking lot. He felt his fingers mold the flowers’ already misshapen stems. The dull thorns dug into his palms. It was stupid. The roads were salted, the streets were cleared. There was nothing to be afraid of, but Quackity still feared. 

By the second intersection, Wilbur noticed. 

“Everything okay?” he asked cautiously. 

The light was red, there were no other cars on the road. Quackity didn’t answer, he didn’t look at Wilbur either. The low hum of the motor filled the silence. The light turned green. Wilbur was still looking at him. 

“Yeah,” Quackity answered breathlessly. His heart was beating too fast. He didn’t know how to stop it. “How much farther till your house?” 

“Not much longer,” Wilbur said softly, his gaze lingering. Quackity ignored it. The flowers suffered. 

“The light’s green,” Quackity whispered. He hadn’t meant to speak so softly. 

“I know,” the other whispered back. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur flashed him a smile and Quackity felt something inside him die. He should hate his high school sweetheart, but something about Wilbur’s toothy grin made Quackity want to forgive him for all the things he never apologized for. 

Was he really that desperate for kindness?

Quackity was only vaguely aware of his surroundings as Wilbur pulled the caravan into the driveway. He was only vaguely aware of Wilbur as well, until he heard a string of creative curses from under the other’s breath. 

“What?” Quackity asked with alarm. Wilbur didn’t answer. His fingers tightened around the flowers again. “Wilbur, what- ” 

“I forgot. My brother’s here.” 

“Oh,” Quackity muttered. He was quiet for a moment before asking which brother. He hoped it wasn’t Techno. Please don’t be Techno. 

“It’s Tommy,” Wilbur told him. “We were gonna have a movie night tonight but . . . I’ll tell him to go home.” 

Quackity was horrified. He couldn’t ruin another person’s night. “No! No, I’ll just go back to my place. I’m fine, it’s fine- ” 

“But it’s not fine, Q!” Wilbur interrupted. “You clearly need me more than my brother does! I- ” 

“I don’t need you at all!” Quackity roared. He looked at Wilbur for the first time that night, fully looked at him. It wasn’t hard to separate Wilbur from ten years ago versus Wilbur from today. They shared the same body, and that was where the similarities seemed to end. There was no real reason for him to be angry, but it was just so easy to be angry at Wilbur. “I- You were the one who left me! Don’t you fucking tell me what I need! I- I’m done with this.” 

Quackity unbuckled his seatbelt and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. “Unlock the door,” Quackity said through gritted teeth. Wilbur didn’t move. “Unlock the fucking door, Wilbur!” 

“No.” 

“I swear to god Wilbur, if you don’t let me out of this fucking car I’ll- ” 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Wilbur said quietly. 

Quackity stopped talking, he didn’t look at him either. He knew Wilbur didn’t mean it like that. But he curled in on himself and tucked his knees to his chest. The flowers fell to the floor of the car. They’d all suffered tonight.

“So what?” he grumbled. 

“You’re looking for a reason to be angry,” Wilbur said. It sounded like a question, and Quackity couldn’t answer it. He suddenly felt so guilty. Wilbur was being so nice to him, and he couldn’t stop feeling guilty for not being able to forgive him. 

“I’m sorry,” Quackity whispered. If he spoke any louder he’d cry, he couldn’t let Wilbur see him cry. He couldn’t be vulnerable in front of someone he didn’t trust. But Quackity from ten years ago had trusted him. Was there really that much of a difference? 

= 

Quackity sat at Wilbur’s kitchen table. The roses were delicately put in a glass vase and placed on the center of the table. Quackity rested his head on the tablecloth. Wilbur and his brother were in the other room, arguing. About him. They were in the other room for a reason, but he eavesdropped anyway. 

“Tommy, just go home, we can reschedule for another night.” 

“But you always reschedule! You always cancel! This is the third time, in a row!” 

