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Wilbur has never minded being alone; he's never prefered it either, but he's never minded it. It isn't the end of the world to be alone, and Wilbur has most certainly gone through worse. He thinks that being stabbed in the stomach by his father and left to bleed out on his own, leading to years of literal hell, is much worse than being alone.
But right now, he feels as if nothing could ever manage to compare to the raw terror he feels building up in his chest at the prospect of being alone once again.
The absolute worst thing about this feeling, Wilbur thinks to himself as he tries to even out his breathing, is that he doesn't know why it's happening. Wilbur hates not knowing, he hates it more than he could ever put into words, and he hates not knowing what he's afraid of. Wilbur isn't supposed to be afraid of anything, he's supposed to be strong and unafraid. To be fair, Wilbur thinks, he's supposed to be a lot of things. He was supposed to be a lot of things. He was supposed to be a kind and caring person, he was supposed to help others and do everything for other people, to do anything to uplift them higher than he could ever possibly wish to go. He was supposed to be a good son and a good dad and a good person, and yet here he is. There are a lot of things that Wilbur is supposed to be and supposed to not be, and he doesn't think he'd be able to name them all off even if he tried.
Fear is a new feeling. He stopped feeling afraid in his limbo after the first year, when he realised he was never going to come back. He stopped feeling fear when he started to curl up on the outside platform to sleep rather than inside of the train itself, too tired of the disembodied shadows that constantly loomed over him while he tried ever so desperately to sleep. Wilbur hasn't been afraid in a very long time, and he doesn't like it at all. Wilbur breathes out softly, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, his attempts to calm himself down failing miserably. He closes his eyes for a second, and images of his limbo flash behind his eyes. Wilbur opens them, preferring to never be reminded of his own personal hell ever again.
Wilbur hums discontentedly, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving his fingers over one of the poker chips that...
Oh, Wilbur breathes out. He knows how to solve his fear. Wilbur moves out of the ruins of L'manberg, making his way over to Las Nevadas, where he should have thought of going in the first place. Wilbur moves far faster than he thinks the situation calls for, but his heart is going to break out of his chest, he's convinced of it, if he doesn't, so he continues to keep his pace. Wilbur quietly thinks about all the people who he should be logically going to instead of Quackity. He thinks of Phil and Tommy, especially Tommy. He thinks briefly of Niki, before remembering that she hates him. Tommy hates him, too.
Does anyone other than Quackity not hate him?
Wilbur doesn't know, and he doesn't even know if Quackity is on the list of people who don't hate him. He'll find out eventually, he always does. Wilbur sees the glowing lights of Las Nevadas approach him a little faster than he thought they would, but he doesn't find himself minding whatsoever. He breathes out quietly as he sees Quackity leaning against one of the few remaining trees around Las Nevadas, and there's some sort of fucked up affection stirring in the bottom of his stomach for the other man. Quackity is the only one who makes him feel alive. Quackity is the only person who makes him feel like he's able to breathe, like he's not suffocating. Quackity is running, and Wilbur is more than willing to chase.
"Quackity." Wilbur calls out, his voice far more gentle than he wants it to be. He immediately feels a wave of calmness rush over him when the other man turns to face him, quirking up an eyebrow at him. He looks bored, but through that mask of boredom Wilbur can see something sort of like concern shimmering in his eyes. Wilbur's heart finally stills in his chest, beating regularly once again. He tilts his head to the side slightly, wondering if they're playing the stupid game that they always have. They posture back and forth, they puff out their chests and wear masks of confidence and pride. He wonders if they're playing right now, or if he's allowed one moment of weakness, if he's allowed to simply breathe.
It's almost horrifying how quickly Quackity is able to read his mind. "Wilbur," he greets back, moving away from the tree. "You look like shit," Quackity observes, and Wilbur can't suppress the bark of laughter that escapes his throat in time. "What's up with you, man?" He asks, and Wilbur nearly wants to cry at how softly spoken those words are. They're not harsh or angry, they aren't even wondering, they're simply concerned, and it's been so, so long since Wilbur has heard that tone of voice used with him. "Wilbur," Quackity repeats his name, reaching out and setting his hand down on his shoulder. "You look like you're about to fucking pass out."
