"Sounds good." Weak smile. "Seriously, thank you." 

"It's no problem. Thank you for getting him, really. I was going to try if they left for long enough, but--" They turn their hands over each other, a nervous gesture. "I don't know if that would have been in time. Hannah's better at distracting them than I am, I'm not good enough at fighting." Self-deprecating laugh.

"Yeah, I get you. Neither am I." Less-weak smile. "I see Ranboo and Tubbo pretty often, if they're still not responding to texts let me know the coords and I'll make sure they get them?" 

"Sure. Thanks."

"No problem." 

He'll take the long way back to Kinoko. He doesn't, in fact, have anywhere else to stay yet. 

(At least he isn't literally so pathetic that he'll let Sapnap kill a toddler rather than take any action at all.) 

Hannah's still got George and Sapnap distracted; they aren't there. Tina and Karl are; he can catch snippets of their conversation. (It's about where to find cats; Tina wants to adopt some.)

Yeah, today is not the day he stops avoiding Karl, and he doesn't think he can really face Tina right now. 

The thing is— he always knew that George didn't have a moral compass. And he always knew that Sapnap would be violent and enjoy it and have fun the whole time, if you pushed him hard enough. He just didn't realize that "if you pushed him hard enough" really just meant "if he could get away with it." He's never, before today, felt anything but safe around Sapnap, either this one or his own; how much of that was only true because back home murder is a crime you get punished for? 

He should talk to Ranboo tomorrow. Maybe while he's at it warn him that he's going to be breaking up with Wilbur, not doing that is kind of terrible ally behavior. 

Q almost doesn't want to go to sleep tonight. He's going to dream about arenas and swords and dead children and hiding in the dark. But he does anyway, and was totally wrong; he dreams about Sapnap's hands in his hair, gentle except for how everything smells like blood. 

It takes a while for morning to come, but it arrives eventually.

So it does. 

To— fuck, wherever, just not here. He finds himself at Paradise mostly out of habit. 

Wilbur's the only one there. He smiles when he sees Q, radiant, adoring.

God. 

He doesn't want to—

(No, fucking own up to it you spineless son of a bitch, you did want to. You absolutely fucking wanted to. You looked at yourself and you looked at Quackity and you thought about Wilbur and you thought it'd be fun and dramatic to propose hurting him on purpose for the bit. You're not going to be able to convince Quackity to let you off this train but you fucking put yourself on it.)

"Good morning," he says instead of that. 

"Good morning!" He twirls around, takes Q's hand, kisses it. "Anything I can get for you today? We've got--well, mostly we've got burgers, but I'll do my best."

What's one more questionable decision on the pile, he thinks, and this is the last time he's ever going to look at me like that, and—

"—would you like to find some very quiet stretch of forest and not stop until neither of us can string two thoughts together." 

"I'd love to. No Tommy, no Ranboo..." He keeps Q's hand in his, leads him into the forest. "Just us."

He pulls Wilbur's hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. "Just us." 

A very quiet stretch of forest might not be so quiet, for a while. 

Wilbur certainly isn't quiet. (At first when he touches Q it's gentle, reverent. Like Q is extraordinarily precious, or extremely fragile, or both. It doesn't take long for him to get greedy, desperate, grabbing and biting. "More," he says, over and over, "more, please, Q--" until eventually he can't form any words at all, just inchoate noises.)

Q thought, once, that he could probably get high off being looked at like that, being adored the way Wilbur adores him. He wasn't quite right but it's a closer thing than one might think. 

Wilbur can have it if it's touch he wants, if it's affection, if it's praise, if it's pain. If he asks for more he'll be given more. Usually Q doesn't like pain at all but— just this once— Wilbur can leave as many marks as he likes; Q will take them all and ask for more and give him more. 

Wilbur wants all of it. He had been lonely, yesterday, the only one in Paradise, and now someone else is here, is looking at him, is touching him. He's real and he can do things and his heart thrums with proof that he is alive, alive, alive.

I love you, Wilbur thinks and does not say.

He doesn't let go of Q, after, doesn't collapse bonelessly; instead he holds Q tight, desperate, squeezing one finger at a time.

He lets himself be clung to, alternates between petting Wilbur's hair and pulling it, kisses his forehead occasionally. It is the absolute least he can fucking do. 

(In his head he's writing a speech, composing and throwing away paragraphs. Wilbur adores him, he is not going to let Quackity be the one to end that, if he doesn't want to be a vending machine for Wilbur then he wants to be a weapon used to hurt Wilbur even less.

But he doesn't want this to end and being held is so nice and he already knew he was selfish and spineless and awful.) 

"I missed you yesterday. I mean-- I know it's just been a couple days, and you have a life outside me-- It's just, it's good to see you today, man."

He is not going to start crying. He will not cry on the shoulder of someone who adores him about the fact that Q is being a total asshole. That is— that is Wilbur behavior. 

(He'd thought Wilbur would be awful again, and this would be easy— except for how, no, he really wasn't thinking at all—) 

"I'm sorry," he says, and he's not crying but wow it is not exactly subtle that his throat feels like it's got a cork in it. "God, Wil, I'm so sorry." 

Wilbur's breath stutters, for just a moment, before calming again. "It's alright. You're here now, right?" He kisses Q's forehead.

He leans into the forehead kiss. God he is the worst fucking person alive. 

"No, it isn't that, I—" 

Deep breath. Swallow. Game face on. This will not be the hardest thing he's ever done. 

"—I want you to know," he says, voice gone calm, "that I meant everything I said that day in the arctic. I don't think you're evil, I don't think you're insane, I never have, I don't think I ever will. I know that you really, sincerely, want to be a good person, and I know you want to do right by me, and I know you can change and I know you're trying to. All of that was true and I'll stand by it. You know that, right?" 

Wilbur goes still.

When he speaks again, his voice is small. "Not really."

"Then I'm sorry for that too." Game face stays on. If he doesn't do this, he reminds himself, Quackity will, and it'll be so, so much worse. "I hope someday you do know it. If I were the person you think I am, I would stay until you did." 

Deep breath. 

"But, Wilbur, most of the time you treat me like shit, and I'm tired. I'm tired of being pushed into trust falls with things you know full well scare me, because you want me to prove I trust you more than you want to be trustworthy. I'm tired of being endlessly understanding and patient for you, only for you to turn around and tell me to my face that you don't think I count as someone. And I am tired of having my trust and my safety and my grief used as a ruler in your dick measuring contests. Every time I try to stand up to you I regret it and every time I don't I regret it more and I care about you a lot and I don't intend to stop but Wilbur I'm so fucking tired. I'm tired of doing this to myself, and I'm tired of you doing this to me, and I'm tired of letting you do this to me."