Work Text:
Sunsets are the best part of the day. The end.
It’s knowing there will be a day after today and a day after that one, and that the sun is only bidding it’s final farewell before the moon slides into place; its curtain call.
Ghostbur likes it because every sunset is different.
Some days end with rowdy red, signifying not only its burning desire to show up again the next day, but its passion.
Other days, dreary days, you have to look for the light like a candle through darkness. When you do eventually see it in the distance, it looks a little sad, a little reminiscent and knowing that another day has gone by.
When it rains, like today, sunsets meet their graves.
It gets foggy and unintelligible, the wind howls and it’s impossible to hear your own thoughts over the chatter of the trees around you, the little pieces of frost that clink together on the branches, some whispering and some yelling, ‘autumn is coming to a close!’.
Summer is Ghostburs' favorite time of year. It brings back good memories, of sunlight shining through a meadow and people laughing, so much laughing.
He’d like to imagine that Wilbur enjoyed summer too.
Winter is dark, damp, and desolate. It makes everywhere you go feel abandoned, like a ghost town where he himself, a ghost, is the only inhabitant.
Las Nevadas has a strange sort of nostalgia, mist abundantly covering the casino and its cheery lights, like an amusement park that never was.
It’s the echoes of smiles long in the past that he’s remembering, things that Wilbur thought were worth saving in his file cabinet of memories. Too bad he won’t get to see Las Nevadas. Ghostbur thinks he would like it.
Sometimes it's weird being a phantom, a possessor of someone else’s life and someone else’s history. Everyone calls you by their name, but you have to stop to remind them that they are not you, at least not in the details.
Quackity had made the mistake a few times, but as they began to spend more time with each other, Ghostbur thinks he’s made himself a new person in the other man’s eyes.
After all, he’s not the one they say blew up a nation. And what a stark contrast to be made about a ghost that delivers flowers to the lonely and gives blue to whoever needs it.
Speaking of flowers, he is on his way to Quackity now.
The last time they spoke–or maybe it was the third time they’d spoken, who could tell–he had asked Quackity about his favorite color. It was Purple, he had said.
“But what about red? There’s an awful lot of red in Las Nevadas,” He remembers saying.
“They remind me of a certain flower,” Quackity had responded, trying to play it off.
“You like flowers, Quackity?”
“Crocus flowers. I used to see them growing in between the cement when we were- back when Wilbur was still alive.”
Quackity likes flowers. Ghostbur also likes flowers.
There was a time that Ghostbur remembers, a long long time ago when Alivebur was around that Wilbur had looked at flowers with admiration. He had picked up a single bloom from the ground and put it in his breast pocket as he walked through the wooded thicket. It might have been purple too.
The thing about memories that no one understands is that they are very selective, and the ones he does have are blurry like an old polaroid picture.
Undoubtedly though, the things he needs to remember usually stay. Or he writes them down. That is why there is a small basket of Crocus flowers in his hands as he makes his way to the entrance of Las Nevadas. Oh, pretty Las Nevadas. Sometimes he comes during the night by himself just to gape at the lights.
Quackity did not like Wilbur, Q had made that clear from their first time meeting. But what makes things even more confusing is that the memories of Quackity were good. They liked each other a lot.
So why does he talk about Wilbur like they never felt anything for each other?
There was a specific party. Once. He replays the few frames of the moment that he has and tries to make sense of it, tries to understand why people are so terribly complex. He does that when he forgets that he is in some ways really Wilbur, just the parts of him people never remember.
The parts that felt compassion. The parts that were genuine. Or maybe he’s just the fake parts.
The way people talk about him does not paint him in a genuine light. Or any light at all. But Ghostbur can try to fix Wilbur’s mistakes, little by little. He has unfinished business in a way.
He knocks on the door of the vacant casino.
A man in a fancy suit answers.
“Hello Quackity!”
“Hey…” He squints, looking him up and down. “What are you doing here, Ghostbur?”
“I’m here to deliver you some flowers! I know you like flowers.” He nods enthusiastically.
He places the basket into his hands.
“This is really thoughtful. What’s the occasion?”
“Oh there’s no occasion I need to give flowers to my friend, is there? I’ve been growing them for a very long time, I did it just for you.”
“I- thank you. Thanks, Wil- Ghostbur.”
“You're welcome!”
“It’s like- really cold out here, do you want to come inside-?” He questions, unsure.
“Okay!” He replies easily, walking past Quackity and a little ways into the casino, leaving Quackity with a basket of purple flowers. He looks a little uncomfortable.
“This is such a big place,” He says in awe.
“You like it?”
“It’s like L’manburg! Except I don’t think L’manburg was this fancy.”
“Yeah, kinda..” He leads off into silence.
“Well thank you for letting me in and everything, I hope you like your flowers,” He says, semi-bashfully.
