Quackbur Oneshots- [TNT DUO] (requests open)

Dust And Dirt May Build Up But We've Got A Breath To Blow

Simple here, there is some pretty real stuff in this fic (including a extremely short second of Gordon Ramsay being mentioned):

- depictions of smoking, anxiety, and withdrawal

-mentions of an injury, stitches (picking somebody up from the hospital after an incident)

-suicidal thoughts shortly occur like three times in this fic

-just lots of self-doubt and pressure from others :[

-two seconds of somebody throwing up like it's hardly there

ALSO thank you to Just_here_idk_living on ao3, also known as 12idkman on wattpad for reading this over and giving some really great corrections (although it is funny how much my eyes missed)

Wilbur sighs, trying to force down the anxiety crawling up his neck.

Of course, Quackity is here to help. His friend places a firm on his shoulder in an attempt to provide comfort and reassurance.

"They're just my family," Quackity says, wise with all his twenty years. It's the truth, it's just them and Wilbur, and they're just friends no matter how many hours Wilbur spends staring into mismatching eyes and dreaming of Quackity's smile.

It's just... he's never really been the type of person parents want their kid to hang out no matter what age they may be. And it's worse because Quackity's really fucking great. He's in college, he's smart, he's talented and has such a promising future it beams, obvious in the twinkle in his eyes that he'll do something great. Be someone great.

Wilbur is literally far from any of those things. He couldn't handle college, dropped out, and the only possible contender he has for skill is his knowledge in the world of geography. But nowadays everyone has a phone to tell them everything so what does it matter.

Wilbur's not really anything like Quackity.

He isn't as kind and level-headed as Quackity. He seriously only recently stopped smoking with the help of Quackity and the support group his friend introduced him to. He doesn't have that twinkling gaze Quackity does.

And he really doesn't want to take it away from him.

So, yes, he's stressed. Worrying about what Quackity's parents will think of the people he hangs out with, what they think of Wilbur and his black ripped jeans.

It only gets deeper because Wilbur likes Quackity. As in more than a friend. He blushes at any smile and compliment, he smiles back with adoration. He wants to have Quackity, to hold him, to feel his heart against his chest and be able to love him.

But he can't, because his hands have gained some dirt over the course of his twenty-five years, and he doesn't want to leave a stain on Quackity, near perfect and bright. He doesn't want to leave anything too permanent.

So he straightens his posture and puts on a polite smile as Quackity introduces him as a good friend, his jaw hurts, he hopes Quackity's mom can't see past his weak crescent shaped eyes when she looks over him while he's forcing the crinkles on his face. Because he knows this is all he gets.

Wilbur is selfish, the way he wants more and allows himself to wallow and mope because he can't have any. He's selfish the way he mentally grimaces when Quackity's hand leaves its position on his shoulder, replacing his flannel and holding his mom's hand as he steps into the house.

Wilbur swallows, feeling uncomfortably cold, alone with his needs, and steps in with the unease of a sinner in a church.

Just, in a church he'd be accepted by admitting to those sins and well, actually following the religion. Or something similar. He can't exactly think straight about everything right now.