Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snarling echoed off of a barren, trash-laden alleyway, the vicious sound just barely covering a set of rapid footsteps. One body flashed by, silent, followed by another-the one producing the rabid growls. The former rounded a graffiti-dirtied dumpster and cursed at the discovery that the end of the alley was fenced off.

   "Fuck this." They breathed, muffled through their bandana, though they didn't hesitate to leap onto the gate blocking the ending, climbing the wired structure with bandaged fingers, vaulting over and landing harshly on the other side, only stumbling for a moment before they were up and sprinting on lanky legs. The fence clanged behind them, clearly the weight of another body, but they didn't spare even a glance back, nor did they falter when two more creatures, human in-shape but dead eyed and bloodied, raised their heads and joined in the chasing with more snarls.

   Curly hair fell into covered chocolate eyes and their breaths were beginning to heave in their lungs, kitchen knife clutched in gloved fingers, but they didn't stop, eyes flitting over different buildings and doors until- Yes, fucking finally!

   One door remained creaked open, just like how he'd seen it a few days before, and he darted inside, kicking it shut with a final click. He was grateful the rackety thing stayed shut.

   Wilbur sighed at the instantaneous, repetitive banging on the wooden door. He couldn't help himself and he knocked back saltily, taunting them without words.

   "Shit, this had better be worth it," He muttered, squatting in place for a moment with his hands on his knees and trying to breathe normally. He finally lifted his gaze from the floor, eyes fluttering over the various instruments before finally settling on the guitars. A lump grew in his throat that he promptly swallowed down, carefully maneuvering through the aisle- still wary of possible growlers inside the building. He ran his fingers over the strings of the first one, an electric that was broken at the tip. Then another, red and dusty and rusted, just because he could. He hesitated over the third one, simple and tan, an acoustic guitar with all of its strings and no blood stains. Dusty but wooden and, in turn, immune to the rust. There was some water damage, but aside from that and the dust it was fine. “Worth it.” He decided with a small grin under his protective fabric mask, nearly awed, slipping the large, empty black case off his back. 

   He flipped open the guitar case, then carefully lifted the instrument off the rack, putting it inside, snatching some guitar picks and extra strings and tossing them in too, clicking the case shut again. He lifted it and reveled in the new weight on his shoulders, familiar and comfortable and something Wilbur wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again. (Not after he’d been forced to use his own as a bludgeon.)

   He paused. The banging, it had stopped.

   Why…?

   His legs tensed and suddenly he was grabbing the dusted red guitar and darting for the back exit. The front door creaked open, and Wilbur turned the handle and oh you’re shitting me, it’s fucking locked.

   There was no growling, and though he couldn’t hear anything at all, he still turned and raised the instrument in preparation, thinking ‘Okay, maybe this wasn’t worth it’ and gripping the frets with newly sweating palms. A shadow passed over the isle he was in, and a figure stepped into view. Their outfit was tactical and stained, clearly well worn and their hair, pulled into a tight bun, was an odd brownish-purple color, paired with a red facemask that vaguely resembled a gas-mask, and goggles of some sort? But he wouldn’t let a bit of an oddity distract him. He grit his teeth and determined he would dodge and swing when it got closer, hesitating when it didn’t move at all, instead just standing impassively.

   It's head shifted up and down, like some sort of confused nod, and Wilbur just squinted under his gear.

   Wilbur took a slightly shaky step back, and its shoulders shifted, the weapon in its' grip tilting slightly. The thing was wielding a sword. Probably melted to the skin? Or- no- it was wearing gloves.

   The creature's body language changed minutely, the sword lifting in a prepared position, and Wilbur felt his jaw sag open under his bandana. His heartrate was beginning to speed up. The two were in a stand-off, which didn't happen. This didn't happen, unless-

   “You- You’re not a Growler,” Wilbur realized aloud, breathless, arms slightly drooping.

   The other man literally jumped (which Wilbur definitely did not jump at in return) with a sharp, filtered inhale, head darting over Wil’s up and down jerkily. Likely from his mouth and back to his eyes. Then, another sweep of Wil’s whole person.

   Wilbur gaped a moment, then fidgeted a bit, unsure, before he took another step backwards. “The Growlers, you’ll let them in, waltzing in here after me like…” His voice slightly cut off when he noticed the other’s nervous fidgeting with their handle, and the question blurted out of his mouth before he could stop it, “Is that a katana?”

   The brunette(?? purple-ish brunette???) didn't seem to understand what Wilbur was saying. In fact, he could have guessed that they didn’t hear Wilbur at all, their head still shifting up and down- still traveling Wilbur’s form, hands moving like they had something to say, but nothing was happening. 

   The other said nothing, shoulders shifting up and down like Wilbur was some sort of invader to their vision.

   Wilbur’s eyes fixated on the carvings of their sword, seemingly trying to tell what they were. A quick slash down of the weapon, flickering off blood, broke Wilbur out of his fixation. It didn't break them out of theirs though, and their head continued flicking over Wilbur's person. Wilbur's jaw tilted slightly away at the other's gaze. It was unsettling, knowing they were studying him but not knowing what exactly they were thinking, or what their eyes were settling on. He resisted the urge to ask them to remove their goggles and mask, because that was stupid, and no reasonable or smart individual would risk that in the middle of nowhere for some random guy.

    Wilbur backed up, peeking around the aisle that led to the front door and melting a bit when he in fact confirmed to himself that it was shut. This man was between him and the exit. His throat bobbed in a dry swallow. This could go very poorly.

   Wilbur decided to break the silence, because it was clear that this person wasn't going to. "You alright, man?" Might as well be friendly. No need to start anything.

   They didn't move anymore, only another twitch of the shoulders.

   How impressively poetic. Wilbur prompted, gentle, "Do you speak English? Qué pasa con el español?"

   A long, pregnant pause. They seemed utterly speechless. Perhaps not English or Spanish, then?

   "Ken je enig Nederlands?" Wilbur tried again. No answer for Dutch, either. German? "Okay, uh, sprichst du Deutsch?"

   They didn't do anything but stand still, head continuing to idly drift over Wilbur's person. Lords, this was painfully nerve-wracking. Maybe his pronunciations of the non-English languages were so bad that even if they spoke them they wouldn't understand; Wilbur hadn't worried about language study since he was eight or so.

   Wilbur drew each word out, "Can. You. Speak? Do. You. Understand. Me?"

   Wilbur let the silence drag, and the other didn't bother to stop that. Perhaps this was just a particularly slow growler, then. Or maybe he was getting so skinny this one was uninterested in the meager meal his pathetic form offered. 

   Their head slowly moved, and Wilbur squinted, a grin growing on his face when he realised that the jittery action was developing into a nod. Wilbur actually beamed, heart skipping a beat, delightfully surprised by the proper answer and unnerved by it at the same time. Actually not a growler, then!

   "Oh. Okay. Okay, good!" Wilbur grinned. They were getting somewhere, although he wasn’t sure exactly what that meant for him. "So, you’re super jittery. Are you concussed or something?" Maybe they got bitten? Or perhaps they were so unhinged they couldn’t stop shaking like that?

   Their head shifted a bit, and they watched Wilbur move like he was a freaking alien or something. He didn't get another response.

   "Did you hit your head?" Wilbur rephrased. "Big bonk on the ol' noggin? Got yourself a skull ouchie? Hit head? Head hit?" He feigned a dramatic arm up, then let it come down like it was falling on his head, making a (quiet, he was crazy not a fool) crash-like sound as it made contact. "Owie? Ouchie?"

   They blindly shook their head, a janky thing. They trembled head to toe.

   Looking at them, Wilbur wasn't sure he believed that. "Uhhh-huh, right. Are you certain?"

   They only sat for a moment. The silence felt painfully eerie. Wilbur took a couple of steps back.

   "You don't look certain." Wilbur called them out.

   They fidgeted, their gloved hands visibly shaking.

   Wilbur felt his eyebrows lift up on his forehead, clutching his electric guitar which he planned to weaponize against the growlers, and this guy if he had to. This guy was scarily quiet. He backed up further. Might as well keep more distance so he’d have plenty of reaction time if they tried anything. "Oookay, alright. Right. Right, sure.. Now do you need to sit down or something? Because you definitely have some sort of brain damage."

   They only tilted their head, a silent show of what Wilbur could only guess was either confusion or their poor injured head being too heavy for them. There was a silent beat, another shoulder twitch, and then they shook their head.

   "Uh-huuuuh!" Wilbur nodded like he understood, a large smile on his face under his protective bandana. "I don’t know what you’re trying to say. Is that simply your way of saying you’ve got no brain damage? I’m not sure about that one, really. Are you sure? Hm. Even if you can’t speak, can you make sound? Are you capable?”

    Their boot shifted, purposely scuffing the floor. Wilbur stared.

   “...Was that your sound?” Wilbur asked. “Not really what I meant, but alright? Guess you can.” Maybe this guy was just mute? If that was the case, Wilbur felt a tad bad for saying they had brain damage. Although still it made him minorly concerned, and more than a little curious. Were they shy? Or perhaps frightened of him? They didn't speak further than that. “Sorry about me! Shouldn’t assume things! Although it’s good to know you can understand me.”

   Silence. The pause lasted only a few seconds, but somehow felt heavier than the pause before when the two were just looking at each other. Wilbur struggled with the correct thing to say for a moment, mind darting between his options. Curiosity, dangerous and stupid curiosity was running through him. He did not know this man. He didn’t even know his name, or a thing about them other than they were jittery and killed two growlers. He promptly shoved that down in favor of continuing, “You can understand me, can’t you?”

   It took a moment before they nodded, the movement a tad uneven. Their head flittered over Wil’s form again, Wilbur’s head shifting away to give the other a confused look through the corner of his eyes, lips going slightly flat as he took another step away, not that they could see his distaste.

   Wilbur let out a weary noise, turning fully back to once again study the newcomer. "You can stop sizing me up, sir, I've managed fine and I don't have shit for you, thank you very much."

   They tilted their head.

   Wilbur narrowed his eyes, a glare stuck to his face. Mute or not, this guy was making him nervous with his lack of speech. Who knew what they were thinking? Wilbur looked into the eyes of their mask, wishing he could read them, because it wasn't like he was getting shit from their body language or lack of speech. They didn't move all that much either, they were fucking hard to read. He might be about to get robbed, although he’d been preparing for that since this guy trapped him in here. 

   A silent stare.

   Wilbur stared back at them, deadpanning. He tapped his foot, muttering, “Quite the chatterbox, are we…” under his breath, though past his sarcasm he couldn’t shake the initial shock of seeing another person again. The longer he stared this person down and they didn’t talk the more nervous he was becoming. 

   Their head glanced over him once more. Then again.

   “Dude…” Wilbur gave a cursory suspicious glance, nose wrinkling, unable to hide the weariness at the constant eyeballing the other was doing. The silence when they did it was making him more weary than he would've been otherwise.

   The stranger didn’t seem to register Wilbur’s suspicion at all, stalling. Their head very obviously tilted down, facing Wil's guitar case. The judgement was palpable. Okay, no, it wasn’t. Nothing was palpable from this guy. But Wil was taking it as judgement, which, fair. A musical instrument wasn't exactly prime apocalypse gear.

   "Yes I did come here just for a guitar," Wil decided to just bring up the obvious elephant in the room. "I wanted it, I got it, risking my life or not I succeeded, but I don't see how that's”– Wilbur cut off his own hoarse-from-disuse voice, mostly uncaring of that and still extremely unsure. "Ugh- That- That doesn't matter, just- To be entirely fair, when I'd been here a few days ago I hadn't seen a single growler on the roads," the curly-haired man retorted.

   It was true, he'd traveled by foot on clear roads (As clear as they could be with abandoned, long-still cars littering the pavement, of course. Wilbur scavenged them for food– that allowed him to get as far as he had– and he pointedly ignored the vehicles with stiff bodies inside) to get to the small town, passing through in search of any sort of empty, un-raided store.

   It had been impulsive to go back to the music store that he'd just barely glimpsed on his silent traversing through the town, but his heart had pleaded and cried for what he'd lost long ago, and he couldn't help himself.