“Please Tommy,” Wilbur said. “I didn’t even buy the snacks, just- ” 

“You didn’t even buy the snacks?!” 

“I didn’t,” Wilbur cleared his throat. “But I’m serious though, Tommy. Please, go home. You can even pick what movie we watch next, but Q needs me more than you need a movie night.” 

There was quiet for a brief moment. 

“Fine,” Tommy agreed. “But what am I supposed to tell Phil? He’s going to ask why I came home, Wilbur. I can’t tell him you canceled on me again. That’s beyond embarrassing. And I don’t want to drive, there’s probably ice on the road and- ” 

“I’ll drive you home,” Wilbur sighed. He didn’t sound frustrated. Just tired. “Tell him you have a headache or something. Grab your shit and get in my car. I’ll be there in a moment.” 

Quackity heard rustling. Then, someone was sitting in front of him. Quackity should probably say something, but he couldn’t really get his eye to focus on anything. His vision was so blurry that his eye began to water. The other eye had an empty socket, and the aftermath was secured beneath layers of gauze, adhesives and bandages. Wilbur was crouched right in front of him, at eye level, and Quackity could barely make him out. Maybe that was a good thing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what expression Wilbur was wearing. 

“I’m going to take Tommy home, I should be back in ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” Wilbur told him. Quackity blinked slowly, he could hear Wilbur breathing. “In the meantime Q, my house is your house. The bathroom is just down the hall to your right. I’ll set up the bedroom for you when I get back.” 

Quackity wanted to protest. He didn’t need the bedroom, he didn’t want the bedroom. But the kindness. Wilbur was being so nice to him that it hurt . His eye welled up. Quackity couldn’t find a fibre in his body that was willing to protest, so he nodded. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay. I’ll be back soon,” Wilbur said softly. And then he did something unexpected. He tucked a strand of Quackity’s hair behind his ear and kissed the top of his forehead. And then Wilbur was gone. 

Quackity didn’t know how to recover from that kind of intimacy anymore. He’d lost everyone he’d ever loved. In that moment though, it felt like he’d never lost Wilbur at all. It was so sickeningly familiar. So, he cried. For everything he could’ve had. 

= 

The bathroom was small. A huge mirror hung above the sink, there was a circular rug on the floor by the foot of the shower and the walls were off-white, maybe eggshell, in colour. Quackity wasn’t supposed to be here. But Wilbur had offered everything to him, my house is your house , so he searched for a towel in the cupboards under the tap. 

Wilbur had yellow towels. Quackity let out a jarring wet laugh, he wasn’t sure why knowing this brought him so much joy. He took one of the towels out of the cabinet and set it on the counter. Wilbur Soot had purchased yellow towels. It was stupid, but he smiled. 

Then, like the flip of a switch, Quackity felt this overwhelming guilt. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe yellow was actually Charlie’s favourite colour, and he’d gotten it wrong. What if Charlie hated the flowers? Quackity thought about the roses in the vase. Had Wilbur wasted his money? And then he felt even worse. His best friend died and he hadn’t even bought the flowers he was going to bring to the cemetery.

He was a bad friend. 

The waterworks returned. Quackity couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down his cheek. He accepted it. He started stripping. His shirt, socks and sweats were tossed lazily onto the lid of the toilet seat. He was a horrible person, and he cried for the much better best friend Charlie could’ve had. 

Should’ve had.

Quackity stepped into the shower slowly, careful to fully close the curtain behind him. He turned the faucet and was soon drizzled with lukewarm water. He thought about turning the handle. Maybe he should suffer. Maybe he should shower in cold, frigid water. But then Quackity thought about it. He was alive, and he was allowed to have nice things. Charlie would’ve wanted him to have nice things. So, he turned the faucet and made the water warmer. 

On the ledge of the shower sat a single bottle. He picked it up. 3 in 1. Quackity wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Of course Wilbur used 3 in 1. If Quackity was being honest, he had higher expectations for someone who had coloured towels. Oh well. At least Wilbur had the illusion of appearing put-together. 