Wilbur snorts, ducking his head. "As if I'd pass out in front of you," he teases, leaning into the touch a little. It's..comforting, almost. "I sort of was thinking about death," he shrugs, taking Quackity's hand off of his shoulder. He doesn't let go of the man's hand however, instead dragging him by the hand back to the tree he had been under. Wilbur sits down, dragging his legs up to his chest and resting his head on top of his knees. "About limbo, about the place I had been. And I got afraid," Wilbur says, as if it's the simplest thing in the entire world. It almost feels silly to admit to Quackity, considering just how not afraid he feels right now. "Which is stupid."
"Nah," Quackity sits down next to him, and Wilbur can't help but immediately feel..safer. He breathes out, the idea of being safe with Quackity making him feel vulnerable and scared, but in a different sort of way. "It's not stupid. We all get afraid sometimes, Wilbur. It's terrifying," he says, his voice just a little quiet. "I've never been to limbo, I don't want to go there, but I've died before. It's awful. I can't even imagine what the fuck it was like for you, to be there for so long." Wilbur breathes out, thoughts whirling around in his head far, far too fast. Quackity has to be playing a game, he's got to be trying to figure out a way to control Wilbur, he has to be. There's no way in hell he isn't, he has to be..
Wilbur realises he doesn't care.
"It is," he whispers. "It's terrible. I didn't know what to do, who else to..go to. I didn't think that..I figured," Wilbur closes his eyes, "that you were the only one who I could trust enough to talk to. I don't trust you, for the record."
Quackity smiles at him. "Good. I wouldn't trust me, either. If it's any condolence, I also don't trust you. But," Quackity moves a little, shifting so he's got an arm wrapped around Wilbur's shoulders. Wilbur leans back into the touch, feeling warm and safe and comforted. "Just because we don't trust each other doesn't mean we can't be there for each other, right? Not as big of a deal to be stabbed in the back when you're sleeping, you know?" Wilbur laughs, closing his eyes and he leans a little closer to Quackity, resting his head on the man's shoulder.
"You got the joke wrong," Wilbur heaves a sigh, grinning a little. "It's 'not a big deal to be stabbed in the stomach'. Come on, Q, get it right next time, okay? I was really thinking you were clever enough to make that joke on your own, and yet here we are. I'm disappointed, Quackity, I really am."
"Shut the fuck up," Quackity snorts. "What were you really afraid of, Wilbur? I know you're not afraid of death, you never have been. Even when we first met, you might have been scared of losing your country, but the threat of literal fucking public execution never even phased you. What's up with you?" He asks, and Wilbur closes his eyes, shifting even closer to the other man. "It's just me here, Wilbur. We're not playing a game, we aren't pretending. We're us right now. We're us. You're you, and I'm me, and that'll change when you're okay again," he pauses, "but right now you're not, and so we're going to stop fucking posturing for once and talk to each other like normal people."
Wilbur, for a second, feels like he's going to cry. He doesn't have a single reason to trust Quackity, he doesn't even have a reason to believe him, and yet those words have him wanting to spill out his entire life story. He breathes in slowly, through his nose, and weighs his options as best as he can. He silently thinks, and Quackity allows him that time, and that's another thing he has to think about. Quackity sounded genuine, he sounded like his words were true. He sounded like he was being entirely honest for once in is life, and while Wilbur has no good reason to believe him, he's also got no good reason to not believe him.