   "And it's an acoustic guitar and I'm rather grateful for it." Wilbur finished, unashamed. He wanted to be more of a dick about it, honestly. But he only had two guitars, one hidden pistol with not enough bullets, a kitchen knife, and sheer, chaotic willpower, and this man had a sword and who knew what else so he kept his words as insult free as he could. Though, his brain was singing with the urge to talk and talk with the other till his throat gave. He didn't know that he'd ever see anyone again after him, after all.

   It was silent again. The man didn't say a word to Wil's ramble. 

   Wilbur swallowed awkwardly.

   Weird-Hair just stood completely still. It was almost creepy. It was creepy, with their constant silence as well.

   …Why was this guy here, actually?

   Now that Wilbur’s initial shock was wearing off he was properly able to study them. The other was still just idly hanging about, still shaking, and Wilbur was beginning to see that maybe this guy was having just as much of a struggle processing Wilbur’s presence as Wil was with him.

   They continued blankly standing, and Wilbur cleared his throat. Their head followed the movement, then sifted back up.

   Why were they sticking around like this when they both clearly had nothing to say?

   "... If this is a mugging or something, I'll be alerting you now that I have nothing of interest." Wilbur said carefully- it wasn't completely a lie, seeing as his guitar case, typically his biggest storage device, held nothing but an actual guitar for once. The knapsack at his side held his actual valuables. Which admittedly wasn’t much, but he had a bit of medical equipment and a little food and water in there and would make his life easier if he held onto that, so he eyed the man for a different reaction.

   Not even a twitch.

   Wilbur decided not to let silence fill the room again, and also wanted to get the topic off his actual valuables, idly rambling, "It's good there aren't many growlers around here though, right now. Mostly stragglers. Made getting here easier for both of us, I presume."

   The other fixed their posture as they took a step around the music store they were in. Despite that, Wil had no doubt they were watching his every movement.

   Wilbur just blinked, unsure how to reply to that.

   Wilbur followed their form as they stepped close to what he assumed would've been a storage room, idly sheathing their sword. Wilbur felt himself relax immediately. They turned away, seeming to decide the locked door wasn't worth anything.

   Wil could feel their gaze lingering on him even as they eyed the outside walls. 

   Wil followed the eyes of their goggles, wishing desperately he could look underneath just to see a pair of eyes with life in them. Maybe that would help him read them. The windows were rusty and dirty, yet clear enough to see through. It was bright when he had first gone into this place, yet now it seemed the sun had taken to setting.

   Wilbur didn’t quite get why they were looking out there. The outside was disgusting, walkways grim and stained with the blood of those long dead. 

   They turned back, fully looking back at Wil with the most passive body language they'd had all encounter. They stared at another guitar, old and decayed from sitting still so long.

   They turned their head back to him and Wilbur blinked. “Are you asking if I want that?"

   No response.

   "Hm," Wil tried again, "Well. Are you asking why I did this?"

   Literally nothing. Oh well, that was as good a conformation as Wil assumed he might get from Katana Boy here. 

   "I wanted it." Wilbur answered simply. Their head turned to the instruments. Then to Wil. "Yeah, ah. No, nothing else here, buddy, I just came for the guitar.”

   They shook their head slightly, likely that they were having slight trouble processing that.

   Wilbur shrugged idly, feeling oddly chastised by this person despite not even knowing what they truly meant; he was going completely off of assumptions. “It's a sentimental value thing? No need to be so judgy, sir, I've lived and gotten what I wanted! Win-win, clearly! Even if I died, it would have been my fault!”

   He let a few bits of silence go by, getting more defensive the longer the other person looked at him like he had a brain the size of a green bean. Not that he could see the other's expressions. Perhaps he should stop assuming that they were assuming the worst of him. Not that he entirely cared if they did.

   More words were about to spill from his mouth, before the other held up a hand and he abruptly shut up.

   They lifted a hand, finger pointed at their own ear.

   “Oh." Wilbur's spine straightened, ears quickly peeled. He immediately caught on. "You're hearing what I am, then?” Wilbur asked, eyes flicking around the whole shop.

   The sound of gurgling, growling, moaning. And heavy footsteps. Wilbur’s entire body had gone tense. The scraping of feet that never properly left the ground. Wilbur’s whole being felt alight with apprehension, a crazed grin he couldn’t help spreading over his lips.

   Growlers.

   Beside him, the stranger stepped forward. Wilbur turned to face them, looking around the area. They simply nodded in response to Wil's query. They loosely grabbed ahold of their sword, posture entirely unphased by the approaching danger, and Wilbur looked around.

   His eyes searched the room for all signs of possible entry. “They could come in the front door,” Wilbur commented above a mumble, foot idly tapping the floor like he was just waiting for a line to move forward or something. At first it was mostly to himself, but then he turned towards the stranger, figuring they should know as well, though they weren’t really paying attention to him. “Or the window,” he added. 

   Wilbur could see the stranger glance at him after the comment, just out of the corner of their eye, but he dismissed it and continued anyway. “And that hole in the roof." I really should get an actual working weapon, Wilbur thought idly, his own chocolate eyes searching for the imminent threat. His kitchen knife was pathetic and using his mostly empty pistol was risky since it could just attract more than it could kill.

   "I bet you attracted them with your hot-topic hair," he teased before he could stop himself, though it was a whispered thing, once again lifting the electric-guitar in preparation for anything that might come towards them. Judging by the way the other's head was fluttering about the ramshackle shop, Wilbur could pretty confidently assume that they were focusing more on the common threat. 

   "Tell me you actually closed-closed the door behind you when you came in,” Wilbur hissed. "Because the back door isn't opening anytime soon- if you let them in here and I die I will haunt you forever."

   Although if it came down to it, Wilbur could always jump through the window and run. His long legs were probably the only reason he'd lived so long, in all honesty.   

   He ignored the part of him that begged him not to even think of leaving the only company he'd had in eight months. The part of him that found a strange comfort in being in the same room as someone else, even if he hadn’t known them for long at all. 

   The stranger gave Wilbur another glance. They stepped back towards him, and Wilbur kept his stance. If growlers did enter the room, they would have a better chance at beating them together.

   He ignored the dread rising in his stomach as the other neared, too close for his liking. Yet there was something in him that was somewhat relieved at being next to someone again after so long alone. He pushed the thoughts down, shaking his head rapidly, slightly twitchy, even though it garnered him a strange look. 

   "Uh- keep an eye out for the roof." Wilbur said. The other tilted their head towards the direction that the roof was in. They raised the sword up once again, alike to how they had when they'd first entered the music shop. Wilbur hadn’t even noticed when they’d unsheathed it.

   His ears listened out for the distant gurgles, the tapping of weak hands.

   They were getting closer.

   His breath hitched. He was fine alone. He could properly maneuver through them, dodge and weave and get the fuck outta there. Yet being in the same room as another, someone with the same mortality as him, made him uneasy. Just- just leaving didn’t feel right at all.

   Seeing another person had made him forget that anywhere could be dangerous. That shit could go badly in a matter of minutes despite how relaxed the area could seem.

   "Think I already mentioned this but the back door’s totally locked and shut, we’ve only got the places I already mentioned to keep an eye on,” Wilbur murmured, “watch your back and stay steady.”

   Wilbur didn't know why he was telling the guy this. They must've learnt plenty from living in this for so long. Yet he felt the need to make sure the guy knew. They turned their back in a way that screamed I don’t need that, and Wilbur gave a slightly affronted look.

   "You’re welcome. God, I despise you, fucking ceiling hole," Wilbur snuffed randomly, glaring at the ceiling and cursing his luck and his own lack of promptness. He should've checked for stuff like that before even considering coming in. "I wonder if we could get out through you..."

   Wilbur slowly shuffled to it, which wasn't hard since it was pretty much right above their heads, keeping his steps meticulously quiet.

  He wondered idly if any growlers could even get up there when a bloodied head suddenly shot into view, a vicious snarl all he heard before there was a rush of motion towards him. He just barely reacted in time, scrambling backwards and hitting the Growler's head midair with an ugly, out of tune sound that came from the guitar. "Missed me, idiot!" He taunted, repeatedly jumping on its skull with an unforgiving crunch and wet plaps before it could even attempt to move again, cackling at the sight of another one attempting to pull the same stunt.

   He could feel intelligent eyes on him, glancing back and rolling his eyes at the slightly tilted head of the other. “Move your feet before they eat, dumbass!” Wilbur spoke. The stranger’s head turned away as the corners of Wilbur’s lips curled upwards, realizing what he had just said. “Oh, I’m quite poetic today!” He giggled at himself and pirouetted towards the next growler, ending his latest twirl with another ugly guitar sound as the instrument made contact with its second skull of the day.

   His head darted back and he heard the noise a second before it happened. Scratches on glass before shards flew across the room.

   A growler groaned as it flopped in and lunged at him, Wilbur giving only a moment’s pause when a sword sliced clean through its head through the side. That one was quickly followed by another falling in. Wilbur took a messy step back, the thing just missing him. The pinkette at his side swiped his blade and pierced through the growler's head, kicking it back and simultaneously pulling out the weapon, stabbing another that had followed straight through the skull. Blood splattered everywhere on the wall behind. The smell of the fluid that escaped each body managed to get Wilbur’s eyes watering.

   Wilbur had been going to go at more of them but this guy was fucking insane, practically dancing but also not? around the room. Weird-hair was dispatching each undead creature with such precision that Wilbur was pretty much just sitting there with a bloody guitar and blinking like a dumbass. He really hoped this guy wasn’t planning to rob him, because Wil was less certain he could get himself away at that point. 

   A couple of growlers suddenly stumbled through a drum set on Wilbur’s left and the brunette snapped out of his funk, turning with his guitar already raised. “Now here we go. Come at me, you decomposed little cannibals!”

   His grin fully returned, Wil hopped straight into the fray, unable to help a hefty, trigger happy cackle after killing a few more off. Oh, how he loved seeing these devils go down by his hands!

   There had to have been at least seven or more growlers who snuck in. He wasn't counting the amount that came at the other guy, but the sound of cut-off snarls rang out from behind.

   Wil heard a sudden ruckus–  voluminous clanging– but he couldn't afford to turn away.

   “What happened there?” Wilbur called, dragged back into focusing when a hand just barely missed clawing open his arm. He was kind of worried, watching out for both the growlers and a possible mid-fight-mugging was not the easiest. 

   If the other gave a response, Wil didn't hear it over the growling.

   “Deadheads!” Wilbur sang out, avoiding the possibility that the other guy had just been killed or was sneaking around him, successfully slamming his weapon into one’s skull. “Slice the heads and they're double-dead, deadheads, deadheads!" They snarled louder and Wilbur stepped back a bit, being a tad overwhelmed at the sheer amount trying to squeeze through the door. "Oh, focus now, Wilbur!” He slammed his weapon into another one, cringing when growler blood splattered onto his cheek, the smell flooding his nostrils. "Not time to sing, idiot, there's dead people in the room!"

   Red and silver suddenly shot by him, slicing a decaying head straight in two.

   The other's head glanced at him, and his face might not have been showing, but that body language was practically screaming 'What the hell.' Or maybe he didn't care at all. Who knew, Wil's attention was far more on the hungry monsters trying to eat them.

   The second the other man was out of the way Wilbur shoved at their side with one arm, other arm swinging down the guitar with another broken TwaNg as it made contact with an open jawed growler that'd snuck around the corner of the aisle, aimed right for his new acquaintance’s head. "Music to my ears," Wilbur grinned a little too widely, though cringed at the horrid stink that followed the hit. "Think I could blind them if I threw up at 'em?"

   Another followed behind and Wilbur shoved it back with his foot, glancing at the other guy, who was calculatedly glancing at the numerous corpses wrung around them. He seemed to have taken care of the rest already inside the shop.

   Wilbur peeked back at where the growlers- potent enough that they were nearing small horde levels- wrestled to squeeze through the singular broken window. They would have gotten in and swarmed the pair of people were they not such fools, fighting amongst themselves. They seemed to have given up on the roof hole, at least. Or there had just been some on the roof. Who knew.

   A pang of tension shot through his adrenaline when an arm successfully got in, blindly clawing at the wall around the broken window, immune to the shards of glass still in the frame that poked into decayed skin. If they wanted to live, fighting this many growlers- in such tight quarters no less- would be nigh impossible.

