Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was one night.

One night, two kisses, and three drinks.

Three drinks, two men, and one love that wouldn’t die even after they’d parted from what they’d dreaded would be their only meeting.

But one night turned into two.

Two kisses turned into many, rough and fast with no time to be gentle and hidden in alleyways or under moonlit bridges for fear of being caught.

Three drinks turned into numerous glasses of cheap wine and nights of high laughter with the soft gazes of lovers, always shifting to be hard and estranged from each other’s as soon as the sun came up.

Rough kisses, cheap wine, and hidden fondness turned into the end of an unhappy marriage, and the start of a new life between two (boy)friends and one redheaded child in a yellowed apartment overlooking the harbor of their bustling city.

And that, dear spectator, is how Wilbur found himself leaning on a precarious stack of moving boxes and watching helplessly as the love of his life carried box after cardboard box into their apartment with such ease, his collared shirt sticking to his skin from the midsummer heat and showing off his thin, solid chest; Wilbur so desperately wanted to pepper it with gentle kisses and soft love, but couldn’t as the front door and windows were still open to view through.

Quackity, the object of his affections and the man he’d proudly call his if not for the society they’d been born into, wiped his brow after setting down his cargo and finally noticed Wilbur, of whom hadn’t stopped staring with half-lidded eyes behind his unkempt brown curls for at least five minutes. Quackity rolled his eyes, frowning slightly with no real heat.
“Wil, you’re supposed to be helping.”
The man in question only grinned wider, not moving still. “I am.”
The ravenet raised a brow, giving Wilbur’s lazy and almost cat-like posture a once-over before heading to the door with the sly grin, one Wilbur had learned meant he was intent on getting his way, obstacles or Wilbur be damned. “Sure, Wil. And I’m sure you’d be absolutely fine with me carrying your beloved record player up three flights of creaky metal-”
The taller was already out the door and skipping two steps at a time before he could finish, hearing high, slightly raspy laughter at his back while he moved. He couldn’t help the smile that bubbled up onto his lips at the sound, knowing he caused it, a laugh only for him and the sunny yellow walls of their new apartment.

He’d never been particularly fond of the color, choosing rich browns and striking ambers any day over the soft, billowy hue, but apparently getting divorced after seven years of unfulfilling marriage and gaining sole custody of your son (save for a saturday every other weekend, because that’s the only day his ex-wife, Sally, didn’t have to work) and a forbidden lover willing to help take care of said child and move in at the flash of a grin made the brunet soft. Not like he could mind, anyway. Not when Fundy seemed more well rested than he had in the intense, argument-filled life his parents used to live, and definitely not when Quackity was just…

Days, he was just Quackity.

It was an abhorably great understatement, but for once, the musician found he was without words. He also found that happened anytime Quackity was around, the blurred edges of his vision righting itself and his thoughts fizzling out to make room for the Rosé tinted haze he happily drowned in. They clashed, of course they did, with such strong personalities and sharp tongues it’s to be expected honestly, but that just made the soft moments sweeter, when they laid down their weapons and tended to the wounds they caused on the other.

Perhaps that was why he fell for him that fated neon night, when intoxication was high and defense was low. Quackity could break him in so many brilliant ways, tear his throat out and push his arm down into Wilbur’s throat until he could squeeze the air out of his lungs, but he didn’t. He went far, yes, but so did Wilbur, and they never left damage they couldn’t ignore.

He was dying, staying with Quackity, and even a week into their relationship he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Wilbur scoffed at his own musings as he popped the trunk of his car, a 1953 Hudson Hornet with a dull gray finish, and collected a tan, worn briefcase from it, the edge barely hitting his knee when he dropped his arm to go back up the stairs. His most prized possession.

If asked about it, he’d probably make an excuse, saying his most prized possession was his wine collection, or his trusty lighter fashioned from old tin metal, or his leather-wrapped flask that never failed to ease his pain or at least give him a headache big enough to ignore it, but no.

Only yellowed, wallpapered rooms would know the nights he spent with his forehead pressed to the tinny speakers on either side of the briefcase’s handle. Only weathered pages and melting ice in a whiskey glass would know the bittersweet anger that blossomed in his chest when he muttered notes and words that didn’t even reach the ceiling.

