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All creatures are motivated by something.
Lots of people believe that everyone is motivated by the same thing in different forms. Love, hate, survival instinct, et cetera. They all loved to argue about this. Wilbur Soot, however, was inclined to disagree. He believed that creatures were motivated by all of these, and more, and the varying mixtures of them was what determined what kind of person you were. Tommy, for example, was motivated by a healthy dose of love and an even healthier dose of survival instinct. Wilbur thought himself motivated by desire.
Desire. A roaring fire inside him that pushed him in different directions. It didn't matter what he wanted, just that he did and was motivated to continue living because of it. But limbo had sufficiently doused his desire. What was once a healthy blaze had burned down to a few pathetic embers, flickering. He was having trouble finding something to want again. He'd begun to think that he never would. But Wilbur had never in his life given up easily. He would keep searching. There was someone out there capable of reigniting the flame inside him, he just knew it.
So far since being revived, nothing lived up to the sheer awe of seeing Las Nevadas for the first time. Everything else he'd seen or experienced was either overwhelming or disappointing with nowhere in between. But that city. That city. This was something entirely new. For just one moment, when he laid his eyes upon its shining gold and marbled streets, Wilbur felt truly alive. And when its creator stepped out of the shadows to greet them, he felt delight unmatched by anything other than life itself. So what, if Quackity had hardly spoken three words to him before brushing him off? So what, if the man thought he was dangerous and unpredictable? Wilbur would show him how much death could reinvent a person. Wilbur was living — living! — proof that the impossible was possible. If anyone could challenge someone as ambitious as Quackity, it was someone twice so. And maybe, just maybe, Wilbur could convince the President of Las Nevadas that the man who destroyed L'manberg was dead. Maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.
He built a headquarters. He got Tommy firmly on his side. He solidified his resolve: this was something he had to be a part of. He wanted it, like he'd wanted nothing since his reinvention. Quackity was what he'd been searching for. Quackity was the light, the rising sun, and Wilbur was going to take full advantage.
So Wilbur spent his nights alone in the HQ, watching the distant stars and thinking about Quackity and shielding the flickering flame inside him from the cold midnight breeze.
"Wilbur?"
Wilbur looked up from his cigarette, not startled at all. Quackity stood a few yards away with his arms crossed, expression confused and annoyed. Was that the only expression he could make these days? Had that scar permanently lowered his eyebrows and curled his lip? It wasn't a bad look, to be entirely honest. Neither were the clothes he was wearing: a white button-up and black slacks with suspenders. Quackity was the only person Wilbur knew who could pull off suspenders. He even had a bow tie! It was the middle of the night! Come to think of it, had Quackity ever been anything other than dressed nice and perfect within Wilbur's sight since they'd met for a second time? Wilbur quickly vowed to one day see Quackity disheveled in whatever he wore to bed nowadays.
"Hey, Big Q," Wilbur greeted. "Fancy seeing you out here. Come to join me?" He lifted his cigarette in invitation.
Quackity's face fell into a full-on glare. Before, he was no more intimidating than a duckling attempting to bite your finger off. But now, with that gnarly scar (which he still refused to explain, despite Wilbur's prodding), his face could twist into something truly exceptional. Coupled with the sharp teeth, which before had seemed so out-of-place, he could look almost frightening! In a good way, of course. The kind of way that made naughty employees sink in their hard, wooden chairs while the big boss blew smoke in their faces and growled at them for not making enough money. "No, I'm not here to join you," Quackity hissed. "Why are you out here under my sign? What are you up to?"
Wilbur sighed, disappointed, and took a drag from his cigarette. The smoke carried a noticeable warmth with it into his lungs like it always did, but it was somehow more intense in Quackity's presence. How funny. He tried to savor that feeling of fulfillment, but after too long he coughed and had to exhale. The smoke curled away into the cloudy sky. Out of reach.
Of course Quackity would assume he was planning something when he was just standing here, trying to enjoy a change of scenery. Honestly, as much as he enjoyed being a real threat, it got tiring after a while when every little thing he did was met with hostility over how his intentions were perceived. Yes, he had a penchant for elaborate plans. Yes, he never held back on enacting them. Yes, he was a notable challenger in this game they both played. But sometimes, it really was a simple as a smoke break.
"It's not like I'm hurting anyone by just standing here on the sand. Unless my mere presence is threatening to you?" Wilbur said. An unfortunate lilt of hope leaked into that last sentence.
"That's not an answer to my question, Wilbur," Quackity said, rolling his eyes. His lips pulled back to reveal the golden, fake teeth used to replace the ones knocked out by whatever gave him that scar. "I'm not gonna put up with your bullshit tonight, alright? Why don't you just crawl back to Paradise, or whatever the fuck you're calling it, and make this easy for both of us?"