And so, with another slow breath, Wilbur opens his mouth. "I'm afraid of being alone. I was afraid of being alone, I was terrified, to the point where I couldn't breathe, and I had to..stop being alone. I didn't know who else to go to or where else to go, so I..I came here. I'm not afraid anymore," Wilbur says, because he feels like it's important to. "I'm not, I saw you and I stopped being afraid. But I was terrified, Quackity. I was so scared of being alone, and I don't know why. There was no good reason for me to be afraid, there's never a good reason for fear, and I-"
"Hey, dumbass," Quackity interrupts him, sighing. "I'm afraid of caves and of alcohol. I'm afraid of Tubbo, not because of the things he could do to me, not because of the way he threatens me, but because of the way he looks. He looks like him, and it isn't fair of me to think that, because he's a kid, but it's just how it is. You being afraid of being alone is just how it is, and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm afraid of being alone, too. But," Quackity pulls Wilbur closer to him, and Wilbur lets him. "We're not alone, right? You and I, we're not alone. We've got each other."
"We're meant to hate each other."
"And we do," Quackity's smiling, Wilbur can tell by his voice. Quackity's always been like that, he's always worn his emotions on his face, never bothered with masking them. It works out surprisingly well for him, far better than it probably should, Wilbur thinks. "We do, obviously. Hate's a complicated word, Wilbur. I hate you, you hate me. We hate each other, it's how it works, it's how it's always going to be. But," Quackity sighs, "there's always love in hate, is there not?"
Wilbur smiles, feeling less and less alone with every single word that leaves Quackity's mouth. "Is this a confession, Big Q?"
"You wish," Quackity teases. "You don't have to be afraid with me, Wilbur. Well," he snorts. "You do. We have to be afraid of each other, because we're not friends and we'll never be friends, we're enemies, but you don't have to be afraid about this kind of thing. You don't have to be afraid when it comes to this. When have I ever judged you on something you can't control? That's right, never. I only judge you on your shitty wardrobe and you're stupid fucking face, never your perfectly reasonable and valid fears." Wilbur laughs, fully letting his guard down, something he hasn't done in a long time, something he can't remember doing.
"Thank y-"
"Finish that sentence and I'm punching you in the stomach," Quackity threatens, and Wilbur is very well aware that it's not an empty threat - Quackity doesn't make those. "You feelin' better, Wilbur?"
"Yes," Wilbur confirms, biting down on his tongue to prevent himself from saying his thanks. He pauses for a few seconds, snuggles closer to Quackity. He listens to the other man's heartbeat for a few seconds, pondering life and death, wondering about fear and arrogance. He sighs softly, letting himself be held and warm for a few more seconds. "Thank you," Wilbur says, deciding that the punch he'll be getting is worth it. Quackity's arm is gone from around his shoulders in a second, the warmth by his side disappearing a moment later. Wilbur gasps at the sudden, blunt pain to his gut, but smiles nonetheless. "That was almost nostalgic, Quackity."
Quackity laughs, patting him on the shoulder a few times before he stands, offering him a hand a few seconds after he does so. "Yeah? Next time I'll have a sword in my hand."
"Don't threaten me with a good time."
"I'll threaten you all I want," the shorter man says. Wilbur takes his hand, towering over him with a wide smile across his face. "Don't fucking look at me like that, dumbass. I'll punch you again, I swear to god," Wilbur laughs, glancing up at the setting sun. "It's getting dark out. Phil is going to be pissed if you try and come to the Antarctic Empire at night. He'll probably stab you you in the stomach again."
"True," Wilbur agrees with a nod of his head. "He probably will."
Quackity sighs. "Hey, fuckface, I'm offering you to stay in Las Nevadas for a bit. Just 'til it gets light out again."
"Just 'til it gets light out?" Wilbur asks. Quackity smiles, and although they're back to playing their game, Wilbur can't help but feel entirely safe and comforted with the other man in front of him. "I figured you'd want me to stay longer," he shoves his hands in his pockets, moving towards Las Nevadas with Quackity trailing after him. "To help fix all your shitty design choices."
That time Quackity does punch him again, this time in the back, and Wilbur laughs again, feeling like his life is finally, finally getting some sort of normality back into it - and it's all thanks to Quackity.