   He quickly disposed of the growler he'd kicked and scrambled over to the guy. “They're not coming through the ceiling anymore, I'll give you a boost and you can get out of here!”

   They only looked at him, and Wil’s eye twitched at this. They didn’t have time for this. If Wilbur was going to try and find a way out after this guy was out they needed to get a move on. Wilbur stalled when he was suddenly shoved towards the hole in the roof.

   “Hey!” Wil gave him a look, though the man was too busy glancing from the ceiling to Wil. Their shoulders squared with some brand of determination as they darted to the horde, which were moving closer, all still fighting to get through the doors and windows. “Just”-

   Wil almost dropped his instrumental bludgeon when the guy dipped and- and there were hands on the bottoms of his feet, and- “Are you trying to throw m-AH AgH”- Wilbur’s heart skipped a beat when he was suddenly vaulted through the air, air leaving his lungs when his ribs slammed into the jagged edges surrounding the roof-hole, temporarily dropping his weaponized guitar to grip the plaster better as he scrambled to pull himself upwards.

   He frantically turned back around to see the guy turn and kick a table in front of the window to buy more time, reaching his arm out. “Grab here!”

   They didn't even glance at him. Wilbur didn’t have time to be offended as purple-head instead shoved one of the shelves closer towards the hole in the roof, efficiently hopping to the top and lunging upwards, kicking the shelf down in the process.

   Wilbur had been going to grip the dude’s arm and tug until his stupid self was all the way through, but instead this guy fucking ninja-flipped by grabbing at the corner and just twisting in a full circle upwards, landing in a laughably superhero-like position. Wilbur stared a moment, then glanced at the mob of growlers on the ground still trying to break in through the window.

   "That was unnecessarily showy, but thank you," Wilbur murmured, trying not to focus too much on how he'd been so ready to possibly give himself to that crowd if it meant this random person got away. Well, he'd have scrambled to find a way out on his own, of course, but still. He was very, very grateful, and was glad that the one person he'd managed to find- or that'd found him, really- was actually not a total asshole. The few people he had run into along his journey to live weren't as kind.

   The growlers were still all trying to get through the window instead of climbing over themselves for the roof, so they apparently hadn’t noticed that their prey had moved locations.

   Being covered in the spinal fluid of the creatures was disgustingly somewhat of a good thing, masking their living scent with that of the dead. It was enough to give them some time. He glanced all around for any way out and noted the back of the shop was significantly less crowded, with most trying to break in through the already accessible means.

   They were lucky only the window and door were deemed those means, or escaping via the roof-hole wouldn't have been an option.

   Wilbur sighed, looking down to the road, then forward. "Okay, fuck it,” he started, turning towards the stranger. “You don't have to but the only way I see out of this is jumping there," he said, pointing to where the crowd was thinnest, the line of growlers around all just trying to join the group in breaking in the window, "and booking it." 

   Wilbur bounced a little on his feet and grabbed his newly dented, blood-stained electric guitar and walked a little closer to the edge, steeling his nerves and readying himself to sprint for the second time that day.

   Wilbur swallowed, brainstorming. "I can try and draw them away, running is my specialty. Do not go south- that's where I came from and it's horrendous, go that way." He pointed up the North road. "Away from the city."

   It wasn't a sound plan and could very well end with Wilbur being growler-lunch-meat, but both of them running would eventually lead to them tiring out and Wilbur, if he lived through this, didn't want that blood on his hands. The stranger nodded, looking towards where Wilbur had said he should go. Wil continued, "I could throw something. Lure them. Buy… us some time. Or you could. Doesn't really matter."

   Wilbur paused at the mention of an 'us' . Because right then, it wasn't just him, even if he wasn’t really acquainted with the stranger talking to him. It was hard to wrap his head around. It had been a while since there had been an ‘us’. The stranger didn't seem to recognise Wilbur's unsurety. They looked around the roof, and grabbed a large enough rock. Wil was silent for a second. Part of him didn’t really want to leave the first person he’d seen in a long time. He opened his mouth, but hesitated. This wasn’t the time for hesitation, Wilbur knew that. He needed to act, and he needed to act fast. But he couldn’t bring himself to agree. Not fully. What if he never saw another soul after this? What if the stranger in front of him was the only other one alive?

   Or not? He had no way of knowing. 

   They hadn’t robbed him…Maybe this man was part of a group and Wilbur was going to get hunted for what little he had. Maybe he was a psychopath and was only getting Wil out of this to kill him himself. Maybe he would turn out to be okay. Maybe he was this, maybe that.  Maybe, maybe, maybe, so many possibilities. Wilbur didn’t really care anymore. He was lonely. He had nothing to lose anyway. “You, I– Hey. If we make it out of here,” his throat tightened a bit. Was he really asking this? Could be a one-way ticket to death or being left to do that. “We should meet up.” Nothing to lose anyways. This guy was such a mystery, he was curious. Maybe, just maybe, this would satiate his loneliness for a little bit. Even if he got killed, maybe it would be better if it was by human hands. “Just– to talk. For a bit. In case we never see anybody again.”

   The stranger paused, then nodded. Wilbur's heart sang.

   "Okay," He pointed, "That way, I've been looking at a map and there might be a restaurant up there, if you follow the main road. Phillis Road. Or—  there should be the ruins of that place at least. Red. Used to be a Mexican place. We...could meet there, if you'd like to." A head tilt, then they stood up, mask towards Wilbur. A nod. Wilbur's heart sang louder. They turned towards the hoard, tossing the rock they held up and down. Wilbur took a moment, thinking it over quickly, then nodded, determined. "Alright, alright, we'll meet there, then." He stood before the stranger hesitated. 

   Their masked face twisted back to Wilbur. He was embarrassingly excited at the acknowledging incline of their head. “Alright, no need to dwell, they're starting to climb up the roof hole. Throw the rock,” Wilbur said, slightly ashamed of himself. 

   Beside him, the stranger stopped. A second later, the rock hit the ground.  

   Growlers looked up, their groans louder, as they moved quickly towards the noise. He nodded at the man, jumping down. There were many lingering growlers, though the majority of the horde had moved on towards the sound. He watched in the corner of his eye as the other man started running, undead following him. 

   The fact that they didn’t even say goodbye upset him somewhat. He tried to push it away, focusing on the road before him. Making it out alive. That’s what he needed to worry about. 

   Wilbur ran on, hoping, just maybe, the stranger would keep to their word. Maybe they did really want to meet up. Maybe they were just as lonely. If they didn't…

   It didn't really matter. Wilbur was alone before. He could be alone again. 

Chapter Text

It didn’t take him long to outpace the majority of the hoard. He realized early on– but still far enough away that it was too late to go back- that most of the walkers were following the other guy. Despite the walkers still on his tail, he’d paused then, unsure of what to do and oddly sure he had to do something despite that.

   Part of him wanted to turn around, even if it meant fighting his way through the hoard. It would be work, and he’d use a lot of extra energy. Especially since that fight would attract even more, and it would likely take awhile and he had no idea exactly where the other guy had ended up, but he could do it. He wouldn’t. It didn’t make sense to.

   He hadn't said anything, but he already knew where that restaurant was. He had just come from this direction and had passed the building during his travels. Should he have told the music man that?

   He didn’t even know if the music guy was actually going to the restaurant, since he’d never seen him get out of there. He could be dead.

   He hadn’t seen anyone else…He wasn’t sure, just, it. It had been a while. A long, long while. And while the other guy seemed less shocked to see another, he also looked somewhat stunned. He had gotten over the initial shock much quicker than he himself did- He still didn’t think he was over it, honestly- but the other dude was also a much more…enthusiastic person. Energetic? Whatever the word was for how the man behaved- erratic and loud.

   Though there was a clear difference in how the two behaved. He couldn’t place his finger on why they were so different, but he couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of protectiveness in him. Especially when he found out the other guy took the majority of the hoard with him as he ran. 

   Thinking of that gave him pause every time, made him consider irrational things- shouldn't take on a full hoard if you don't have to. Move on, get to the restaurant- so he walked on, determined to make it to his goal as quickly as he could. Focusing on the goal would keep his mind locked on to what was really important. Survival. He had no idea how long a walk this would be where he’d come from already. There was no need to make it any longer.

   When nightfall came, that irrationality came back. This time, much stronger.

   He had seen the guy fight, and it wasn’t bad. The other man had some good swings left in him, and he realized from the first fight that he could probably hold his own fairly well. There was a reason he had survived this long. Despite what he said it couldn’t have all been dumb luck. Just most of it. 

   But fighting and holding yourself together was a bit different when night fell. He was sure the guy’d survived many nights alone and probably knew what to do. Logically, he was sure. 

   But for some reason logic wasn’t at the forefront of his mind right then; taken over by some weird feeling that made his heart beat faster and his head constantly swirl around, like he’d turn and find a new walker with curly brown hair and a guitar case on its back meeting his gaze.

   It was quite annoying. It wasn’t like nightfall changed the behavior of the walkers. He knew it sometimes became a little more difficult to see them, if sound didn’t tip you off immediately, and he didn’t know the skills of this guy. Maybe his nose was busted or something. Maybe all he relied on was his eyesight, which also wasn’t the best judging by the glasses under the goggles. It was also much easier to tire yourself out. He had experience staying up late- most times, skipping out on sleep in general- but humans naturally fell asleep with the sun, right?

   You couldn’t just pass out with a hoard after you. Even if you found a safe place, things could and would go south in a matter of seconds. He was sure the guy knew that, but he didn’t know if he felt comfortable leaving that to chance. 

   It was an odd feeling. He’d never really had to worry about this before. He wasn’t sure why he was worrying about it now. He barely knew the guy; didn’t even know his name. There was no consequence in letting him die alone or wander off by himself. He had no stakes in it. 

   Worst case scenario, the other guy ran off and died almost immediately. He finds his way to the restaurant, waits for a few days. Then, after figuring out no one else is coming, packs up and leaves.

   That wasn’t so bad. He’d just be alone. And he was used to being alone.

   Really, up until that day he didn’t think anyone else was left.

   He knew that other people died. They had to have– the walkers couldn’t have come from thin air– but he had never seen someone die for himself. Not really. At least, no-one that he’d ever spoken to. That was a yet, now. There were more people like him roaming around, and knowing that, he didn’t expect to get out of seeing it forever.

   So it was a bit odd now. Thinking so strongly about this. Hoping the stranger would make it. Knowing that if this other guy died, he would have been the last person he talked to. He would have known that this person died. It shouldn't have mattered, really. This was still a stranger, and other people died. There was nothing special about this guy or whatever meager relationship he shared with him. But still. He found himself unable to stop dwelling. And it was odd.

   But he couldn’t dally on it for too long. He had to focus on himself, however weird everything seemed now. When he got to the restaurant, perhaps he’d let himself think about it more. He'd at least be a bit safer there. Buildings were always better to hide out in. 

   Day broke again and he continued on. At a certain point he realized that the majority of the hoard had stopped following him, distracted with other things. 

   He began to recognize the path and exactly how close he was to the restaurant. While he wasn't leading too many walkers, he would’ve preferably not dealt with extras when he reached his destination. 

   So he’d stalled. Waited for some walkers to catch up, and killed them off efficiently. He’d walked slowly, taking his sweet time to ensure there was nothing left of the half of the hoard that had followed him from the music shop.

   He made it to the restaurant around mid-day, finding it just as red as described and remembered. It was broken down, like the majority of the buildings he ever came across. 

   The windows were punched in and loosely barricaded with mismatched wooden planks that looked like they were about to fall off, either due to rot or simply because they weren't nailed right in the first place– or perhaps the nails had rusted. The door was cracked open, letting him see a sliver of the mess inside as he got closer. He hesitated as he walked towards the opening, hand always over the hilt of his sword, ready for action.

   But it was quiet as he approached, and looking around didn’t reveal any more than he could hear.

   He stopped against the door, looking inwards. Tables and chairs lying on the floor among the broken glass, stray newspapers and nails that were left scattered. He guessed some walkers had found a decent shelter in the restaurant at some point.