The bandage that covered his eye wasn’t allowed to get wet. The doctor had been very adamant about that. So, other than a couple stray droplets, the cotton was pretty much perfectly dry. Quackity was careful to keep it that way as he lathered his greasy hair with Wilbur’s lousy excuse of shampoo, conditioner and also bodywash. 

Perhaps Wilbur’s kindness was for the betterment of the community, Quackity supposed. He hadn’t showered in a really, really long time. Since before Charlie’s passing, at least. He most definitely didn’t smell good so offering him the shower was really a solid. Even if the only soap available was also shampoo and conditioner. It was better than nothing at all. 

So, Quackity cleaned himself, and all the dirty feelings went down the drain.

Soon, the water went cold. He turned the tap off and shivered as he opened the shower curtain. The air felt cold, but the mirror was covered in steam and Quackity couldn’t see his reflection. It made him feel slightly better as he readied himself to step out of the shower. 

He had to step over the ledge slowly, or else he’d certainly slip. His depth perception was slightly off. He should probably get that checked out. Quackity gripped the showerbar like a lifeline as he lifted his leg over the ledge. He didn’t fall. 

He didn’t fall.

He dried his feet off on the carpet and reached for the towel he’d set on the counter. Quackity wrapped it around himself. It was warm, and it smelled nice, like lavenders, then he noticed there was something else on the counter.

A note, accompanied with a pile of neatly folded clothes. 

Quackity squinted in disbelief for a moment. Then he snatched the note. 

Figured you’d appreciate a fresh pair of pajamas

• Wilbur 

Quackity crumpled the paper into a ball. He was angry. No, he was furious. Wilbur wanted something from him. It was the only explanation. They hadn’t spoken since twelfth grade, what other reason would there be for this kindness? His forgiveness? This wasn’t his first note from Wilbur either, and even then his note had expressly forbidden Quackity’s forgiveness. 

Quackity didn’t know what Wilbur’s reasons were. It was unnerving. But there was also a pair of handpicked pajamas for him sitting on the counter. Quackity could pretend, he was good at that, he could pretend that things had turned out differently. So, he let himself believe that Wilbur had offered him kindness without expecting any back. 

= 

“I’m not sleeping in your bed,” Quackity said firmly, for the fifth time in the last fourteen minutes. 

Wilbur didn’t acknowledge him. He just continued adjusting the bedsheets around the corners of the mattress. They were both too stubborn for their own good. Someone had once said they were like the unstoppable force and immovable object. Wilbur preferred the term yin and yang. 

“Wilbur,” Quackity said, this time a little more stern. Again, there was no elicit reaction. Wilbur continued disregarding Quackity and draping the mattress with duvets. He was being ignored, and it wasn’t like that was something unfamiliar, it was just suddenly so much more unbearable than before. “Wilbur!” Quackity snapped. 

The other looked away from the linen sheets. He analyzed Quackity with an unreadable expression, then he spoke quietly. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.” 

“Well I’m not sleeping in your bed either!” Quackity shouted. He didn’t know why he was shouting, he was getting attention. 

Wilbur sighed, then he set the sheets aside and sat on the mattress. He patted at the space beside him and looked at Q expectantly. Beckoning. Quackity couldn’t process it, his body wouldn’t move. 

Wilbur raised his eyebrows, but he wore a patient expression. “Well c’mon Q,” he said. “Sit next to me.” 

His limbs felt heavy, he could hardly find it in himself to move, but somehow Quackity managed to find himself sitting next to Wilbur. Well actually, more like sitting next to the empty space next to Wilbur. But he made it there. Quackity didn’t know he still had that kind of strength. 

They sat in silence for a moment, until Wilbur said, “Tell me what’s going on.” And he looked so sincerely at Quackity that he almost wanted to tell him. 

Almost. 