Quackity looks down at the flowers, furrowing his brows.
“H-how did you know I liked these?”
“Sometimes I remember things,” Ghostbur says, smiling. “I wrote it in my book as soon as I got home so I wouldn’t forget.”
“You grew these yourself?”
“I love to garden. In the summer, the worms come, and then I have a bunch of worm friends too! I have to keep them away from the flowers though… they’re hungry little guys.”
“That’s great. Uh- thanks.”
He studies Quackity’s face. He looks sad. Ghostbur isn’t good at figuring out what to do when people are sad.
“You don’t look happy, Big Q. Here, have some blue!” He takes the blue from his pockets and puts it into Quackity’s free hand.
It partially stains his fingers, but blue is his favorite color so he doesn’t mind if it stays a while.
A quick, almost guilty looking smile flashes across his face and he puts it in his back pocket. He just keeps looking at the flowers, Ghostbur can see his hands shaking. He looks far away, like he’s thinking about something.
He cradles one of the flowers with his blue-tainted hand.
“Wil..” He whispers under his breath.
Ghostbur’s pupil-less eyes widen.
He watches as Quackity’s eyes well up with tears he tries to control.
“Oh no- did I- is everything- I’m sorry if I did something wrong-”
“It’s okay Ghostbur,” He shushes, wiping his tear away with the back of his hand.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad. I thought you would like the flowers.”
“They remind me of things I don’t want to remember..” He pauses. “I know you don’t remember all the bad times, but I do.” His voice breaks. “Wilbur used to love these flowers,” He whispers the last part to himself like a solemn secret he’s just released into the world.
“But I thought you hated Wilbur.”
“I hate him so much. He stabbed everyone in the back and then fuckin- just- peaced out like it was nothing.” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Wilbur did a lot of bad things.” Ghostbur nods.
“But god ..” Quackity lingers.
“What is it, Quackity?” Ghostbur asks.
Quackity doesn’t seem to want to answer. His face is holding secrets and Ghostbur cannot read them. “I really did love him. Back then,” He finally says.
“How do you hate someone and love them at the same time?”
“It’s the same way you hate the rain but love the flowers, Ghostbur. On the bad days you hate- you hate him- you hate the rain because it hurts you. But on the good days… he was like a flower. On the good days, he was beautiful.”
“Oh..” He looks down. “Do you ever miss him?”
“All the time.”
“Would you be happy if he was still here instead of me?” Ghostbur asks. Most people hate Wilbur, they never want him to come back.
“ No,” He answers quickly, definitely. “No. I’m happy you’re here. Wilbur was… Wilbur was TNT rigged to explode. This server doesn’t need any more explosions, I promise.” A hoarse laugh escapes his throat.
“I wish that I could remember all the things that happened sometimes, Big Q. M-maybe if I did, then I would understand.”
“Only Wil knows why he did the things he did. It happened and we just have to live with his mistakes. Even if we don’t want to.”
“I just wish I could fix all the things he did.”
“Things will mend, people will move on,” Quackity says.
“I’m sorry I brought you the flowers, Q.”
“It’s okay. I can’t run away from it forever.”
“What do you mean?”
“Before he died he gave me a basket of these.” He points down to the flowers. “I told him I didn’t want to play his mind games. And then the whole thing went down. He blew it all up and I was the idiot who didn’t accept the flowers.”
“But you didn’t know what he would do.”
“But he did. And he wanted to say sorry for what he was about to do- maybe his- his version of leaving a note. I told him that everything he did was for nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” Quackity asks.
“I’m sorry he was like the rain to you.”
Quackity doesn’t look at Ghostbur. He imagines it hurts a little too much. “I wake up some days and forget he’s gone, you know.”
“What happens when you realise?” Ghostbur asks. He can’t tell if it’s a sensitive question.
“I guess I just keep on going.”
“How?” He asks. He’s never had that before, the feeling that he’s describing. Of your heart being broken over and over again.
“I remember the good days, and then the bad days don’t suck so much. I come to terms with it because I know he’s not coming back,” Quackity says. “He never will.”
“You accept everything that he did?”
"I don’t know if I can accept it. I just move on. The start of another chapter. It’ll never completely heal, but I can at least try to.”
It turns quiet.
The snow has begun falling ever so slowly outside, he can hear it pitter patter on the closed windows. A slight shiver races up his spine.
“Did Alivebur like the summer?” He asks, interrupting the silence.
Q turns to look at him.
“I think he did.”
And in the palm of his hand sits a small flower, somehow telling the two of them all they needed to know. A crocus flower that tells of life, given by the dead.
For the man that gave the flowers long ago: rain. And his once loved: a flower that has somehow survived the downpour and tried to grow in spite of it.
Ghostbur likes flowers. Quackity did too, once.