He sighed, pushing away the weight on his shoulders as Wilbur went across the threshold of his new life and a familiar smile graced his face as he took in the scene before him.

In the short time it’d taken him to go downstairs and grab his cargo, Quackity had abandoned their unpacking endeavors and was currently sitting on the floor of their cardboard filled living room with Wilbur’s son excitedly gesturing and rambling to him, ignorant of the amused expression on the ravenete’s face.

Another thing Wilbur couldn’t help but admire was how seamlessly Fundy took to the man. Call it underlying grief for his old life or a need to fill the parental shaped gap in his heart after the divorce, but the two got on like a house on fire (and it would’ve been literal too if Quackity didn’t have at least a bit of common sense.)

Fundy’s head snapped to him the minute Wilbur walked through the doorway despite his quiet steps and bolted, his hands still above his head as he took fistfuls of his father’s shirt and grinned into his side.
“Da! Quackity said he could take me down to the dock after we’re done unpacking!”
“Oh he did, did he?” Wilbur chuckled, ruffling the kid’s hair and narrowly avoiding a nip to his wrist as he looked at his lover, who’d stood up in the time the attention was off him. The man just shrugged, moving to close the door behind the duo before resting a hand on Wilbur’s opposite hip. A grounding weight, more than anything else.

“I figured it was about time he got to see the real life of the city, since he didn’t before.”

Quackity didn’t explain what “before” meant, but he didn’t need to. Wilbur already knew quite well of his love’s distaste for Fundy’s mother and her opinions, most of which involving the “atrocities of the night life and downtown area.”

The exact area Quackity grew up and still worked in.
Wilbur sighed, pressing a kiss to black, damp hair as he moved them all away from the door and onto the half set up couch.
“Fair, but perhaps we should wait until after we’re settled in to familiarize ourselves with the neighborhood? Fundy doesn’t even know how to swim.”
“Can too!” The boy interrupted with a huff, batting away WIlbur’s affectionate hand when it tried to rake through his hair. “In the bath! And little puddles on the sidewalk and the ponds with the duckies at Nonna’s house.”

“Those are barely a few inches deeper than you are tall, love. If that even.” Wilbur chuckled, scooping his son up and onto the couch as Quackity smiled and sat down with them. Fundy sputtered with indignance for a few minutes before realizing his father wasn’t letting go under penalty of death, and frowned as he snuggled closer into Wilbur’s chest. The action only made the brunet’s grin grow wider, and his heart fonder.

Stars above, he’d die for this kid.

One look at Quackity’s endlessly fond expression told the same story of sentiment, and Wilbur could only chuckle as he sunk into the comfort of his son and lover so close.

Very soon after, Fundy was taken by the realm of sleep, leaving only yellowed walls to lay witness to the brief, warm kiss the two men shared before settling in to doze as well with soft smiles on their faces.

Chapter Text

Wilbur woke slowly with the cars driving by outside the apartment window, senses rousing to hear men bustling down the sidewalks on their way to work as the sun had risen. Wilbur would’ve been with them, had it not been for the fact that he was one of the lucky few who only worked five days a week, not six or seven like most people. 

The faint aroma of bananas and pancake batter slipped under the crack of his bedroom door, drawing out a sigh. He was also one of the lucky few to wake up to a breakfast made by Quackity. 

Taking his time, as the brunet was nothing like his early-rising lover, Wilbur went through the motions of pulling on an old robe and brushing his teeth before finding his glasses, failing to tame the curly mess of his hair, and heading out of the sparse bedroom for breakfast. 

Quackity was, as he predicted, at the stove flipping banana pancakes with a skilled sort of ease. Always so graceful, whether he was lugging cargo and managing ledgers down at the docks or playing housewife with Wilbur and his son. 

They’d barely moved in a week ago, and already Quackity was making the dingy, yellow walls feel like it was their place. Maybe not a home, not just yet, but it would be eventually if Quackity had anything to say about it. 

