#kinda uses the style of a fic i tired to write. four? years ago ahah

[yourfavouritetragedy]

Day 3: Dunk with a bit of comfort

damn I know this is a super unrealistic portrayal of being drunk and also does NOT deliver on what it says it is, but enjoy! The challenge of doing this quick was fun. I should do more prompt things.

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Don’t go looking to your ex-lover for comfort just because you got drunk. You shouldn’t need him. You don’t. You just want him. That might be worse. Is that worse? You’re not sure. 

The scene: Late night in the middle of June, maybe going to drizzle, who knows. The sun is long down, the sky black. It’s a bit cold, for the summer. Deserts as well as deserts-that-aren’t will do that to you.

He worked all day and stayed up late doing nothing, barely tired, starting drinking to fill the time. F*ck, Quackity’s an emotional drunk, he never wanted to be like this, like Schlatt. He starts crying a bit, wipes his eyes, eventually stops. Prime, how late is it? He’s not going to be like Schlatt. He refuses to. He’ll run his nation well and he’s never treat his— f*ck, he’s alone. So alone. 

The lover: Wilbur is alone. No, he’s lonely. Tommy will hang out with him all day, and their friends, brothers, and he’s got Ranboo, who actually seems to care about him? And everybody else too, but somehow, he’s still f*cking lonely.

If only he could sleep. Maybe then he would stop feeling like this. He just can’t, tonight. At least he did okay for the past few days; it’s unlikely he’ll pass out tomorrow. (Tommy hated it. Thought he’d straight up kneeled over and died. He said he was sorry but it wasn’t enough. Tommy gave him sleepy tea when Wilbur awoke to explain. He drinks it. Every night; Tommy always checks his stash and refills it. Some nights, like tonight, when his brain won’t shut off, it just doesn't cut it.) 

His thoughts turn, as they often do, to Quackity. Quackity, whose face is still perfect after everything that happened while he was away, who has He wonders how he’s doing on a night like this. He wonders what he’s doing right now. 

He wonders if Quackity keeps anything good behind that quartz bar. Wilbur does not have any alcohol because Wilbur has barely anything at all. What time is it? Late enough. It should be easy enough to sneak or break in and take some.

He gets out of bed and creeps to the city. The Las Nevadas lights flicker.

The drink: Imported from some place that doesn’t exist, vintage that’s probably years before it was made. Tastes good though. Looks classy, but not too fancy. Kind of thing that divorced women and widows love. Anyone who’s lost love, really, tragically. You.

He wants to find Wilbur.

He pushes the glass across the counter and considers pouring just a little more out. He taps the bottle to hear the sound it makes. 

And that’s when Wilbur Soot walks in like he owns the place. 

The night: starts to look up. “Quackity!” His face lights up. “How fortunate to find you here!” 

Q doesn’t have the energy to tell him to leave, just moves his shoulders awkwardly in something that’s neither a shrug nor turning away fully. He puts his head down on the table. 

“So!” Wilbur claps. Quackity winces. “What keeps you up this late?” 

Wilbur turned on the lights when he came in. “Dim the lights,” he says. They hurt his eyes. 

He shakes his head, but walks over to the switch. “So rude, aren’t you happy to see me?” 

Much better on his eyes. He raises his head and looks at Wilbur dead on for the first time. Same f*cking bastard, recognizable even in the dim lighting. What is in him to make him so perky at this hour? I wish you weren’t a perfect tragedy. “You’ve got such nice hair, Wil. And eyes, let me see your eyes.”

Wilbur walks back over to the bar and asks, “Are you drunk?” He leans closer, reading the expression on Quackity’s face and his situation. “Are you— are you lonely? If you are, that’s great, because I am too!”

“Yeah.” He says it simply. “Lonely.” He closes his eyes.

Absolutely drunk. “Oh, Big Q, let’s get you to bed.” He lifts his hair up, as if to check for a fever or something — who knows what goes on behind the pretty face — and Quackity feels his cheek flush from more than the alcohol. 

The walk home: It’s filled with little stumbles and sways. The streetlights dance. He giggles. 

“You know,” Quackity carefully speaks his words through his drunkenness, “I’m legally not allowed to consent right now. Otherwise I would kiss you. Well, ask you to.” He looks up at Wilbur, through dark eyelashes, and Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat. 

His hand not supporting Quackity flies to his mouth. “Oh! Big Q, we must continue this conversation in the morning.”

Quackity vaguely feels like he’s said something he didn’t want to, but he pushes the idea off. Wilbur is holding him, so clearly everything is right in the world. “Oh,” Wilbur says, “I don’t actually know where to put you.”

“That one,” Quackity says, simultaneously trying to gesture to a door and the pocket holding his key. He manages to get it out but drops it. Wilbur picks it up.

Home: He pushes Q inside and gently places him on the sofa. “‘m sick,” he protests. 

“What?” Wilbur had started to go get some water, but turns around. 

“Gonna be sick,” he clarifies, and he stumbles off the couch. Wilbur follows him to the bathroom. It’s a shiny, white place, and he feels out of place in it, his oily skin and dirty clothes. 

When Quackity kneels in front of the toilet, Wilbur holds back the hair that almost gets in his mouth.

He would focus on the touch if he weren’t already focusing on the nausea and its consequences. He mumbles something when he’s done, too distorted to be understood. Thanks pretty boy. 

“Remember to wash out your mouth,” he says. Q nods and does so, movements shaky. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” 

He points in the right direction and Wilbur supports him along. He pulls open the covers of the neatly made bed and helps Q into it. He turns to leave.

But. “Stay.”

So he does. It’s a very soft bed. He lies down just far away enough that it’s easy to pretend there isn’t another warm body in there, but Quackity moves over and clings to him. 

In all honesty, Wilbur isn’t used to the warmth and it makes him a bit uncomfortable, but it’s Quackity and for a moment he doesn’t feel so terribly alone and romantically unfulfilled.

He sleeps well, that night.

After: You hate yourself the next morning, but he doesn't hate you. He didn’t leave. You don’t tell him to get out. Four in the afternoon. “Goddamnit, Wilbur, are you gonna kiss me or not? I see you look like that and you know how I feel, man.”