   He waited a few seconds, an ear pressed against the door. He had even tapped it once or twice to see if he could draw any noise out, or anger any walkers still taking up residence in his hiding place. He was met with complete and utter silence.

   Finally, when he deemed it appropriate to open the door, he found that it was more or less stuck in place, pushing it open with his shoulder. He lulled back at the ugly jingle of the bell above his head. At least if any walkers had missed his tapping, they’d come out now.

   The door became looser as he shoved, but he didn’t bother freeing the whole thing, opening it just enough to squeeze in. He didn’t waste any time when he was inside to get it closed again, pressing his other shoulder against it until the door shut. If he could get in, so could walkers.

   It wasn't too shocking to be the first one there. He hadn’t really expected the other guy to be as fast as him. He had the added bonus of having passed by here before, too, and thus he knew exactly where he was walking.

  So he had some time. First thing to do was work on the barriers. They were alright, but only alright, and two people might attract more walkers than normal. He didn't expect that the pair would be that loud, but he remembered the fate of the music shop. It was safe to assume that the more humans there were in an area, the more walkers would eventually follow. 

   He pulled over some of the heavier furniture- like the tables and bigger chairs- and blocked the openings of the windows, making sure there weren’t any other places walkers could wander in from. Luckily, the restaurant already seemed pretty sealed off from the outside. As disastrous as the building looked, both outside and in, it was built well, at the very least, to have lasted this long.

   The next step was to set up camp. He had the feeling that if the other guy showed up at all it would be a good bit later, so he planned to stay for at least a few days. If the guy turned up, they would figure out what to do next together. If he didn’t, at least he would have had a solid place to rest for a while.

   Upon setting up a place to rest and a place to set his belongings, he had even discovered food in the pantry. Some old canned goods that could be found in abandoned stores, some crackers that had gone way past their sell-by date, though there was no need to abide by any of that. ‘Expiration dates.’ Psh. As long as it was food.

   And now, all there was to do was wait. 

   It wasn’t like he couldn’t sit and wait, but time moved smoothly for him when he was up and doing things. When he busied himself with tasks. He didn’t like to feel like dead weight. Doing nothing was boring and inefficient. And it made his mind wander.

   His brain kept drifting back to the other guy from the music store, too, and the pit in his stomach was new and unwelcome. He shook his head and grabbed a single can of beans, pushing the cupboard shut behind him with a boot. It clicked lightly, the sound still too loud for his liking.

   If he was stuck waiting, he may as well get something to eat. He hadn’t done that since a day or so before seeing the other man, and the idea of food alone made his mouth water.

   He lightly tapped the kitchen area’s door open with his toe, maneuvering to his sleeping bag and settling himself on top of it, peeling the can open and fishing his singular metal spoon out of his satchel. The smell had his stomach growling, and he sighed in annoyance. Such a useless bodily function. He’d eat when he got to it, no matter how much his stomach wanted otherwise.

   He moved his hand down and manuevered his mask slightly up, then grabbed the spoon, dipped it in and lifted it up, breathing out a bit through his nose when he bit down, letting the flavor of old beans spread over his taste buds. The outside air was still, and he finally felt his body giving in to the whims of sleepiness, the shelter and food combination enough to take him out of fight mode. Well, he never left fight mode. But it was enough to tune it down a bit.

   Downing several more mouthfuls of beans led him into a yawn, a little risky as he still had food in his mouth and wasn’t keen on losing any to yawning it out onto the floor. He swallowed after that, deciding that eating could wait and pulling out an old container, still painted with little chunks of whatever he’d stored in it last. No mold, so it didn’t matter. He poured the leftover beans in, tapping the can on the corner of the tupperware to get the rest out, then sealing the little container again. He quickly ran his spoon around the inside of the can, gathering all the leftover liquid parts and tonguing them off to make sure he wasted nothing.

   He slipped his mask back down and pulled his sword from his sheath, next, pulling his completely unzipped sleeping bag (dying by getting stuck in a sleep-sack was just not okay.) and readying his sword in his hand beside him, feet brought up beside him. He never slept lying down, or without a weapon. Next he slipped a pocket knife from his belt, clutching that with his other hand. Then and only then did he let himself fall asleep.

   He slipped into the darkness of sleep near immediately.

***

   He woke in a flash, on his feet in an instant and ears locked on rustling emerging from the room at his side, sword raised preemptively. He let out a tiny breath upon registering that there wasn’t any immediate danger, and he wasn’t being attacked right then, probably only a stray raccoon or animal having snuck in to make an attempt for his new stored food.

   He didn’t hesitate, though still approached the other room with caution, ears tuned fully in on the types of sounds he was hearing from it, sword poised at his side.

   He stilled when his ears were met with slow, uneven steps far too heavy to be a raccoon- though that was obvious as he wouldn’t be hearing any steps from a raccoon's tiny little paws. One must have gotten in through the window. He twirled his sword around once in preparation, then knocked loudly on the door, attempting to garner the attention of any and all walkers in there and see how much of a ruckus he got in response.

   He heard–

   His expression broke from its normal state of ‘unmoving,’ feeling his jaw slightly open in disbelief as he stared at the door.

   He snapped out of his funk in just a second, bursting in the door with his blade thrusted threateningly in front of him. His mind went blank when he was met with a completely empty room, eyes flitting to where the cupboard he’d pushed shut earlier that night now sat cracked open, like someone had opened it and panicked before they got the chance to shut it.

   That was probably what had happened, considering the cuss, the cuss, he'd heard after his knock.

   He went quiet, letting himself just listen to everything. Slight shuffling behind, could be a rodent after all. A smart rodent, maybe, with a deceivingly human voice that knew how to say "fuck.”

   He breathed harshly, then knocked lightly on the wall.

   A muffled bump to his back and a cut-off noise, and he whirled around to face the…wall. They were in the wall. There really was a person in the wall.

   He felt his heartbeat echoing in his chest. He didn't know what to do.

   He didn't know how to deal with living people.

   He– he had to get out of there.

   He stumbled back out of the kitchen, shoulder knocking into the door on the way out, eyes locked on the wall and breaths embarrassingly labored.

   So much for sleeping that night.

***

   So obviously, the logical course of action was to pack up his sleeping bag, gather his things, get the heck outta there and never look back.

   Logically, he should've made it at least a mile away from this restaurant by now.

   Logic had made itself scarce for the last few days.

   Instead, he sat perched on his sleeping bag, surrounded by a fortress of defensive tables and chairs. His ears were primed on where he'd heard the first noise. He had no idea how to handle this. At the very least he’d already figured out how they had gotten in and out; there was a loose floorboard, which sounded hollow underneath. He’d briefly tried lifting it, and sure enough, it led to a little tunnel that was clearly messily made.

   Were they a threat? Would they be a friend? Would– should he leave? Why were they here? How the hell did he find another person? What was even happening.

   He breathed out, muffled through his facemask.

   …He didn't know why he wasn't just leaving, to be completely honest.

   Well. He did. It was because he'd get an image of curly hair and a stupid guitar case and then the idea of leaving made his entire chest and torso lock up.

   But he didn't know why he was so caught up on that in the first place. Why he was so determined to see this through.

   He shook his head, clearing out his mind. It didn't matter. If he was going to be this illogical, he was going to make sure that his own insensibility wasn't the end of his life. He didn't get this far just to die to another human now. Stranger danger, his brain supplied. He didn’t know where that came from.

   But humans… were the good guys. He just never thought…

   He…no way. No way. He couldn’t have run into another person so soon after the music shop. Barely a day? Barely a day and he meets two separate people? No. No. Not possible. There was no way this was real.

   His mind blanked, entire being leaning into the task of listening around him. That was what mattered. He had to stop the overthinking before it became too much.

   All he needed were the surrounding sounds.

   His own breathing, barely there. His heart, steadily beating.

   Obviously he’d been hyper aware there was a single walker outside, unaggressive, stumbling along. It didn't know there was anything alive nearby; a slow one without good senses. Not a threat.

   And the thing he’d near been trying to ignore. A light scuffling, behind and to the left.

   He breathed in and out. His heart continued pumping. The walker outside let out a groan. The person in the wall shifted again.

   Real. Very much real. And alive.

   His heart beat loudly. Their heart was beating as well- thumping in their chest and pumping blood, their lungs took air in and this was a living being. Just like him. Just like him.

   He stood fast, plopping uncharacteristically loudly to the ground and turning his head right to the noise. The moment he landed he felt like a fool, though. That was very much loud, obnoxiously and dangerously so.

   He heard nothing from the invader in his wall, but the walker outside snarled excitedly at the prospect of a meal. It banged on the door, and he heard the person in the wall yelp again. The difference between the snarling and the tiny spooked noise was immaculate, and his brain was dumbly focused on it.

   …Well. He had no idea how to expand on this.

   “Oi, why the hell did you get that thing angry at us, dickhead!?”

   He jumped, hearing another human voice so soon after the other. Not his own, muffled but still loud and high pitched- new. New. Real, and alive.

   He stared, brain stalling as the sound echoed through his whole skull. Bouncing and replaying. God. He thought he'd gotten over this at the music shop.

   He let out a breath, trying to recuperate himself. He opened his mouth, like he had in the music shop, and his throat tightened. His heart rate increased. His body was beginning to shake. Nothing came out.

   …he couldn't think of anything else to do.

   He got a single knock for his trouble. 

***

   The wall-dweller had gone silent again. They'd apparently put a little more effort in, because for the most part he couldn't hear them moving anymore. He wouldn't even know if they were still in the wall if there weren't a rare few moments where they messed up, and stepped just a little bit louder.

   It had been hours, and he sat still, protected by a wall of tables and chairs. The walker outside had been joined by two others, all slow and weak and something he had no fear for.

   He didn't know how to handle this, if that wasn't already abundantly clear with how he had responded thus far. He was equipped for all sorts of terrible situations; had come up with failsafes for nearly every possible way something could go wrong. But this situation was one so off his "possibilities" that he'd never even considered it.

   It was made worse by the fact that a moral compass he barely knew he even had was rearing its head, making the idea of actually getting rid of the person feel absolutely repulsive. This threat had a beating heart and real feelings. He just couldn't stop thinking about it.

   The longer he sat doing nothing, the more his legs felt buzzy, fingers twitching along his sword's hilt with every snarl of the walkers outside. He craved to drown himself in a task. Eliminate those walkers, fortify the area more, set up a trap to capture the intruder in his base. Just getting up was a dangerous thing, though.

   Usually he would be fine sitting as long as he had a reason for it. An endgame that justified such laziness. He had a reason, even if that reason was just some dude with a guitar, yet still his brain would not just stop it and focus.

   He tapped restlessly at the fabric wrapped on blade's handle, eyes still flicked to where he last heard a bump in the wall. He could hear them shuffling lightly.

   His feet moved with the urge to tap at the floor, too, and he huffed out an annoyed breath.

   People being around really messed up his groove, apparently.

   His whole body was a twitchy mess, his thoughts ran rampant, and those walkers just wouldn't stop banging on the door. They weren't going to give up, and three could quickly become more, and-

   He blinked, finding himself face to face with the front door. He'd instinctively stood to face the threat, forgetting about the one in the building with him. Oops. It was just- just such an outlandish threat that his brain was having trouble realizing it was real.

   He felt a fool, truly, but he'd already put himself in the line of fire so he may as well take care of the undead outside the door. He pulled the door with a hearty yank, and the walkers had already adjusted to duck under his boards. He lifted a leg and shoved it back by the face, letting it knock into the others, then efficiently somersaulted out. He stabbed two through the skull in one go, then stomped on the other’s head, knocking it back down before he pulled out his sword and skewered that one as well.

   He was grateful for the newfound silence, ignoring the horrid smell that wafted up in favor of basking in the sudden lack of noise.

   He glanced backwards, eyes flicking about the crimson entrance of the restaurant.

   He'd done it. He had walked out of the building, despite his need to stay and see the guitar man. Now was the time to get out of there. No visit should be worth the unknowns the person in the walls presented.

   He took a single step away, and his nerves fanned alight with emotions, which was so foreign that, as had been common the last couple days, his own short-circuiting left him in a still standing position as those emotions soaked in.