“Nothing,” Quackity answered. He didn’t look at Wilbur, which made it slightly easier to lie. 

“Q . . .” Wilbur trailed off. 

“There’s nothing going on!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why are you doing this to me, Wilbur?” Quackity asked quietly. He buried his face in his hands. His arms wrapped around his knees, he curled into a ball. He couldn’t let Wilbur see him cry. 

= 

The carpet was kind of itchy. Wilbur was snoring. The blankets were bristly and irritating on his bare skin. Wilbur’s leg was dangling off the bed. Light from the streetlamps snuck into the bedroom in between little gaps in the curtains and Quackity’s pillow was too soft. 

His eyelid was heavy and it was hard to keep himself awake, but Quackity knew he couldn’t sleep. He was too prone to nightmares, and he’d already embarrassed himself enough. It was easier just to not sleep at all. Maybe, in the morning, he’d lie and blame it on Wilbur snoring. 

But that felt wrong. 

Wilbur didn’t have to offer up the carpeted floor of his bedroom, or even his couch. Actually, he didn’t have to offer anything at all. One thing was clear. Quackity couldn’t offer honesty the way Wilbur offered kindness. It was too humiliating. 

He laid on the floor for a long time. Quackity tried to trick himself into falling asleep, but his subconscious wouldn’t let him. It kept whispering he wasn’t safe. Bitterly, Quackity remembered when Wilbur was the safest person in the world. He missed being sixteen. 

It was his sensory that got to him. The itchy carpet, the bristly blankets, the bright streetlights and Wilbur’s obnoxious snoring. The answer was obvious. He needed to leave the room. So, quietly Quackity slipped out of his makeshift bed and its assortment of sheets. 

Wilbur’s house was old, and the ancient wooden floorboards creaked under Quackity’s feet as he tiptoed towards the hallway. Then, just as he slipped through the doorway, the snoring suddenly stopped and Quackity immediately froze in place. He was horrified at the possibility of potentially waking Wilbur. Was he going to be angry? 

Quackity’s heart was in his throat. He felt sick. Slowly, he spun around. Quackity sighed with relief when he saw Wilbur still soundlessly asleep, mouth hanging open and all. A very, very small smile spread across his face. His heart was back in his chest. He hadn’t woken Wilbur. 

Quackity found himself back in the kitchen. There was a certain stillness to the room that he hadn’t noticed before. Moonlight shone through gaps in the sheer, silky window curtains. The two seats at the dining table somehow seemed lonelier than before, and the shadow of the wilted roses on the wall focalised on the emptiness of the room. 

It was a weird reminder. Wilbur lived alone too. 

He should probably get something to drink. Water, or warm milk maybe. It might help him fall asleep. Another part of him ached, he missed the late night talks with Sapnap at their kitchen table over a plate of biscuits and a mug of warm milk. But it was time for him to let that go, that ship had long since sailed. 

Quackity had no idea where Wilbur kept the mugs, or glasses, or just about anything in his kitchen. It felt weird searching through Wilbur’s cabinets, even though there was nothing inherently wrong with doing so. Quackity felt like he was forcing himself into Wilbur’s new life, which was really a stretch for someone who just wanted a glass of water, but oh well. At least the man had nice corning ware. 

“What are you doing?” 

Quackity whipped around so fast his head hurt. His heart was back in his throat again. It took a moment for his eye to refocus, the fuzziness was persistent though. Then, after squinting into the darkness and seeing a familiar silhouette, Quackity felt incredibly silly. It was just Wilbur. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Quackity whispered, more to himself than to Wilbur. One hand clutched the edge of the marble countertops with a white-knuckled grip, and the other rested on his chest, clenching the terry cloth t-shirt. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Sorry,” Wilbur shrugged. It sounded like he had just woken up. Had Quackity been too loud? Maybe he had accidentally closed a cupboard too noisily, or stepped on another creaky floorboard. Was Wilbur a light sleeper? He couldn’t remember. 

