Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Wilbur noticed was the deck of cards he shuffled around.

The second thing he noticed was that he looked like a massive bitch.

Just look at him. A white dress shirt? Really? Who was he trying to impress? Prime, the man’s suspenders were so tight, that Wilbur was pretty sure they were pulling his shoulders down to his hips, (If they were, he wouldn’t be surprised. He was a short bastard). And that beanie. He’d be damned if it wasn’t fused to his head by the way his hair frayed out at the ends. What does L.A.F.D. even stand for?

Better yet, what the hell was this guy doing on his street?

All of L’Manburg should know this. His spot, famously known as “right in front of Niki’s Cafe”, was…well, his. Who was this guy to pick the place directly across from it? A fucking McPuffy’s? That was a fight ready to happen, and Wilbur would battle tooth and nail for it.

The guitar case displayed in front of Wilbur was a warning sign, open and littered with rusted coins and crumpled dollars. The guitar itself was battered and covered in stickers from cities he’s visited, cities that he never stayed in longer than he had to. He could tell the world a thousand stories from each one. From tourist attractions to music stores to coffee shops he sang for.

The world was a stage, and all those who passed him by were kindly encouraged by a smooth and silky voice to donate a couple of pretty pennies to someone in need. The money’s going to good use, anyway. A dollar can get him a packet of ramen, a trip to the laundromat, and the leftover change would be used to save up for new strings, as his old ones smudged up his hands like soot.

He needs this. Wilbur needs this.

Wilbur also really needs to wash his clothes, but that’s a problem for another day.

“Guess I’m not the only one here, huh, fellow entertainer?” The man cheerfully called, crossing the street, “What are you lookin’ at?”

Oh, right. He’s been staring at The Bastard™ for what, three whole minutes? He might as well make it known that his previous gaze was meant as a challenge, not an invitation.

“Nothing in particular,“ Wilbur remarked, “I’m just wondering why you picked my street to do your little magic show.”

“Your street?” The man questioned.

“Are you new around here, Houdini? I’m sure there’s another location, say, five miles out from here?”

“Why should I leave?” The man scoffed, shuffling the cards much more than necessary, “I think this place is cozy. And it’s packed in the daytime. Lots of people, y’know. People who would kill to see a good trick or two.”

“...You do realize that I’ll be here, stealing away the traffic?” Wilbur sneered.

“Out of pity. Giving money to the poor is a charitable act, isn’t it?”

Wilbur felt his mouth open slightly. Whelp, it’s official. This guy’s a dickhead.

“...You’re being a real arse, you know that? Just fuck off.” Wilbur groaned.

“Damn, someone’s angry. Might as well rub your face on that fire hydrant over there, if you’re gonna be so damn territorial.” The man chuckled. “Like the mutt you are.”

Rage boiled on Wilbur’s face. Wilbur scoffed, and leaned back against the wall of Niki’s Cafe, and started strumming an all-too-familiar composition of his. He wasn’t sure if it was intended more to soothe the man or himself. 

“Name?”

“What?” Wilbur tilted his head slightly, still plucking the strings, and a little bitter that the man hadn't taken notice of the music he had been playing. Where were the compliments? The heartfelt connections?

“Your name. What is it.”

“...Wilbur.” He sighed, praying that this man would leave after learning of this information.

“I’m Quackity.”

Wilbur noticed Quackity’s hand twitch slightly, as if a handshake was considered, and promptly canceled out. Not like he wanted to shake his hand, or anything. Handshakes are for people you respect. And this man had done nothing to earn it, except maybe ask for his name. It was more of a demand, but…whatever.

Instead, his hand drifted back to the deck of cards, gently shuffling them around. It was quite hypnotizing, watching the cards swim along his hands. It seemed both of them had found their respective stimulation in their passions.

“Do you believe in magic, Wilbur?” Quackity questioned.

Wilbur paused his strumming, and thought for a moment. It’s not the dumbest question he’s heard, but he’s certainly heard worse.

“Not particularly, no.” He settled.

Quackity fanned out the cards, and held them out in front of him.

“Would you like to change that?” He said with a smirk.

“...You come all the way over here, tell me I should rub my face on a fucking fire hydrant, and then ask to show me a magic trick?”

“Yes.” Quackity nodded, “One trick. Then I’ll go over to my side of the street, and I won’t bother you for the rest of the evening.”

Wilbur sighed, tilting his head back against the wall.

“Pick a card.” Quackity crooned.

“Fuck you.” Wilbur groaned, as he selected a card.

The two of hearts.

“Don’t show it to me.”

Quackity pulled out a black sharpie and handed it to Wilbur.

“Could you sign that for me with your name?” Quackity motioned to the card.

Wilbur removed the cap with his teeth, much to Quackity’s dismay, and wrote down his signature in between the two hearts. The W of his name was rather large, and the rest of his name was scribbled out into a weird cursive drawl.

“Alright. Done.” Wilbur announced.

“Put that card back in the deck.” Quackity said.

After committing the card to memory, Wilbur followed his instructions, sliding the card back into the deck.

Silently, Wilbur prayed that the card trick would fail horribly. In that case, he would take the opportunity to laugh right in Quackity’s face. Maybe then he’d never show up here again. Maybe then Wilbur would have the street all to himself. A man can dream.

“You got a lighter?” Quackity asked.

Wilbur nodded and handed him a small blue lighter. Purchased to light his first cigarette in Pogtopia. He hated the taste, and it clogged up his voice for the rest of the afternoon. He never smoked again after that day.

“Thanks.” Quackity smiled, as he set the deck of cards ablaze.

The cards fell onto the floor, smoldering. It was likely for the trick, yes, but Wilbur couldn’t help but feel a bit of attachment from the card he just signed. Ah, well. Nothing good ever stays, does it-

“Wilbur.”

“...Yes?”

Quackity opens his mouth.

And smoke pours out.

It wasn't anything like the smoke from Wilbur’s first cigarette, dirty and smog-like. It was beautiful, and it wisped around his face like strands of thread.

And there it was. The two of hearts. Perched in his mouth. Signed by Wilbur Soot.

“What the fuck?! How did you-?” Wilbur stammered, snatching the card from his teeth. The signatures were the same, down to the last detail. 

Quackity seemed a bit startled by the motion, but managed to recollect himself.

“A good magician never tells his secrets.” Quackity said with a smirk.

Bastard.

“You’re gonna tell me how you did that. Right fucking now. There’s no way it’s the same card.” Wilbur stated, staring straight into Quackity’s eyes.

“What card?” Quackity questioned.

The card was gone.

“...Alright, Merlin. You’ve done your little ‘magic show’. Now get the fuck out of my sight before I start screaming in your ears.”

Quackity smiled, seemingly satisfied, and started walking towards his now claimed area, not before tossing the lighter back to Wilbur.

“See you again soon, Wilbur.” Quackity called.

“Piss off.” Wilbur spat.

“Save it for the fire hydrant!”

And just like that, Quackity was back to shuffling his cards, a mere blur in the distance. Wilbur couldn’t help but try to pull apart the trick that was just performed in front of him. Yet, there wasn’t a loose end to grab onto. The cards were the same. The signatures were the same. The cards were destroyed, and somehow not? It didn’t make sense.

The mere thought of him being fooled by this son of a bitch was giving him a headache. Nothing a bit of music can’t solve.

Picking up his guitar, Wilbur heard something rattling inside.

Must’ve dropped a pick inside.

Carefully reaching into the instrument, he could feel the strings making lines on his hands. And...something else. It couldn't be a pick, no, who would make a pick out of cardboard? Unless...

Slowly, he pulled out the two of hearts. Signed ‘Wilbur Soot’.

That motherfucker.

Chapter Text

People were idiots.

Quackity knew this better than anyone.

When your whole “career” was based around lying to someone’s face and making them believe in something that isn’t quite real, you gain quite a bit of awareness for how stupid people could be. He met people who saw tricks slip up right in front of them and were still amazed. He met people who kept forgetting what their card was. He met people who accused him of witchcraft and yelled at him to “repent for his sins.” 

Wilbur was a different kind of idiot, however. He was the kind who wore a beanie so that whenever someone tried to knock on his skull, they wouldn’t hear the resounding echo (Quackity’s beanie was for style). The kind who would wail out songs to make up for the emptiness in his head. The kind who knew deep down that he was an idiot, but was too scared…or rather, too cocky, to admit it. That kind of idiot.

Quackity had his fair share of dumb people. Wilbur had to be the most in denial. Despite this, he managed to fool Wilbur. And maybe, just maybe, if he keeps bettering him, just like before, Wilbur will finally understand how much of an idiot he is.

Whatever. The word “idiot” doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. Quackity will just keep to his cards, waiting patiently for a passerby to take interest. And possibly, hand him a couple bucks. He’d rather the money go to him, anyway, than some sad man with a ratty old coat. But somehow, his hair managed to stay nicely fluffy and curled to the side, even with that weird white streak in it. And that sweater had obviously seen better days. Maybe Wilbur’s seen better days. But by the way that he sings those somber melodies, probably not.

But here Quackity was. In front of a McPuffy’s. Coping. By lying to people. As one does, when you’ve lost as much as he has. But this was just about money, wasn't it? Not showing Wilbur up? There’s no good reason to give him any more attention, anyway. He probably craves it.

But then there’s the fact that the literal second Quackity disagreed with him, Wilbur immediately started being an asshole. As well as the fact that yesterday, when Quackity returned to his side of the street, Wilbur kept singing as loud as he possibly could. And, especially , the fact that no matter what Quackity tried to do, he couldn’t stop coming up with reasons why he loathed this man. All perfect excuses to scream at this man. 

Wilbur was just that awful, wasn't he?

Gently, he shuffled the deck around. The cards glided on his hands, hopefully pretty enough to lure someone with enough money to buy diamond rings for each finger, or at least buy the latest iPhone every time it came out.

And right on cue… Two idiots. Walking in his direction.

One of them, hair split down the middle in black and white, with a mask to match. He fiddled with the drawstrings on his hoodie. The other, a brunette, hair shaggy and covering his eyes, wearing a pilot’s jacket with a couple of bee pins attached to it. Both of them looked to be around 17, likely easy to fool.

Bingo.

Quackity readied his deck of cards and prepared to make them believe in the impossible.

“Evening.” Quackity chimed.

“Oh! Uh, evening. Sorry, we’re just…heading this way.” The split-dyed nodded, a polite smile on their face.

“Boo, look!” The shaggy-haired one exclaimed, pointing at the cards.

Step One: Give them a taste.

Quackity allowed the cards to dance along his hands, spinning on the tops of his knuckles.

“Woah, that’s cool.” The split dye beamed.

“Yeah. It’s like…mesmerizing.” The shaggy-haired one replied, nudging his companion.

Step Two: Ask the question.

“Got time for a trick?” Quackity asked.

The duo looked at each other, sharing a knowing look.

“Yeah, we got time.” The shaggy-haired one answered, slightly nodding his head.

“Could I get your names?” Quackity requested.

“Oh, I’m Tubbo.” The shaggy-haired one responded, a bit of pep in his voice, “The tall one is Ranboo.” 

“Aww, come on, Tubbo, is that all I am to you?” Ranboo chuckled, “But yeah, I’m Ranboo.”

“And you are?” Tubbo questioned.

“Call me Quackity. Now…pick a card.”

Step Three: Blow Their Fucking Minds.

Quackity fanned out the deck, holding it out in front of Tubbo and Ranboo. Tubbo hesitantly pointed back and forth between him and Ranboo.

“Yeah, both of you, two separate cards.” Quackity nodded.

Tubbo and Ranboo both selected a card and studied them carefully.

“I may or may not forget this the second I put it back down.” Ranboo laughed.

“Sure you won’t, bossman. Just… believe in yourself.” Tubbo quipped, arcing his hands in a rainbow above him, being careful not to show Quackity or Ranboo the card. Ranboo stifled a small chuckle.

Quackity handed Tubbo a Sharpie and smiled.

“Sign your cards, please,” Quackity asked.

“Ranboo, turn around. I’ll sign my card on your back, and you sign your card on mine.”

“Whatever you say, Tubbo.” Ranboo sighed with a smile.

“I’ll look away.” Quackity stated, “Just let me know when you’re done-”

Before Quackity could finish his 360º rotation, he caught a glimpse of a certain mutt setting up his guitar in the distance.

Wilbur.

Dammit, why now? Couldn’t he have shown up literally 5 minutes later? When he wasn't trying to trick perform for someone? Great. More pressure.

Why did he even feel threatened?

Was Wilbur even someone worth feeling threatened over?

“Sir? Er, uh…Quackity? We finished signing the cards.”

Damn you, Wilbur. Distracting him from his work.

“Right, yes, thank you. Could you put your cards in your palm, face down, and stretch them out like this?” Quackity instructed, quickly collecting himself. He made sure to demonstrate, holding his hand out with the card in the center.

The duo listened carefully and held out their hands, awaiting Quackity’s guidance.

“Could you put your other hand on top of that, please?”

Ranboo cups the card in their hands while Tubbo flattens the card in his hands.

“Alright, guys, something cool’s about to happen right about…now.” Quackity said before snapping his fingers, “Wanna take a look at those cards?”

Tubbo was the first to check his card. His eyes widened. He nudged Ranboo as he opened their hands to reveal their card.

“Woah, wait a minute, I just had-” Ranboo stammered. “That’s your signature…your card…”

“Did they…did they swap places? Man, that’s sick!” Tubbo beamed.

Tubbo held up Ranboo’s card proudly. Tubbo’s signature was scribbled on the seven of spades, while Ranboo’s was sprawled on the five of diamonds.

“Now, before you go, I’ve got one last trick for you guys.” Quackity chirped, “Mind placing those cards back to back so the suits are facing outwards?”

Tubbo placed his card on top of the card resting in Ranboo’s palm and looked to Quackity for further instruction.

“Alright, Tubbo, right? Could you place your hand on the cards?”

Tubbo gently cupped the cards in between his hands.

“Now, I’m gonna squish the cards on the count of three, okay?”

“Alright, bossman.” Tubbo smiled.

“Three…two…one!” Quackity quickly pressed both of their palms together.

Tubbo slowly lifted his hand and picked up the cards inside…or should he say card?

Both of the cards had merged into one card (all thanks to Quackity's trickery). On one side, the seven of spades, with Tubbo’s signature. On the other, the five of diamonds, with Ranboo’s.

“That’s so cool, man, like holy shit!” Tubbo rambled. Ranboo just paused, attempting to process the ‘magic’ they had just witnessed.

“W-What…” Ranboo managed, “How?”

“Maaaaaagiiiiiiiiiiiic.” Quackity said with a smug look, accompanied by jazz hands.

“You’re really good, man. Really good.” Tubbo said, glancing on occasion at Ranboo.

Step Four: Profit.

“Well, you could maybe help a guy out and donate for a better deck of cards?” Quackity smiled.

“I mean, might as well, he did amaze us, right Boo?” Tubbo nudged, “...Ranboo?”

Ranboo stayed silent, still unable to fathom anything that had happened.

“Hello? Ranboo?”

Ranboo fluttered his eyes.

“O-Oh, uh, yes. Sorry. Yeah, I’ll uh…yeah.” Ranboo apologized.

Both of them pulled out their wallets.

Such a beautiful thing. Money.

Tubbo handed him a crisp five-dollar bill.

Ranboo almost followed suit until…

“31st Avenue, smoking red birch wood, and 88 keys to the house that you burned…”

No.

“Tubbo, do you hear that?” Ranboo questioned.

“You tucked them all under the weathered-up welcome mat…prayed someone else took the lessons you learned…”

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” Tubbo said, entranced.