   He halted before he even got anywhere. 

   He gave a frustrated swing of his sword, and that action also confused him. He was swinging at nothing, for no reason. This was a waste of energy. He breathed out, like he could breathe those overwhelming emotions out of his lungs alongside the air.

   No. There was a random stranger in those walls. Time to go. 

   He turned once more, got three steps and ended up stopping again. He bounced frustratedly on his feet, glaring at nothing and beginning an energy wasting back and forth. 

   Why. Why. He stood restlessly on his bloodied feet, teeth clenched, then kicked one of the dead walkers' skulls, the decayed limb ripping off the body at the force and skipping across the ruined asphalt, leaving a bloody trail all the way. He stared at the unmoving head. He'd not done anything like that before, at least not for a long time. What- what had been the point of kicking that? Why can't I just get over this? Why do I have to think so hard about this? Why am I spending so much time thinking at all? Why am I doing these things?

   Thinking always led to the bad thoughts. He didn't want the bad thoughts. 

   He twirled his sword around, flicking a disgusting circle of blood around in the air, avoiding even looking in the direction of the restaurant.

   …he wasn't leaving. He looked almost pleadingly at the entrance, like it would tell him to leave as he should.

   I am so dumb. He thought to himself, then turned back into the restaurant with an ugly jingle of the bell. He moved swiftly the second he shoved the door closed, diving over a table and somersaulting back into his protective circle, bracing for... for something. He didn't know. 

   Instead, there was a moment of silence, and then the other person spoke.

   “...did you just kill those things?” It was muffled, and he had to take a second to translate it in his head until it made sense.

   There was silence where he forgot that a question was usually followed by an answer.

   Then there was silence because he had to think about whether he actually wanted to give one. He gave a deep breath, forcing his mouth to cooperate.

   The shape of words was foreign to his lips, and he mouthed a ‘yes,’ still unable to force sound to come out. It felt wrong, creating noise on purpose. He’d trained himself to be so silent that now he wasn’t sure how to break his own quiet streak.

   “Who the fuck else woulda done that shit? Ignore that. Ignore me with that, stupid. I was stupid. You did it, of course you did. Thanks.”

   He blinked in surprise. His chest seemed to grow in warmth. What a feeling that being thanked gave him. 

   “I'm not doing that for you though, by the way, bitch.” They continued unprompted. “Why don't you just leave?! I was here first!”

   He turned a smidge to stare at the wall. He noted idly that the other swore a lot. It was weird. He was sure if he managed to get his words to cooperate he wouldn’t use them to shout curse words. They knew so many.

   “Yeah, I'm staying, that's right! Fuck're you gonna do about it, Apple Boy?! Nothing, that’s right! You don’t even know where I am! Could be anywhere! I’m like- You’re so stuck. Can’t do shit and I’m too cool.”

   He blanked. Not only was the voice coming out of the wall strongly, clearly not like his, weirdly accented- Again- his brain couldn't even conjure an image of the fruit. He hoped they didn't want any of those from him. He had none. He knew they were red, but other than that he couldn't remember what that tasted or looked like. And why did they talk like that? It was odd that he had to ask himself that again so soon after the guitar guy. 

   There was silence. He heard a mumble, so quiet he couldn't understand. He said nothing in response, since he didn't know how he could continue that. Talking was a lot harder than he remembered it being. Usually words actually. You know. Came out of his mouth. Not that he remembered speaking all that well. Or at all, really. It was a miracle he was doing this well at understanding other people.

   He jumped when the person spoke again. “I'm not gonna be the one to leave because I was here first, by the way! Dunno if you heard me, but I was. And you can't make me!” his eyes slipped to the wall. “Place isn't yours just cuz you walked in, dick'ead.”

   He frowned.

   More loud speaking, “...Obviously, it's mine. Yeah! It's mine! My base 'n shit!”

   He should probably leave then. 

   Just the idea of leaving before he could talk to music-man made his chest feel funny, so he promptly decided– with a mental apology to whoever this was– that he wouldn’t be leaving. At least not yet.

   The wall-person was quiet. Then, “Oh, fuck you, do what you want!”

   He perked up. Nothing besides a knock, harsher this time, came out of the wall. Were they upset he was trespassing? But they'd just told him he could stay.

   He frowned.

   They didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

***

   Okay. So maybe he had left his table-fort. To be fair, the wall person seemed to either be unarmed, unthreatened, or morally challenged by him being there, so he had a feeling that they weren’t going to try anything.

   Well, anything other than yelling, of course.

   He had been half spaced due to sleepiness when he’d heard rustling in the kitchen again, vaulting noiselessly over his makeshift wall and to the door. But the moment he’d touched the handle, the other guy had apparently dipped back into hiding.

   He glared around the room, watching the cupboard door sway back and forth. He glanced around, minorly taken aback by the number of cans now missing, jumping effectively on the counter and dragging out his sword when a knock came under his feet this time. Oh. They'd startled him.

   “My beans now, bitch!” The voice came back, much closer, and he dropped to the floor again, earning a loud yelp.

   He only responded by tapping lightly and sure enough, more hollow. They got into the walls through the floor somehow. He leaned down to pick at the floor-board their knock had come from. This time the wood didn’t budge even an inch.

   “That’s none of your business. I bet you look stupid, talking to a floor like this!”

   Ah. Judging by that wording, they couldn’t see him. Also, he wasn’t speaking? Why would talking to a floor look stupid anyways? There was someone there. He would be having a conversation, right? He frowned.

   Oh well. At the very least while he was in there he could grab something to eat. He reached in the cupboard.

   “…Oi, I said this shit was mine, idiot! HA, you know what, I'm gonna find a way to get your stupid beans! I have a gun, bitch, I'll shootcha!” They said, and he almost tripped over himself trying to get away from their immediate firing range. “Then they’ll be mine, and you’ll be a sad, beanless American!”

   His heart dropped as he flipped back onto the counter, eyes darting about the floor and heart rate increasing. He’d gotten far too relaxed.

   His eyes darkened seriously.

   “...Woah. What was up with that, man??”

***

   The funny-talking-wall-person had tried to cover up their clear threat with lies such as ‘it was just a joke,’ and ‘it was banter, man,’ and ‘Just come down, dude, I was kidding, that was stupid, I’m sorry. Just chill out,’ but he wasn’t going to let their fibs and fancy words get to him. They’d been making off with all of the beans, a rich source of protein, and now that he had come to study them he’d officially garnered their wrath. No-one in their right mind would joke over something as deadly as a gun, or as important as proper protein and beans, let alone the amount there was in that cupboard.

   They’d stopped trying to explain away that ‘it was a joke, dude, fuckin’ chill out!’ when Techno still didn't respond. They were so loud it was like they were trying to attract walkers. They kept bumbling loudly away.

   They’d stopped talking at all, actually, and he was remiss to admit he wished they had remained nonviolent. 

   Listening to someone else was, was… not awful.

   Point being, despite him disliking this turn of events, he needed to get rid of this little threat now, at least until after his meeting was over. His goal was to make that happen before the guitar guy showed up.

   So he was going to make a trap. The wall-human seemed to be relying on those old rations for food, taking off with at least a can at a time.

   Not only was that a ridiculous amount of food to eat at once if one wanted to not starve over time, but it wasn’t good for his sake that they were being taken without any sharing. So, naturally, he was going to rig it.

   He wasn't sure what to call his contraption, and honestly as he was bent over from atop the safety of the counter while setting it up, he wasn't even sure he'd arranged it correctly. But after the threats, he wasn't certain he could take even a single moment's chance on the floor. (Dying by floor-bullet from a funny-speaking wall-dweller was very not okay.)

   So, essentially he had very messily set up what would hopefully be an effective snare. He knew how to make snares. Several different kinds, but usually they were meant for animals (and occasionally walkers, if he was feeling adventurous), not sentient, intelligent humans.

   The guy would emerge from his wall-cave, attempt another round of bean-thievery, and the can right at the front would, when tugged on, set the snare off.

   It was simple, and this particular trap would probably only hold for like five minutes (if it worked at all), and he would have those five minutes or so to then… then take care of the problem. He didn't really, uh– he hadn't decided what that entailed just yet. It was iffy, and the likelihood of success was far lower than he would've liked, but it was better than letting this random dude shoot him over beans.

   He had left the kitchen with an effective round of parkouring out the door, and was silent behind his wall of tables again.

   It was a waiting game, at this point. The moment he heard the cupboard open, he needed to strike.

   His waiting game didn’t last very long. Only a few hours or so, when nightfall had recently ridden them, before he heard the whisper of footsteps in the wall again. They echoed differently- and closer- after the kid left the wall.

   Whatever they’d moved to get out he had heard but not seen. A creaking noise; some sort of floorboard or loose part of the wall. He stayed silent, however, letting the other human maneuver further along the floor. Their footsteps were impressively lightened in a way that did not match their earlier bumbling. Were he not hyperfocused on them he might have had trouble following.

   The cupboard was opened slowly, the only sound giving it away being a tiny click. He silently parkoured over his table-wall, skirting closer and positioning himself beside the kitchen door. He didn’t risk peeking, sitting and waiting for a snap or a twang to signal that the snare was tripped.

   His hand danced along his hilt once again, eyes stoic.

   …Hm. This was taking a while.

   Then there was a muffled chhhfing sound, and his legs snapped into action. His ears were trained on any sound, however. And the next sound he heard was very much behind him.

   His arms shifted, sword twisting as he was instantly ready for an attack, and his eyes flicked wider as he rounded to see the door shut behind him, and the young man scrambled (quietly and gracefully, obviously) to get away from it. Jumping in a soundless upward motion onto the counter once again.

   “Pha!" He almost jumped when they spoke from the other side of the door, eyes and mouth wide. "You’re gonna have to try way harder than that, ya stupid red dunderhead!”

   He looked at the door. Then his eyes flicked to the snare, where the other had tripped it with a rock. Judging by the way their footsteps had moved when he had been facing away, they'd been by the door– they’d thrown the rock to activate it and snuck by him when he had rushed in.

   He had been baited.

   …This was why he wanted to stick with dealing with dead people. He had absolutely no idea how to deal with living ones.

   Or, embarrassingly, he might have just severely underestimated how smart humans could be in comparison to the things he usually dealt with. Or just forgotten.

   Well, no. He hadn’t expected that to work. But he also hadn’t expected to not be attacked or at least shot at when the other had a clear opportunity to go for him. He had no doubt he could hold his own pretty well, whether they had a gun or not, but he didn’t want to have to deal with the aftermath, either, as that would attract walkers upon walkers upon walkers. Annoying.

   ...and he didn't want to be the one to end the other person's heartbeat. Alive.

   He just huffed, slightly miffed, but mostly just resigned, to the fact that the wall-dweller had beaten him that time. 

   His eyes snapped violently down to the floor when a knock resonated from it. He'd known they were there, but why were they so loud? “HAH, you couldn’t even come close to catching me, dumbass!”

   It wasn’t good for his sword, but…

   If he risked stabbing a hole through the floor just to get them to be silent (It was very effective), it wasn’t like there were any folks alive to know.

***

   So. He had been painfully, embarrassingly reminded of the intelligence level actual people held in a giant slap to the face. It was a huge jump up from even the smartest of walkers. He really should have known. 

   Ugh, he felt so utterly, shamefully defeated. That snare had been obvious, of course they weren’t going to fall for it. Anyone could’ve seen it was there after just a quick check. Maybe a young, young child would have taken that bait, but he knew there were not any of those still around. They hadn't sounded that young anyhow, although truthfully he wasn't entirely certain how to tell someone's age. It hadn't exactly been important for a while. 

   He was going to have to try again, if he wasn’t willing to leave.

   He didn’t want to invade their space, or their restaurant, but he had already made his mind up. He wanted to meet up with the music-man. A real, live person that wasn't traversing this place's walls and threatening to shoot him. Someone– someone he could talk to, and look at, and interact with, and they were alive–

   This person was too, of course, but guitar-guy had never threatened to shoot him, so he felt much more inclined to meet with him and not this person.

   He'd set up another trap. The moon was high in the sky, shielding him mainly in darkness, and worked in silence. It wasn't a simple snare, it took him a while to plan. He wasn’t sure he’d have time to plan and set it up before the sun came up, but he succeeded.

