[TW: BLOOD, MENTIONS OF DEATH, GUNS, ETC!]
"Are you sure you wanna do this, Quackity?" Wilbur asked once more, spinning the gun by the trigger around his finger. Around, and around. Just the stupid, smug grin on Wilbur's face as he played with the gun in his hand as though it were a toy, and not the dangerous death machine it really was, made Quackity enraged. His cocky attitude made it worse. He tightened his grip on the knife in his hand, and nodded eagerly. He wasn't quite sure how they'd gotten into the situation, but his competitive determination had full control over his thoughts. He'd win this.
"Alrighty then, let's dance!" Wilbur said gleefully. "Don't worry, darling, I'll go easy on you." He then stepped forward, holding the gun up. If he pulled the trigger now, it would go through Quackity's forehead, and, inevitably, kill him in one blow. His life was now quite literally at Wilbur's mercy, right here in Las Nevadas - Quackity's own country. He was gonna die, in his own empire.
But, it's harder to hit a moving target, isn't it? So Quackity lunged forward, swinging his arm up to jab carelessly the knife at the taller - he hadn't expected for Wilbur to so gracefully avoid his attack, and take hold of Quackity in the same move. He'd grabbed Q's wrist, and pulled him forward, and then back again, causing him to stumble. Before he could quite catch his footing, he'd fallen right into the vulnerable position he was now stuck in. Wilbur had his gun in one hand, that arm wrapped around his waist, while the other held onto the wrist that clenched a knife. If Wilbur let go now, it was a half 'n half that Quackity would either manage to regain his balance, or fall down to the sand.
"Are you good at dancing, Quackity?" Wilbur asked calmly. The way he spoke as though neither of them would be dead by the end of this pissed Quackity off so unbelievably much. He didn't reply, instead, using all his effort to break free from his grip. He felt Wilbur let go, and in the second he had free, Quackity swung his arm to the side, in hopes it would jab Wilbur's neck. However, his plans were useless, as Wilbur once again grabbed at his arm, and used this hold to spin him, making Quackity stumble in place dizzily.
Quackity finally caught his footing, and panted, staring up at Wilbur in rage. Once he'd managed to get somewhat control over his breathing, Quackity lunged forward again. However, Wilbur simply took a step to the left, and Quackity came crashing down to his stomach. He coughed harshly, having knocked the wind out of himself. With some panting, he climbed to his knees hastily, and then froze. He'd felt what seemed to be a cold metal rod pressed to the back of his head, and he was puzzled. Then came the dawning realization. He felt his shaky breaths turn into tearless sobs. He'd lost, and it was over. He'd be found lifeless in his own empire. But - the boom never came. The gun rested buried in his thick hair, his hat having fallen off in the commotion some time earlier.
He felt it release, and saw Wilbur walk around into his view. After examining Quackity with an expression that the man absolutely detested, Wilbur extended his hand to help Quackity up. Despite his disliking for the man, Quackity foolishly took it. As he got to his feet, however, Wilbur, with a grin, teetered him backwards, clasping their hands together. Quackity swung his free arm up, once again trying to jab at the Brit's neck as he fell. Wilbur snaked an arm around Quackity's waist firmly. The Brit now held him in what would normally be known as the dip, if Quackity's memory was correct. (However, most times it's not done whilst holding dangerous weapons with the intent to kill the other.) He wasn't very good at dancing, as he was already quite unsteady in normal conditions, so he really paid no attention to those terms.
Wilbur's gun was now pressed to Quackity's head once again, while the cool metal of Quackity's blade rested dangerously against Wilbur's neck. If Quackity were to make any movement, the blade would press deeper, and break the skin. Blood would be drawn, and Quackity liked that idea.
"You're a terrible dancer, Quackity." Wilbur commented calmly, giving a cocky smirk.
"Thanks." Quackity replied in cold sarcasm. Just Wilbur's tone was enough to add on to the burning rage that bubbled in Q's chest.
"No problem."
Wilbur then cleared his throat, and then Quackity was dropped, and fell to the sand.
Quackity quickly scrambled to his feet, looking up at Wilbur. However, instead of being met with the same, enraging smile as before, Wilbur's expression was blank. He was watching Quackity curiously, as if observing his reaction. Quackity didn't like that thought; being observed, like some kind of experiment. Was this all a fun little game, for Wilbur? Just some daily entertainment?
"Goodbye, Quackity." Wilbur farewelled, his voice having broke into his thoughts. He waved, nodded, and then turned, walking away.
And Quackity let him go. Quackity let him leave. Because, perhaps, if he'd tried to drag Wilbur back, and keep their little dance of death going, Quackity wouldn't live through this one.
