Star-crossed ||tntduo

Chap. 20. Scum, waste, and yet still someone you wanted

Emotions were something he always had trouble dealing with.

If you don't feel anything, and yet your body still reacts to it, are you normal?

If you feel those emotions, and yet you can't do anything, then what's the point of having them?

It was as if he lived in those cringy enemies to lovers fics, where a character slapped the main character and proceeded to propose minutes later, anyone would think he'd be stuck on stockholm.

Blood on the ground, glass shards in the flesh, he really should've felt thrilled, in triumph at the sight of it, right?

But he wasn't, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Screaming voices, they demanded action. Darting gazes, it spoke of concern, disgust, excitement. The same girl that he saw at the party with Wilbur, was now in tears, the fake painted nails clinging onto the figure as he punched the other one again, and again, every tightened fists still clear as day in Quackity's memories, fresh on his body.

The tears that washed away the cheap makeup, it revealed humanity's ugliness.

But rather, this time, it wasn't Quackity that took the all-familiar fists, it was Wilbur.

The irony sure ran deep.

He really should be cheering at the sight of the taller figure's pain, he really should be glad that karma was doing its job for once, but he wasn't feeling this way, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He couldn't get a hold of the situation, for one.

The all-familiar bully was clearly winning the fight, yes, and yet no punches could wipe that stupid ass smirk off Wilbur's face.

That thin, sly trace of a smile that sat stubbornly on the edge of his lips, as if he was winning the fight when he was not, and it was so raw, that he was surprised that no one else noticed it.

But then again, his mind was well-known for imagining shit, so maybe not.

God, he wished he could just die and not have to experience all this over and over again, rewinding and replaying.

His body urged him to run there and get involved, to protect the taller figure faithfully like a dog to its master, but he didn't move a muscle, he wouldn't move a muscle, he couldn't move a muscle.

So he simply stood there, frozen, no thoughts coming in, no thoughts going out—as if someone had recolored his canvas with white paint, all there was in his head was blank space, void of nothing.

The heart that thudded painfully against his chest, it was determined to tear open his skin, flesh exposed, veins bleeding out.

If he wanted to regain the control over his body, maybe he'd have to stop hypnotizing himself that he was enjoying karma's work on the taller figure.

Screaming heads mixed with joyful party music, beautiful, gold-traced glass bottles on display with drugged, rose-red liquor, the taller figure slowly stood up, his lips up with a smile, and yet his body said otherwise as the long arms dangled almost dead-like on the two sides, his legs wobbling ever-so-weakly, unbalanced, powerless, a mess, and yet the opposite of all the descriptions as the brown eyes was aflame with the ice-like fury that Quackity too, not too long ago encountered.

It was as if two different scenes of his life clashed against each other, determined to fight 'till a winner arised.

The taller figure looked up, perhaps in an attempt to stop the blood that bled out of his nose as he took in a sharp inhale. "You know, just because I let you punch me a couple times doesn't necessarily mean I won't bark back." He chuckled, eyes down at the other figure, the cold apathy clear. "Oh wait, I forgot, what's the point in lowering my level to yours?" Why bother barking back at a dog when they bark at you?