   He watched. He waited, trepidatious and ready.

   A crackle, snap, and light bonk sound and he almost bounced in apprehension. Then there was another booming laugh, and he could have jumped. So loud. “Stupid, you aren’t gonna get me like that, blade boy!” Sounded from the walls.

  Blade boy? He blinked. He didn’t tell them a name. Not that he could have. He hadn’t been able to remember his name for–

   "Fucknut!"

   Well. He hadn’t needed a name for so long he hadn’t bothered to try and remember, or even come up with anything else. It didn't have any purpose in survival.

   "Idiot!"

   He only looked at the wall.

   "Dumbass!"

   He raised his sword. A yelp and scrambling sound later and the voluminous shouting was stopped. He didn’t even have to do anything that time. He very carefully maneuvered to look at his snare. 

   Once again, he had been foiled. He didn’t even know how, there was no rock or obvious solution, yet still it had been decimated.

   Once again, outsmarted by a random person that resided in the walls of some restaurant in the middle of nowhere. He properly gaped, now. He was completely unprepared, and it showed. Why did this person need to become violent? How did they exist at all? Was this real? 

  It had to be real. His eyes gained more clarity, and more determination. Of course it was real. It was real. They were real.

   His mouth opened. Almost, almost, words came out. But then his chest got heavy and his throat constricted. Would he even know how to form words anymore? Are you real, he wanted to ask. It was stupid, but this felt like some weird fever dream. 

   “...You’re fuckin’ creepy, you know. Nobody just stares blankly at people like that. It looks like you’re planning shit. Or just– threatening me. Maybe you are, actually. Don’t try shit, I”–

   He only looked at the wall in their direction, moving away from his current position to get in a safer one. Away from where they knew him to be.

   “...I… I should stop antagonizing strangers, huh.” He barely caught a deep swallowing sound. Some shifting. “I don’t… Man, I’ve been an idiot.” They got so quiet Tech couldn’t hear them for a second, saying something about listening to someone, then, louder, “Hey, uh, Blade-guy?” They kept speaking. His grip tightened on his sword, gaze locked onto their area. He listened intently, both curious and also simply enraptured with the sound of proper speaking and words as it went on longer. He didn’t feel so threatened when they spoke quieter like this. “I really wasn’t trying to start shit with you. If you want the beans from here, I won’t stop you. I…” There was a longer beat of quiet. “...I don’t even have a gun.”

   He blinked. Then blinked a few times more. His words were still failing him.

   “I was– I was just trying to be funny,” they answered. He didn’t understand how that would be funny. “I thought we were kinda- kinda messing with each other, you know? Banter! But- but then you got all stab-happy and shit and it’s honestly kinda overkill and maybe a little scary, dude. And I just– that was stupid. You don’t know me, I don’t know why I would. Would do that. Just, you didn’t– I didn’t think you would— I’m sorry, man. It was a joke.”

   A good chunk of those sentences had moved so fast and fluidly that he hadn’t understood them. His head tilted.

   “We cool, now?” A beat. “Like, are we good, man? You gonna stop stabbing at the floor and shit?”

   He didn’t think it was good for his sword to do that anyways. He couldn’t speak again, though, and he wasn’t sure if they could see him, so he didn’t bother doing anything in response.

   “...Alright.” Their voice shook a bit, and then they abruptly quieted, and suddenly the conversation reached another dead end. An odd sensation of heaviness spread over him in response. He didn’t want the talking to stop.

***

   Silence, then no more silence. It was like neither of them could choose what was better.

   He was unsure whether to make another trap or not, since they didn’t have a gun to shoot him with. It felt abruptly more wrong to be so iffy about them. Even if he did make one, it used precious supplies and didn’t seem to be working in the slightest. He had no clue how to deal with living beings.

   He was still feeling weird in general as it was. Merely the idea that someone living resided in the walls there made his chest feel funny. He clutched his shirt, unsure how to handle this weird feeling of pressure. His chest– he felt more. More in his chest. He couldn’t remember which feeling this was. He…vaguely recalled it. But he hadn’t felt anything like it in so… No, he just hadn’t felt strongly for a while.

   …people changed everything. His eyes flicked over the walls, covered in peeled paint. Someone lived there. His chest felt like more every second he thought harder about it.

   A knock suddenly rang out clearly to his left, and before he knew it he had his sword held in front of him, position that of one ready for battle.

   A cackling laugh, quieter this time(?) sounded from that area. “Oh, shit, man, you’re so jumpy. I didn’t think that would really work.”

   He only blinked.

   “You’re so easily scared,” They giggled. His chest was a bit more than...more? At that point. A different kind of more. Heavy and fast. He didn’t like the feeling. “Holy fuck, man. That was hilarious. Does that always work on you?”

   He just stared. His breathing was slightly labored, which was odd since he hadn’t been exercising in any way.

   “...You’re really not a talker, huh, big man. Well, alright. I feel like I deserve that after threatening to shoot you. I really don’t have a gun, you know. Or- ah- a-actually, maybe I do? You don’t know that. You don’t know me. You’re just some weird guy with red hair and I’m the coolest guy alive. Biggest man ever.”

   His eyes got slightly wider. If that was the case, they were likely huge. How tall were they? Now he was once again more reluctant to speak than before. Did they have a gun or not?

   “Like- I’m fuckin' ginormous. If I stomp the ground shakes, I'm that huge," Huh. He had no clue how to answer that, so he didn’t. They kept going. “Man, you’re shit at keeping a conversation.” Another knocking sound, and he gripped his weapon harder. “Hah! Are you ever not gonna react to that?”

***

   The wall-person had made it their personal goal to see if he would ever not respond to that. So far, their experiment had proven to only work if they did it at random intervals, when he had gotten just barely used to the sound being gone. They did it everywhere too, anywhere they had access to. 

   “So fucking funny!”

   He didn’t see how.

   “You jump like a fuckin’ bunny, bro. Pfff, Bunnyblade!” 

   Whatever his name was, he knew Bunnyblade was not it.

   “Hah, stupid techno-mask man, should expect that shit by now!”

   He did expect it. He was just unable to predict it. It was like the smarter walker’s knocking. Precise and from anywhere, anytime. Impossible to see coming. Always had to be more aware for those. Which… this person’s knocks were making his brain confused, they were so similar.

   “Okay you don’t really jump, you just swirl around really fast. Listen, I can’t see perfect in here. Cool how you’re so ready with that thing, though! The sword. You should stop pointing that at me, by the way.”

   He couldn’t see in the walls at all, so they had an advantage either way.

   “What should I even call you, Techno-boy? Bunnyblade. The Blade. Technoman.”

   He didn’t have an answer for them, so he didn’t give one.

   “WHY ARE YOU SO QUIET? It’s creepy!”

   He glanced at their area, slightly miffed. Far too loud. He looked outside. There were a number of walkers built up. That shout was about to bring them all clawing at the wall, along with any more in the area. 

   “Man, can’t you answer already? I’ve been rambling for ages. Do you even understand me? Wait, no, you’ve responded with nods and shit, I remember that. Why aren’t you talking, then? Do you speak another language? Wait, no, understood me. Agh! You’re so—Are you– are you just trying to scare me, cuz it isn’t working!” Then, so quiet he barely heard. “You’re so fuckin’ creepy, what the hell. Just say something…” A sniffling sound. “…please don’t kill me.”

   Was he meant to hear that?

   He didn’t answer them, instead choosing to remove the walkers outside from the vicinity.

   He barely glanced at the other speaking up again, desperate, “Where are you going? Oh. You shouldn’t– I– okay. Alright. Be– be careful, Blade.”

   He glanced back again, face forming some sort of expression under his mask without him even trying to make one. He didn’t know why, but hearing that also made his chest feel more. A different type of it. Weird. Fuzzy. He didn’t know what to think of it, so he ignored that too. Getting rid of these walkers before there became too many was more important. The ones currently gathered were more of the slow, unthreatening kind, but with all the laughing and shouting he had no doubt that some that would be far bigger issues would be on the way.

   He easily fought his way outside, dispatching walker after walker with no issue. There were a couple that moved faster, but still were not a real threat. Now that the other person was quieter and he could properly listen, he could hear several approaching walkers. 

   It was a mixed package of the dead, both slow, average, and so fast he had to actually focus a little or he might actually be at risk. He waited a bit, until the sun was setting– he’d apparently spent all day just listening to the wall-person– getting rid of every walker that approached until there was enough of a lull that he felt satisfied in going back in. Having Music-man get there to a bunch of walkers in the parking lot felt…rude, for some reason. 

   When he got back in, it was quiet. Very much so, for how loud they had been before. He almost felt…nervous at their lack of speaking.

   “...Blade?” It was quieter than before. And slightly a relief.

   He only looked in their direction.

   “Is…is that… you?”

   What was he supposed to respond to that? He knew his name wasn’t ‘Blade.’

   “Did you kill them?” They spoke slightly faster, and slightly louder, now. “Or- are- is that- Are you alive?”

   Their tone was getting more rushed. He didn’t like it. He moved slightly to a place where he knew the other could see him, if only to get them to be quieter. 

   “Oh,” He could hear a muffled breath out. “I– I almost thought…”

   His head tilted. Thought what?

   “...Nothing, nevermind. Took you long enough, Blade. Too long. Thought you were better with that sword than that, Bunnyblade!”

   So loud again. He shook his head, pinching the nose of his mask between his fingers. If he could just make himself speak, this would be so much easier. He didn’t even know if he remembered how to speak, though, so maybe not.

   “What,” They asked. “I didn’t– ya know, if you’re sayin’ shit between all this I can’t hear you. You’re so damn quiet. Or maybe I’m just loud?” His head swiveled over. “Oh, you- you really reacted to that. Is that what you said?”

   He fumbled upon his own enthusiasm. He hadn’t said anything. Was he meant to nod? He’d thought that.

   “Oh, it is, isn’t it. Oi, what the hell! I’m not that loud. You’re just quiet. Can you talk in any volume other than breath? Or– or just so quiet that not even somebody with damn super-hearing would hear you. I’m only human you know, there is a wall between us.”

   He responded with a point outside, where a group of walkers had once again gathered outside. 

   There was a beat of silence. “More? Are you gonna"– the cut off. Then, "Oh. Did I make them come here? Am I really that loud?”

    Very, his brain provided. His head swiveled to the group of monsters they had summoned to them, watching them through the boards.

   “Oh,” Their funnily accented voice came out the quietest he’d ever heard it, next. “I thought I’d made myself quiet enough.”

   He only looked at the wall. They definitely had not been quiet enough.

   “I’m sorry for making you kill those then, man, I, uh, kinda put you at risk, huh. I didn’t mean to attract any of those.”

    'Then why would you be that loud?' He thought, eyebrows furrowed. He did not understand that logic at all? Why would they do that if they didn’t want more walkers around?

   “I– agh. They're awful. Jeez, dude, god, I didn’t”– Another muffled breath. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn't know.”

   His eyes flicked over the wall in bafflement. How did they work?

   “... does this mean you forgive me?”

   He shifted unsurely.

   "Be quiet if you forgive me." They continued, slightly faster.

   He started at the wall.

   “Cool, we're cool! Alright, though, whatever, Blade. I’ll be quieter, then. I can be good at that.”

   For some reason, he didn’t quite believe that.

***

   “So, what’s your actual name?”

   They didn’t ask that question until the sun had risen on the third day. He was sat atop one of his previously protective wall-tables. He didn’t feel so threatened anymore. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know his name.

   “Cuz as cool as it is just calling and thinkin’ of you as ‘The Blade’, it’s not, like. A real name. Like, what do I call you?”

   Truth be told, he was starting to call himself Blade in his head because of how much this person was repeating it at him. He didn’t know if that would stick, but it was weird to even try thinking of himself as anything except ‘a human,’ and ‘alive.’

   “Or should I just keep calling you Blade. I’m kinda gettin’ used to it. It’s gonna be weird when I learn your actual name, man. Maybe I should stick with mask-guy. Techno-mask. That thing is really cool, by the way. Did you make that?”

   He attempted to open his mouth, to speak, but nothing came out.

