One single heartbeat. Two single bodies. When physical affection wasn’t enough to touch his soul, feel his warmth, would he be able to feel if he ate his flesh? One pair of quivering hands, two-worded soft whispering, words couldn’t explain, ‘I can sing you a thousand poems, and it won’t be enough’, ‘I can write you in a thousand songs, and it won’t ever describe you, you, you’—
And maybe then, he’d feel love, he’d be able to love, he’d be loved.
Wilbur wanted to cry. And it was always about wanting, yearning, needing, never the action.
Wilbur wanted to cry. And it was always the hesitant footsteps when he steps into the apartment, the careful smiles that he returns when Quackity laughs, glass shards embedded in his flesh, invisible and he would smirk, tease, dirty words and lust a plastic rose as he slaps them over it like a bandaid on a easy wound.
So perhaps, in the end, it was truly his fault when the moment came, when Quackity finally asked, dagger in his heart, knife a twist,
“What are we, what were we?”
________________
We were the naive, foolish teenagers with their hands in the air, ‘The World is one age away, the World is one touch away!’; We were the youngsters with rational hearts, lively bodies, mistakes—
“And perhaps, one day, when I look back at us, Quackity, I’d think, ‘What a darn fool I am’, and you’d just be a memory.”
