Work Text:
Quackity couldn’t sleep.
It was at least two hours ago that the other Pogtopia members bid each other a good night after going over the plan one last time.
The plan. Quackity had turned it over in his head a million times, unable to think of anything but all the ways it could go wrong. There was a strategy, certainly; he understood the upper hand that storming the tower would give, and looking at the gleam in Technoblade’s eyes, he didn’t doubt for a second that they had a strong fighting chance.
But still. There were still ways things could go wrong. What if there were people lying in wait to ambush them? What if someone stole their supplies? What if the traitor reported back to Schlatt already? Who was the traitor?
Quakcity let out a harsh breath, sitting up on his cot. There was no way he was going to be falling asleep anytime soon—not with the anxious buzz in his chest and his breaths that came a little too quick. Honestly, he should’ve given it up a long time ago.
He stared at the flickering torch on the stone wall of his room. Well, room was a bit of a stretch. It was more of a hole in the wall, barely enough to fit his cot and chest that held the scarce belongings he’d brought from Manberg.
He hated to admit it, but he often missed Manberg. He missed the feeling of being important, even if it only lasted for the first couple weeks. He missed the feeling of being wanted, of Schlatt’s warm hands tracing lines across his cheekbones, back before his touches left a sting.
He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of his thoughts. If all went according to plan, he was going to be delivering a sword to his husband’s neck tomorrow. This was not the time to miss what they used to have.
Yawning, he slipped into his boots, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to step out of his hole for a bit to clear his head. He peeked his head out of his flimsy excuse of a door, but he saw nothing except for the rough stone of the ravine. The low campfire in the center cast long shadows over the jagged rocks, most littered with buttons that made Quackity’s breath hitch.
Careful not to press against the wall, he stumbled towards the campfire. He held out his arms towards the dying flames, savoring the little warmth that they provided. Prime, why were caves so fucking cold?
“Hello, Quackity,” came a voice, and Quackity flinched, whipping his head towards the source.
A few feet above him, a familiar figure emerged from the shadow of a particularly large rock, a thin tendril of smoke leaking from the cigarette placed between the man’s lips. “Wilbur.”
Wilbur exhaled, the smoke quickly disappearing into the shadows of the ravine. He glanced down at Quackity in the barest hint of a nod, face expressionless, and Quackity felt like a small bug, trapped under a glass jar to be observed. He shivered.
“You’re awake,” said Quackity, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“As are you,” Wilbur replied, stepping back into his shadowy corner.
Quackity nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“I figured.”
Quackity moved to sit against the wall opposite Wilbur, unsettled at being unable to see who he was talking to. From his new position, he still couldn’t see Wilbur’s face, but at least he could vaguely make out the man’s ratty trench coat in the edges of the shadows.
“Are you worried?” Quackity asked. “Y’know, about tomorrow?”
Wilbur shrugged in response. “Technically today. It’s well past midnight, I’m sure.”
A flicker of frustration stung at Quackity’s nerves, though he couldn’t tell if it was irritation or jealousy at the man’s apparent nonchalance. “You know what I meant, dipshit.”
A sliver of light flickered over Wilbur’s face, revealing that he was smiling. “Are you?”
“Take a wild fucking guess.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes, that irritating smirk still tugging at his lips. “You need to relax, Big Q. It’s going to be fine.”
Quackity slumped into the wall, rubbing his arms self-soothingly as he stared into the fire. “How d’you know that?”
“How much worse can it get? I’ve already hit rock bottom. Literally.” Based on the shadow of his arm against the floor, Wilbur was gesturing at the ravine.
“No, you haven’t.” Quackity couldn’t tell if Wilbur was in one of his moods again, or if he genuinely didn’t realize how much he had to lose tomorrow, how much they all had to lose.
There was a long moment of silence, and even though he was no longer looking at the man, Quackity knew Wilbur’s eyes were studying him. “You’re right,” he finally said, voice thick with some unrecognizable emotion, or maybe it was just the smoking. “I haven’t.”
Their conversation settled into an awkward lull, the only noise the crackling of the fire and Quackity’s own breathing. After a few minutes, when the tension had mostly leaked out of the air, Wilbur spoke.
“Want one?”
“Hm?” Quackity looked up, where Wilbur was holding out a small cardboard box over the ledge.
“Want a cigarette?”
“Oh.” He’d rather not go to sleep with ash on his tongue, but after taking stock of the stiffness of his shoulders and the lingering anxiety that swirled in his gut, he thought, fuck it. “Sure.”
Neither moved for a few moments, and Wilbur snorted. “What? Want me to come down and give them to you?”
“It’s cold,” Quackity defended, rubbing his arms and leaning toward the fire to accentuate his point. “We can’t all own dirty ass trench coats.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes, or at least, Quackity thought he did. It was hard to see his face in the shadows. “Fair enough, I suppose.”