This made Wilbur frown. Crawl back to Paradise, huh? As if that was a better place to be right now. As if anywhere could be better than here. Because Wilbur did have a reason to be in Las Nevadas and not HQ — it just wasn't the kind of reason Quackity would ever think of. So he was going to stand right here for as long as he could draw this out. For as long as Quackity was willing to argue.
Besides, going back willingly would set a bad precedent for the future.
"No, I don't think I'll do that." He dropped the now-depleted cigarette onto the ground and pulled out another. "I'm quite comfortable right here."
The sand shifted as the other man came closer. Wilbur could make out his own reflection in the murky white of Quackity's scarred eye. Just a few more inches and they could've kissed, if they wanted, could've touched. But they didn't. Instead, Quackity reached out and simply snatched the fresh cigarette straight from Wilbur's hand, without even the barest brush of skin. "That's not gonna work. Get out of my country."
"No."
Now Quackity smiled, the sharp smile of someone completely and utterly fed up. Good. "You are so, fucking stubborn, you know that? What are you even trying to accomplish here? What, you expect me to believe that you want to just — just stand? Just stand and do nothing? You want me to leave you, a man so fucking famous for leaving destruction and broken people in his wake, alone here, unsupervised?"
Wilbur sifted through the ugly black of Quackity's words and found a golden opportunity shining in the space between them. A solution for the problem he came here to try and fix was sitting right there, and all he had to do was reach out and take it, mold it into the right shape, before it dissappated. For a moment he stood silent, fitting words in his head together like puzzle pieces. Once he made a sequence he was satisfied with, he said, "You can believe whatever you want. I really do just want to smoke here. It's — it's the middle of the fucking night, man, I don't have any schemes cooking up right now. But I never said I wanted you to leave me alone. Didn't I ask if you were here to join me?"
There. Validation and correction, all in one. A logical argument and an easy solution; why would someone wanting to be left alone ask for company? If you don't trust someone, isn't watching the best way to keep your eye on them?
This response seemed to surprise Quackity, though. He hid it quickly, but Wilbur saw his eyebrows twitch. Evidently he thought that first question was a throwaway. After that, for a long moment they stood silent, breathing into each other's spaces. Finally Quackity sighed, carrying the frustration of someone who knows it's not worth it to keep arguing. "Fuck you. Fine."
The fire inside him swelled. Wilbur had to work to hide the victory on his face. If Quackity knew how much he'd let him win tonight, he'd take it back, for sure. Still, he had to smile a little; things had turned out better than expected. The breeze had shifted to the south and warmed. The sky had cleared to reveal the stars shining bright.
Quackity took a few steps back and turned away to light the cigarette he'd stolen, leaving a slight chill in his wake. His lighter was a shiny red and gold that made a satisfying little crackle when he flicked it on. Wilbur's was just plain silver and took a few tries to spark. One day, he thought, I'm gonna steal that lighter from him.
But not tonight. Tonight was a sort of truce, where neither of them had to speak to fill the silence.
It became their ritual. Wilbur would inexplicably show up under the 'Las Nevadas' sign on a semi-regular basis after dark, and Quackity would see the little flicker of the lighter from the top of the Needle and come down and join him. Just to make sure he wasn't doing anything suspicious, of course.
Wilbur found himself hoping that it was mere pretense. That both of them were lying. He hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they both genuinely enjoyed the time they spent together without the drama of the rest of the server getting in the way. Without having to put on an act for anyone else. Wilbur loved the chase, of course, he loved the challenge, but sometimes it was nice to just… breathe with another person.
Even if that other person was his sworn rival.
It was snowing in the desert tonight.
Wilbur probably should have been sleeping. He didn't sleep last night or yesterday at all, so the world had become strange to see. The stars, when he cared to look, were blurry and distant. The past felt too close and yet too far; all his mistakes in the forefront of his mind, yet the memories belonged to another person entirely. For some reason, he found himself thinking about Quackity.
What happened in Pogtopia was nothing. Whispered moments, stolen between failure after failure after failure, was the extent of their relationship. Barely even recallable. He wished he could say it had been special for what it was, but really, it happened to everyone. You meet someone, you hit it off quickly, you have fun for a while, but eventually the heat of love dies away and you move on to the next part of your life. Wilbur had gone to Limbo. Quackity had gone to Las Nevadas.