“And I’m not an artist by any means…but maybe we're unraveling by the strings…”

The duo turned around to see none other than Wilbur singing a song that Quackity didn’t recognize. His fingers graced the strings of his guitar, enchanting both Tubbo and Ranboo.

“We’re gonna check that out if that’s cool, uh…thanks for the magic tricks, sir!!” Ranboo smiled, not before being pulled along by a very excited Tubbo.

The duo settled around Wilbur as Quackity stared, rage bubbling on his face.




“Call it a ruse, or call me your muse, but you’re just an instrument, I have the reeds…”

Alright, he’s ascended from the ranking of a mutt to a bitch. Because this fucking bastard just stole money from him.

He was cordial, sure. He gave him his name. Showed him a magic trick. Told him to rub his face on a fire hydrant. As one does.

But now.

Now.

This was war.

Chapter Text

Step Five: Kill A Bitch

Tubbo and Ranboo eventually walked off, likely to whatever destination was next on their adventure.

Quackity couldn’t help but stare at the five-dollar bill now resting in Wilbur’s hands.

This man, this bastard, sang his little song and stole away his money. His money! That was the number one way to piss off Quackity: getting between him and his money. Wow. Money doesn't even sound like a word anymore...that happens a lot.

And sure, it was only ten dollars. But Quackity deserved them. Ten dollars could get you flash paper or a set of false thumbs. Maybe even a book for a new couple of tricks. But no. Half of it was going to that scumbag. Probably for new strings or guitar picks… Pathetic. Well, there goes that trip to the magic shop by the Las Nevadas Performance Center... Such a shame.

But he was getting sidetracked. He’s got a war to fight. And he’s firing first.



Ready for battle, he crossed the street, making sure to subtly look both ways.

Wilbur leaned against the wall, admiring the five dollars that he stole. Quackity snapped his fingers to draw his attention.

“Hey.” Quackity gritted through a fake smile.

“Oh, hello, Quackity! I was just admiring this five-dollar bill. Wonder where it came from?”

“Cut the shit, Wilbur, you know damn well that money was supposed to go to me .” Quackity snapped. Being ‘fake nice’ wasn't going to do it, apparently.

“Really?” Wilbur replied, “Because I could’ve sworn they handed the money to me. ”

“Yeah. After you cut me off with your fucking wailing.”

“Wailing?!” Wilbur shrieked. Ooh, he’s hit a nerve. Perfect.

“At least I sing from the heart!” Wilbur shouted, “All you do is act like you’re lying to people. And look at you, you’re fucking proud of it.”

“Of course I like it, dumbass, I get money.” Quackity refuted.

“Is that all it is to you? Money? What, are you gonna buy a mansion with your spare change?”

“One day, I’m gonna look at your sorry ass from the top floor of my mansion, and I’ll pay someone to come down there, and slap you in the face on the daily.”

“Maybe I’d like that.”

“What?”

“Listen, Quackity. I put passion and artistry into what I do. I suggest you do the same, if you want people to actually stay long enough to give you money.”

“They-” Quackity cut himself off, “I have passion. Have you seen the way these cards move? Have you seen my tricks? Well, I’ve got a trick for you!”

Quackity waved his hand in front of his knuckles, and magically revealed the middle finger. He slowly turned to Wilbur with an incredulous look on his face.

Wilbur feigned an offended gasp.

“Oh, shit, I think I’ve dropped something in my guitar-” Wilbur reached into his guitar and pulled out a middle finger of his own.

“What’s that behind your ear?” Quackity reached behind Wilbur’s head, pulling out another middle finger. “Oh, would you look at that?!”

“Hey, wanna hear a new chord I learned?” Wilbur played a barre chord with only a middle finger.

“Sounds terrible, you should put it in your next song. It would fit pretty damn well.”

There was only a second to breathe before Wilbur stormed up to Quackity. The man is fucking huge . Lanky as all shit, but still. He practically towered over him. Quackity could feel about half his confidence leave him in that instant. And Wilbur wasn’t looking through him, no. He was looking right at him.

“Take it back.” Wilbur said in a borderline whisper.

“W-Why should I?” Quackity rebutted.

“News flash, dickhead. When you are a street performer, there are rules. Rule number one, never share streets. You broke that rule immediately, great job, by the way, I let it slide because the trick you did was pretty damn good. Which brings me to rule number two. Never insult another street performer’s craft. For some of us, it’s the only thing we have. And when we feel like someone is threatening it, there is nothing stopping us from shoving our artistry down their throat. And rule number three? That’s to have fun, obviously. But I’m willing to break that rule at any given time. ”

Quackity swallowed.

“Got that? Or are you going to keep following the wrong rules… duckling?”

“Don’t you fucking call me that.”

“Why? Did I strike a sore spot? Found the secret to your little magic trick?”

“Do not fucking test me. I’ll show you an escape trick you'll never figure out.”

Wilbur laughed. It was an odd laugh, inhaling more inwards than actually laughing. Quackity hated the way he braced his stomach, heaving with shallow breaths. Eventually, the fit of giggles stops, and Wilbur reaches into his pocket…pulling out an all too familiar item.

“Take your damn two of hearts back. I don’t want to see it again. Ever.” Wilbur stated, pulling the two of hearts out of his pocket, and throwing it to Quackity.

“No promises.” Quackity remarked, slipping the card into his pocket. He was already mulling over his defeat in his head, seconds away from chastising himself for letting that cash get away…until the perfect idea slapped him across the face.

Oh. Oh, that is perfect.

“...You know what!? Why don’t we make a bet?” Quackity suggested, the idea already spilling out before he had enough time to think it over.

“ Oh? ” Wilbur said with a lilting voice.

“Game of war. Pure luck, no strategy. Whoever wins keeps all the money. Say, if you win…you get my other five. But if I win, I get all ten dollars back."

Wilbur hummed to himself, thinking about the possibility. Quackity could tell he seemed to like the idea.

“...You know what? I’ll humor you. But I’m using my own deck. Yours is probably rigged, or something.” Wilbur sneered.

“...Fair.” Quackity agreed, loathing every second of even thinking the same thoughts as this piece of scum.

Wilbur slid against the brick wall behind him. Quackity followed suit, sitting against a brick pillar directly across from him.

“Alright, here’s ol’ reliable.” Wilbur said, reaching into his pocket.

And out Wilbur pulled the shittiest deck of cards he had ever seen. It was practically rotting away. The cardboard container it rested in was peeling apart, likely left out in the rain. Prime, he’s going to have to touch that shit.

“Where’s the biohazard label?” Quackity teased.

“Shut the fuck up.” Wilbur snarled.

Wilbur attempted to shuffle the cards, in what Quackity considered to be the worst riffle shuffle he had ever seen.

“Prime almighty, gimme that.” Quackity said, snatching the deck.

“Wha-? Hey!” Wilbur exclaimed.

Quackity shuffled the cards with as much style and grace as he possibly could muster.

“Show off.” Wilbur groaned.

Quackity smiled. Dealing out half the deck to the both of them, he prepared himself for the glory of victory.

“Useless rules?” Wilbur asked.

“...What?” Quackity questioned, snapping out of his ‘already prophesied victory’.

“Oh, uh, it’s a…house rule I had growing up. See, we play with jokers, cause they are the highest card. So, if you play a joker against a two, we make it an instant war. We call it a useless war because a joker’s much higher than a two, so it’s pretty much useless to go to war over it.” Wilbur rambled.

“...Alright, fine. But jokers vs jokers are wars with double the cards.” Quackity stated.

“Deal.”

Wilbur placed the two five-dollar bills in the center of the playing area.

“For motivation purposes.” He smirked.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, GO!” Quackity shouted,.

Quackity prepared his first card. No matter what, he was going to win this. The money was his. Victory was HIS-

♠  ♥  ♦  ♣  -  ♣  ♦  ♥  ♠

Quackity lost.

He was so close to a clean win, but then a war led Wilbur to make a comeback. It just spiraled from there.

Wilbur smiled, staring at the stack of cards now in his hands. 

This is so unfair.

“Whelp. Payment, please. ” Wilbur stretched out his hands, making a 'gimme' motion.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” Quackity groaned, slapping Wilbur’s hands with the money he just worked so hard on earning.

“Thank you, good sir.”

“I hope you burn alive in a fire.”

“...Good to know the feeling’s mutual.” Wilbur nodded.

“Ugh, dammit…do you know how hard I worked for that cash?” Quackity whined, “Why’d you even have to steal it away from me?”

“Twice.” Wilbur corrected, “And it was your idea… You would have kept your five if you weren’t so…greedy. I thought I’d knock you down a peg. Make you realize it’s not all about money. ”

“...Maybe it is to some people, huh? If you’re so worried about not making it about money, why even bother busking?”

“Some people need the money. I need the money. That doesn’t mean money’s the only part of it that matters. You don’t know what I’ve been through.” Wilbur explained, clearly trying to make himself sound like less of a hypocrite.

“What have you been through?” Quackity asked, trying to sound as insincere as humanly possible.

“Like hell I’ll tell you.”

“I’m not telling you why I’m here either.”

“Good. I don’t wanna hear your sob story.” Wilbur laughed. “But I can sing you a story of glorious victory! …Not about the game I just won, I can’t write that fast.”

Quackity rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Fine, fine, just…make it quick. And painless.” Quackity grumbled.

“Oh, thank you very much, good sir.” Wilbur said, dripping with sarcasm.

He cracked his knuckles, adjusted the strap of his guitar, slid up his cabo to the fourth fret, and lifted his hand to strum.

“You -” 

TWANG!

Wilbur paused, and looked down at his guitar.

The 6th string had curled up against the headstock of his guitar, twisted like a dead spider. Wilbur drew in a painfully long breath.

“Prime. Fucking dammit.” Wilbur said through gritted teeth, barely keeping back a scream, “I am going to commit a crime. Tax Fraud. Arson. Vehicular Manslaughter. Quackity, name a crime.”

“Bulgary?”

“I will bulgary. I will bulgary all over the place.”

“That’s…That’s not-”

“I will cry.” Wilbur interrupted, “No, I am crying. I’m flooding the streets, flooding the ocean, people are fleeing their homes.”

“It’s…Wilbur, it’s a broken string.” Quackity consoled.

Prime, this was the worst thing about Wilbur. So damn dramatic. Why put on such a show, when no one’s even watching? …Well, yes, Quackity’s watching, but he isn’t going to play along. He’s better than that.

"Forty-two injured, three dead-"

“Wilbur, you could just go to the music store and buy new strings.”

“ But I don’t wanna… ” Wilbur whined, “Because then I have to restring all of them. And it’s a pain in the fucking ass.”

“Why not replace just one string?”

“I can’t just do that, Quackity!” He sighed, sliding his hands down his face. “Because then I have to do it all at different times, it’s better to just…do it all at once.”

“Dammit! Take your birthday money, and go fucking treat yourself to a new set of strings, or whatever. And let me go earn back the money you stole from me.” Quackity exclaimed, pulling out his deck of cards.

“Stole?! I didn’t steal shit, I won it fair and square!” Wilbur fumed, “Okay, well, 50% of it was stolen from you, but…Ugh, you know what I mean. I’ll just…take my leave and go.”

“Finally. Peace.” Quackity sighed.

Wilbur began shoving his guitar into the case.

“But next time I see you, I’m gonna sing you something you’ll never forget.” Wilbur warned.

“Make it a swan song, and it’s a deal.”

Wilbur growled and stormed into the distance.

…Well, that was certainly something. There goes his money... taken by that bastard.

Good thing Quackity managed to sneak the two of hearts into Wilbur’s wallet when he wasn’t looking.

Chapter Text

Wilbur was this close to killing someone.

Sure, he was ten dollars richer, but the string of his precious guitar was broken. Curled up like a shrimp. This was the worst. This was agony.

And Quackity was there to see all of it. Terrible, terrible, it's all terrible.

There’s just something about the sneer in his voice. That beanie that’s fused to his head. The way he talked about money like how an addict talked about his drugs. Money, money, money. Was that all it was to him? Was there no art, no beauty to magic?

But Wilbur could show him. Wilbur could show him what magic really was. All he needed to do was sing. But he needed accompaniment. And he couldn't do that without all six of his strings.

Lo and behold his solution. Mellohi Music . His favorite music store. That’s the best part about L’Manburg. The majority of stores here were what the residents called “Ma & Pa” shops. Locally owned, small, cozy. Every item they sold was made with more love than a grandmother’s pie.

Wilbur swung open the door as the sound of a jingling bell greeted him.

And there he was. The man, the myth, the legend. TommyInnit, working at the register.

“Tommy!” Wilbur called.

Tommy turned to the front door and immediately lit up. He bared his teeth in a toothy smile, frantically waving to Wilbur.

“Ay! Wilbur!” Tommy beamed, “There you are, big dubs!”

Ahh, Tommy. Ever since Wilbur first staked his claim in L’Manburg, Tommy had been there to supply him with new strings, picks, and music-related paraphernalia at his every whim. The sun to his sky. The producer to his director. The charger to his…iPhone.

He was trying to be creative, but at a time like this, why think? Tommy’s here. That’s all that matters.

“Hey, Toms.” Wilbur chuckled, staring to browse through the guitar accessory section.

“Lemme guess, looking at the Slinky’s again?” Tommy asked, “They’re real nice if you’ve got an electric guitar.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” Wilbur smiled, “Last time I came here, you managed to trick me into buying a harmonica.”

Tommy laughed, a loud and harsh noise that echoed through the store. It was such a wonderful sound.

“And you learned to play ‘Piano Man’ in 20 minutes.” Tommy joked.

“It’s not that hard of a song, it’s nothing that impressive.” Wilbur denied, picking up a pack of guitar strings. D’Addario’s, to be specific. He walked up to Tommy at the register.

“You’re a lot better than Ranboo, at least! Somehow, he can get an entire harmonica stuck in their mouth the second I turn away.”

“Oh yeah, I ran into them on the street earlier.” Wilbur commented.

“You did?!” Tommy looked around sheepishly, and lowered his voice, “Was he with Tubbo?”

“He certainly was.”

“Fuckin’ hell, man. They’re plotting something. Did you get any intel?”

“No, sadly. But! I am 10 dollars richer, thanks to him.”

“You made Tubbo?! Give you money?! You can’t just-”

“Oi. Child. Shh.” Wilbur silenced and leaned in closer, “I didn’t exactly…get it from Tubbo. But uh…Listen, there’s another street performer on my turf.”

“Seriously?! And he just…showed up?! What is he, a juggler?”

Wilbur placed his elbows on the counter.

“Not a juggler.”

“Ah, jugglers. They love they balls.”

“Not a juggler.” Wilbur emphasized, “He’s a magician.”

“A magician?! …Is he good?”

“Tommy! He’s…He’s annoying as shit, and by the looks of things, he’s just in it for the money.”

“Oh, if I were a street performer, I wouldn’t be in it for the money. I’d already have it. And women. Lots of women.”

Wilbur wasn't gonna comment on that.

“...And his name’s like…Quackity.” Wilbur continued.

“Like a duck?” Tommy asked.

“Like a duck.” Wilbur nodded, “I kinda…interrupted him before he could get his money from Ranboo, then won Tubbo’s in a bet.”

“A bet?! What’d you do?”

“A game of war. Pure luck. And I won.”

“Is that why you’re here? Cause you have enough to buy things now?”

“Yup.” Wilbur slapped the pack onto the counter, and looked up to Tommy, “And I broke another string.”

"You tend to do that. You've gotta stop playing so hard, Wil."

"And miss out on raw, visceral emotion? Are you trying to drive me mad?"