   “Technomask.” They said, like they were in awe. Oh. Apparently he didn’t need to say anything anyways. “Blade, your techno-shit is super cool. I want a badass mask like that. Oh, Techno! I could call you Techno! It matches your facemask anyways!”

   Techno? Was that better or worse than ‘Blade?’ He had no idea. Either one was kind of odd.

   “Aw, actually I dunno. Blade is kinda your OG name, iddnit? Feels weird to change now.” He could hear them pacing. “But I like both. Oh, oh, wait a minute, I know! Just combine em, ay?”

   His head tilted at the wall.

   “Yeah. Yeah, man! Like, could you imagine somebody named fuckin’ “Technoblade?” dude? That would actually be sick!” He felt minor concern. How would it get someone sick?

   “Yeah, that would be so very poggers, Technoblade. See, listen to that! Technoblade! Sick as fuck!”

   He only felt confusion, now. Poggers?

   He perked up when the sound of footsteps came from outside. It was light, hard to hear. Even harder with wall-man going on about whatever a ‘poggers’ was. But it was close, surprisingly so. He hadn’t heard it for a good bit. Then the door squawked open, and wall-man went quiet after a little gasp. 

   From under the boards emerged a fluffy head of hair and a masked face that he had been nervous he’d never see again.

   “Hi,” Friendly. Weirdly chipper with a little wave. “Hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur felt sweat drip from his nose, eyes lidded as the heat burrowed through his skin and through to his very core. His legs were rather sore, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he took off his shoes to find blood on his feet.

He clutched at his ribs, entire torso pulsating with pain.

By luck, divine intervention, whatever it had been, Wilbur had managed to lose the horde thanks to a single ladder. Hurray for easy to access fire escapes!

Although- less good- he’d then had to jump from that to the building over, which thankfully had a lower rooftop. He’d nearly missed the jump and had ended up with his chest slamming into the concrete edge, and despite getting the breath so harshly knocked out of him managed to yank himself up.

And then many of the smarter members of the horde had decided that Wil’s idea of jumping had been a good one. Luckily all it took was a calculated swing of his guitar and they’d go crashing down, and Wilbur was able to roof-hop until he lost the rest of them. 

The hoard was persistent, but the majority were not intelligent enough to follow him up there without a scent, and he was able to murder through those that could.

Point being, Wilbur had successfully gotten out alive! It had been quite unpleasant for his ribs though, who very much seemed to despise him and every action he’d taken to stay that way. He quite hoped nothing was broken. It would be very inconvenient.

He’d considered resting, for a while after that. But just- something about seeing someone else again had Wilbur so determined he was hot-wired to keep moving. He wanted to see that they’d gotten out; see them still breathing and on their feet. He ended up taking a thirty minute nap only before resolutely continuing, more focused than he’d been in months.

…That and Wil was selfish. He wanted to have a conversation, only one. A real person to talk to, new and not so trigger-happy and ugh-

Wilbur wouldn’t stick around, was his point. Just. Talk, if only one last time. He– he wanted to give himself that. Just one day. 

So he continued. It took him a good while before reaching the place, but there it was. And the old brochure was absolutely right- it was very red. It had failed to mention that it was ugly as sin, but it looked safe enough, at least for a day. To be honest, Wilbur was kind of surprised it was there at all. Not that he really cared if the old paper had lied to him, but he didn’t expect it to be so easily found either. 

He walked confidently to the door, looking around himself. Not a growler in sight, although there were a lot of stilled corpses on the grassy pavement. He expected if the stranger had actually taken shelter there, that was his doing. He had seemed rather skilled with the sword he carried.

He gave a moment's pause, heart flipping in his chest. This could be a one-way ticket into losing all the meager shit he’d managed to gather the past months, which he couldn’t really afford to lose now that he’d first lost his best weapon. Oh, he should have circled around for his machete. He was being an idiot, and he knew it, but Wil was a damn lonely idiot.

He was bound to die brutally one day anyway. He’d rather it be by human hands, he supposed. At least he could go down fighting something with feelings that could remember him.

Wilbur pushed the rather heavy door open, resulting in the jingle of a small bell overhead. He looked up at it, pausing momentarily and glaring at the thing like it was able to understand his disappointment. Dust lifted, powdering the air, and Wilbur waved his hand to clear it, spared from having to inhale any by his protective bandana-mask.

He shook his head slightly as he entered, looking around the restaurant and letting the door fall shut behind him. At first glance, he could see no one, and wondered momentarily if he really was about to get mugged, and this was some elaborate trap, seeing as he hadn't actually known the red haired one, but he shoved that thought aside. If the weird-hair-man wanted to take his stuff, he should've done it at the music-shop and left him for dead.

A colored head of hair suddenly stood from a booth, swiveling to face the door, and a wave of gratefulness overtook Wil, suspicion of the stranger temporarily forgotten. He didn't kill another man with his idiocy and recklessness. He let out a small breath. 

“Hi,” Wilbur waved with an unseen smile, trying not to seem too outwardly thankful. “Hope you didn’t have to wait too long,” he semi-joked, knowing that he had taken a while to get to the restaurant.

The stranger paused, body language not looking as shocked and dazed as he did at the music store, but still amazed in some sort of way, like he almost didn’t expect Wilbur to come at all. There was something else to it, though Wilbur could hardly tell what it was. Wilbur waited for a long moment, studying the other’s gaze before breaking out into a grin. “Well either way, thanks for waiting,” he said. "Glad to be here!"

Staring into the other’s mask, he couldn’t tell if they were also glad to be there, but oh well. 

“This place is surprisingly well kept. Most places are even more rundown than this. Must have been nice to stay inside solid walls,” Wilbur rambled, eyeing the other. He might have been lonely but he still knew that people were a huge threat. A few more seconds passed. Wilbur didn’t like silence, so he broke it. “Well, on a more important note, do you have a name I should use?” Wilbur looked away with slightly squinted eyes as the amount of time they spent just staring at each other increased. “Oookay…?” More blank staring. Wilbur was beginning to think this would be a pattern with this guy. Wilbur just glanced around at them, lips thinning.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Wilbur said, unsure. “Do you not like sharing your name or something?” He wouldn’t get it if they didn’t– what the hell was someone going to do with their name? Say it too loud? At the very least they could write it.

“Oh,” Wilbur perked up at his own idea. “You, mister hot-topic-head, have you any clue how to write?”

They nodded.

“Any writing materials?”

Nothing.

“That’s totally okay, because I can handle that one, then,” Wilbur winked under his goggles, like this guy would see that through them. Wil really needed to wipe them down, they were filthy, he himself could barely see through them. Not great for fighting. “Lucky for the both of us I’ve a notepad in my knapsack, if you’d like to take a seat I’ll fish it out.”

He received a long stare in response, and the other guy didn’t move.

“Alright, I’ll fish standing, then,” Wilbur casually chuckled. He had been going to do that to get his bag out of sight of this guy while looking through it, and by proxy getting his valuables away from them, but he wasn’t moving so improv it was. He blindly thrust his hand in, swirling it around until he came into contact with his notepad, rambling all the way since silence was boring. “So, pen, now. Sorry if you’re a pencil person, I’ve only the one writing tool. Truly I do need to go foraging for a new one, I’ve no clue how much ink this one has left.”

He didn’t use his notepad all that often. Mostly just for venting when he really just couldn’t live alone with his thoughts; at the very least he could share them with paper.

The other’s masked eyes drifted over the pen when Wilbur triumphantly pulled that a moment later. “Ohh, yes! Ta-da! Now, why don’t you take this,” Wil blindly handed them the pen, then began flicking through his depressing vent-pages to get to a clean sheet. “Here, write your name down on here!”

They took the items, and for a second they only sat still. 

…

“Are you sure you can write?” Wilbur was really playing a dangerous game, antagonizing this guy. He knew nothing about them. Their head shifted up slightly. “You write your name on the page,” Wilbur lifted his hands, mimicking writing in the air. “Mmm? You understand, then? Pen on paper makes words happen, yyyyes?”

They lifted the pen. He was almost surprised when they moved it to the paper. Wilbur watched the utensil move, round and silent on the page. They wrote slowly, inching the pen across the pad. Then, they stood still. They had another lingering staring contest for a moment. Wilbur, not keen on doing that again for who knew how long, asked, “Are you done? When you’re done, you can give me the book back.”

Their arm extended. 

“And the pen.”

Both arms. Wil took his things back, blinked, then repeated what he was seeing written in curvy, pretty cursive, “... Technoblade?”

They stood for a second, then nodded, as jittery as he recalled.

Wilbur tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrow at the sheet. “Techno… blade?” Techno just nodded. He waited longer for some kind of explanation. That was not the kind of name you just dropped on someone. “Techno…” he started, looking for any indication of sarcasm or amusement in the stranger’s body language. There was nothing. “Blade,” he finished. 

Technoblade answered with another nod.

“There’s a blade,” Wilbur stated.

Techno head tilted at him oddly, then he grabbed at the hilt of his sword, looking to his side where it was sheathed. He looked back at Wilbur, seeming to struggle with his words. Then, he nodded.

Wilbur gestured to him. “I meant in your name,” he clarified, raising his volume again, though for a slightly different reason. 

A second or two passed. Techno took his hand off his sword. A head tilt.

“Your name is”– he started before cutting himself off again. He used another hand to gesture out to Techno. Technoblade. “Is your name really Technoblade?” 

Techno waited a few more seconds. Wilbur stared at the other like he’d grown two heads in front of him.

Wilbur matched his pause. “Did you get bitten or something?” 

Technoblade’s shoulders twitched, possibly taken aback at the accusation.

Wilbur shrugged. “It was a- agh, okay, uncalled for. I don’t know, it’s just- your name is Technoblade. Hm. What about the brain damage thing?”

…

Wilbur just looked at him.

“...Technoblade.”

His head tilted.

“Technoblade?!”

The eyes of his mask bored into him.

“Your real, honest-to-gosh, not made-up, one-hundred percent authentic name is Technoblade?” Wilbur said again, not bothering to mask his bafflement.

Technoblade’s fingertip tapped on his hilt in what almost looked like a very minimal awkward fidget. Or a threat. Wilbur should be careful.

“I can’t– I– Technoblade.” Wilbur couldn’t get over it.

Techno just shifted a little, head tilting again.

Wilbur stared some more, and then realized that Technoblade had assumed Wilbur was trying to ask for his attention, which Wilbur was aware he already had.

“Oookay,” Wilbur put his hands up in slightly exasperated amusement, mouthing the word ‘alright’ even though the other couldn’t see him . Technoblade didn’t seem amused in the slightest. It was an odd choice of a name, sure, but maybe his parents had just been weird. Really, really weird.

But it’s not like anything else made sense in this place, so why wouldn’t he find a sword wielding, reddish-haired, stoic ninja man named Technoblade? 

“Uhhh,” Wilbur continued after a moment, letting out a sigh and dropping his hands to his sides. “My name’s Wilbur, then,” he introduced. He paused after that, something moving around in his stomach. But it wasn’t a heavy thing. He didn’t feel dread. It was more like something was being lifted from him. He hadn’t had anyone to introduce himself to in a while. Slowly, he felt his smile come back to him. He wasn’t able to push it back down again. "Wilbur Soot.” 

His new acquaintance didn’t do anything for a second, and then nodded.

“Well now that that’s out of the way, It’s quite nice to meet you, Technoblade,” Wilbur greeted, with an easy smile that wasn’t seen by anyone except the fabric of his protective bandana. He should really find something more effective, like whatever ninja-man here had on his face. “Even if your name is more than a bit odd. Do you want the notepad back to speak, then? So we can actually talk?”

No movement.

“Is that a no?” Wilbur stretched his arms out, and unlike the time before, they did not take the notepad back. Wilbur took that as an opportunity to continue, starting with something this guy might know how to answer. “Well maybe one day you’ll say something. So, what’s with your whole ‘sword’ thing? Have you always used a sword?”

Wilbur waited a moment to see if they would do anything, and when they didn’t he once again started, “Alright, I bet you’ve switched it up before, then! Good, good, always good to be versatile. Are swords your favorite choice of weapon?”

