For Our Own Sake

3. Live This Day Like It's Your Last, It Might Be

Wilbur wakes up with an embarrassingly uneven breath, wide eyes travelling around the room before he remembers the familiar surroundings of Quackity's small- and still boring bedroom.

He groans, finding his shaky and uncertain behaviour unnecessary. His eyes find the pen that's sitting on the bed, most certainly chewed on moments before he fell asleep. A habit Wilbur wants to break. But he never seems to get rid of the dull inky taste in his mouth for long.

Wilbur shakes his head, possibly trying to wake himself up before sliding out of bed. Wilbur peeks out the door, seeing Quackity sitting quietly on the couch. He pauses for a second, tapping on the door frame before stepping forward with a deep breath that he also found unnecessary.

"Good morning."

Quackity's eyes shoot up to meet Wilbur's as he gives a small smile. "It is morning."

"But it's not good?" Wilbur asks, but his voice is so laced with sleep that it takes the teasing tone away. He waves his hair out of his face, brown curls finally moving out of his vision to see Quackity a bit better.

Wilbur notices the way Quackity pauses, looking down at something before returning his gaze to Wilbur. His lips are pursed down as he shrugs.

"Let's say- uh," Quackity stops mid-sentence to take in a low breath as his eyes dart the other way. "Could there be more than one way to get infected?"

Wilbur's breath involuntarily hitches. "I'm not sure." He answers slowly, eyebrows furrowing. "Why?"

Quackity's frown only fades into an expression Wilbur can't place.

When Wilbur can't wait any longer for an answer he walks over to sit down on Quackity's left. "Quackity?"

"Look," Quackity simply says, shifting around on the couch with a small huff. Wilbur's confused at first, leaning back the slightest bit to allow Quackity to have some space between them. But then Wilbur notices the leg Quackity's propped up.

More specifically, he notices the claw marks stretching down from his ankle, unsettling to the eye and Wilbur can only guess how uncomfortable that must be.

The skin around it is flushed with pink, irritated but still soft. The scratches themselves are painfully deep that Wilbur grimaces at the dried blood that surrounds the red marks, grey on the edges.

"When did this happen?" He asks, eyes wide and sounding breathless as worry bubbles up in his stomach.

Quackity looks guilty as he slouches into the cushions, rubbing his ankle with unease. "Yesterday, the same zombie that almost killed me."

Wilbur's throat tightens with an unknown feeling as he frowns. "What? Yesterday- you never said anything. Why didn't you say anything?"

Quackity gives a nervous laugh, a smile to match before Wilbur can ask anything else. "I just- it's just we were having a great time!" He defends, lifting his hands up before flopping them in his lap. "We were chatting and laughing, that shit, and I didn't want to ruin the moment."

Wilbur blinks before he properly processes Quackity's words. He grimaces at the injury, a questioning lilt in his voice as he sits up. "Ruin the moment? Quackity, it wouldn't have ruined the moment it just would've... changed it."

"Yeah, changed it by ruining it."

"This is important- you're injured."

"Eh, just itches a whole fucking lot."

Wilbur stands up, looking down at Quackity with a pointed look. "Don't even, just a minute ago you were worried about it."

Quackity doesn't respond to the statement, only shifting uncomfortably. Uncomfortable because of his scratched-up ankle and because Wilbur's eyes are trained on him.