Quackity grimaces at himself when he looks in the mirror this morning.
Not because he looks bad or anything, of course not. But because his brain is being utterly and ridiculously stupid.
To put it shortly, even the time of night isn't safe from his unwanted thoughts about a certain person he just met.
That's right. If Quackity wasn't thinking about some dumb coffee guy last night, then he somehow snuck into his dreams, absolutely abolishing the scene, script, and mood.
Quackity's having a weird dream about attending a random person's wedding? Wilbur's somewhere in the background with a slice of cake and a small glass of champagne, mostly only catching Quackity's attention after he's awake.
Hey now, not too much complaining from Quackity. He saw that guy in a vest suit after all, one that perfectly hugged him and his buttoned-up long sleeved shirt. A total upgrade from that yellow sweater from yesterday.
Still, however, Quackity would really appreciate it if his mind took a damn break. He doesn't need to have some tall, mysterious new guy interrupting his train of thoughts.
But it seems the world thinks otherwise, leaving Quackity muttering under his breath as he finally manages to get himself ready and out the door without sinking too deep into the distractions of his imaginative mind.
First, though, Quackity stops at a local diner that thankfully serves breakfast all hours of the day. It has been a while since he's treated himself to going out, even if it's a small place like this, and his shift doesn't start for another two hours. Each of which he planned on running a bit of errands during.
Quackity huffs as he pulls into the tight parking lot, the odd orange-ish bricks bordered with white thick pillars of the building will never be a visual choice that Quackity understands.
No matter the look of it, as long as it's not on fire or inhabitable, Quackity just wants good food, give himself some energy before hustling around town to get stuff done.
If Karl were here, Quackity would make a remark on how he's single by choice. As he likes to call it, "Productive, not incapable of dating". Not that Karl would listen too much.
Quackity pushes through the clear door, immediately greeted with the smell of a mix of buttery, syrupy, and salty dishes along with some meat being cooked.
The obnoxious blue carpet in the small waiting lobby ruffles under his foot as he drags it across the floor, sighing as he glances at the two parallel benches meant to be occupied while you sit patiently for a seat.
But there's not too many people during this hour of the morning, so Quackity asks for a seat just for one and he's politely shown a spot in the far left corner, usefully right next to the bathrooms and the kitchen.
His seat is situated at a long table pressed against the wall, panelled windows lighting up the place as he gazes down the row of empty seats.
Behind him there are some decently filled tables, ranging from grandparents with their three grandkids in a nice booth to two dudes with beards discussing something over bacon and milk.
Quackity barely registers the radio playing in the background before a waitress pops up behind his shoulder, very cheery despite his somewhat lingering tiredness as she takes his order and tells him about a new menu item he declines.
His brain tries not to think of another person he saw wearing an apron the other day, failing as he almost tricks himself into thinking he's at the ridiculous coffee shop. But he quickly catches himself, giving a small smile and a thank you as she finally walks away.
Quackity shuts his eyes tightly, elbows on the wooden table as he hides his face and looks down. Man, he really needed to figure out how to get that Wilbur guy out of his head.
"Here's your drink."
Quackity nearly jumps, this lady is quick, placing a glass cup right in front of him, resulting in his suddenly much more straightened posture and unnerved expression.
He peeks over at her, brain still all skittish.
"Your food will be out shortly," She says placidly, tipping her head with a smile and whipping around, abandoning Quackity as he nods weakly.
Cons of having somebody stuck in your head: you don't really get too much sleep.
Unfortunately Quackity ends up being easily unsettled when his brain doesn't have enough rest, body lacking proper energy.
But oh yeah, he's here to make up for it.
So he moves to fetch the straw out from the wrapper, piercing it into his drink and taking a long sip.
It's decent, most importantly it's refreshing and sustainable. He waits a little bit, taking another sip as his mind eases into something close enough to relaxation as his eyes flicker to the left thoughtlessly, then back down at his drink, and to the left again.