There was a brief period of silence. Wilbur stood awkwardly in the doorway, and Quackity still leaned against the kitchen counter as he tried to calm himself down. He took heavy uneven breaths that almost hurt his chest. He hated this. 

“What were you looking for?” Wilbur asked quietly, almost timidly. 

Quackity glanced towards him. His heart was still pounding. Wilbur hadn’t moved from his position in the doorway. He hadn’t moved. Then Quackity realized something. Wilbur was still a safe person, he just needed a different kind of safe than the safe he needed when he was sixteen. 

“A cup.” 

Wilbur nodded, then he gestured to the table for Quackity to sit. The glassware was kept in the one cabinet he hadn’t looked in. Of course. Wilbur opened the fridge, pulled out the water pitcher and poured a generous amount into Quackity’s glass. He poured a cup for himself as well, then he gestured to the table again. Quackity shook his head. He didn’t want to sit down, the roses were there. 

Wilbur handed him the cup and then leaned against the counter directly across from Quackity. He took a slow, considerate sip. Quackity chugged it. Wilbur looked at him with something along the lines of curiosity and concern as he placed the half-empty cup on the marble counter. 

Wilbur swished the water around in his glass. Quackity gulped. It made him feel like a child who was about to be scolded, which was ridiculous, because he was twenty-seven and standing in his ex-boyfriend’s kitchen at two am, but the sentiment was all the same. 

“So,” Wilbur started. He set the cup aside. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

Quackity stared at his socks. “Tough Monday,” he tried to joke. His voice cracked.

Wilbur winced. “It’s- . . . It’s a Wednesday.” 

Quackity nodded. His eye watered. He didn’t look away from the floor. “I know.” 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Wilbur repeated. The shadow of the wilted roses stood behind him, almost tauntingly. 

Quackity shook his head. He should probably at least pretend to look at Wilbur, so Quackity stared just beyond his shoulder. He stared at the stupid flowery silhouette on the wall. “Nothing’s going on,” he lied. The other looked at him skeptically. “Seriously, I’m fine.” 

“You’re lying,” Wilbur said. The tone snapped Quackity out of his trance. It was accusatory. Wilbur said it like it was a statement, like it was a fact. Like he knew. 

“No I’m not,” Quackity answered too quickly. “I’m not lying.” He knew. How did Wilbur know? 

“You keep shifting. You won’t look at me. You always do that when you lie. Did,” Wilbur corrected. “Quackity, you keep forgetting that I know you. I knew you. I know your tells. So,” he said, clearing his throat. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

Silence fell upon them. After maybe five or six minutes of quiet, Quackity realized Wilbur was waiting for him. He didn’t know how to feel about that, he also didn’t know how to tell him about Charlie. Or about anything else that was going on. Ten years was too long. Ten years wasn’t long enough. 

“I don’t know where to start,” Quackity whispered so quietly that Wilbur had to strain himself to hear it. 

“How about the beginning?” he gently suggested. 

Quackity took in a deep breath. His lungs felt heavy. He willed himself to look at Wilbur in his stupid, stupid honeygold eyes that still seemed to sparkle with the same something special reserved just for him. He let out a big exhale. “My best friend just passed away,” he confessed. “And I can’t stop losing people I love. Everyone I love keeps leaving me.” 

He covered his face with his hands. It did nothing to hide his sniffles. Distantly, Quackity heard Wilbur approaching but he chose not to acknowledge it until tender arms were wrapped around him. It was hard to not cry now.

“Let it out,” Wilbur said quietly. “You don’t have to pretend.” 

And with those simple, simple words Quackity let out an absolutely gut-wrenching sob. He couldn’t be composed. He couldn’t keep it together. But that was okay. He didn’t have to pretend. So he cried, and Wilbur held him and didn’t ask any questions and didn’t show any signs of letting go. He was just there, which was just what Quackity needed.  