Fundy, who’d already been sitting at the table and watching the older cook with a sort of sparkle in his eye, quickly noticed his father’s entrance. “Da!” He whisper-shouted while leaning back in his chair, and both men had to hide matching smiles of fond amusement. “Quackity found an old recipe book in one of the boxes, an’ now we’re having pancakes!” 

“That sounds lovely, sunspot.” Wilbur hummed, pressing a kiss to Fundy’s fire-red locks as he guided the boy’s chair back down. He headed for his boyfriend next, wrapping around the other man from behind and settling his chin in his hair comfortably, spine curved and leaning forward with an uncanny resemblance to a clingy tabby cat with sleep bits still stuck to the corners of its eyes. 

Quackity took on the languid man’s weight without so much as a huff, turning over a few of the pancakes on the stove. “I figured you’d wake up when I started cooking.” He murmured, his usual teasing tone all soft and quiet with the gentle morning.

“Who says I’m awake yet?” Wilbur groaned, hiding his face in silky black locks. He reached out, fumbling along the counter before the shorter took pity on him and slid a warm ceramic mug into his hand. The brunet made a sound of acknowledgement and took a sip, sighing as bitter, acidic coffee washed down his throat, warming up his vocal chords and stomach. He pressed a kiss to Quackity’s hair before taking another sip, not doing anything to address the lack of distance between them. “So, what’re the plans for today?”

“Well,” Quackity started, plating a few of the pancakes and setting them aside before spooning more batter onto the thin griddle pan. “I was thinking shopping. School’s around the corner for Fundy, and you need groceries.”

“We, my dear. And what’s wrong with our food now?” Wilbur asked with a frown, standing up slightly from his hunched over position to look in the cabinet. 

Quackity rolled his eyes, turning around for a moment so he could meet Wilbur’s eyes. “Mi viida, no one’s gone to the market for food in weeks because of the move. A lot of produce is turning.” He pointed out and leaned against the counter, still in his sleep shirt and pants. It must’ve been one of those rare Saturdays the docks barely had any shipments coming in, considering the fact that Quackity wasn’t dressed and out the door before the sun even came up.

The taller gave a long, suffering sigh, slouching forward to rest his chin on the other’s shoulder with arms hugging his solid waist. “I suppose a trip to the markets would do. And August is next month…” He mumbled, seeing the reason in his lover’s idea, but he didn’t want to leave this comfortable, sweet atmosphere they’d made here. 

He didn’t want to go out and pretend the love of his life was a stranger, or worse yet just a simple friend tagging along.

Quackity seemed to sense where his thoughts had drifted, tapping at Wilbur’s chin to get his attention. “Hey, just make it a quick trip, okay? Just down to the markets for groceries, maybe hit up a tailor for Fundy’s school uniform. Okay?”

Wilbur hummed, leaning lazily into the hand now cupping his cheek. “Alright.” He somewhat reluctantly agreed, pressing his own hand to the back of Quackity’s to hold it in place while he kissed the inside of the shorter’s wrist. “But I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep to myself in the market.”

“Market!” Fundy cried out from behind them at the table, making both men jump and turn to his banana-smeared grin. “Da, can I bring my allowance? I wanna buy stuffs at the market too!”

Wilbur chuckled, leaving Quackity’s embrace for just a moment to ruffle his son’s hair. “Yes love, you can bring your allowance. Just make sure you don’t lose it.”

Funny nodded violently, somehow grinning wider as he dug back into his pancakes. Breakfast was a quick affair, partly because Wilbur wanted to get to the markets before they got busy and partly because Fundy was too impatient to wait very long. Nevertheless, soon they were in their day clothes and headed for the door. That is until Wilbur noticed a distinct lack of third footsteps and peeked back inside from where he’d been closing the door.

“Quackity, dear? Aren’t you coming?” He asked, brow furrowing as he watched Quackity move around their small, open kitchen. 

Quackity paused for a moment, meeting the burner’s eyes with a huffing, amused scoff. “You can’t be seen with me, Wil. You know that.”

Wilbur’s brow only furrowed more as he stepped fully back into the apartment, Fundy returning from where he’d started down the stairs when he noticed his father wasn’t following. “Why would I ‘know’ that? What is there to know?”

