For Our Own Sake

7. The Shit That Interrupts A Serious Conversation

Wilbur eyes the so far empty and silent street from out of an alleyway. The sense of familiarity from sleeping outside and keeping watch strangely comforts him, perhaps it's because he wasn't such a mess of conflicting emotions back then, at least, not as much.

Because right now, he's stuck wondering, almost questioning whether this is real or not, it doesn't feel like it, he still remembers being in the apartment and packing as much as he could carry, being sure to grab some papers and pens as Quackity stocked his bags too.

He still remembers seeing Quackity's regretful look as he closed the door, a longing frown on his face that Wilbur was about to ask about until Quackity switched up, fastened his straps and walked ahead.

He definitely remembers the silence that fell over them as soon as Quackity stopped acting so concerned. When to him it looked like Wilbur was doing just fine, Quackity was back on the quite game and Wilbur didn't know if talking meant just losing the game or more.

So here he is, apparently, he doesn't feel like he is, curled up against a wall and staring out into the road ahead of him as Quackity sleeps.

Wilbur sighs into the night air, which for some reason, is a bit humid despite the lack of rain recently. But it makes it feel a bit warmer, so he tries to not mind it too much. He wraps his arms tighter around his legs, knees pulled up to his chest, a human ball attempting to get warm enough.

For another time that night, Wilbur glances down at Quackity, his face shoved in the space under a pillow and the thick blanket covering Wilbur. He can't even see Quackity's face, but he can see the top half of his cheat, rising and flowing in a steady manner that helps Wilbur's shoulders go a little slack as he turns back to where any potential threat could be lurking.

He knows Quackity's trying to ignore Wilbur the best somebody could while being alone and surviving with them, he knows Quackity still refuses to talk about that night and even will glare at Wilbur, he's catched it out the corner of his eye whenever he tried to make small talk, probably assuming it'll lead to the topic of that night. Yes, Wilbur is aware that things are getting thinner between them, like a path on the side of a cliff that's becoming more and more smaller in width, more rocks to trip over too. He's actually, painfully aware.

But that doesn't mean he can stop the twist in his stomach when Quackity might possibly be in danger (the more than usual) or he's facing a zombie or heck, even when Quackity goes so still and silent that Wilbur bites his cheek and makes sure he's really breathing.

Just because things are a bit rough right now doesn't mean Wilbur doesn't care for Quackity.

'Cause truth is, he really fucking cares about Quackity. He thinks that's why the silence is slowly gonna kill him even more painfully than being bit by a zombie.

But really, would he even know? Despite never being bitten by a zombie Wilbur would stand by his word and say yes, it is more painful than getting bit.

Wilbur doesn't wake Quackity up when it's his turn to keep watch that night.

And if Quackity had realized it, he doesn't mention it, Wilbur sure doesn't.

At least, not until it's halfway through the next day.

Wilbur's eyes flutter shut again, leaning on the rough brick wall, Quackity kneeling off somewhere to the side as he sorts through a pawn shop for anything useful.

The sun is warm and gentle in light, it makes Wilbur yawn, slumping down and pressing his head against the wall. His eyes are so dry, even with them closed, he hates it.

His legs and arms are so heavy, mind foggy as he leans against the wall even further.

Quackity says something, Wilbur hardly hears it. So he simply hums. "Sure."