“I reckon I am." Tommy replied, scanning the barcode, "That’ll be $7.29.”

Wilbur nodded, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a battered wallet.

“Got change for two fives?”

“What would we be without change for two fives? A real shitty business, that’s what.”

Opening his wallet, Wilbur pulled out two fives. And the two of hearts. Wait, what?

“Prime fucking dammit!” Wilbur shrieked.

“Wil? You alright?”

“Fucking… Look!!!” Wilbur slapped the two of hearts onto the table.

“Woah.” Tommy said, eyes wide, “Your handwriting is shit.”

“Tommy! It’s the two of fucking hearts! Quackity's been slipping this card everywhere!! I told him I didn’t wanna see it anymore, and here it is!!! I swear, next time I see him, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” A voice called.

And there, right in the corner of the store, is Quackity. Shuffling his cards. Looking like the asshole he is.

“Go on.” Quackity sneered, “Finish your sentence.”

Quackity trotted up next to Wilbur, with a cocky glint in his eyes.

“I’ll tear him limb from fucking limb.” Wilbur finished, tilting his head slightly upward.

“This is the guy that’s been pissing you off?! Wilbur, he looks like if Hot Topic went to a casino.”

Quackity’s eyes widened.

“Woah, is he yours?” He commented.

“I belong to no one, bitch!” Tommy announced, placing the money in the register, “The name’s Tommy. TommyInnit. Tommy Careful-Danger-Kraken Innit. Big Dubs has been coming here for Prime knows how long.”

“Big Dubs…?” Quackity asked.

“...Quackity. If you value your life, I suggest you take your leave. This is not a welcome place for you.” Wilbur demanded, standing a bit taller than before.

“Oh, fuck that, show me a trick, you bastard!” Tommy yelled.

“Tommy?!” Wilbur gasped.

Well. Betrayal stings like a bitch. Prime, this wasn't good. What if Tommy lost his money? Or Quackity yet again tried to make him look like a fool? This is horrible.

“Why, I’d be absolutely delighted!” Quackity smiled, pulling out his deck of cards.

It seems to be different than before, instead of a red design, the deck is now backed in blue. Apparently, giving away the two of hearts led him to have an incomplete deck, forcing him to get a new one.

Fuck. The two of hearts. Wilbur had an idea. It will surely buy Tommy some time to reconsider. All he needs to do is play his cards just right.

…Dammit, Quackity, get out of his head!

Wilbur placed a hand in between Quackity and Tommy, and sighed.

“Quackity, I thought I made this clear.” Wilbur enunciated, “I did not want to see the two of hearts again. And what is this?”

He held up the two of hearts, showing the signature to Quackity. Quackity stared at the card, and smirked.

“...A lamborghini?” He asked.

“It’s the fucking two of hearts!!” Wilbur screamed. Oh, so he’s playing dumb now?

“What two of hearts?” Quackity questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Wilbur flipped the card around, to see a joker staring back at him.

“Motherfucker!"

“Ooh, he’s really good, Wilbur! Come on, just one trick, please? ” Tommy begged.

“Absolutely not. He just wants money, that’s all this is to him.”

“Alright, you know what? I won’t ask for money. One trick. That’s it.”

Tommy turned to Wilbur, displaying his best look of puppy-dog eyes.

“Please?” He whined.

“No, come on, Toms, don’t give me that look.”

“Please?!?!” Tommy widened his eyes a bit more.

“Listen to the kid, Wilbur.” Quackity pressured.

“No, I can’t, I will not. I refuse.” Wilbur denied.

“Please, please, please, please, please?”

There’s just something about that look in his eyes. Wilbur just…can’t…take it…

“I, ugh…Damn it, fine! One trick, and then he’s out.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Wilbur!” Tommy cheered.

Ugh. Wilbur can’t believe he let Quackity of all people perform for him. But…Tommy was happy. That made it sting a whole lot less. This state of happiness was dimmed, when Quackity asked Tommy to “Pick a card.”

“This is gonna be fucking insane!” Tommy beamed, as he selected a card. Sneakily, he tilted the card to Wilbur. The six of clubs.

“Could you sign that for me, please?” Quackity requested, handing Tommy a sharpie.

Tommy raised the pen to his teeth to open the cap.

“I-” Wilbur started, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Tommy paused, looked back at the pen, and slowly opened the sharpie with his hands. Scribbling his name, he blew on the top of the card to dry out the ink, and handed the card back to Quackity. Quackity smiled, pulled up a pair of scissors, and cut the card to pieces. He waved his hand over the pieces, as they vanished.

“Fucking what?!” Tommy exclaimed.

“Great, this one again.” Wilbur groaned, “See, Tommy, the cards gonna appear right in his mouth- Quackity, open your mouth.”

Quackity shook his head.

“Dammit-” Wilbur began, as he slammed his foot down onto Quackity’s foot.

Quackity yelped, his mouth flying open. There’s no card, oddly enough. But it vaguely reminded Wilbur of those trash cans with the pads you step on to open a lid. Rather fitting for him.

“¡Puta madre!” Quackity yelled, lifting up his leg slightly to survey the damage, ”What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Want me to sing about it, or…?” Wilbur began.

“The register! Look in the fucking register!!” Quackity commanded, pointing aggressively at the cash register.

Tommy opened up the drawer, to find the six of clubs restored, with his signature sprawled on the face.

“No way! No fucking way! That is so fucking cool, man, you’re amazing!!” Tommy rambled, “Can I keep this?”

“Of course you can, kid.” Quackity strained, giving a glare at Wilbur, who could only manage a scoff in return. Quackity leaned his weight against the counter.

"How’d ya do that? Tell me, tell me!” Tommy asked.

“A good magician never reveals his-”

“Yeah, yeah, we know the bullshit.” Wilbur interrupted, “But he’s done his trick, and now he has to leave.”

Wilbur could see the corner of Quackity’s lips twitch downward.

“One more, please?” Tommy whined.

“No. We had an agreement.” Wilbur stated firmly.

“Fine. Whatever. But come back later, you’re insanely good.” Tommy grinned.

“Of course. Take care, Tommy!” Quackity waved.

“You too! Buh-bye!”

Quackity smirked, as he closed the door of the shop with a thud…and a slight limp.

Wilbur looked down at the pack of strings, and back to Tommy.

“He was just trying to do a trick for me, Wilbur.”

“I…Listen. He’s just…off, okay?”

“Wilbur, everyone’s ‘off’ to you.” Tommy groaned, “You thought Tubbo was a wrong’un when you first met him, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly! Unless it hurt me or Ranboo. Then he would.”

“I mean it, Tommy. I’d rather you watch someone do tricks because they genuinely love what they do.”

“But don’t you need the money cause you’re-”

“You…You don’t have to bring that up. I know. I know. ” Wilbur sighed, “You know why I do what I do?”

“...Self-expression?”

“Yup. It’s cause I fucking love music, man. I-” Wilbur drew in a breath, not wanting to start another tangent. “The money helps. It…really helps. Because you know how much I need it. He doesn’t. He’ll just waste it on another deck of cards to burn up.”

“...Maybe he does need the money.”

“Well, I need it more.”

“How do you know that?”

“Tommy. Please. Just trust me on this, okay?”

“...Alright.”

“Thank you. And hey,” Wilbur leaned in slightly, “I just want you to be safe, okay? Don’t want you getting tricked.”

“I know.” Tommy nodded, “I’m too smart to get tricked. I’m a smart man. Big brain Innit.”

“Yeah, they all say that.” Wilbur said as he looked to the floor, “I’m gonna…head back. Don’t do anything too stupid, okay, Toms?”

“I’ll wait for you to show up. Then I’ll do the stupid thing.” Tommy said proudly.

“Lovely. Thanks for the strings!” Wilbur said, turning towards the door.

“Of course, see you later, Wilbur!”

“See you!”

The door behind Wilbur closed with a thud. He could barely keep his eyes open, and his head was pounding. He’ll scream at Quackity tomorrow.

Slowly, but surely, he begun his journey back home. It was a long walk, but when you're in his situation, you learned to enjoy the quiet.

And soon enough, there it was…his bed.

A shoddy wooden bench.

A small cloth bag of supplies rested beneath it. Wilbur gently propped his guitar up against the wood and pulled out a blanket. Torn, patched up, and definitely in need of a spin in the washer. But trips to the laundromat are reserved for clothes only. He doesn’t deserve such luxuries.

He wrapped himself in the blanket and laid himself upon the bench.

…

Something was missing.

…

Ah, of course.

‘Friend.’

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a small sheep plush, stained a deep shade of blue. Wrapping his arms around Friend, he snuggled up into the lone blanket and closed his eyes.

…

Dammit. This headache was killing him. He turned to the sky above him and sighed.

The night sky has always helped him calm down. Something about counting all those stars always brought him peace. It broke his heart to know that for the time being, they would be his ceiling. The grass will be his carpet. The world will be his bedroom.

But soon enough, the silence of sleep welcomed him home.

Chapter Text

Well, it was an overall win for Quackity, at least.

Of course, there’s a slight loss…considering Wilbur bruised his foot. Thankfully, the pain seems to be fading fast.

But it’s getting late. If it weren’t for the stars glittering in the night, the sky would be pitch black. It’s about time he went back to his apartment to sleep.

Walking down the lamplit street, he ruffled his hands through the day’s earnings: $80. It would be more, yes, if a certain idiot hadn’t cheated him out of ten dollars. But, he already yelled at him enough for that. As much as he would love to scream at him once more, he’s not that much of an asshole.

Each streetlamp had a small wooden bench paired next to it. Quackity was surprised to see no curves, extra arms, or anything so hostile it hurt to sit on. L’Manburg’s just so welcoming. The town he used to work in was quite the opposite. Every bench was divided up so people couldn’t sleep on them. Any possible place he could sit on was covered in spikes and peaks.

Prime, he really doesn't want to go back to El Rapids. Thankfully, he’s saved up enough so that paying rent for his apartment in L’Manburg isn’t a major issue. But money’s gonna run out soon. He needs a job, and fast. Not a McPuffy’s though. Anything but a McPuffy’s. Something with nice pay, a clean working area, and maybe even magic-related? Alas, for now, street performance will have to do. It is rather satisfying and frankly, quite entertaining. Especially when the people here are so gullible.

And soon enough, he’ll be rich. So rich in fact, that he’ll never have to check his bank account to see if he has enough for something ever again. Rich enough to pay for nice wine, nice cards, and nice…everything.

That’ll make him happy. He doesn’t need anything else.

Just money.

Quackity rubbed his forehead, holding his head high in denial of the sleep he desperately wanted. He almost considered taking a nap on the…

Never mind. Someone was already there.

Their face was buried in the wood of the bench, their back turned outwards. A shoddy rag (or blanket, Quackity guesses), was lazily wrapped around them. A guitar case was propped upwards, next to a small bag of…supplies? He’s seen that guitar case before. All those stupid stickers…

That was Wilbur’s. There’s no way, there’s no fucking way. Quackity slowly lifted the blanket.

And there laid none other than Wilbur Soot, fast asleep. 

Holy shit. Wilbur was homeless.

Why is he only half surprised?

Quickly, his half-feeling filled out to full-blown panic, as Wilbur’s eyes opened up.

“What the…fuck?” Wilbur groaned.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Uh…Good morning.” Quackity said, fully aware that it was 12 o’clock at night.

Wilbur’s gaze flickered towards Quackity.

“Quackity? Quackity?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Wilbur shoved something into his blanket. Whatever it was, Quackity couldn’t identify it. But if he sees something a certain shade of blue, he’ll be sure to remember.

“Wilbur-”

“I’m trying to fucking sleep, and you just waltz right in and bother me again , what more do you want, Quackity-?”

“You’re homeless?”

Wilbur paused. He looked almost ashamed for only a moment. Drawing in a breath, he sighed.

“So what if I am?” He replied, his gaze resetting into a typical stoic look.

“Man, I thought you were poor, but I didn’t think you were that poor.”

“Well, fuck you too.” Wilbur drew in a breath, “Listen, you…you weren’t supposed to know. I was gonna just…not tell you about all this.”

“And why not?”

“mAn, I tHoUgHt YoU wErE pOoR, bUt I dIdN’t ThInK yOu WeRe ThAt PoOr.” Wilbur mocked in a terrible attempt at a Quackity impression.

Quackity had to take a moment to decide on either pinching the bridge of his nose or sighing in exhaustion. He picked both.

“Wilbur, I’m not making fun of you because you're poor, I’m making fun of you because you’re a dick.”

“A dick?!” Wilbur croaked out an overdramatic gasp, “How the fuck am I a dick?!”

“I don’t know, stealing away that ten dollars?” Quackity snapped.

“First of all, I won the money fair and square! Had you considered that I needed it?!” Wilbur continued, “Or were you so far up your own ass that you couldn’t think clearly?”

“Well, did you consider that I needed the money too?!”

“In what world would you need money more than me, a homeless man?”

“A world where I’m gonna lose my apartment if I don’t pay rent?”

“Lucky for you, you have a roof over your head! Count your fucking blessings, Quackity.”

“I won’t have a roof over my head if I don’t get money, this has been previously established!!”

“Is it all about money to you?!” Wilbur yelled, his voice reaching a fever pitch, “Is there no fun or…joy, or satisfaction you get from doing magic tricks? At least I love what I do, you act like it’s all you know how to do. You are taking the magic out of magic, and that takes more talent than any of your tricks ever need.”

…

You are taking the magic out of magic, and that takes more talent than any of your tricks ever need. Quackity repeated the words in his head. For the first time in quite a while…he had nothing to say. 

He sat down on the bench, and pulled out his cards, taking extra care to look at the note signed at the bottom of the box.

“Thank you for bringing more magic into my life.” -Karl Jacobs

He hated to admit it, but Wilbur was right. Partially right, he wouldn’t stoop that low. But has he truly felt amazed at what he’s capable of? He’s restored cards from ash. He’s predicted the future. He’s made things appear out of thin air. Still, somehow, some way…none of it phases him anymore.

Quackity looked Wilbur into his ice-cold gaze. The petechiae that dotted his eyes, the bags carrying them aloft…the burst blood vessels within a dull white sclera. For once, he thought knew what caused them.

“You’re right.” Quackity managed, bile once again rising up his throat at the sheer concept that he could agree with this man. 

“Of course I am, I’m…wait. You’re agreeing with me.” Wilbur stated, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Yeah. I am.”

“I think I’ve died again and gone to hell.”

“Again?”

“Oh yeah, actually I-” He stops, “Oh, you motherfucker, trying to get me on a tangent. You are agreeing with me. Something is wrong.”

Quackity took a moment to gather his bearings.

“You called me out, Wilbur. Not in a…you did this thing, or you are this way, no, you just...picked my brain. Or something.”

“Psychoanalyzed you.”

“Gee, thank you, Edgar Allen Poser.” Quackity sighed, “You don’t get magic. You don’t understand it like I do. You keep telling me how to perform my tricks, that’s not how it works. See, Wilbur? People are stupid . People are very stupid. You could take a trick, and tell them exactly how it is done, and they would still be amazed."

Quackity could’ve left it at that. Hell, he should’ve left it at that. But something about this whole…situation. The calm, the quiet, the fact that Wilbur hasn’t made a snarky comment or a witty remark since he started explaining himself. He just wanted to keep talking. Not to pursue some rivalry, but to be civil.

It was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“I used to be super into it.” Quackity continued, “But some…things happened that I’d rather not talk about. I just…yeah. Lost the spark.”

And at that moment, Quackity saw something foreign in Wilbur’s expression. Understanding. But not the connection kind of way. More so… I see how you work. I see why you are the way you are. I don’t know the cause, only the result. But I see you.