Quackity glanced at the still-open door behind the other man, all too aware of it like Wilbur didn’t seem to be. He never seemed to be aware of things like that. He still brushed it off, focusing on putting away the dirty plates from breakfast in the sink so he wouldn’t have to meet Wilbur’s eyes. “Well for one, I’m a dock worker, Wil. And an immigrant one at that. And you are the perfect image of a white man. I doubt being seen with me would do good for your reputation.” He reasoned, shrugging as if it was no big deal, as if he didn’t hate the pieces of him that kept him from being ‘normal’ with Wilbur.

Wilbur just frowned, physically recoiling in distaste from Quackity’s reasoning before he stalked over. “Why the hell would that matter? Why would I ever care about my damn reputation when I have you?” He stopped right in front of Quackity, searching his eyes with something blazing in his own, something protective, claiming, keeping.

Quackity loved it anyway, perhaps even more because of it, but that didn’t fix the issue at hand.

Quackity sighed, taking Wilbur’s wrist from where he’d started to move his hand toward his face. “Reputation is important. You shouldn’t be trying to throw it away over a grocery trip of all things.” He protested, but it was weak. There was no real argument to be made if Wilbur truly lacked any shame about going in public with someone so… different from him. 

True to his word, Wilbur just rolled his eyes and grabbed his lover’s hand. “My reputation crumbled the day I divorced Sally. Now come on, Fundy wants us to try and find this wooden toy stand he discovered last time we went to the square.”

Quackity let himself be dragged out with little more than a sigh and a slip on of his shoes, because what else could he do in the face of such determination and social unawareness? With a reluctantly fond smile, he followed the father and son out onto the street.

———

Well, Wilbur definitely wasn’t lying when he said his reputation was in shambles.

They’d been wandering around the market for about an hour, having already put in an order with a tailor for Fundy’s uniform and now just buying groceries or indulging whatever shiny thing caught Fundy’s eye. It was going well, surprisingly well. Sure, they got a few looks, but nothing of any real concern.

And then Quackity stepped away.

It was just for a moment, just enough time to have a brief conversation with a man running a stand with a fresh selection of tomatoes because Wilbur couldn’t tell ripe produce from rotten foodstuffs to save his life, but he turned back around to see a woman giving his partner what seemed like a sneering reprimand. Wilbur, to his credit, didn’t seem very bothered and was obviously just trying to get her to go away, but the woman didn’t seem to want to leave in the slightest.

With a frown, Quackity wound his way through the crowd and back to his side. The woman, whom he could now vaguely recognize as someone from Sally’s social circle from a few of the pictures he’d helped Wilbur pack up, didn’t even notice Quackity’s presence. Though judging by the way his hand was squeezed when he slipped it into Wilbur’s, he was noticed and appreciated.

“—such gall to show your face in public after what you did to her! Publicly divorcing her in front of everyone, and taking her beloved child in the process!! Really, Soot, your entire family should feel shame for letting you two separate!” 

… yeah, this woman knows Sally.

Not enough to know the full situation though, obviously. Wilbur and Sally might not have separated on good terms, but they both agreed it was the best move, and Sally had been more relieved than anything when she didn’t get Fundy in the custody agreement. 

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, Fundy came bounding back from a nearby stall, face split wide in a bright, victorious grin and his arms full of what seemed to be a jar of various candies. “Da! Quacks! I won the number-jar-candy thingy! ‘s so much!!” He yelled as he approached, though his energy visibly dimmed when he saw the woman, getting all shy and quiet like Quackity had seen him do around Sally’s extended family.

Must be someone Sally brought around often then. 

Quackity absolutely wanted to punch her just for that.

The woman finally took notice of Quackity and Fundy, looking at the boy with a poor, pitying tutting sound before her eyes met Quackity’s. 

The woman nearly visibly recoiled, a gloved hand going to the pearls around her neck. She gave Quackity and few choice glances before leaning slightly away from him and looking back at Wilbur, her face screwed up in a distasteful mix of smug and disgusted. 

