Flustered and Under the Weather

Chapter 5: Brotherhood (Wilbur pov)

Wilbur woke to thick dyes of white and yellow sunlight on his cheeks. He murmured drowsily, sighs filled with sleep. His neck had a crick in it, and something was between his arms.

Wait. Not something. Someone.

Quackity was tucked into his hold, completely enveloped by his larger frame. Their hands fell loosely around each other, scars and stiches blurring together. His own hair was tousled, and he couldn't tell where brown began and white ended. And at some point, his glasses had fallen off and were now sitting in Quackity's lap. He grabbed them quickly.

The night before felt like a daze. A mix of heat and pink cheeks and excitement had mingled in the air, a dangerous concoction that fizzed in the curve of their calves and the exhaustion painting Quackity's features. He couldn't remember everything with extreme clarity, but he knew that he was on the bed, and that he had laid next to his rival.

Fuuuu-

They must have fallen asleep like this, slotted together like a pack of cards. Either the enervation of being sick was kicking in, or Quackity had really felt safe enough to clock out against his chest. The thought scared Wilbur and enraptured him at once.

First of all, he was here. In a bed. With his sworn enemy. The one he was supposed to hate, supposed to be plotting against. That is what enemies do, after all.

Second, he was in a bed cuddling with his sworn enemy. And every day, they seemed less and less interested in conforming to that standard. He didn't have a fucking clue what that meant for his future, but he was gonna face it head-on.

He would definitely be hearing about this one. The idea of Quackity giving him lip for this was more invigorating than the thought of last night.

But, gods be damned, he had an appointment to keep. A lunch date with an associate. And now that his management application to Quackity had triumphed, he had another good talking point to add to his list. And his plan was actually working. Something, in his life of screw-ups and unsaid words, something was finally going right.

Wilbur quickly shoved these thoughts away. He had to focus. Somehow, he was supposed to get out of bed without waking Quackity.

He paused for a second, knowing that it was unlikely he'd be allowed this close later. In the proximity, Wilbur was near enough to steal a kiss. A soft crime that smelled of clean linen and floral perfume. And prime, did he want to go through with it.

But he knew he had to respect Quackity's boundaries. He couldn't expect the other to trust him if he pulled a stunt like that. He wasn't going to break the bond he'd spent the better part of 3 days fostering.

And there was a part of him that wanted to see Quackity's flushed and slightly angry face when he did kiss him. The reaction was what he craved, not just the action itself.

He was going to kiss the boy laying in his arms one day. Whether it be a few months or a few days, he didn't know. But Wilbur would wait as long as he had to. He'd already waited more than a decade.

Wilbur settled for nuzzling his face into Quackity's shoulder, and then slowly, carefully pulled away. He unraveled their legs, separated their hands, and started to stand. The bed creaked under him, almost a betrayal.

He readjusted Quackity, tucking him in between the covers and pulling the blanket up to his chin. Wilbur grabbed his coat and shoes, which were strewn across the floor, and looked back once before closing the door.

-

"Wilbur, you're a moron."

He defensively raised his hands, shielding himself from the boy sitting across from him at the table. "Well, you don't have to say it like that."