“...You…really are miserable, huh.” Wilbur observed. It wasn’t a critique, or an insult, or anything like that. Just an observation. Said as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Well, Quackity was never good at being subtle. He felt his gaze drift back to the cards in front of him.

“Yeah. A little.”

“Y’know, I was like that for a while.” Wilbur continued.

Great. He prepares himself for a long and winded rant…

“I’ve been writing music for a long time.” He began, “Since I was about 11 or 12. And I used to loathe everything I wrote. I’d finish my song, play it through, and I’d listen to it and I’d say, ‘This is horrid.’ It demotivated me for a while. Until one week, one fateful week, I think I was 15? I got sick. I get sick a lot. And I scrolled through my old recordings, and I heard those old…ramblings and…they were good. I was so blinded by the fact that it was made by…me…that I couldn’t allow myself to enjoy it. I like to think that realizing that made me a better artist."

Wilbur exhaled.

“It’s a matter of getting out of your own head. Pretending you’re seeing it all for the first time. Then, Quackity, I promise you’ll be amazed at what you see yourself doing.”

That was surprisingly bearable. Not even bearable, no, enlightening. Not too enlightening, though. Nice try, pity.

“So I’m just supposed to…fool myself.” Quackity spoke, the words slowly spilling out like molasses, “Know every trick, every sleight of hand, and pretend like it’s…the most incredible thing in the world. Pretend I don't know how it really works.”

Wilbur hesitated. “In a way, yes. I hate to admit it, but…your tricks are good. They just need that…extra bit of passion." Quackity stood in front of him, eyes squinted in confusion as he tried to make sense of what Wilbur was saying.

"Like that smoke trick you did when we first met? That was amazing, really. I’ve never seen smoke that beautiful before. But that look in your eyes, Quackity, you looked like you’d seen it a million times before. It was so casual, you’re doing this incredible thing and-” Wilbur paused.

“How could you not care?” Wilbur finished.

How could he care after everything that’s happened?

The next sentence spilled out without him thinking.

“Then why don’t I show you how much I can care?” Quackity proposed. Prime, the way it was worded, it sounded just like Wilbur. But for some reason, that didn’t disgust him as much as before.

Wilbur looked quizzically at him. 

“And what do you mean by that?” He questioned, leaning back into the bench.

Wow. Quackity did not think this through.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” Quackity continued, hesitating with every word, “And I’ll show you…something. Maybe a trick, maybe not. But I’ll take your advice, and I’ll…y’know. Care.”

“You know what? I’ll take up that offer.” Wilbur agreed.

Quackity grabbed Wilbur’s hand, and gave it a firm shake. Upon the realization that he just shook hands with Wilbur Soot of all people, he reeled back his hand, and wiped the “scum” onto his trousers.

“What was that about you dying again?” Quackity asked.

“I got sick when I was twelve. Really sick. Swine flu, I think it was. My heart stopped beating…I was medically dead for five hours. Pulse started back up again, scared the shit out of the doctors. Here I am.”

“You sure act like an ass for someone who’s died before.” Quackity remarked, “Wouldn’t you be like, ‘I’ve seen the light! Life is short, live it to the fullest!’” 

“Oh, trust me. I’m living the best I can.” Wilbur replied, placing his hands beneath his head.

“While you’re homeless? That’s not living, that’s surviving.”

“Oddly poetic for you to say, Quackity,” Wilbur smiled, “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Thought you only did that with fire hydrants…” Quackity began, intentionally just loud enough so Wilbur could hear it.

“Alright, alright, leave the homeless guy alone.” Wilbur put in, shooing Quackity away with a circling hand, “I’ve gotta make sure I’m well rested so I can shill people out of their money, as you like to call it.”

“Now you’re speaking my language. I will see you tomorrow…Wilbur.” Quackity articulated with an elegant bow, attempting to mock Wilbur.

“Bye-Bye, person I like to fool because I like money.” Wilbur smirked, in a significantly more tolerable Quackity impression.

And with that, Quackity returned to his path down the lamplit street. By the time he was away from the glow of the lamp, Wilbur was already back to sleep. He didn’t look peaceful, obviously, but…he looked content.

Oh. Quackity almost forgot. Carefully, he approached the bench, trying to make sure not to awaken Wilbur a second time. Out from under his beanie, he pulls out his weapon.

The Two of Hearts, still covered with that shitty signature. He should probably throw out that sharpie Wilbur used his mouth to open… He slipped the card into the case of his guitar and carried on with his night.

“Dumbass.” He muttered to himself.

Wilbur sucks, don’t get him wrong. He’s pompous and irritating and so many other words that he doesn’t have the eloquence or desire to elaborate on.

But somehow, Quackity is very much looking forward to seeing him again.

Chapter Text

Wilbur knew he had a pretty face.

His hands, however, told a different story.

His face doesn’t get beat up when he sings. All the grit and agony is contained within his throat, only to be released when perfectly in tune. The pain and strife of existence…that doesn’t show unless accompanied by chords. Nothing will appear unless Wilbur screams it out of him, spilling from him like blood.

But his hands? They already sang of it all.

The callouses from fingerstyle pieces. The white splotches on his nails from slamming the strings of his guitar. The hangnails, prime, the hangnails that stung him every time he strummed his masterpieces. The…what’s the word? The hyponychium that bent backwards every time he pressed down, painful reminders to invest in nail clippers instead of just peeling them off himself (Hyponychium is the part under your nails…Wilbur had to look that up).

Yet, why would he worry about that? Wilbur had a gift. And as damaging as it was to himself to use the way he did, dammit, it was important to him. It was an extension of himself. No. It was him. He couldn’t live without it, despite how much it exhausted him.

And he prayed that Quackity didn’t barge in to perform his little trick while he was running through the song he just completed. He doesn't need interruptions. Or distractions.

In fact, he was moments away from singing his song, until he spotted the Two of Hearts staring at him from his guitar case. Seems like even when Quackity wasn't here, he was still standing off against him-

Stay focused.

He could feel the strap of his guitar digging against his neck. He could feel the nerves of his fingertips pressing against the strings. He could feel the headache pounding in his skull, begging to be silenced by a few eloquent words. But he loved every moment of the pain. Because it was anticipation. A build-up of emotions, waiting to be set free.

With his capo on the third fret, and his fingers on an E minor chord, Wilbur drew in a breath…

And sank into his feelings.

Poinsettia - Wilbur Soot

Way back when

I heard the beating of butterfly wings

Louder than my heartbeat

Swept me off my feet

Now and then

I bite down on poinsettia leaves

Feel the rush as my soul starts to leave

The second that I speak

Prime won’t kill me lest’ I let him

Darling, I pick my own poison

Sealed my fate when I heard their voices

But if they really wanted me dead

Then I would eat hemlock instead

Put down roots

You know that you can’t get rid of me

I crawl up the walls and ceiling

Just to reach that perfect feeling

And you know it’s true

Smoke and mirrors never phased me

All I need are petals, baby

That’s how I get my crazy

Prime won’t kill me lest’ I let him

Darling, I pick my own poison

Sealed my fate when I heard their voices

But if they really want me dead

Then I will eat hemlock instead

Pick my poison…

Wilbur felt better. The headache from yesterday was still pounding, and his hands stung like hell, but...he felt better. He sighed and slumped against the wall of Niki’s cafe. Finally, peace-

Until the sound of fingers snapping rippled through the air. Never mind on that peace, apparently.

“What was that all about?” Quackity chimed from beside the brick pillar.

Wilbur whipped his head to none other than the magician himself, shuffling his cards. Normally, Wilbur would attempt to make himself look superior. But today…he’s a little bit too tired to do that, thanks to Quackity waking him up early. At least, that’s what he assumes is why.

“Quackity, how long have you been standing there?” Wilbur questioned.

“Since you started singing.” Quackity retaliated, “Was that one original?"

“Yes. Yes it was.” He responded, raising an eyebrow in preparation for an insult.

“Thanks for bursting my eardrums with it.” Quackity sneered. Despite his words, there was a hint of genuine excitement on his face…Wilbur thought it was rather unfamiliar.

“No problem, Big Q.”

The sounds of shuffling cards stopped.

“Big Q?” Quackity repeated with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah. Big Q.” Wilbur teased, “You made fun of Tommy calling me Big Dubs, so I’m calling you Big Q.”

“Well, it’s better than Duckling.” He remarked, leaning further into the brick pillar.

“I suppose so.” Wilbur sighed, “Just, for the record…don’t even try to make Tommy give you money.”

Quackity huffed, “I wasn’t planning on it.”

"Tried to give me money and stole right from the register." Wilbur grumbled, "Needless to say, I didn't let that happen."

"Wow. Such a hero." Quackity quipped.

Wilbur rolled his eyes, and played an awkward strum of his guitar.

“So,” He began, “What was that about showing how much you can care?”

“Right, right.” Quackity stepped closer to Wilbur.

Wilbur subconsciously moved his hand forward to pick a card. Quackity pulled the cards away.

A small feeling of betrayal nudged at him. Quackity had his cards, why wouldn’t he let Wilbur take one? Quackity drew in a breath.

"I want to try something new." He looked at him with a softer gaze, "If that's alright with you."

“All good with me.” Wilbur motioned with his hand to begin whatever Quackity had planned.

Just get on with it. Show me how much you can care. Prove that you aren’t just in it for the money.

I want to see a spectacle, Quackity.

Quackity curled the cards, and gently loosened his grip, causing them to spin into the shape of a flower.

Wilbur felt himself lean in a bit closer to Quackity’s hands.

The cards wavered. Undulating as if they weren’t made of cardboard but water. Every motion Quackity made sent a rippling effect throughout.

The Ace of Hearts spun on his fingertip. The Queen of Spades twirled, braced between his thumb and his arm. There wasn’t a still card in sight.

And it was alluring.

But that wasn’t the best part about it.

No, the best part was the look of focus on Quackity’s face. Normally so hidden under a ruse of confidence and cockiness. This? This was dedication. Borderline devotion.

Quackity really did care.

Wilbur stood still, staring at the cards that spun, twisted, jumped, and danced along his hands.

And Wilbur stood in the same exact position, until the cards disappeared into that curling and winding smoke.

Silence.

Beautiful, resonant silence.

“Tada.” Quackity proclaimed, accompanied with jazz hands.

Wilbur couldn’t move for a moment. It didn’t feel like he was tricked. He felt like he had witnessed something otherworldly. It felt almost intimate. Personal.

Hell, this wasn’t a trick. This was talent. 

“How the hell did you do that?” Wilbur finally responded.

“A good magician never reveals his secrets-”

“Do not give me any of that ‘magician’ schtick right now.” Wilbur retaliated, “There’s no bullshit, no loss if you tell me. I need to know, or I’m going to throw the closest thing near me across the street, which just so happens to be you-”

Wait.

Why the hell are they so close? Wilbur didn’t even notice himself walking closer to study the cards.

But he did notice that Quackity’s face was right there.

And for some reason, he wasn’t completely disgusted, or desperate to move back. Or even, wanting to move closer, stand up tall, and use his height as an advantage.

This was very strange.

“I need to know.” Wilbur repeated, “Please.”

“Practice. Lots and lots of practice.” Quackity finally answered, “Was it good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it…it was, Quackity.”

"Thanks, Wilbur. Glad you liked it." He smiled, as he took a step back, leaning against the brick pillar once more.

And the silence returned.

A little easier to bear, than before.

“It’s been a while since you insulted me-” Wilbur began.

“Have you washed your clothes recently?” Quackity interrupted.

There he is. There's the Quackity he's familiar with.

“Wow. Wow. It took you that long to insult me again. Why’d you wait?” Wilbur smiled.

“Got too focused on my magic. Forgot how much of a mutt you were.”

“Mutt? You’re doing the mutt thing again?”

Wilbur bent over at the hip.

“You do know you’re in my territory, right?”

“Yeah, cause you rubbed your face all over it.”

He almost choked on his spit at that.

Wilbur half-wheezed, half-laughed, and fixed up his posture. Standing up so suddenly caused little dots to dance around in his vision, as he laid on the wall behind him.

“Sorry, sorry, that’s…that’s good. Love a good callback.” Wilbur chirped.

“Makes the insult more insulting.” Quackity smiled, leaning against the pillar. 

“Indeed.” Wilbur nodded, and looked back at the building he was standing under.

Niki’s cafe.

Tomorrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?

“Quackity, are you free tomorrow?” Wilbur asked.

Quackity paused, doing a double take.

“Depends.”

“You could. Watch me. Perform at the open mic. They do at the cafe.”

“Which cafe?”

Wilbur slowly pointed directly behind him.

“Oh.” Quackity deadpanned, “What’s in it for me?”

“What’s in it for- Are you serious? I…okay. If you tell the owner that you’re supporting my performance - ”

“Horrible.” Quackity interrupted, “Terrible. Not doing it-”

“I’m not done.” Wilbur interrupted Quackity’s interruption, feeling the headache slowly return, “They will give you a complimentary eggnog steamer if you do so.”

“Eggnog…steamer? Isn’t it the middle of-”

“Yes. I know. But it’s got nutmeg …” Wilbur sang.

“Don’t you sing at me-”

“ And cinnamon… ” Wilbur crooned.

“ I fucking love cinnamon. ” Quackity mumbled under his breath, “Fine. Fine, I’ll try this…fucking eggnog steamer.”

“And watch me perform.” Wilbur reminded.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Quackity rolled his eyes.

“Right here, Niki’s Cafe, tomorrow, 7:30 pm.”

“Sure. Just let me get back to my side of the street. Y’know. To make my money.”

“Yes, of course. I won’t keep you, just keep to your cards, and I’ll keep to my strings.”

Quackity nodded, “Sounds like a plan. See ya, Soot.”

“Goodbye, Big Q. And hey!”

Quackity turned to Wilbur, raising a single eyebrow.

“You should do that trick more often!!”

Quackity smiled.

“Thanks, mutt!”

And with that, he turned around and left.

Wilbur sighed and slid down the wall.

He was exhausted. Not from Quackity, or from playing his music, or being impressed by that trick… To be honest, he didn’t have a good reason to be this tired. But there he was, exhausted.

And his head kept pounding.

And his body kept aching.

And maybe closing his eyes and sleeping until tomorrow would be alright. Maybe it would give him some peace from this throbbing headache.

So that’s exactly what he did. Before he could give it a second thought, Wilbur felt his eyes droop.

The last thing he saw was the Two of Hearts resting in his open guitar case, before he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Quackity knew he had pretty hands.

His face, however, told a different story.

The amount of ointments, lotions, and salves he used on his hands was almost comical. There was never a cut or scrape or bump or any sign of the wear and tear of using his hands every single day. The hands that fooled, tricked, amazed. The hands that made the impossible seem more tangible than ever before. They weren’t just part of him, they were him.

But his face? Didn’t matter. People weren’t supposed to be looking at his face, why would they look at his face? They’re supposed to focus on the words he’s saying, the magic of the cards, not him. No one cared, anyway. Most they’d do is look to him for the next instruction.

What, were people supposed to care about the beauty marks under his lips?

The smile lines that were slowly becoming out of place for him?

The tears that would never spill over?

…

Quackity missed his partners.

He shot that thought point blank before he could even finish comprehending it. Besides, he had new priorities to worry about. Something to take his mind off of everything.

A distraction. That was Wilbur. Someone to take it all out on. Someone to yell at. Someone to fool. At least, until the last trick.

But now Wilbur’s inviting him to watch him perform at the cafe. And forgetting to yell at him for sneaking the Two of Hearts into his possession?

The second this man stopped singing, this silent little truce they had would end. And Quackity was going to bite back twice as hard as before.

