"—If the answer is no you don't want that's fine. You know that, right?" 

"It shouldn't matter whether I want to. It's not like I asked everyone, hey, do you want me to ruin your life, no, oh that's cool I'll just leave you alone."

"—so, ever since I got out of the arena, I'm... basically only close with other victors, and that's not because it's convenient, it isn't. It's because nobody else gets it. And one of the things nobody else gets is that you don't bring up someone's arena unless they bring it up first, and you don't bring someone's family unless they bring it up first, and you don't ask about the people they killed, ever, unless they bring it up first. It doesn't matter what they did, I have friends who have killed a dozen people, and unless they bring it up, I don't fucking ask. 

I break that rule with you a lot, because frankly a lot of the time you sound like you kind of want to talk about it but need the excuse. But if I'm wrong, if you don't, then— it matters, to me at least, that I'm the one who's wrong and you don't have to." 

"I don't--

There wasn't an arena. I didn't have to do any of what I did, no one was--no one was making me. It was just-- me. I wasn't doing terrible things because I, I had to do them to survive.

I--I appreciate it, Q. I really do. But you don't have to, to coddle me."

"Wilbur, I promise you that I am not under the impression people only ever do bad things if they're being forced to." And can you please stop acting like the problem is that I don't realize human cruelty is a thing that exists. 

"I wasn't--good. To--a lot of people.

But--I wasn't--everyone just looks at me like I'm some sort of fucking, freak, and I don't--I'm tired of it, Q, I don't know what more punishment they want and I'm trying to be better but it's never fucking enough, is it? They're all still fucking scared of me. No one cared when I died, they wanted it, they liked me better when I was fucking dead. Half of them have done the same or worse, but it's just me, right? I'm the psycho in their eyes. And the worst part is I get it, I hate him too for what he did. But I don't want to die anymore."

There's really not a lot of detail there. Q doesn't even know where he'd start asking questions if he was going to. 

...but he also doesn't really have to, to have an answer. 

"That sounds so fucking awful. I'm sorry." 

Wilbur presses his face into Q's shoulder and cries. (Fucking baby, you don't deserve this you should be dead he should stab you right now a thousand times and twist the knife and it'd be what you FUCKING deserved--he's never going to see you the same way again and it's all your fault your fault your fault you fucking idiot just fucking DIE already and leave everyone else ALONE--)

"I'm sorry, I don't--I don't know what to do or, or how to do--any of this--"

"'S okay. I don't think anyone really does." He's holding Wilbur tight, it usually seems like it helps rather than making things worse. Then, on the basis that this will also probably not make things worse: "We'll figure it out. Tell me?" 

The holding helps, yeah. The half-discarded guitar is kind of awkwardly digging into his thigh but that's helping too, in its own way.

"I don't-- fuck, man, I don't really know where to start. Uh, we were talking about Tubbo, I guess, I--I made him president, did you know that? Right before I blew it all to hell. It was--it was supposed to be Tommy, I was trying to hurt Tommy."

"Okay." Gentle, patient, because those are the things you are when someone is telling you about the worst thing they ever did. He doesn't actually know what he's doing but faking it hasn't gone horribly so far! "Why were you trying to do that?" 

"I was--sick." His voice breaks a little, on the last word. "I wasn't--thinking straight, really. Part of it was--I needed to hurt him, so maybe he, he wouldn't miss me. Guess I did a proper job of that one, at least." He half-laughs; the sound is wet. "Tommy, I mean, not Tubbo, I knew Tubbo'd be fine without me. But I still, I still needed to hurt someone. The way I was hurting."

I bet he still missed you, he doesn't say. Didn't talk about it maybe, but didn't not miss you. It's harder than you'd think to treat someone so badly they don't. 

That is definitely the wrong response. He pets Wilbur's hair, almost absently, like it's a stall for time. "The way you were hurting?" 

"The-- I was--" His voice stalls out again. Deep breath. He digs his nails into his arm, tries to focus. "I thought everyone was just--lying to me to hurt me. --Almost everyone, I trusted Tommy. And Phil. I thought they were stupid and naive but I didn't think they were trying to hurt me the way everyone else was. I--I knew I was evil and I kept going, because if I couldn't be happy, no one could be happy. I was just--treating them how they treated me. Golden rule, right?" Another miserable little half-laugh. "And then eventually I was just--trying to make it stop. Trying to make everything and everyone stop. Like I was on a roller coaster and it was going too fast and I couldn't get off so I just blew the whole thing up."

If it's pain Wilbur wants he can have it; Q goes from petting his hair to pulling it, steady and gentle. This is also stalling for time while he thinks of something to say. 

"...I don't think any of that is evil," is what he settles on. "Desperate, maybe, but not evil." 

And he is back to crying into Q's shoulder, shaking full-body sobs.

"They're all still--everyone's still scared of me. They look at me and it's the same look, like I'm some--nightmare turned reality--and it feels like I'm back there again, back in a ravine with everyone fucking lying to me--"

Have you considered not forcing people into trust falls that involve blowing things up, you would probably get fewer people acting like they're scared of you if you didn't do that, he ABSOLUTELY CANNOT SAY THAT AT ALL IT WILL NOT HELP. 

"God," he says, "that's awful, I'm so fucking sorry—"

“I— thank you, Q,” he says, and means it. He’s almost entirely limp; when his hands finally drop from his face his eyes are red and puffy and he’s looking at Q like the other man is his savior. “You really— mean it?” It’s a stupid, childish question, and he hates himself for it as soon as the words pass his lips. A part of him hopes Q will say no and laugh in his face and scream at him; what scares him more than that is the significantly larger part of him that hopes so, so badly for Q to say yes, of course I mean it, and keep holding him even though he doesn’t deserve it, has never deserved it. 

"I mean it." It's even true. Half of it was said while desperately trying to come up with something anything helpful to say, but none of it was a lie. "That sounds awful and miserable and I'm sorry. I mean it." 

“No, the—

—that I’m not evil.”

Oh. That wasn't even one of the things he said because he couldn't think of anything better. That he actually just said because it was true. Evil has a face, and it's not Wilbur. 

"Yeah. I mean that. You're not evil, Wil." 

Wilbur is going to go completely boneless and stare adoringly up at Q as though he is the most perfect being to ever exist. (It’s an expression he usually makes while laughing with Tommy; it looks different here, paired with his tear-stained cheeks and somber mouth.) 

“I wish I were Dream sometimes. I wish I had been punished like that. Instead of just—coming back to hurt more people.”

Wow, that sounds like a great reason to never tell Wilbur what happened to Dream or at whose hands. 

He pets Wilbur’s hair some more. "That's— understandable. I'm glad you're here instead." 

"...Why?"

Well, he can't answer that question with facts about the prison, and he doesn't want to find out what happens if he tells Wilbur that Dream is still trying to hurt Tommy, which leaves him with: 

"...I know this is very cringe of me, but I value my friends' wellbeing and presence in my life."