But his gaze stays there, instant waves of dread and disbelief crashing against each other as the unfairly familiar face haunts him beyond the limits of the privacy in his mind.
There, with a seat in between, is the man he cannot simply stop thinking about. Here he is, Wilbur Soot, in the flesh and not only a vision, sliding into his seat comfortably, a white cordbelonging to his ear buds sneaking under his dark jacket. He only has one in his ear, apparently. And he isn't wearing a distractedly unappealing yellow sweater.
The morning light beams gently through the large wide windows, highlighting his glistening warm brown eyes that are focused downwards on his phone.
He also has glasses, Quackity realizes, with thin frames that slip down the brigde of his nose as he squints at his screen, tilting his head down further.
Quackity should have returned to minding his own business by now, looking away and busying himself. But instead he catches how Wilbur seemingly almost huffs out of slight amusement, expecting the fall of his glasses as he pushes them back up with slender fingers.
Quackity, for some unknown reasons, has to suck in a small sharp breath and force himself with as much power as he can to turn his head the completely other way.
But of course, nothing is that easy, and his thoughts about the man sitting right next to him come back full force, stronger then ever, slamming him in the chest within a blink of an eye, entirely knocking down a supporting stand of his composure.
It's Wilbur's stupidly curly hair, how it falls over his face, his interesting white streak mixing in. It's his ridiculously brown eyes that trap Quackity's attention like a moth to a flame, who even knows what'll happen if Quackity's only option is to confront his thoughts about this man.
He doesn't find out in that moment as the same waitress from before shuffles over to Wilbur's right side. Unluckily the side Quackity's on, meaning he might be seen and possibly recognized.
Call it dramatic, whatever. But a sensation of panic bubbles up his throat as he quickly snaps his head the other way when he hears her voice grab Wilbur's eyes. He doesn't exactly want to be seen by the man right now, not even for a particular reason. Well, maybe it might have something to do with the intruding images of the man right in his brain, and how Quackity might give it away just if Wilbur so much as sees his face.
How? Not even he knows. But currently, he's as paranoid as ever that Wilbur can read and look into his thoughts as easily as he can breath because, well, they're about him.
Quackity wasn't even holding his breath, but he exhales deeply either way as he daringly sneaks a quick glance to his left, only to see the waitress leave, making a straight clear path for anybody's vision.
Of course, Wilbur's eyes land on him. And of course, his eyes flash as his memory jumps, a small smile pulling gently at his lips. "Oh, it's you. Hello."
Quackity holds back the very strong urge to shift nervously, instead, he nods tightly, voice just barely above a mumble. "It's me."
Wilbur hums, momentarily examining the building, then, he's facing Quackity with a slight smirk, it's completely unfair and there's even a trace of teasing in the way he looks at the other. "Oh wow, hope you're not following me just after our first interaction."
He's joking, it's obvious. The playful light in his eyes helps give it away. But Quackity still struggles to find his words for a moment, as if he really has been caught.
"I was here first," He says in his defense, setting his arms on the table.
And because, as Quackity is just learning, Wilbur's not actually that full of himself, he just likes a bit of fun, as in joking around, he eyes Quackity up and down, then nods in conformation of something. "Fair enough, you don't look like the type to do that anyway."
Quackity, however, scrunches his face up with slight confusion. "What?"
"Hey, it's a compliment," Wilbur says evenly, carelessly waving his hand before he pauses. "Sort of." Then he shrugs it off, turning to smile at Quackity. "Congrats, you don't look like a stalker in the making."
"Wow," Quackity mutters under his breath, tilting his head and squinting his eyes with uncertainty. "Thanks?" He attempts to swallow down his nervousness with a long sip of his drink, pulling it closer to himself. "Not really sure what type you see me as, but I suppose I'm glad it's not that."