The cold metal of the handle of the door managed to snap Quackity out of his thoughts and draw his attention to the previously aforementioned cafe. With a bit more force than necessary, he pulled open the door.

♠  ♥  ♦  ♣  -  ♣  ♦  ♥  ♠

Niki’s Cafe was very warm, almost unbearably so. Other than the obvious scent of coffee and cream, there was a faint aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. It seemed to be one of those locally owned cafes, based on the couch, fireplace, and pillows strewn about.

There was a light-pink-haired woman at the register, wrapping up a conversation with a customer. Something about running out of peppermint, and a complimentary gift card?

The customer left with a tilt of her head, and brushed past Quackity. Now that he’s upfront, he can see the woman’s name tag.

Niki.

That had to be a coincidence.

Maybe she would’ve liked to see a magic trick…but she was likely preoccupied. And last time he performed for one of Wilbur’s “Acquaintances”, it did not go down pleasantly. So he’d just…resist the urge to say “Pick a Card” and blow this woman’s mind to smithereens. This wasn’t about him, anyway.

“Hi, welcome in!” Niki said with a chummy customer service smile, “How can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi, open mics today, right?” Quackity asked, a lot faster than he intended.

Niki paused. “Yes, it is, we’re about to start! Here to see anyone?”

Quackity steeled himself. “I’m here to see…Wilbur…” He shuddered.

“Aw! Yeah, Wil’s incredible. He’s got this…personal vibe to his music…and his lyrics are really good!”

“Right.” Quackity nodded. Deep down, he never really paid close attention to Wilbur’s songs. All he knew was that a pretty voice over a well played guitar meant something he could tolerate. Unless it was meant to take away money, or annoy him. Then it sucked.

Wilbur did have a nice singing voice, he won’t lie. That doesn’t mean he tolerates him as a person, it’s just an observation. He also observes that Wilbur can be a massive fucking prick, by the same logic.

Most of the time.

He does NOT tolerate Wilbur, for the record. And at this point, he’s been thinking of the word “tolerate” so much that if he spoke it out loud, it wouldn’t sound like a word at all.

“Yeah, he’s been performing here for a while now. I saw him outside of the cafe, heard his music, and my jaw just…dropped. I told him about our open mics, he loved the idea, here we are.”

“Do you know when he’s…going to perform?”

“Oh, he usually goes first. He tried going last once and I could hear his leg bobbing from all the way back here.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, sh- crap, I forgot, I have to start the open mic so he can perform. Uh, Jack will get you your complimentary eggnog steamer, thank you for coming to the show, seriously, it means the world to me…”

At that point, Niki was too far away to be heard properly. Her constant thank you’s trailed off into the distance.

“No problem…” Quackity said to himself, taking a hesitant seat at a table in the back.

The front of the cafe was raised on a level, decorated with wires, amps, and speakers. It wasn’t anything incredibly fancy, but it certainly got the job done. The microphone stand in the center was desperately taped together, holding up a simple black mic.

From the look of things, about 20 people showed up to the open mic. Mostly older people, a couple emo teenagers, and-

Wilbur. Still looking like his ragamuffin self. And upon seeing Wilbur, a whole bunch of emotions washed over Quackity.

Annoyance, knowing that Wilbur never noticed the Two of Hearts that Quackity specifically hid to piss him off. Curiosity, wondering just what exactly Wilbur was going to perform. Concern, seeing that the dark circles under his eyes had gotten significantly darker the last time he checked.

And there was something else. Something he didn’t want to put a name to. Like seeing an old friend? But Wilbur wasn’t a friend.

What was Wilbur, anyway? An acquaintance at best, an enemy at worst. It was just so confusing, watching Wilbur go from screwing him over to inviting him to performances.

Niki tapped the mic twice, cutting off Quackity from his spiral.

“Hello-”

RING!

Quackity covered his ears.

“Lovely, great way to start this. First singer of the day, microphone feedback! Woo!”

A polite chuckle sounded from the cafe.

“Alright, hi, everybody!! I’m Niki, I’ll be your MC for this evening! Before we get started, let’s briefly run over some rules…”

Quackity barely listened to the rules. It’s likely something along the lines of “Don’t be an asshole”. That was going to be hard, considering Wilbur was here.

“Excuse me?” A male voice called from Quackity’s left. Quackity hummed in response.

He noticed the eggnog steamer in his hands long before he noticed who was delivering it. Some…man with a buzz cut. And discolored glasses? Did this guy just get out of a 3D movie? Whatever.

“Thanks for supporting the show, here’s your steamer.”

Quackity mouthed a simple thank you, before taking the mug from his hands.

It felt a little out of place to be drinking eggnog at a time like this, but it smelled absolutely divine.

And it tasted even better. The perfect ratio of cinnamon to nutmeg…the cream coated the roof of his mouth, clinging like a warm hug. A hug long overdue.

A hug from his partners?

Prime be damned, stop thinking about his exes!

“...And that should be everything!”

Quackity finally zoned back in on whatever rules Niki was talking about. He silently reminded himself to not be an asshole…and hoped there wasn’t some strange rule like “Don’t say the word ‘Conk’ or the cafe will blow up”.

“Up first, is none other than Wilbur Soot, with an original song of his own! Take it away, Wil!”

And there he was, stepping onto the stage. The stage lights glistened over him, darkening the bags under his eyes. Anticipation built up inside of Quackity’s chest.

“Alright, um, here’s…Petty. By me.” Wilbur spoke.

A few claps and cheers scattered around the crowd.

The song began with a plucked melody that Quackity just knew was going to get stuck in his head. As the intro played out, he thought back to Niki’s words on his lyricism.

Maybe he would listen to the words this time.

Wilbur opened his mouth, and started to sing.

Throw me a bone

It keeps me satisfied

Don’t let me go

You know that I might cry

I hate you so

But I’ve been alone

And you have too

Was this about love? No, that wouldn’t make sense. The word hate stuck out like a sore thumb.

Give me a chance

Another route to fall

Another dance

Another lousy draw

Hold you in my grasp

Pray that you collapse

So I can laugh at you

Wait.

Wait a damn minute.

Another lousy draw? What the hell does that-

Holy shit.

This motherfucker wrote a song about him.

Tear me inside

There’s room for us, room for us

A little bit of loathing

A turnaround of love

Is that good enough for us

Quackity was going to kill him. This bastard, this motherfucker, this mutt. Ignores the card, invites him to a cafe, and sings a song about him?

He’d process the lyrics more, but the next verse was already starting.

Where have you gone?

You’re supposed to yell at me today

Don’t lead me on

Say what I want you to say

I hate you so

And you’ll be alone

If I’m not here

The audience bobbed side to side, enjoying the music.

Is that how Wilbur felt? About the two of them? If he liked the rivalry, then why would he invite Quackity to a performance like this?! Why sing a song about him?! Is he trying to make him jealous? Jealous of what?!

Why is Wilbur Soot so damn confusing?!

So kick me down

And put me in my place

You stuck around

So break my pretty face

Hands around my neck

Squeeze, I’m out of breath

Don’t let me disappear

…

…

WHAT THE FUCK?!

Tear me inside

There’s room for us, room for us

A little bit of loathing

A turnaround of love

Is that good enough

Good enough for us

As an instrumental break began, Quackity took a swig of his eggnog, setting it back down on the table. His grip tightened around the mug, almost burning his hand with the ceramic. He’d finish it later. After he finished Wilbur.

Stay with me

Be petty with me

I’ll be okay

As long as you’re with me

Being petty with me

I’ll be okay

With six last strums, the song ended. The audience erupted into cheers and applause, and Wilbur gave a polite bow.

Quackity didn’t realize he was clapping until he looked down at his hands, already red and raw. All the rage from the idea of a song being written about him distracted him from the fact that the song was good. Very good. Great, even.

“So, what’d you think, Big Q?”

“Shit!” 

Quackity whipped his head around to see Wilbur right beside him, already taking a seat on the other side of the table. Quackity cleared his throat.

“Well, uh, Wilbur, I thought it was…very nice.” Quackity responded, thinking carefully of his next words. Oddly enough, the anger from a whole song being written about him seemed to fade away the second he realized that Wilbur was here.

Strange.

“Oh, thank you.” Wilbur smiled, “You’re not gonna believe me, but I wrote that yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I conked out after you left the awning.”

Quackity looked around, expecting the cafe to blow up.

…Thank prime.

“Woke up with a new idea, wrote it down, performed it on stage.” Wilbur continued, “It’s a blur, really.”

“What’s it about?” Quackity asked, trying to magically predict the answer.

Wilbur paused, “Y’know, rivalry. How attention is attention, especially when you’re lonely.”

“Huh.”

Wow. Every day, this man got more pathetic.

The quiet lingered between the two of them. The words of some old guy reading a poem echoed on the speakers of the mic.

He could yell at Wilbur for being so desperate that he wrote a song about him. But then again, Quackity was just sulking about his own exes. Maybe they both suck. Just, Wilbur more so than him. Quackity broke the silence.

“Thank you for…inviting me. Here. The eggnog is very good.”

“No problem, Big Q.” Wilbur said with a twitch of a smile.

The old guy’s poem was too uninteresting to pay attention to. Something about meadows and flowers. So, to pass the time, Quackity looked Wilbur up and down.

Somehow, Wilbur looked even worse than before. His eyes were practically sunken in, his breathing was labored and heavy, and…was he shivering?

“Why are you shivering?”

“No.” Wilbur said quickly.

“Don’t lie to me, you’re shaking.”

“It’s just cold.”

Now that’s a load of bullshit.

And his eyes widened as the realization dawned on him.

“Wilbur, are you sick?!” Quackity squawked.

“What? Why would I be sick?!”

“Fuck do you mean, ‘Why would I be sick’, you’re shivering in this furnace of a cafe!”

“So what if I am?”

“So you’re performing while you're sick, are you stupid?”

Quackity could hear Wilbur squeezing the table.

“Quackity, stop-”

“Oh, no. You’re being stupid. You’re giving me this whole bullshit on not holding myself back, but you’re pushing yourself far too much!”

“F-Fuck-!”

Wilbur grabbed the sides of his head, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

“Wilbur?! Are you okay?!”

“I need to go.”

“Wilbur, wait-”

“Goodbye, Big Q.”

“Wilbur!”

Wilbur stood, bracing himself along the wall. He dragged himself towards the exit of the cafe. He gave a polite nod to Niki, as she smiled at him.

Quackity almost stood from his seat to stop him.

The door closed with a shudder.

The man on stage finished, as the audience applauded him. Quackity did not cheer. Instead, he took a sip of his eggnog, and sighed.

What was Wilbur? An enemy? A friend? Whatever he was, no one should be sick like that.

And those feelings. Those confusing feelings of tolerance. They kept writhing within him. But Quackity swallowed them down. There was too much going on, and he just needed to…breathe.

As a magenta-haired person and a blonde-haired woman walked up to the stage, preparing some spoken word poetry, Quackity sat back in his chair and sighed.

Maybe listening would do him good.

A slip of the chair jolted him again out of his thoughts. No listening or thinking today, apparently.

Quackity looked underneath his table.

The Two of Hearts rested below the leg of the chair, discarded. Wilbur’s signature sprawled against the face of the card, almost as messy as the way he looked.

He picked it up, noticing a sticky note on the back.

“Fuck you.”

-Wilbur Soot

Quackity snorted in mild amusement and tucked the card into his pocket. Sure, he was upset that there was no big spat over the card, but at least he bothered to return it. When the time comes, he’ll be sure to sneak the card back into his grasp.

And while we're at it, get him some Tylenol.

Prime, he hopes Wilbur’s okay by tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Wilbur felt like shit.

That’s it. That’s the opener.

There was no putting it lightly. Ever since he left that cafe, his body had been steadily withering. It was a familiar feeling of wilting, writhing sickness. One that he could feel crawling under his skin. And he loathed the feeling like no other.

He could barely swallow down the gas station ramen he tried to use to soothe his throat. Fiery red and cracked, ablaze the second it dripped down his tongue.

Sleeping that night on the bench was just about as close to hell as he could get. One would think that would make him feel warmer, but no. Every time he’d close his eyes, a horrible chill would wrack through his body, tossing his blanket (and Friend) onto the ground.

And that morning was something that he’s currently repressing. He just…couldn’t deal with it. The number of people who turned up their chins at the sight of his shivering, pale body. They’d just assume he overdosed on something, and move on with their day. Who’d trust a quivering homeless man, anyway?

But he’s survived Swine Flu, Covid-19, hell, even Tuberculosis (don’t ask). Nothing’s gonna phase him. Except back then, he had a house to rest in. Money for medication. Warmth.

Obviously, he’s fucked.

He leaned against the wall behind him, cradling his guitar. Not a lot of money today so far…considering his voice breaks when he's sick. But surely, it’s fine if he skips breakfast?

Or maybe he’ll just beg for food. At this point, he’s stooped too low to hold on to the last shreds of dignity he had as a homeless man. What would he even put on his cardboard sign? “Sick, Poor, Starving, Anything Helps”? Or how about “Give Me Your Fucking Money”. That works.

It was about 3:45pm, based on the time of the cafe behind him. 3:45pm was an interesting time. Either busy as all hell, or so dull and boring that there was nothing to do but play a round of solitaire. Especially difficult when your deck of cards is falling apart just as much as you.

Admittedly, he did think of Quackity whenever he saw the Two of Hearts…but he’d never say that out loud.

…Speak of the devil.

There he was, right across the street, shuffling his cards. Wilbur was almost relieved to see him.

Almost.

“Quackity-”

He’s interrupted by his own hacking cough.

Quackity turned to him, with an unreadable expression. With hesitation, the magician started to approach… Without even looking both ways. The lunatic.

Once he arrived below the awning, Quackity chucked something at him.

“…Here.” Quackity sighed.

A “Pap!” sounded between the two of them, quickly identified as the very distinct sound of a card hitting the pavement. Wilbur could only guess what card it was.

“The Two of Hearts.”

“Yep.” Quackity answered, popping the ‘P’.

Wilbur picked up the card, removing the “Fuck You” post-it note that still remained on it. He ran his thumb over any possible residue left on the card, as if it was something to preserve. To protect.

“Why didn’t you hide it this time?” Wilbur asked with a tilt of his head.

“I thought you needed a break from my bullshittery.”

“Much appreciated, thank you.” He muttered sarcastically.

…The fuck is bullshittery?

“Oh. I almost forgot. Here. A mutt needs his treats.”

Quackity threw something else at him.

“Can you stop throwing shit at me-?!”

“Nah. It’s funny.”

Wilbur grumbled and looked down at the…packet of DayQuil on the ground.

“DayQuil?” Wilbur questioned.

“Yeah. Take it.” Quackity commanded.

“But I don’t n-“

“Take it.”

He opened the packet and swallowed the capsules. A small gagged noise squeaked out of his mouth.

“With water!! With water, you fucking dumbass!!!” Quackity squawked as he threw a plastic water bottle at him.

“Prime fucking- STOP THROWING SHIT-“ He yelled, praying the DayQuil didn’t fall out of his mouth.

“ SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CHUG. ”

“WAIT-“

It was too late. Quackity had shoved the plastic bottle into his mouth. The DayQuil was washed down without a hitch.

“ Absolute dumbass, you don’t even take care of yourself, so I have to, fucking bitch… ” Quackity muttered, “Alright. Should kick in in thirty.”

Wilbur pulled the water bottle from his mouth.

“I don’t need to be bottle-fed like a damn infant.” He grumbled.

“I know. But I missed fucking with you. I need to meet my daily quota of ruining your day.”

"Didn't you just say you would spare me from your bullshitting...er, bullshittery?"