Las Nevadas. What a beautiful sight. He'd said it once and he'd say it again: that place was an accomplishment. Wilbur yearned to be a part of it, to affect it. He wanted to be a change in its history. And he wanted Quackity to look at him for the person he was, not the person he had been. Even after their many nights of just being together, he was still met with suspicion and distaste every time he dared look into the other man's eyes — eye. It frustrated him. Was nothing enough? Could Quackity's guard never be let down?
Just a few scraps of vulnerability, that was all he wanted. Tell me about the scar, he screamed. Wear your beanie again. Trust me with your fancy lighter. Let me into your life. Every time he imagined it, imagined Quackity opening up and confessing something, the fire swelled. Soon, the smoke would choke him and he'd die before he could ever find what he was looking for.
It made him feel insane. It made him feel like a cloven shield and rusty lantern and a broken mirror. Because the Quackity who had once been within reach and the Quackity he wanted now were very different. And yet, they were painfully the same, because perhaps neither of them had changed as much as they wished they could. Perhaps they were too similar to escape each other and too different to ever see eye-to-eye.
Or perhaps Wilbur was just tired and lonely.
Something prickled at the back of his mind. There was a reason for this sudden introspection. Something Tommy had said, once. Why did being tired and lonely make him yearn for Quackity's attention? Why did he feel warm when the other's face came to mind? Why did Las Nevadas — and his exclusion from it — feel like a personal insult?
You don't have a crush on Big Q, do you?
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Back when they'd first been building HQ, he'd said in response to this question that his relationship with Big Q was complicated but 'not at that level yet'. He now realized that that analysis was wildly incorrect and based on denial and delusion. As were most things. The fire he'd been describing this whole time was those feelings manifesting. The whole time. And he'd misinterpreted all of it! He felt choked. His face burned. How could he have been so idiotic as to let this happen? The last time — the last time it was nothing. Nothing. Just two stupid, desperate people finding solace in each other as the world crumbled around them. Limbo had made it go away, he thought. Limbo had made everything go away.
And how was he supposed to face Quackity now that he knew? If he couldn't frame this burning feeling as simple desire, how could he retain any dignity at all? Would he become an embarrassed mess every time he tried to speak with the person who was supposed to be the yang to his ying? Oh, god, why had he even said that in the first place? To Quackity's face? Did Quackity know? Surely not. Surely there would have been taunts, threats, killing blows to win arguments if he did. And Quackity was too busy imagining Wilbur as a scheming supervillain to make this conclusion. So no, Quackity couldn't know, thank fuck.
Tommy did know, though. Tommy had figured it out before either of them. How the boy clocked the feelings Wilbur couldn't even admit was beyond him, but really they hadn't been very subtle. The close proximity, the mind games, the undeniable attraction… it was all very 'homoerotic'. Maybe Tommy had known about Pogtopia, too, and just hadn't said anything in favor of more important topics. But now there weren't really any more important topics (other than Dream, in his little mind), so he could question away.
So what to do? That was the question. Keep it an absolute secret was the obvious solution. There was no way Quackity felt even remotely similarly anymore, and if he did, he'd be reacting in a much more composed way. So maybe Wilbur should just wait this out. Stop fueling the fire and let it die until things could go back to something resembling normal.
But Wilbur had been using this to keep going. This was how he kept warm on nights like these! This was why he'd gone to the Las Nevadas sign to begin with! He couldn't just let go. He'd never willingly let go of anything in his life, unless it was with an explosion. And he was not in such dire circumstances now, not yet. Never again would he reach that point.
So did he hide it, suppress it, wait for it to disappear, or try and take what he wanted with full force? He had little chance of actually getting anywhere if he tried for a proper relationship, and… maybe he didn't even want that? Sure, he wanted to kiss Quackity. He wanted to see him, the real him, and know everything there was to know. But at the same time, he didn't want to surrender the fight. They were competitors, at the end of the day. To give in was the ultimate shame. Was there some way to balance this? Or should he just pretend like nothing was going on?
Wilbur didn't know the answer. But there was no one on the server he could go to for something as ridiculous as relationship advice. He shouldn't go to Tommy. That promise to keep him out of this probably applied here. And it just felt weird. Besides him, Wilbur had literally no one else on the server he could call a friend. Especially not one he could trust to keep this quiet.
Well, except maybe —
No. Wilbur shut that thought down before it could even form. Absolutely not.
Wilbur stalked inside the stone hut of Big Man HQ and sat down stubbornly on the floor. He needed to sleep on this before he made a decision. Anything he did now would just make things worse. He'd find someone to talk to in the coming days or figure it out himself. He'd always been a schemer. Maybe there was a solution he couldn't see through the mental haze of exhaustion, something that would get him everything he wanted.
He lit a cigarette and watched the snow fall over the city far away.