#sorry i need seriosu psychological hlep

[pinkseas]

during manburg, its tubbo (who learned from tommy, who learned from wilbur, who learned from phil) who helps quackity look after his wings. hes the only one quackity really trusts near him at the time, or at least, the only person who doesnt make his heart pound when they stand behind him. those nights are quiet, filled with hushed conversation, mundane things about their days or complaining about the press or wondering about upcoming events. a familiarity between them that grows more and more familiar every day, with every moment spent behind locked doors.

(his wings are messier, in pogtopia. tubbo moves slowly, one hand still healing and the other moving out of sync. quackity is patient and kind when he gets frustrated with himself. even when it hurts for both of them, they get through it.)

not long after when things are better, when they’re starting to get easier, when love brings trust, quackity tries to teach his fiances how to help. its strange, awkwardly craning his wings and trying to position his hands to make what hes doing clear, trying and failing to explain the process over and over. it isnt until karl asks if anyone else knows how that he thinks to call tubbo, and tubbo is patient and steady as he demonstrates, answering sapnap and karls questions with ease. later, when quackity thanks him as quietly and genuinely as he can, tubbo assures him that its no problem. hes happy to help.

he falls out of the habit of caring for himself in a lot of ways, during las nevadas, and his wings are no exception. on the rare occasion he sits down to try and fix them hes far too rough, stretching the limbs out painfully to reach more of them, yanking at feathers and not caring when blood spills. no one sees them anyways. he doesnt use them anyways. there’s no fucking point in wasting time trying to take care of them.

slime never sees them. neither sapnap nor karl see them, when he tries to visit. out of sight, out of mind. he doesnt remember why tubbo showed up or how they started talking about it, but the first person to look at them in months is the now-adult. tubbo doesnt grimace at the damage, doesnt shy away from the blood or the grime or the horrifically displaced feathers. he doesnt complain or offer sympathy or even ask. instead, they sit in silence for hours as he combs through them, washing out the blood and the dirt, moving feathers slowly but surely back into place. his hands neither ache nor shake. he wishes quackity a good night when he leaves, when quackitys wings are the best they’ve been in months.

that’s that, he thinks. but tubbo returns, again and again, until they fall into a routine, until the burns start healing and the feathers grow back. quackity cant bring himself to protest. tubbo cant bring himself to stop. they’ve shared this kind of trust for years, after all. they don’t recognize themselves but they recognize this, the quiet shared between them.

tubbo starts talking about his days. starts asking quackity questions about his own. quackity starts asking back. its simple, at first, surface level, over time slowly delving into snowchester and las nevadas and how they deal with the cold and everything that happened in the months they hardly spoke. soon enough they’re cracking jokes or pushing each others buttons and tubbo is staying to talk for a few hours after quackity’s wings are set or passing out on his couch, because sleep hasnt come easily to either of them in years but they drift off so easily around each other, knowing someone will have their back.