"I lied. Never trust a magician."

Wilbur grumbled, “Whatever.”

A familiar silence passed the two of them. More comfortable than previously. Unfortunately, Wilbur felt something build up in his nose, and had to sneeze like a damn old man, ruining the peace and quiet.

“WAAAAEEE-TCHOOO-” He covered his mouth with his hands.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“...Wow. Thanks.”

No blessings today, apparently. Wilbur rolled his eyes, turning to the side-

Rich person.

He perked up like a seagull who just saw a fry drop on the floor. One of those battered ones with the crumbs. Mmmmm…

Prime above, it looked like he was made of diamonds. Surely he had a penny to spare…or a few benjamins…

Wilbur stood.

“Wilbur, no, sit back down!” Quackity commanded.

“Quackity, do you see how rich that fucking person is?”

“I don't care, you- Oh my prime, he looks like he feeds caviar to his dog!”

“Can you feed caviar to dogs?”

“I don’t know, look it up, but-”

Wilbur grabbed his guitar, armed like a sword.

“Wilbur, stop. Seriously. The DayQuil still needs to kick in and you’re sick as shit!”

“Too late, already got a song in mind.”

“Wilbur-”

He slid his capo to the fourth fret. Same placement as his last song.

Prime above, did he love key changes. Specifically, ones with a fourth interval. Too damn easy to play chords for. It was a simple song, really. Written about his ex- Prime, he was desperate. But isn’t that what a song is? A channeling of emotions, begging to be released?

Even if releasing it meant making him more sick.

Because Wilbur was hungry. For money. For food. For attention.

For solace.

“Yo! Cough - Rich guy!"

The man immediately turned around.

“Uh...Yeah? What is it? And I have a name, actually.” He responded in a rather nasally voice. Wilbur felt Quackity cringe out of second hand embarrassment behind him.

“And pray tell, would you PLEASE tell us what it is, Rich Guy?!” Wilbur motioned like a bad stage actor.

“ Oh my prime- Skeppy! It’s Skeppy!” Skeppy sighed.

“Wonderful! Now, Mr- cough - Mr. Skeppy, how much for a song?”

“Uh…I pay you to sing a song?”

“Of course. I’m a homeless man, I’m poor. Please. Donate to those in need.” He pressed his hands together in a praying motion.

The man looked over to Quackity.

“...Is he good?” He questioned.

“He’s a homeless man on the street, of course he’s not okay in the head. Picking his brain would probably leave you scarred for the rest of your life.”

“No, I mean, is he a good singer?” Skeppy pressed.

“I mean, yeah, but-”

“Eh. Entertain me.” Skeppy interrupted, “You show me your stuff, uh…homeless guy.”

“Wilbur.”

“...Homeless guy, and I’ll pay you.”

“You’re fucking kidding!” Quackity began.

“Shhhhhhhh.” Wilbur shushed.

“Wil-”

“ Shhhhhhhhhh. ” Wilbur shushed shushingly, making a shushed motion to Quackity’s lips, shushing him. “Let me have this.”

“If you die, I’m bringing confetti to your funeral! And mocking you post-mortem!”

“Oh, you’re coming to my funeral. Fantastic. Anyway! Enjoy my suffering.”

He cleared his throat and began to strum.

You Forget Yourself

Bend in two for you

Scare me half to death, again

Walk on shards of glass

Crystalize the blood, flows like rain

He immediately regretted picking that particular song. Because not only was it very loud, and very screamy, but it NEVER wavered in its intensity. And he could tell that this rich guy- Skeppy, or whatever- was put off by its descriptions.

Obviously, he’s fucked. Even more so than usual.

But Wilbur didn’t stop.

Oh, you know I’d intertwine

Without a doubt in mind

But you forget yourself

You taste like Novocaine

Cocaine on a summer day

But you forget yourself

Forget yourself

He could feel searing, blistering agony in his throat. The kind that claws at your throat until it’s shredded like meat.

But Wilbur didn’t stop.

I feel the holes within my veins

Trample over me, my friend

You pull the sinew from my bones

Tie it all to yours, together till the end

You know I’d intertwine

Without a doubt in mind

But you forget yourself

You taste like novocaine

Cigarettes on a summer day

But you forget yourself

Forget yourself

For a moment, he heard a ringing in his ears, immediately drowned out by the pure torture of screaming these lyrics as loudly as possible.

It hurt. Oh, prime, it hurt. It felt like daggers in every tendon of his neck.

But Wilbur could not stop.

Where do I end, and you begin?

Where’s the knot, who’s pulling thin?

You know I’d intertwine

Without a doubt in mind

But I forget myself

You taste like novocaine

Cinnamon on a summer day

But we forget ourselves

Forget ourselves

You taste like novocaine

Cocaine on a summer day

But you forget yourself

Forget yourself

With one last strum, the song was complete. His forehead was misted in a sheen of sweat, and hot and ragged breath slipped his lips.

“…Cool.”

Skeppy threw him 300 dollars, and left.

“T…Thank you.” Wilbur said to no one.

There was about 7 seconds of silence, until it was shattered by Quackity grabbing Wilbur by the shoulders and violently shaking him.

“Are you fucking stupid?!?! Why the hell would you pick THAT song?!?! You’re sick as shit, you’re gonna…......dayquil...hasn't...yet”

"...What?"

Quackity was saying something.

Wilbur knew it.

"Motherfucker....don't care...me..."

But the ringing was back, loud and muffled at the same time.

And suddenly, it was cold.

“ …pale as hell….Wilbur? Stay…. ”

"Quackity...I don't..." He couldn't even bring himself to say anything. It never left his mouth.

"Stay...please..."

...

Where did his body end and the air begin?

Why was the air around so thin?

Soon the void arrived by force.

And Wilbur crumpled into the floor.

A thud on his head and a lapse in his skull.

A feeling that swelled from the money he pulled.

There was no more burning, no more pain.

I guess I forgot myself again.

Chapter Text

Homeless people look really fucking stupid when they’re lying on the floor.

And by homeless people, Quackity meant Wilbur. And only Wilbur. …Nobody else.

Wilbur, by law of association, is now every single homeless person ever. So if you happen to be homeless, congratulations (rather, Quackity’s condolences), you are now Wilbur Soot. Dumbest man to exist since whoever invented wasps.

Wilbur Soot laid sprawled on the ground, curled up like the sleeping mutt he was. Sweat soaked his ragged clothes, and a puddle of drool was pouring out of his mouth. He didn’t look peaceful, no, not one bit. He looked anguished.

“...Wil? Wil, get up, you’re scaring me.” Quackity kicked at his side. No response.

Quackity snapped his fingers.

“Wil. Wilbur. Get the fuck up.”

Quackity felt his chest tighten with anticipation as Wilbur laid there silently. Silently, except for the ragged breathing coming from the obviously unwell man. Snap. Snap.

“Wilbur!!! Hey!!”

Quackity knelt down to shake him.

“Hhhhhnnnnnnnnngggggggghhhhhhhh...” Wilbur groaned, 30 characters long.

A sense of unease washed over Quackity at the lack of response. He was relieved he was alive but- he definitely wasn’t in good health.

“Shit. Shit, hey. Get up.”

Wilbur barely moved his face before passing out yet again. Quackity stared at the limp body of his friend the homeless musician, and sighed.

Wilbur was sick, that much was obvious. But he's as good as dead out here on the streets like this.

“You aren’t staying under the awning, Prime knows that.” Quackity groaned.

“Where would he go then?” He thought to himself. The hospital, maybe? Neither of them had the money for it. Besides, he knew both of them would run from an ambulance the second it arrived. That was, if Wilbur was conscious.

The ER and Urgent Care were possibilities, but once again, money. It's all about money.

Quackity never liked the ambience of the hospital anyway. The beeping of the heart monitor, the stinging smell of hand sanitizer, the trust you put in the doctors.

The trust you put in people.

The trust that might just fade away.

The trust forgotten, the trust.

The trust.

Their trust.

Stop thinking about it.

He resumed his train of thought.

”Why not just take him back to his house-” He caught himself thinking.

Yes. The house. The homeless man’s house. The house that the homeless man pays for. Obviously, a homeless man has a house. What kind of homeless man wouldn’t have a house? An imbecile, that’s what.

…A house. Any house.

Quackity looked at Wilbur with a glint of something in his eyes. And he thought to himself. Really thought to himself.

Why not just leave him there? By all means, he could leave him to writhe in his sickness. It would be deserved. Hell, it would be funny. That’s what he gets for stealing his money. His time. His idiots, his free space in mind!

He’s an ass. He’s a dick. He’s a bastard, a mutt. He’s so many words that Quackity doesn’t even know how to say.

And Wilbur, oh, Wilbur. He sang himself to unconsciousness. What a pathetic way to lose yourself. Become so absorbed in what you do, and what you create, that it eats you from the inside. Until it rips out of you, screaming and visceral and real .

Out of your mouth.

Out of your hands.

Out of the hands…that hold the cards…Oh, Prime.

Quackity would have done the same exact thing.

It didn’t matter how sick he was, how injured he was. If every finger had been broken, he would try to find a way to make those cards swim along his hands in any direction. Direct their attention to him, him and his magic, him and his art!!

They were artists. They needed that art to live. No. Quackity needed it to live. Wilbur needed it to survive .

Where do I end and you begin?

Something clicked. Something started to make sense.

He made a decision.

Now the homeless man can look really fucking stupid on his couch.

Step One: Pick Up The Stupid Fucking Homeless Man.

Quackity placed his hand under his shoulder to prop him up. Warm, concerningly so. A bit of saliva dribbled down Wilbur’s chin, as his mouth hung open like a starving man. And Prime, was he skinny. Terrifyingly both easy and cumbersome to move. He wasn’t just loose, he was completely slack. Like an eel. Like the eel on the website where you drag your mouse on the screen and slap the guy in the face with an eel.

Wilbur. Both the man, and the eel.

“ Dios, eres como una maldita anguila …” Quackity muttered under his breath.

Weelbur- His mistake, Wilbur, wound up being slung over his shoulder. It likely wasn’t comfortable for him, but it was for Quackity, and that’s what mattered. With one arm, Quackity held both his guitar and bag of supplies, which were somehow more cumbersome then Guilbur. Weelbur, Guilbur, same difference. Both slimy little idiots.

Thus, Quackity began the long journey to his 2001 Toyota Corolla™.

Step Two: Get To Your 2001 Toyota Corolla™

It was about 20 feet away.

Step Three: Get The Stupid Fucking Homeless Man Into Your 2001 Toyota Corolla™

Shove.

Shove.

“Get in the-” Shove . “Stupid car-” Shove.

Wilbur landed back on the road like a sad linguini. Getting his guitar and belongings in the truck was hard enough, but this was ridiculous.

“Heh?!”

Quackity turned around.

“How’s the ‘kidnapping a homeless man goin’?” A monotone voice called.

“Who the hell are you?” Quackity squawked.

He was some kind of pink haired, comically buff man. Too buff for Quackity’s tastes.

“Doesn’t matter.” He smiled, “Would it help if I tossed him in like clothes to a washin’ machine?”

“...Sureeeee.” Quackity drawled.

The pink-haired man, without any form of effort, managed to scoop Wilbur up stray-cat style, and threw him into the front seat. Quackity stood in silence, amazed by the sheer power (and audacity) of the man. The door slammed shut, knocking him out of his inner thoughts.

Quackity glared at the man in almost a threat, “I need your workout routine. Now.”

“A good magician never reveals his secrets.”

“You bastard, that’s my line.”

“What are you, Houdini?” The man smirked.

Quackity’s eyes twitched. “I’m not in the mood for a convoluted rivals thing.”

“Rats, plans foiled again. Darn you, kidnapper guy.” He shook his fist in the air with vigor.

“I…I’m not kidnapping him. I’m just,” He sighed, “Moving him to my house without his consent- okay, yeah, I’m kidnapping him. ”

“Hey, I love a good crime. Oh, here’s my card.”

The man handed Quackity a very professional-looking slip of paper.

Technoblade

Sword Swallower, Strongman, Poet

XXX-XXX-XXXX

[email protected]

(I do it for free, the card is just funny to me)

“Do you…perform professionally, or…” Quackity trailed off.

The pink-haired man, now known as Technoblade, laughed, “Oh, no, I just do it for fun.”

“You…swallow swords.”

“They taste good.” Technoblade said, completely serious.

Quackity froze.

“Well, if you ever need my help. Call that number.”

“...Alright, then. Bye, uh…Technoblade.”

“See ya.” Technoblade nodded, as he returned in the direction he came from.

Quackity rubbed his head. Wilbur’s labored breath fogged up the side of his window, condensating it with whatever putrid ailment had him knocked out. And something stirred.

That feeling. That strange feeling of tolerance, no, not just tolerance. Concern. It kept coming back to him, but why? It didn’t make any semblance of sense. Sure, they were similar. And yes, Quackity wanted to help him, but…what had Wilbur ever done for him? Something needs to be done in exchange for something. Bets. Deals. They’ve made deals. They’ve made bets. They played games, this was a game, right?

Then why did it feel like both sides were losing?

Step Four: Drive Home in Silence

Quackity sat in the driver’s seat and placed his head on the steering wheel. He huffed and reached to start the car.

“You’re still unconscious? …Or asleep?”

Only whispers of breath sounded from Wilbur. Quackity's hand lowered.

“Y’know, it’s funny, the last time I had quiet like this with you…was that night on the bench a few days ago.”

…

“That reminds me, you know that whole…passion speech you gave me?” Quackity recalled, “I…I kept practicing the whole ‘stage presence’ thing or whatever, and…it helped a lot. Made a bit more money than usual, 20 whole dollars.”

He shook his head and leaned back, staring at the car roof with a scoff.

“You really outdid yourself, huh? 300 whole dollars for singing a little song. And it knocked you out! Prime, I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

…

“No really , I hope you wake up shaking in bed and say to yourself,” He continued in a horrendous British accent, “Oh, look at me!! I’m Wilbah Suit , I’d risk my life for a couple dollars if it means I get to scream myself to death!! Tch. What am I gonna do with you? ”

…

…

Quackity couldn’t bear the silence.

“You know what?!” Quackity sneered. “There’s something wrong with you. There has to be. There’s something. I just know it. And there’s something wrong with me, too, and I…I don’t like it. I don’t like it very much.”

Quackity turned to Wilbur with anger in his eyes.

“And, and I’m just gonna say this: I fucking hate you.” Quackity snarled, “I hate you so damn much, and you wanna know why?! We’re fucked up for the same exact reason. Money. We’re fucked up because of money. Money we want, money we don’t have, and you dangle it above my head like I’m not allowed to have a problem with money because your problem with money is objectively WORSE!!!”

The magician punched the horn, as a honk sounded out from his car. He seethed through his teeth, and laughed to himself with a delirious edge. But his gaze, his gaze caught his attention as he looked into the rearview mirror of the car.

His eyes were brimming with tears.

Quackity took a few loud deep breaths. He squeezed the wheel with a vice-like grip.

"Why...why do you keep doing this? Why are you like this? I don't get it! I don't...get it."

There was a long, painful pause.

“Look. I like the game we play. The...Two of Hearts thing, the whole...everything. I like messing with you. And I’m never gonna say that to your face, because that means I’ll lose. But…”

He turned to Wilbur, more solemn than before.

“...I don’t know how I’d spend my morning without you calling me a dick. Or…anything, really. It’d just be unbearable. I need someone to…to keep me going. To be there with me, in the…worst way possible, fuck. You’re annoying, you’re dramatic, you care so much about music that it’s like, the only thing you talk about, and I still…I still want you to be okay. I care. I don’t like you, but…I care.”

