in which obsession overcomes irony

fan behavior

Wilbur felt alive.

Wilbur felt alive, more alive than he had in 13 long years of darkness and something devoid of everything. Now, the dark and cold was replaced by blinding light and a shrill ringing crowding through his ears, making its way to be permanently seared into his brain.

The blast had launched Wilbur and Quackity back against the farthest corner in the viewing area with enough force to leave Wilbur heaving for breath, lungs only finding sulfur, ash, and dirt. He was briefly reminded of the cigarettes he smoked near constantly before promptly succumbing to a horrid darkness that was far too familiar for his liking. For a single, heart stopping moment, he was back in that wretched train station, cold and alone.

Then the black lifted, and he was met with the lingering taste of a golden apple on his taste buds and the bright of the sun shining down on him. He wondered who had dragged him out of the observation room; Tubbo, Tommy, or Quackity (he hoped it was the last, but he presumed it was Tommy, as he was the most likely prospect).

Wilbur dragged himself back to the van exhausted and sweating through his coat. He leaned against the back of it, pulling out a cigarette and his lighter, sparking a flame and catching the roll on his lips. He inhaled softly, breathing out through clenched teeth. He didn't want to confront it, but he would have to eventually: Ranboo was dead. Ranboo was dead, and Wilbur knew it was his fault.

His stupid trap didn't go according to the stupid plan, and now his employee, and more importantly his friend, was gone, and Quackity still had his stupid fucking horse. All because Wilbur had to show Quackity that he was anything but vice-president material. Some would call him petty. Most would call him an idiot.

Wilbur found himself wondering where Quackity was, and hoped that Tubbo had gotten somewhere safer. He figured Tommy would have gone back home by now.

Wilbur noticed his cigarette had burnt out.

He relit it and took another long drag.

Quackity would probably be back in his office, and Wilbur entertained the idea of sneaking in again, just for another bitter taste of biting words and sharp pain left in his arm from equally sharp teeth.

Wilbur huffed as he remembered Quackity's words and his mental image dissipated: "I don't think about you at all."

He dropped his cigarette, crushing it underfoot.

Surely, he thought, that couldn't be completely true. He was probably thinking of him now, with what the mess Wilbur's caused.

A joyless grin spread on Wilbur's face at the thought. He chuckled humorlessly, coughing, sputtering, and retreating to the inside of the burger van. It was just clean enough for Wilbur to not care about where he set his coat and sat down.

The flimsy chair creaked under him, and he made a mental note to ask Tommy to fix it for him later. Wilbur closed his eyes and leaned back, head resting against the wall. He imagined what Quackity would do if Wilbur decided to show up at his door. Would he yell at him? Tell him off for being so goddamn stupid? Maybe he'd call for a rematch from earlier, punching and kicking at Wilbur until his nose ran bloody and he couldn't see straight.

Wilbur's lips slipped into a smile as he entertained the thought. He only realized he had fallen asleep when he woke with a start, head jerking up and almost thwacking against a light that had broken and was hanging by its wires.

Wilbur groaned and scoffed. He started to call on instinct, "Ranboo, can you come and-"

He stopped. He buried his head in his hands, muffling a cry of anguish. When he took his hands away, his eyes were damp, but he couldn't let tears fall.