“And this is the company you’re keeping these days? Wilbur Soot, how the mighty have fallen. Sally’s moved into one of her father’s establishments with a few friends, real friends, and you’re keeping a- a beaner for company. It’s laughable, really.” 

It’s nothing Quackity hadn’t heard before, not with his mixed selection of coworkers and the fact that he has to walk to and from work every day. It was actually one of the tamer moments of racism Quackity’s ever experienced. 

Wilbur though. Wilbur was a different story.

There are certain things in which one can tell Wilbur Soot is mad, truly mad, ways Quackity was intimately familiar with. The way his fists curled and flexed was a substantial first tell, along with the way his posture straightened to his full height over the woman as she continued her rant. His eyes took a shift as well, bourbon brown catching the midday sunlight and glinting a harsh, cold gold. The most telling of anything, though, was his smile. 

Sharp and cloyingly polite as honey being dripped into a choking throat, Wilbur smiled when he reared back and drove his fist into the woman’s nose.

The woman didn’t expect the impact, going down with little more than a yelp and an unfortunate catch of her heels in the cobblestone street. 

Needless to say, they were very forcefully escorted out of the square. Quackity was just glad Wilbur didn’t try to pick a fight with them too.

Speaking of…

“What the hell was that, Wil?” Quackity hissed as soon as they made it back into the apartment, keeping his voice down with the Fundy in mind, as he’d just sent him to bed for a nap after the excitement of the day. He might’ve also done it because Fundy didn’t need to hear his dad and dad’s partner arguing, again.

“What do you think it was, darling?” Wilbur asked, all too calm for a man whose knuckles were bruised on the handle of the kettle of tea he was making. 

Well, trying to make. They’d forgotten to grab tea watchers before being kicked out, and now all they had was a tin of loose leaf that Wilbur complained about because the leaves would get in his mug.

“Don’t do that ‘darling’ bullshit with me, Wil. You punched a lady!” Quackity’s hands flexed at his sides, teeth gritted and eyes glaring at Wilbur from the doorway of the kitchen. The domesticity the yellow, half-tiled walls had in the morning was gone now, spiked with tension.

Wilbur stayed in front of the stove, still not facing his lover, but his fingers curled and tried to dig into the smooth countertop. “She had it coming, talking about you like that.” Wilbur’s voice sounded tainted, frozen poison leaking in, but Quackity paid it no mind.

“People say shit about me all the time, you don’t see me punching them right ‘n left!” Quackity shot back, sharp and accusing. 

Wilbur finally turned to him, seething. “Well you should! No one gets to talk about you like that, it’s not- it’s-” Wilbur struggled to form the words, something Quackity had only seen when the man was truly upset, before running a rather harsh hand through his messy brown curls and forcing a breath.

Quackity didn’t soften, but he did sigh and let his shoulders drop, moving further into the room. “I know it makes you angry. Hell, I’ve lived with people calling me slurs since I was born, and it still makes me angry.”

Wilbur seemed to relax slightly at that, relieved to have some kind of justification for his actions. Quackity didn’t stop though.

“But that was stupid, Wilbur. We were in the middle of a public area, a public area in which all anyone saw was you punching a nice woman stopping by the markets after church. We’re fuckin’ lucky all they did was throw us out, that could’ve ended in a full brawl.”

Wilbur opened his mouth, probably to defend himself or say he could’ve handled it, but Quackity plowed through as he stepped closer. “And Fundy was with us. He could’ve gotten separated from us if it did end in a fight, or worse, he could’ve gotten hurt. It didn’t, and he still got scared, Wil. You have to control yourself better, if not for him then for me.” Quackity finished, now standing in front of his lover with a hand squeezing his.

Wilbur looked properly shamed and scolded by now, head bowed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. Hesitantly, he reached out to pull Quackity in and hold him tight by his middle. Quackity didn’t stop him, which seemed to be encouragement enough for the brunet. “It’s still not right.” He grumbled, nuzzling into his partner’s neck.

Quackity sighed, threading a hand into the locks on the back of Wilbur’s head. “It’s not.” He agreed, and that was the end of it.