Quackity exhaled, checking his face for tears. None had spilled over. Thank Prime.

“Maybe I don’t hate you that much. Maybe I just hate that…of all the people in the world, it had to be you.”

Quackity took one last glance at him.

“Thank Prime, you can’t hear this.” He mumbled.

He put his keys into the ignition and started the car. With a foot to the gas pedal, he made his way towards his apartment.

Wilbur’s shallow breathing, the rumble of the engine, and the tires on the road were the only consistent sounds throughout the drive. Other than the occasional click of a turn signal, the honk of a distant car, and the rustle of the Two of Hearts now placed in Wilbur’s pocket. 

It felt important.

Few words were spoken. All from a sleep-talking Wilbur, muttering to himself, “ There are…so many bees… ” Sure, it was unnerving, but Quackity felt a bit better knowing that he wasn’t unconscious the entire time he was asleep. When did he stop being unconscious? Quackity wasn’t sure.

But he hoped Wilbur was too deep in his slumber to hear him softly singing to himself.

Stay with me, be petty with me, I’ll be okay.

As long as you’re with me, being petty with me, I’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

…

Nothing.

Perfect nothing.

There was no air to feel. No stench of the concrete or metal of the strings. Quackity’s cheap mall cologne, the smell of the expensive leather of the wallet that now stained the 300 dollar bills that ceased to be...all gone. Did he even exist? He wasn’t sure.

It was the kind of nothing that suffocated you. Suffocating enough to make you forget that breathing was even an option. The nothing that destroyed your proprioception (Wilbur only knew what that word meant because of a song he wrote), leaving you no more than just a concept. The idea of existence, something intangible but there.

There. Such a silly word. Was it a place that makes something there? Or was it the idea that something existed in that place? Would there be a ‘There’ in a world of nothing, ergo, the world that he found himself in now?

Was that ‘There’ here? In this void? In this space between blinks, this moment before breath, this place. Neither heaven nor hell, but something in between. Limbo? Purgatory? Those imply that this place exists. And this place...definitely didn't.

Is there even true emptiness? Is true nothingness even possible? Considering that even space is filled with the atoms of hydrogen, space dust, and…everything, it's likely something that hasn't been conceived yet.

Maybe he wasn't anywhere at all. Maybe he just was.

”Hello?” He called, his voice oddly clear.

Nobody answered. The air was swallowed up in a sickly green. Come to think of it, everything was green.

Oh Prime. He’s in hell. He’s in hell, and hell is green. Hell is real, and it’s green. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

So there is a here/there, after all.

”Nonono, wait, please, I don’t wanna die, this can’t be it!! This can’t be fucking real, I can’t die again!! Not now!!”

There was no reply, other than a sharp, painful ringing in his ear. A fleeting sense in a world of numbness. It wasn’t like the dreams he had while comatose. Because, at least there was something there to entertain him.

”I’m not ready, I’ve already beaten death once, I don’t wanna die!!! Please!!” He hiccuped.

”....bur

……………ake……..

up…….”

Snap.

The voice.

It’s so familiar.

”Get me out of here, please, please, please-”

”G…….

the……..ck……

Up…..”

Snap.

“I don’t wanna die alone…not here, not now! I don’t want to be alone…please…Somebody, anybody, help me! Help me!”

”...bur.”

“....ilbur….”

“Wilbur!!”

SNAP! His vision finally cleared.

Where’s the voice, where’s the voice? It’s so…sharp? And nasally?

Oh. Oh no.

As if he’d crawled straight out of hell/purgatory/limbo/whatever-the-fuck-happens-after-you-die, Quackity leaned over him with a pale and shaky expression on his face.

“Thank Prime, you aren’t fucking dead!” Quackity yawped, “You were out for like 10 minutes!!! You woke up in my car, and said something about how many bees there were? And passed out the second you stood up!!! What the fuck is-”

“Quackity…” Wilbur spilled.

“…What.”

“...Hell’s real and it’s green…” Wilbur mumbled, coughing like a dying Victorian child who wanted to see the gardens one last time.

“I don’t even want to know what you saw while you were out.” Quackity shook his head.

“....greeeeeeeeeeen…..” He moaned, “....where the bitch am I…”

“Where the…bitch- You’re in my apartment, dumbass.” Quackity chastised.

Wilbur looked around, noticing the many posters of famous magicians, the unwashed dishes, and the bookshelf dedicated to playing cards and other magic paraphernalia. Magic wands, handcuffs, rings that could link and unlink in a blink of an eye.

Sweet Prime, he’s at Quackity’s place.

“...Conk m’out with a frying pan, for the love of prime….” Wilbur slurred, tilting his head to the side.

“No. You are not passing out again. Fuck that.” Quackity snarled, “Do you think you can drink something right now?”

“M’name’s Wilbur Soot, I’m a musician, I can drink whatever I want….”

“Here…gatorade.”

Wilbur’s hand flopped around like a cat’s tail. It took about 20 seconds before he grasped something that felt like a bottle. Bringing it to his lips, he relished the exquisite flavor of blue. It was only then that he could feel the blanket covering his body and the couch cushions below him.

“Why’d you…take me ‘ere?”

“Because I was w…because I just did!! I gave you a flu test and you tested positive!! Do you not get your flu shot or something? Idiot!! Fucking idiot!”

“Y’shoved a test up my arse?” Wilbur cried, very concerned about the well-being of his arse.

“Your nose, dipshit.” Quackity enunciated.

“Y’shoved my nose up my arse!?” Wilbur squawked. Quackity facepalmed.

“Nothing is up your arse-ASS!!! Prime, Wilbur, stop talking about your ass!”

Wilbur sighed, “‘H…Howdja even get me ‘ere…Big Q…”

“Kidnapped you, tried to throw you in my car, didn’t work so a really buff guy with pink hair gave me his card.”

Quackity handed the card to him, as he inspected.

“Sure…believe it when I see it. Technoblade’s a weird ass name...” Wilbur uttered as he shoved the card in his pocket-

The Two of Hearts.

Wilbur pulled out the cursed card as he stared at it. He opened his mouth to chastise Quackity, right as a horrid chill ran through his body like a bullet train.

“You okay?”

“Just…peachy.” Wilbur coughed, now feeling the full effects of his sickness. Right. He forgot about that. He tossed the card aside, landing on the coffee table beside a lamp. “M’going to my bench.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

What?

What!?

WHAT!?

“Whaddya mean no!! Are you discriminatin’ against me? A homeless!?” Wilbur whined.

“You can barely talk, your fever is 103.8-”

“Fuck off with your Fahrenheit…” Wilbur grumbled, britishly.

“And you’re obviously delusional. So, no. No, I am not letting you go back out there.”

“But Quaaaaaaaackity…”

“No.”

“QuAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaCkItY…"

“What!?”

“...Hell’s real and it's green.”

Quackity slammed his hands down on the coffee table. It took 4 good seconds before Wilbur flinched.

“But you are in my territory, Soot.” Quackity commanded, “And that means I’m in charge here. So you’re staying here until your fever’s gone, or the test comes back negative.”

“Your territory? Who’s the mutt…pissin’ on the fire hydrant now…?” 

“Still you.”

“Fuuuuuuuck, I want my lawyer.”

“Like you could afford one.” The Magician sighed, “Now. I’m going to make my absolutely amazing chicken noodle soup from a can that no one is going to complain about."

"From a can?" Wilbur whined.

"That no one is going to complain about." Quackity repeated, then rubbed his forehead. "Just...stay here, get some rest, or I’m strapping you to the couch. Don't be stupid."

“...Fine.” Wilbur uttered, turning his sickly body towards the back of the couch.

This was going to be a long day.

♪  ♫  ♬ - ♬  ♫  ♪

Mediocre. Too long in the microwave, the chicken pieces were slightly burnt. Tasted like corporate tolerance and broken promises. If he were Gordon Ramsey, he would have cursed at Quackity, calling him an idiot sandwich, and forced him to return his apron.

But oddly enough, Wilbur was grateful for the attempt. Food was food, right? And the electrolytes (said with a bit of reverb) were quite beneficial, since he was infected with “I’m a pathetic bastard who needs someone to take care of me or I flop over like a car wash inflatable guy” disease. So he kept his mouth shut.

For a moment, he wanted to thank Quackity. Ask for seconds. But that was folding, was it not? The game couldn’t end. The game was important. The game was supposed to go on for eternity, wasn’t it? They were supposed to be rivals. Enemies, even.

Never closer.

But something…something was happening to him. He didn’t feel like gagging seeing Quackity organize his card collection. Or the need to insult him, for example, ‘You look like how milk smells.’

Right. There was no reason to be annoyed, because there was nothing to fight over. They hadn’t had anything to fight over in quite a bit. Some kind of unspoken truce had filled the air after that night on the bench.

And The Two of Hearts. It wasn’t hidden away, or cleverly revealed. It was…thrown at him. Just given. That was boring, Wilbur hated boring things. He needed excitement. He needed it like the oxygen that stung his lungs whenever he wanted to sing.

But he felt satisfied just being here. Around him. There wasn’t a pull towards him. Just…acknowledgement. You exist, I exist, and that’s okay.

I will only strike if you strike me first.

“Big Q?” Wilbur rasped.

Quackity paused his organizing, and turned to Wilbur with a tilt of his head.

“Do you need something?”

Does he need something- Is he stupid? Of course he needs something!!

“What are we?”

HUH!?

“What?” Quackity stammered.

“I mean, uh, you know. Are we…on a truce? And…yeah.”

“Truce!! The fuck do you mean by a truce?!”

“Like, you know, being rivals, and all. If…I may."

Quackity snorted, “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re barely rivals anymore. That went out the window the second we talked on the bench.”

Wilbur blinked a couple times, mulling over the thought for just about 7 seconds.

“Then enlighten me, dickhead. What is a good rival?!”

“For one, a rivalry should last a bit longer than a week. Now here you are, staying at my place because you’re sick.” Quackity sneered, counting on his fingers.

“Well, that’s-”

“For two, we have to constantly be one-upping each other. The night on the bench, the open mic, and the whole ‘Let me play for 300 dollars’ thing proved me otherwise. Real rivals don’t have truces.”

Why did they use dollars in L’Manburg? Weren’t most people in the city…british? Some things may never be explained. Wilbur snapped back to attention as Quackity resumed his count.

“And for three,” Quackity finished, “Rivals hate each other. We don’t hate each other.”

“Now that’s a load of bullshit.” Wilbur snarled, standing up from the couch. The blood rushed to his head, as he stumbled slightly.

“Wilbur, sit back down.” Quackity raised his hands in a cautioning motion.

“Hell, no.” He retorted, quivering like a soaking wet animal, “Fuck no, Quackity. We’ve been dodging talking about this, for what, ages? What. The hell. Are we.”

“...Street performers.”

Something broke.

Wilbur threw away his self preservation, sickness behavior, and right mind, and lunged for Quackity. In his clammy hands, the front of that stupid little red dress shirt, yanking the magician towards him. There was only about a hand’s length of distance from the two of them. And he hoped to Prime that Quackity wouldn’t see the red on his face as sickness, but anger.

“Get your flu-fucked face outta my face-”

“I don’t know what the hell we are, I don’t know why this is such a hard question for you to understand, but I need to know- Are we enemies or not? What are we as of NOW?!”

“I'm not sure anymore-” Quackity began.

Wilbur shook him, “Figure it out then, dammit! I want to know what kind of game we’re playing, and prime-be-damned, I’m gonna win!!!”

Quackity scoffed in disbelief.

“So that’s what this is about, huh!? The...The game!! The stupid game where I try to one up you!? Is that all that matters to you? Was everything some kind of strategy? You invited me to your open mic night. We sat at a table, and just…talked. You…the bench!! The fucking bench! Did it mean anything to you?!”

There was almost pain in Quackity’s eyes. At this moment, it was nothing more than weakness. Wilbur could use that. Wilbur could use that, pull it out of the other like a splinter. Painfully, slowly, just enough to wound him. Just so it fragments, meaning Quackity would have to come right back for him. Just to break it apart. Again, and again, and again.

But Wilbur couldn’t move.

He found himself lost in thought. Thinking not in words, but in feelings. Feelings that not even he could write songs about. Terrifying, yet raw and real. Something not even poetry could describe.

In the simplest words he could manage, he muttered a quiet, “Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

And slowly, like through molasses, Wilbur lowered his hand, taking a step back. He sat down in front of the couch’s back. and sighed. His body ached with each new motion.

“It’s…it’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but it’s…” Wilbur took a deep breath, “Comforting knowing someone who’s just as passionate as I am.”

Wilbur turned to Quackity, looking at him. Not through him. At him.

Not the magician.

Not the bastard.

Quackity.

The Quackity who sat down in front of him on the opposite wall.

Wilbur collected himself, and thought…truly thought about his next words.

“You were right. I am a mutt. I’m loud and obnoxious and messy and disgusting and all of those things I never want to put into music. Haven’t showered in Prime knows how long: I’m homeless for Prime’s sake. But you know what? And believe me, if there’s one thing I know about dogs, it's that they’re damn loyal. And no matter what happens, rivals or not, I want to keep coming back. Playing fetch with that damn card or whatever it is you want with me. Because you know what? I don’t care if you actually want to be my rival or…friend. I just want to be closer to you.”

Quackity huffed from his nose.

“You make no sense sometimes, Soot. Why do you wanna be ‘friends’ or whatever now, instead of during the bench? When we first met? Hell, even that open mic, or when I showed you that magic trick?”

“Because I thought that was part of the game.” Wilbur admitted, ”I thought that…trying to get you to prove yourself as someone with passion would make you fight back harder. But, it didn’t. It just softened you up, or something.”

Quackity collected his thoughts, “It pissed me off. But…I don’t know when, but…It just made me worry about you. Probably at that open mic where you walked off.”

Wilbur felt sick to his stomach at the mere thought.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I kinda had a whole breakdown in the car about it. Normal stuff. I think we feel the same way about each other."

Wilbur felt his voice shake ever so slightly, “So…you don’t hate me?”

“No. I don’t.” Quackity affirmed.

“I don’t think I hate you, either.” Wilbur admitted.

“You know, the way you say that, Soot, I think you might actually care about me.”

Care.

Care.

Care.

Oh, Prime, he could feel bile rising further up his throat.

Not a metaphorical bile, more like actual-

Wilbur grabbed the empty bowl of soup and emptied his stomach into it. His nose ran thick with mucus, as the air soured with the putrid stench. He could feel acid and food crawling up his throat again and again and it burned. Oh Prime, it burned. 

“Oh fuck, holy fuck, you’re that disgusted by me??” Quackity half laughed, half screamed.

“Prime almighty- retch- Get me a bigger bowl.”

“I almost forgot you were sick.”

“Yeah, well, here’s your reminder, sweetheart.”

Wilbur vomited once more into the soup bowl. Quackity stood, scrambling to the kitchen to grab a popcorn bowl labeled ‘The Puke Bucket.’

“Really, though,” Wilbur coughed, his gaze flicking over to the new bowl, “I’m…okay with the whole ‘friends’ thing. As long as we’re not goody-goody with each other.”

“Alright then, it’s settled. We now officially tolerate each other. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“How wonderful.” Wilbur offered his hand.

“I am not shaking that nasty hand of yours, Soot.”

Wilbur lowered his hand, allowing Quackity to slide the bowl in front of him. Of course, followed by him finally throwing up into the dedicated bucket.

“Quite a good…hueugh…puke bucket, Big Q.”

“Why, thank you. Used to be used for popcorn. Then I watched the Saw movies and…yeah. History was made.”