He retreated towards the staircase in the opposite direction, the echoing thump of his footsteps against the stone being the only indicator of his location. As the footsteps started getting closer, his figure slowly emerged from the shadows, stopping a couple feet away.
Wilbur’s beanie was shoved haphazardly over wild curls, and his trench coat hung loosely from his frame, which was thinner than Quackity remembered. Everything about him was dark except for the sickly pallor of his face and the glowing tip of his cigarette.
“Here,” he said, digging into his trenchcoat and tossing a pack and lighter in Quackity’s direction.
Quackty fumbled to catch them. “You could’ve just handed them to me,” he complained. “They could’ve fallen into the fire.”
Wilbur shrugged, leaning against the wall beside him. His shadow loomed over Quackity, making him feel very small.
“Careful not to push against the buttons,” warned Quackity, now on edge. He put his lit cigarette between his lips, hoping the nicotine would calm his nerves.
Wilbur huffed out a laugh. “What, you’re still worried about that? There’s nothing here, man.” To emphasize his point, he began pushing against random buttons within reach, the click of each sending a jolt of fear through Quackity’s heart.
“Stop it,” he snapped, anxiously edging away. “That shit’s not funny.” His voice cracked at the last word, and Wilbur paused.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” he finally said, though he took his hand off the wooden button it was pressed against, and made no move to press another.
“Just,” Quackity gestured with his free hand, trying to quell the shake in his voice. “Sit down, Wilbur.”
Wilbur stared at him for a moment, then plopped down beside him, sitting cross-legged so that they were mere inches apart. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Quackity tossed back Wilbur’s cigarette pack and lighter, smirking to himself when Wilbur flinched. “Thanks for the cig.”
“Of course,” Wilbur replied smoothly. “Anything for a friend.”
That delivered a jolt of something through Quackity’s gut, though for the life of him he couldn’t identify what. He elected to ignore it, taking another drag of his cigarette, hoping to fill his brain with the same fog in his lungs.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, smoking together. The smoke from their lips blended with that of the campfire, and a corner of Quackity’s mind wondered if all that smoke made this place a health hazard. Not that he cared much for himself; he was already injecting smoke into his own lungs, but he’d hate for Tubbo or Tommy to have health complications in the future.
Then again, he supposed the two boys had much more immediate worries to address concerning their future.
“You aren’t relaxing,” Wilbur observed, breaking the silence.
His voice drew Quackity back to the present, who regained awareness of the stiffness in his shoulders. He exhaled, trying to relax them, but it was as though his muscles were locked in place.
“Got a lot on my mind,” he replied.
“Want something to take your mind off it?”
“Like what?” asked Quackity, though he had a feeling he wouldn’t like any of the answers.
“I’ve got weakness potions,” Wilbur offered. “Or some stronger shit if you want.”
Quackity shook his head, wincing at the implications of that. “Nah, I’m good.”
“How about some booze? I’m sure I have a couple bottles—”
“No,” Quackity cut him off quickly, a pair of ram horns flashing across his eyelids. “No alcohol.”
“Okay,” Wilbur agreed after a pause, voice a touch gentler than before. “No alcohol.”
Quackity reached the end of his cigarette, and he snuffed it out against the floor before throwing the butt into the campfire.
“Do you want to dance?” asked Wilbur after a short while.
“What?”
“Dance,” Wilbur repeated. “It’ll help take your mind off things.”
Quackity pulled his knees to his chest, staring into the campfire. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on,” Wilbur insisted, and he moved to stand up, brushing the dirt off his pants. “It’ll be fun!”
Quackity eyed him, wary of his own growing receptiveness to the idea. “There’s no music,” he argued, though the protest sounded weak even to his own ears.
“I can sing,” Wilbur suggested. Then, teasing, “I know you like my voice, Q.”
Quackity was taken back to a couple weeks ago, where he and Wilbur, drunk off the high spirits at Niki’s birthday party, played cheesy love songs to each other. Another one, he’d insisted whenever Wilbur looked ready to stop, and the man had complied, singing sweet nothings (and a couple lighthearted fuck you’s, if he was being honest) well into the night.
Quackity flushed, and he could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks as he tried to shove the memory back into the godforsaken closet it came from. “Shut up,” he mumbled, pressing his chin into the dip between his knees.
“Aww, c’mon, Q. Please?” He held out a hand, and Quackity eyed the pale calloused fingers, palm covered by worn black leather gloves.
He turned the idea over in his head. He loved to be stubborn, but a deeper, more embarrassing part of him longed for a carefree moment in all the chaos.
He wondered if that made him selfish. He found that he didn’t care.
“Fine,” he huffed, and took the outstretched hand in front of him, letting Wilbur pull him to his feet.
However, instead of letting go, Wilbur guided Quackity’s hand to his chest, holding it directly above his heart. Through the thin layer of his sweater, Quackity could feel Wilbur’s heart beat in a slow, steady rhythm.