Whatever Wilbur might have possibly had on his mind fades as the man looks someways behind Quackity, then gestures over there. Quackity's eyes follow, blinking as his food is carried over.
"Here you are," The lady says, setting his food on the table before tucking her hands nicely at her side.
"Thank you." Quackity nods.
"Yup, course. If you need anything I can help with that. I'll give you your bill before you head out."
Again, like it's one of the only things he knows how to do, Quackity nods.
Looking down at his plate, he even swallows, and despite drinking a few moments before, his throat feels increasingly dry.
He blames it on Wilbur, blames him for the unexpectedly rising heat that pools underneath his cheeks, uncomfortably warm, similar to the sensation that punches his gut, aching him to look at Wilbur in search for something. As if Wilbur could give him anything.
Quackity almost thinks he's sick, the feeling crushing him down and twisting his vital organs, leaving him for dead.
Surprisingly, though, he lives, just with some unidentified illness that can pull him six feet under at any given moment.
With this knowledge, Quackity takes a meaningful bite out of his breakfast, like it'll be his last time ever enjoying a meal.
But of course, his brain still itches, still wants. And he ends up peeking at Wilbur, who seemingly picks up the pair of eyes on him rather quickly, meeting his gaze.
Wilbur hums, casually resting a hand on the table. "When does your shift start, mate?"
Quackity huffs reluctantly, but answers anyway through his napkin. "Like, less than two hours. Why?"
"Just curious," Wilbur says noncommittally, then tilts his head. "I've got a full four hours."
He even smiles lightly, and it's too close to the ones that accompanied Quackity's dreams last night.
He painfully remembers in great detail Wilbur standing there in a white suit, accented with gold and blue, smiling just like that somewhere off in the background of Quackity's dream about heaven being some fancy, luxurious rich party.
He doubts all the people that say dreams have meanings. Because that's hardly the start of them.
It makes Quackity want to curl in on himself, let the embarrassment swallow him despite Wilbur having no clue about whatever went on in Quackity's mind last night. He manages to refuse the temptation, pulling through and shrugging. He attempts indifference here.
"Cool." He mentally pats himself on the back until he sees and hears Wilbur snicker at him. His cheeks are once again flushed as he nearly folds. "What?"
"Nothing." Wilbur states, catching wind of the unconvinced look Quackity has. "Seriously." He assures.
Quackity cannot help but scoff, shoving down whatever composure-drainage device into the back, hoping it'd stop working entirely. "So you just... laugh like that randomly?" He questions jokingly, still, underneath, he's hoping for an real answer that isn't dismissive.
Wilbur's lips part ways with his grin, a smile barely on his face, like it's peeking up from hiding, as he looks down at the table. "Uh, no, actually."
For a moment, with Wilbur's flickering eyes looking between walls, tables, and Quackity, with his almost awkward smile, Quackity wonders if this is what it looks like when Wilbur has a sudden lack of easygoing confidence oozing from his chest. But rather a light pinch of nervousness, the good kind.
But Quackity can't decide for sure, so he just lets a small giggle, playfully making fun of Wilbur, slip past his lips before he takes a sip of his drink. "Oh yeah? Your actual laugh is probably more dolphin-like, really gets people to make a face, ya know."
Wilbur shakes his head with a smile poorly concealled. "Oh whatever."
"Dang, I must be right, huh?" Quackity jokes, a smile pulling at his mouth as he and Wilbur delve into a conversation.
Strangely so, Quackity discovers it's rather easy to chat with Wilbur, even while fighting off the odd feelings that come and go, as if messing with him, making his face hot and his gut ridiculously think he should turn to Wilbur in search for something- which he still hasn't figured out yet.
But soon he will.
And yeah, he might have said having Wilbur stuck in his mind didn't mean anything beforehand, but waving at Wilbur as he steps out of his seat, knowing this particular breakfast was gonna be replaying in his head, well it kinda feels like a little piece of something.
Maybe. Who knows.