Wilbur stifled a laugh, spitting out a piece of upchuck into the bowl.

“You’ve still got a couple days before I’m not dying of the plague, so…don’t expect to get your bowl back for a while.

“That reminds me, is your fever still there?” Quackity placed a gentle hand against his forehead.

“Probably…” Wilbur managed, not even noticing himself leaning closer into the touch.

“…Are you leaning into my hand-“

“Fuck off-!”

Wilbur scrambled to pull himself away from Quackity, evading the bowl of puke that he really didn’t want to spill.

“Oh, no, you definitely leaned against my hand!” Quackity declared with glee, wiping his hand upon his slacks.

“Shush. Shush-“

“You really are a dog!!”

“I will puke on your shoes.” Wilbur snarled.

“I’ll kick you.”

“Maybe I’d like that.” Wilbur said before thinking.

“STOP.”

A laugh escaped Wilbur’s mouth, relieved that the bile was out of his system. A comfortable silence passed between them. Not to fight. Not to compete. But to just exist with the other.

It felt right.

Until the quiet was shattered by Wilbur turning to Quackity and snatching his shoulders.

“Wait, Quackity, do you realize what this means!?”

“Wilbur? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“Hell! It's REAL! And it’s green!”

…

“…Alright, hospitality is over. Back to enemies.” Quackity declared.

“Fuck!”

♪  ♫  ♬ - ♬  ♫  ♪

Did Wilbur die again or something?

Tommy grumbled to himself, looking out at the shadowed store 5 minutes after closing.

There was no music. None of the ASCAP-approved music that Sam liked to play. Of course, when Tommy was on his own, he played the Animal Crossing soundtrack. Because it was fitting.

And not at all because Sam reminded him of Tom Nook.

It’s been days since Wilbur’s stopped by to say hello. Something had to be off, he just knew it.

Well, Tommy wouldn’t have it. He was Tommy Careful Danger Kraken Innit, dammit, and he was the biggest man. He didn’t need wrong’uns like Wilbur or that magician guy…What was his name? Quackington? Quackity? Whatever. He did want to see another trick. But if Big Dubs doesn’t want him too, then maybe it’s for the best. He really doesn’t want to end up with nothing like Wilbur did.

And Tommy, poor Tommy, his shift ended in thirty minutes. But Sam told him to stay for the whole shift so he could get more money. For college or university or getting lots of beautiful women.

“The fuck am I supposed to do? Eat a guitar pick?”  They were chip shaped, after all.

Tommy sighed as he opened the POS system. The Piece Of Shit system as Tommy liked to call it.

Let’s see, Okta, Dayforce, Gusto, ADP…

…Logic Pro X?

Is that like an evil villain thing? Was Sam evil!?

Tommy opened the application, preparing to see instructions for a death laser, a mind control beam, or even a shrink ray, (Jokes on Sam, being the biggest man was a state of mind. Tommy would kick his ass. With a toothpick, or something).

Mic…? MIDI? …Input?

Oh. This was a music thing.

Tommy clicked Mic and witnessed the horrors of man…of a Digital Audio Workstation. Or a DAW, as Sam liked to call it.

“Woah. Pogchamp!”

Clicking around, he managed to find a drum preset.

Boom, chk, boom-baboom, chk!

Ah, that’s nice. But a melody would be good.

Tommy started clicking the on screen piano. It was a soundfont of a synth, the kind in EDM music. That he was rather fond of, but he’d never say that out loud. TommyInnit only listens to the greatest song of all time: 7PM from New Leaf.

Maybe a bass track would go well here.

Ooh, and a cymbal transition…

It didn’t sound the best, but it was something. Something Tommy could record over.

He clicked the red circle, and started to ramble.

“It’s TommyInnit, The Big Man with it, I’ve got ladies and they all wanna kiss it!” He rapped with exquisite skill.

“‘TOMMY, IS IT? Could I have a minute? A taste of your skill?’ Bitch, you could only lick it!”

Now that.

That was the greatest song of all time.

And suddenly, the darkness of Mellohi Music didn’t feel so suffocating.

Chapter Text

“Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit…” Wilbur sighed.

Quackity knew that getting that essential oil diffuser was honestly a very good decision. And shoving it right under Wilbur’s stupid looking nose was an even better decision. Because finally, that stuffy little voice was gone, slowly starting to dissipate with every breath from the mist.

The couch was less lonely than usual. And the cord of the diffuser was stretched to it’s near limit on the coffee table.

Oddly, comforting.

“It’s not weed, Wilbur.” Quackity teased, lifting his elbow to nudge at him.

“I know, but I can breathe!” Wilbur inhaled as a demonstration, “The MLM people are right, man, maybe essential oils can cure cancer.”

“Why are gay men talking about essential oils?”

“Multilevel Marketing, Quackity.”

“Oh.”

“And besides, it’s more like a flavored vape? Except I wouldn’t put it in my mouth.”

“I don’t think you should put a vape in your mouth, period, Soot. Considering you pussied out on a cig back then.”

“You knew about that?!”

“I visited Mellohi Music and Tommy told me.”

“The fucking narc!” Wilbur huffed, tapping his heel against the ground.

Tommy was a weird one. Way too trusting. Too easy to fool. And really annoying at first. But endearing in his own way? Quackity could recall Tommy’s exact words after he learned of the story.

“Wilbur would never vape. Vaping can deliver toxic metals like nickel and lead into your lungs. That’s metal! In your lungs! Anyway, do your thing, magic boy. I want to be absorbed into your trick like a child on cocomelon.”

“...Think I could get a hit of that eucalyptus?” Quackity leaned closer, trying to let the vapor reach his nose.

“No.” Wilbur pulled the diffuser towards himself, the water inside sloshing around, “Get your own air, Quackity.”

“Fine. Then I’ll steal your air.”

He breathed in.

Merriam Webster defines a decision as both A. The act or process of deciding. And B. A determination arrived at after consideration. Unfortunately, it does not contain a definition for the phrase “Bad Decision." Fortunately, Quackity had a very good example. He had determined that this was the worst decision he had ever made.

Because Wilbur smelled rancid. If vomit, death, and the concept of sadness smelled like a person, it wouldn’t even come close to the sheer stench that this zombie had. Garbage admired the man, truly.

“Wilbur.” Quackity choked, stifling a gag.

“What?

“You smell like shit.”

“Well, yeah. You forget that I’m a homeless man and the nearest place with a shower is the gym 20 minutes away. And I can’t exactly afford a bus pass. Or 3 in 1.”

“No, no, Wilbur. You smell. Like shiiiiiihihihihit.”

“And? That has been established-ACK!”

Quackity didn’t even hesitate. Wilbur was scooped under the shoulders, and dragged towards the bathroom.

“Hey-! HEY!!”

Wilbur writhed in circles like a cat trying to wrangle out of a trip to the vet.

“No! No!” Quackity scolded, “You’re getting in that bathroom, and you’re cleaning yourself up!

Fear graced Wilbur’s eyes.

“I-I’m clean!! I-I’m clean, I swear!! There’s this river that I use instead-”

“DISGUSTING!” The door was kicked open with a SLAM. Wilbur managed to escape Quackity’s grip, only to be grabbed again by the ankles.

Wilbur shrieked, as Quackity pulled into the light of the bathroom like a horror movie monster.

Tossing him against the bath, Quackity looked down on the man with repulsion.

“I don’t give a damn what products you use, I don’t care how much, just TAKE! A FUCKING! SHOWER!!”

The door closed with so much force, the house shook.

Quackity grabbed a dining room chair, and barricaded that bastard in via shoving it under the doorknob.

Silence.

Finally, Quackity had a moment to think to himself.

♪  ♫  ♬ - ♬  ♫  ♪

It was a weirdly nice bathroom. Candles, a few bathbombs, and a shower with multiple products. Not just 3 in 1. Wilbur had never seen such luxuries, even in his childhood.

“Just in and out. No biggie. Don’t think about how…dirty you are, yeah.”

Of course. Wilbur had to remove his clothes. Probably the scariest part of the whole ordeal.

Upon looking around for a security camera, and finding none, Wilbur removed his trenchcoat. Frayed and stitched up, dusted with dirt and grime from the many months out on the streets. The beanie, hiding the knots and oil of his hair, rested on top.

Off was the sweater, undershirt, jeans, boxers, the like. And Friend, of course, was hidden away in the pocket of his coat. It was too close of a call last time. That bastard is not making fun of him for a stuffed lamb plushie.

Staring at himself was like looking at a funhouse mirror. He never realized how sunken in his eyes were. Or how pale he was. Or how…depressed he looked. And that’s just him being sick. Dirt covered his hands and face, scratches and bug bites decorated his neck.

This was saddening. This was really, really, saddening. As bright as the room was, there was no light in his eyes. He grabbed at his arms to try to steel himself from judgement, but rubbing his skin only caused the dirt to rub off.

Yeah, Quackity was right. He stank.

Stinky boy. Sad, sad, stinky boy. Smelly boy with no money. No money. No love.

No…love.

Wilbur patted his face, and turned on the shower.

Water dripped down the showerhead, spraying onto the opposing wall.

“Towel, towel…”

There. Hanging by the shower.

“Alright. Alright.”

He stepped inside.

Wow. Showering after like 4 months felt really good. Wilbur took a moment to just…soak in the feeling of the water caressing his skin like a soft kiss. The water ran brown with dirt, swirling into the drain.

Quackity sure had nice body wash. Not the cheap stuff, oh no, actual moisturizer. With benefits. Like softer skin, and a more thorough wash. Wilbur poured a glob on his hand, large enough to coat his entire palm.

The dirt was scrubbed off with a ferocity that he hadn’t sung with in ages. Of course, he struggled to reach his back, as all people would do. Unless they have freakishly long arms. Like Ranboo. Hadn’t Tommy called him a beanpole a couple of times?

His skin was almost red, which he saw as a sign to ease up on the scrubbing. Suds and bubbles washed off of his skin as he simply…ran his hands over himself. No more dirt, no more grime, just…skin.

The shampoo smelled quite nice. Wilbur liked the slight marbly effect it had.

The pressure on his head was more than welcome as the pads of his fingers rubbed against his scalp. The tangles and knots of his hair were either pulled out by hand, or taken care of by the shampoo: “Detangling and Moisturizing.”

And the conditioner, oh the conditioner. Not at all oily, and the kind that could be washed out immediately. No awkward waiting, just…conditioning.

Soon enough, the shower was done. The water was flicked off as Wilbur wrapped himself in a towel, drying himself off.

Oh, that’s not a towel. That’s a robe. Even better.

Wilbur slid it on and turned to the mirror.

He hadn’t been clean like this in about 2 or 3 years. The bug bites were still there, yes, but. He looked clean. He looked okay. Good, dare he say.

Wilbur put his hands on the counter, staring at himself.

He could’ve looked like this every day, if he hadn’t-

Wilbur paused.

Every day. He could’ve woken up in a house. A warm house. With a warm bed and warm food. A place warm enough not to make playing his guitar hurt through the freezing of his fingers.

If he hadn’t…

If he hadn’t trusted them.

The only water left on his body was the tears streaming down his face. Wilbur crumpled over the counter and clawed at his hair, trying to keep himself together. He could’ve had this. Hell, he should’ve had this. Every hitch of his voice taunted him.

“Look at you. Look at what we took from you.” It seemed to say.

His lip quivered.

“This is what you deserved. And even you couldn’t get it in the end.”

His hands grasped the counter tighter.

“Pathetic.”

Wilbur wept.

♠  ♥  ♦  ♣  -  ♣  ♦  ♥  ♠

The Two of Hearts lay on the ground, right beside the coffee table where Wilbur had spilled his guts.

Quackity lifted it towards his eyes. The corner had been slightly bent from all the tossing it had gone through. The signature bled on the letter ‘R’ at the end of the musician’s name.

It was a card of war; it was a card of friendship.

A card of tolerance; a card of revolt.

A card to submit; a card to trick.

But a card of opportunity, under the right circumstances.

The card reflected the dim light of the living room upon the face. Quackity could have bored holes through the hearts by how much he was staring at them.

Is this why everything started off so poorly? Over a card?

Over a fight?

Petty. That’s what it was. Wilbur was right. Those lyrics, those “games”, everything about him. Petty.

Almost endearing, in a way.

Throw me a bone, it keeps me satisfied…

Of course he would. He’d hide the Two of Hearts as well as he could. But Wilbur would always come back, handing it right back to him.

Quackity could throw it away. End the game. But he never did. For the game was important, like it or not. And it wasn’t like he had anything else going on at the moment.

Not since they left.

He brought his legs to his chest. Warm, yet never warm enough. He buried his eyes into his knees, pressing until all that was visible was dark.

In the floating colors of his eyes, he could barely make something out.

The dim light of an apartment he used to call home. The oven, 2 minutes late, reading 7:52. The smell of apple and cinnamon from a pie, already room temperature.

The heartbreak in Sapnap’s eyes.

The tears in Quackity’s own.

The emptiness in Karl’s.

“Why doesn’t he know me? Why doesn’t he know me? Why doesn’t he- My name. Say my name.”

He couldn’t.

“Please, just say it. Just once. Tell me who I am, tell me you still know me.”

Deep down, he knew it was hopeless.

“Karl. I love you. I love you so much, dammit, and you’re wearing my sweatshirt, and you hold it like you love it. Why can’t you hold me like that?”

“Quackity, he just needs more time, we can figure this out!”

Sapnap’s voice stung like acid down his throat. A throat that was so tight that he could only breathe in the tears he shed that night. Prime, Sapnap. Still somehow there. There in the wood carvings he made for the two of them, there in the smell of musk and pine, there in the flowers that he used to drop off every month.

They stopped being delivered 4 months ago.

He could feel warmth, Karl’s warmth, pressing against his palms. Why did he shake him so hard? He never could shake back something that disappeared like it wasn’t there.

“Karl!! Karl, it’s me!”

“Quackity, get off him, you’re hurting him!”

“Karlos!! Karlos!! Please!! Remember, dammit!! Say something! KARL!”

He reeled back.

The room was still there. It always was. And it was there to hear the almost silent wish that Quackity uttered.

“Ay, Karlos... Deseo que, donde quiera que estés, estés bien. No te olvidaré…”

Of course, Quackity could never be as good a magician as he was. Karl’s greatest trick was, in the end, making every memory of him disappear.

But, oh, what a torturous fate.

To grieve someone who was still alive.

   ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ────  ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ────  ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

War.

Such a simple game.

A long, long game that could go on forever if the chances were perfect. Or done in an instant, if someone gets lucky. One could easily find themselves spinning into it, slamming their cards on the ground with fervor and passion, until palms abraded and bones bruised.

Two cards are placed on the ground, face down. At the same time, both players show their faces. The higher card wins. Aces are high cards, and occasionally jokers surpass wilds in some house rules.

Prime forbid you get a two.

Useless, utterly useless. What good is a card that cannot beat anything? It’s a giveaway card. A single coin inside of a treasure chest. Useless. Weak.

That is, unless it sees itself.

Another two.

Then a war begins.

Three cards are laid out as a prize, face down. Another war is played, and the winning card gets all of the cards at play. That is the only way one could win an ace. Or put use to a two.

The winner is determined by whoever has more cards in the end (at the player's discretion), or if one player wins all of the cards.

An endless game of war.

Endless.

Endless.

The game could go on forever.

Unless someone folds to the other.

But in a game like this, no one would. Glory is a greater prize than anything the world has to offer, after all.

Quackity slid the card back into its place on the coffee table, making sure it looked exactly as it did before.

Wilbur scrubbed at his face, clearing it of the hot tears that clung to his face like undeserved hugs.

War.

Such a simple game.