= 

The smell of coffee and scrambled eggs wafted through Wilbur’s house. It smelt good. A small, teeny tiny part of Quackity was kind of sad he couldn’t stay for breakfast. Well, he probably could, but he shouldn’t. There was a bouquet of roses that belonged to the cemetery. 

Quackity picked up the ceramic vase. It felt handmade. He brought it to the kitchen sink and pulled the wilted flowers out by their stems. Quackity set them gently on the counter, he’d hurt them enough. He washed the vase with warm water and soap and then carefully set it aside.

Quackity looked over to Wilbur, who stood in front of the stove, sipping coffee from a blue mug and scrambling eggs with a red spatula. Then, his throat went dry. It was sickeningly domestic. It was sickeningly similar to something sixteen year old Quackity would’ve slaughtered for. He felt like throwing up. 

“I’m leaving,” Quackity told Wilbur, almost defiantly. 

“You’re not staying for breakfast?” 

Quackity shook his head. He watched as Wilbur turned the burner off and set the spatula aside. He clutched flowers tightly and took a step back. His hands started shaking. 

“Hand me your phone,” Wilbur said. “I’m giving you my number.” 

And suddenly, there was a sour taste on Quackity’s tongue. Maybe it was Wilbur’s willingness, or the bitter feelings that Quackity was still clinging onto. He wasn’t ready to forgive. So, when he spoke, his voice came out dry and venomous. “Why would I fucking call you, asshole?” 

Wilbur looked at him with a sharp expression. “Cause I know what you’re going through.” 

“You don’t know shit about what I’m going through,” Quackity snarled. 

“Yeah, I do,” Wilbur snapped. “I almost killed myself over it. I don’t want you to try and kill yourself either, cause it sucks. You don’t even have to call me, I was just trying to tell you that I care,” he said starkly. “Just don’t fucking kill yourself Quackity.” 

“I won’t. Jackass.” 

= 

Quackity had hardly left his bed in three days. The mattress was old and creaky, there wasn’t a box spring and he was pretty sure the bed frame was broken. Wilbur’s carpet was heaven compared to this. 

On Quackity’s bedside table was a growing collection of plastic cups, gatorade bottles and empty cracker sleeves. His phone sat on the edge of the mattress, beside the fluffy pillows, plugged into the wall. It was left untouched. So, living off lukewarm water and laying in cracker crumbs was what Quackity confined himself to. 

He wasn’t unused to voluntary solitary isolation, it happened a lot actually. After bad dates, breakups or bad days, Quackity would hide himself in his room. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it was unhealthy. Quackity wasn’t stupid, he knew right now it was the latter. 

Sunlight snuck through gaps in the curtains he never opened. Quackity shielded his eye, he was still too sensitive. He rolled over. The laundry bins came into view, overflowing with clean clothes that were just begging to be put away. Quackity ignored them. 

His wooden dresser was on the other end of the room, positioned directly across from his bed. It stood tall. The handles were brass and the wood was old. Quackity could see his reflection in the mirror. He looked pathetic. He’d thought about covering the looking glass with a cloth after Charlie died, so his soul would have safe passage and wouldn’t get stuck, or whatever. Quackity didn’t believe in superstitions. Charlie did. 

Next to the mirror was a singular rose in a plastic cup. Quackity had kept one from Charlie’s bouquet, he’d meant to press it in a book but he was too tired. Instead, he’d left it out on the dresser as a reminder. The flower withered. It haunted him. Quackity didn’t want to look at it anymore. 

He missed his friend. 

Quackity stared at the ceiling. He was stagnant. He was laying in cracker crumbs and crumpled sheets. He could stay here forever. He shouldn’t stay here forever. 

Quackity reached for his phone. He dialed the number. He was mildly embarrassed about his lack of hesitancy, it was only three days late he supposed. He let it ring. It was the only sound. There was no answer. Quackity called again. It was stupid, but he held his breath with something of short anticipation. 

He called. 

And Wilbur answered.