“You feel it?” Wilbur whispered, hot breath hitting Quackity’s ear. Quackity nodded wordlessly, staring at their layered hands. “I’m alive,” he murmured. His other hand drifted to Quackity’s own heart, which beat a little more rapidly. “And so are you.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Quackity finally said when he remembered he had a voice. His gaze lifted from their hands to Wilbur’s face, before flickering to the wall over the man’s shoulder.
Wilbur let out a bark of laughter, which rang like a bell through the silent ravine. His free hand dropped to Quackity’s waist, the other moving to grasp Quackity's. “Shall we?” he asked, and Quackity nodded again.
Wilbur began to hum, soft notes strung together in the vague form of a tune. He tugged Quackity forward in the first step of their dance, and Quackity could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Wilbur’s hand was gentle at Quackity’s waist, and Quackity couldn’t help but lean into him as the taller guided his steps in a simple waltz around the narrow ravine. Wilbur moved slowly, patient as Quackity’s clumsy limbs adjusted to his rhythm.
Quackity finally slid his gaze off the wall and tilted his head up toward Wilbur, who watched him with a fierce intensity that made Quackity’s heart jump in his chest. He couldn’t move his eyes, gaze transfixed onto the flames that flickered in Wilbur’s irises, reflecting off of one of the torches on the wall. His brown eyes were an ocean in the darkness of the ravine, and Quackity thought he could drown in them.
Quackity squeezed Wilbur’s hand in his own, and Wilbur’s thumb brushed against his knuckles in response, lips lifting in his first true smile that night.
By now, Wilbur’s humming had shifted to a more defined melody. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against his skin, so pale it almost glowed.
He took a deep breath, and Quackity felt his chest rise against his hand. Wilbur began to sing, raspy voice echoing the low tune of a lullaby.
It was far from perfect. His voice cracked around the ash in his throat, stumbling over elongated syllables that reflected the stutter in his steps.
To Quackity, it was beautiful. The familiar lilt of his voice wrapped around him, the tender words forming a cocoon around his heart. Quackity couldn’t think of anything but the hand in his own and the warm eyes that lingered on him. He was suspended in their own bubble of comfort that washed out every other sense or worry.
Several times, they stepped on each other’s toes, giggling in apology as they only pressed closer together.
He could stay in this moment forever, enveloped in the soothing familiarity of Wilbur’s voice in his ear and warmth of his embrace. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like this, so gentle and attentive he could cry.
As Wilbur reached the end of his lullaby, their dance slowed to a stop. Quackity couldn’t tear his eyes away from Wilbur’s, which looked at him with such aching fondness that Quackity thought his heart would burst.
Slowly, cautiously, he slid his hand up Wilbur’s chest to cup his jaw, and untangled his other from Wilbur’s, gripping his shoulder. Quackity stood on the tips of his toes and leaned in, pressing his lips against Wilbur’s.
Without hesitation, Wilbur kissed back. His free hand dropped to the other side of Quackity’s waist, holding him carefully.
The kiss wasn’t hungry, as they’d been in the past. There were no bites, none of the harsh tugs and sharp nails that defined their previous intimacies.
No, this was slow and sweet, their lips moving against each other at a leisurely pace. Though, it was tainted by a touch of bitterness that tasted like desperation, like they were trying to savor something that was already half a foot in the grave. Or maybe that was just the ash coating their tongues.
Quackity traced his thumb across Wilbur’s jaw, pressing in closer, deeper. Wilbur tightened his grip on his waist in response, firm but gentle, and Quackity’s lashes fluttered at the warmth of his touch.
Wilbur’s hands traveled up his back, pulling him impossibly closer, and Quackity shivered in his hold, wanting nothing more than for this to last forever.
Eventually, though, they had to break apart, warm breaths mingling in the cold air of the cave as their hands slowly dropped.
Quackity opened his eyes and Wilbur stepped back. Already, Quackity missed his warmth, but, when he met the man’s gaze, the protest died in his throat.
Wilbur was smiling, but his eyes were filled with so much grief it choked him.
“I—” Quackity began, leaning forward almost involuntarily, but Wilbur made no move to return the gesture.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he rasped instead, eyes darting away. Despite the promise in his words, there was a sense of finality to them that delivered a jolt of anxiety to Quackity’s gut. It felt like a goodbye.
Quackity’s throat made a low, strangled noise as reached out a hand to stop him. But before he could find his voice, Wilbur was gone, melting into the shadows and out of sight.
When Quackity returned to his room a few minutes later, his sheets were colder than he’d left them. He wrapped himself in his blanket, curling up in the corner of his cot. Even as his knees brushed the stone wall, the cot felt too big for him. No matter the size, his beds always felt like they were made for more than just himself.
Quackity shivered, wrapping himself tighter, and eventually, he fell asleep.