…

“Fascinating,” Wilbur twirled his knife around. “I personally prefer something with a bit more firepower, guns aren’t quite so volatile when you can find a silencer,” He chuckled to himself, memories of large, billowing fires and booming explosions flashing in his eyes, “Ever tried molotovs?”

A dead stare.

“Huh,” Wilbur raised his eyebrows from underneath his goggles. “Do you even like weapons talk?” Wilbur questioned, and the only answer he got was jack shit. Wow! This guy made him nervous! “Ah, well, that’s fine, I guess, if you just wish to listen. I’ve got plenty to say!”

Oooh, Wilbur was going to ramble to this stranger until his voice gave, fuck yeah! Once he was done it wasn’t like he was going to deal with this guy again, since Wil didn’t exactly like sticking around random people, but this was going to feel hella good, he needed a good vent day and this guy was practically volunteering.

And with a single tilt of their head, they had officially prompted him. Wilbur’s grin only grew. They really were volunteering!

“Oh, you have no idea, Technoblade,” Wilbur's tone, even though his voice was pretty much permanently lowered, kept an excited lilt. “Have you ever jumped from a fire escape to the top of a building and hit your ribs and then whacked a bunch of dead-heads with a broken electric guitar, cuz I fuckin’ have and I’ll tell you all about it, all about it, all about it! You might wanna sit for this.”

Techno wordlessly plopped backwards into a rotten, decayed booth with what might have used to be red seats and now sat a muted brown, with a few leaves growing in the material’s cracks. Wilbur followed, rambling all the way.

***

A giggle, muted and breathless, escaped Wil’s mouth. It was muffled by a bandana, and most likely heard by nothing and no-one due to the louder twaNg of the weaponized guitar he wielded. “Don’t you love the sound of guitar on a nice fine random-day-of-the-week (probably Tuesday) afternoon, Technoblade?”

Mister ‘Technoblade’ had uttered not a word back as they cleared anything that had gathered outside during their meeting. 

“I mean perhaps a tad problematic, but problematic and fun,” Wilbur had quietly sung, emphasizing his point with a hearty, twangy slam of the make-shift weapon onto another growler’s head. “Really, now, as practical and useful a sword may be, don’t you think you could do for some more style in your weaponry? A little pizzazz?”

The other didn’t even look back at him. Wilbur had a moment of nerves as some animalistic growler, with speed and reflexes unnaturally high, took to crawl-charging at the other like an unstoppable force, but this guy twirled and stabbed so efficiently that he was able to take the enhanced out with ease. Wilbur pretended not to be impressed, instead just going back to what he was doing and bitch-slapping another dead guy with half a guitar.

…okay, Technoblade actually had quite a point. Wil's weaponized instrument was most likely attracting more growlers than it was offing. It had probably been doing that since Wilbur had picked it up; the thing was louder than nearly any regular bludgeon.

But he only had that and a pathetic kitchen knife that just wouldn't suffice for this many of the decayed freaks rushing them at once. He wasn't using his pistol unless he needed to. Plus, he'd picked it up for fun! It made funny noises.

If it got Wil killed, so what?? It would be more interesting to go out swinging—especially swinging a guitar—and dying in such a preposterous way would suit him!

However, his humor was very much muted due to the fact that his weapon could now kill someone other than him. He did not want any more human blood on his hands than there already was; this guy seemed alright (Or not, who knew. Wilbur was remiss to admit this man scared him), he shouldn't be dying by guitar twangs.

Wil had kind of just been auto-pilot killing anything that came at him, and so he barely noticed when suddenly the growler he killed in front of him was the last one. "What the fuck?" He blinked, looking around. "I swore there was a whole damn group coming at us from…"

Wilbur blinked, jaw dropping a bit as he registered that the area he had heard the decent-sized group of growlers running at them now held only corpses. Right in the middle stood the unbothered stance of Technoblade, stained sword held at his side. Wil couldn't hear a thing coming their way. His eyes were a tad wide. Techno approached calmly, flicking a patch of nasty looking blood off of his weapon.

"Where… where's the rest of them?" Wil asked, baffled.

No response.

"The growlers." Wilbur clarified. "That can't be it. I heard…"

Wil's eyes flitted over the grassy ground, taking in corpse after corpse of several different types of growler. He walked forward a bit, and was only able to see more freshly dropped bodies. Holy shit, this guy is insane. He did this by himself? That quick? Is that even possible?

Wilbur's eyes widened at the sight of half of a detached head, his holy shit mindset only growing as he processed the faded green eyes the growler possessed. Those things were so fast they were hard to see coming at you, they jumped around like crazy fuckin' monkeys, how the fuck did this guy kill one so easily!?

Wil whispered, in awe, "You fought all these guys and one of the purple eyed motherfuckers at once, in the middle of this crowd by yourself, and didn't even bat an eye?!"

Techno's unrelenting stare didn't falter. Wow.

"So unphased, as well!" Wilbur felt a wide, shocked grin spread over his lips. "Insane would be an understatement, Technoblade, an understatement, one big understatement, I say; are you even human?"

Techno's head shifted down. His grin grew underneath his bandana.

“Well, now that that’s over, wish to go speak again?” They had gone out due to the number of growlers growing outside the store getting to be a tad unnerving. Well, Technoblade had seemed pretty unphased,  but it had been giving Wilbur anxiety. With how skilled the other was, he was beginning to see why Techno hadn’t given a single shit, here or at the music shop. “I have plenty to say!”

That was most certainly true, seeing as the sun had dipped more than halfway down the sky since he had started. Technoblade hadn’t even responded in nods or head movements the whole time unless Wilbur clearly asked a question.

Techno didn’t move, and Wilbur decided to take that as a yes. “Wonderful, Blade, accompany me back inside our fortress of dusty solitude and allow me to serenade you with more stories!” He pirouetted back to the doorway, dancing and dodging stilled bodies, unphased by the blood surely splashing up and further dyeing his messy combat boots and pants. He held the door cracked open for the other, ignoring the bell. Techno wordlessly walked back in, Wilbur rambling, “Have you ever heard of growler-lions, Technoblade? Or- actually, whether you have or not isn’t as important as knowing- have you ever fought a turned lion, Technoblade?”

He might have gotten a nod from Techno, barely visible as they skirted back in, and Wilbur suddenly had nothing to brag about anymore. Oh well, topic was already brought up. “I have as well, it’s quite an annoying thing to deal with, although I have to say, the chunkiness made it easier to deal with than wolves. Agh, zoos were a mistake, they’re simply dangerous animal-gatherers, although I doubt those that made zoos were aware that their chimpanzees and pandas and what-not would end up feral and shit,” Wilbur sighed disappointedly at people that were most likely long-dead. “This is why I was never a zoo guy. Totally not because the teeth and shit used to freak me out. You know, I used to be terrified of snakes, as a child. Feels totally ridiculous now, could you imagine being frightened of a snake? Like those little hiss-whips could do any real damage. Destroy the world? No snake could even dare. I was a fucking coward, Techno. Were you scared of snakes?”

Techno’s mask stared at him.

“Me too, me too,” Wilbur nodded solemnly. “I understand you, Technoblade. Fangy little buggers.”

He somehow doubted that ‘Technoblade’ here was scared of much at all, but he also didn’t care enough to ask. 

“What did you kill it with? Your lion, I mean.” Wilbur leaned closer, expressing a curiosity he didn’t entirely actually have. Once again, he didn’t really care, but speaking was fun. More than anything else, too, he wanted more answers from him. Hearing another human speak was comforting in a way nothing else could match.

Techno’s head turned down, and he gestured vaguely to his sword’s handle.

“Ahhh, I see, I feel as if I should have known that,” Wilbur nodded again, grinning like he was in customer service for no real reason. His bandana was doing any expressions for him. Which meant none. No expressing. “You like swords a lot, don’t you?”

…

“No nod?” Wilbur asked incredulously. He would have definitely expected a yes with that one. Wilbur’s shoulders fell a bit, and he breathed out. This guy was certainly not the worst person he could have run into—by a long shot, actually, he was pretty pleasant compared to the majority of humanity’s remaining survivors, just by the fact that Wilbur wasn't being robbed alone—but he wasn’t one for conversation, either. Wilbur was more and more intimidated by how much he couldn't read him. Maybe Technoblade was the worst, or like, just waiting to fuck him up when his guard was dropped. He was so skilled, Wil really doubted that he could win if this man picked a fight with him. Usually he felt at least somewhat evenly matched. 

Ah, Wil should’ve been more grateful for finding someone tolerable in the first place. He was looking this gift-horse in the mouth, and Wil'd had more than enough of looking into any mouths. “No nod, then. That’s alright, Technoblade, that’s more than alright. Let me tell you about my favorite weapon, then,” His grin grew manically, and pictures of fire clicked behind his eyes. “Remember talking about molotovs?”

***

"The tables," Wilbur prompted. "What's up with that? I've been wondering since I came in why all the chairs and tables not stuck to the ground are over in barrier mode. Are there growlers in the other room or something?"

Wilbur was studying the tables when Technoblade shook his head in the corner of his vision.

“Oh, so no dead guys in the kitchen,” Wilbur wouldn’t have liked keeping growlers in there, but he had no idea about this guy. Nothing seemed to phase him. “Right. If that’s so, then why?”

He pointed.

Wilbur started. Huh? “Uhm. Pardon?”

Tech still pointed. Wilbur squinted, but no matter how hard he studied it, it was still only a wall in front of him.

“Wha? I– pardon me for not understanding but what?" Wilbur stuttered in bafflement. "Wha- I–Sir. Mister Blade. Techno. That’s a wall. Sir?”

Wilbur's gaze drifted over the broken down wall. There were holes and patches of broken material, plants growing out of it, and a hint of movement through the patches, as well as some blood stains, and–

Wait. Movement?

“Oh, I gotcha. Not the kitchen, there’s a fuckin’ dead one in the walls,” Wilbur’s grin grew, and he swung his weapon-tar in a wide circle, stalking forward. “I got it, gimme a minute. ‘S a slow one anyways. Awful quiet, but whatever, weird one. Usually the slow ones are so damn noisy. Not that you wouldn’t know that. I keep explaining the obvious to you, huh.”

Technoblade followed after, shoulders squared tensely.

Wilbur whistled. Instead of the rabid scrambling he expected, literally nothing was happening. “Odd. Think it’s searching for a way out?” He followed where he’d seen movement before, and it was now still. He made out nothing. “What? Techno you’ve captured the world’s oddest growler in here. Did you put this thing in there? You trap it or something?”

The other’s head was turned to the wall. Wilbur followed his gaze, and sure enough, caught another glimpse through the broken material. This guy was crazy perceptive.

“This one might be more of a threat than I thought?” Wilbur blinked. “If it could get out of the wall, that is. Why doesn’t it just break through? Hm,” He pulled out his kitchen knife, murmuring, “Welp, suppose I might as well see if my aim’s any better than last week.”

He brought his arm back, focused on the movement, barely seeing the quick movements of Technoblade. Wilbur’s knife clattered midair. Wilbur’s nose wrinkled, swirling back to Technoblade. His heart was racing, now. His knife sat dangling, held to the wall by another knife that had perfectly sunk into the softer part of the handle to hold it up. “What the fuck, why did you do that? I had it.”

The other’s head shook, the most certain movement they’d made since Wil had met them. 

Well. Wil was not entertaining some weird growler-keeper. Fuck that shit. “Well then, I’m out of here!”

The other froze in place.

“Good meeting you, perhaps one day I’ll see you around, hm?” Wilbur bowed, backing up to their respective knives and releasing his from its hold to the wall, then carefully tossing Tech’s knife back to him in an overhead throw where the handle would face him. The other caught it by the handle with ease. “Lovely time, lovely conversation, your name’s odd, see y”–

A knock on a floorboard, and Wilbur froze. Was it getting out? He quickly located a loosening board, and judging by Technoblade backing up, he did as well. Wilbur twirled his knife. “Well, seems it's found a way out after all. I’m killing it.” He didn’t care if it made this guy angry, maybe that would snap Techno out of his delusion.

Wilbur was pulling his arm back to throw his knife when a voice, crackly, broken, barely there and even a bit desperate joined the fray, simply a noise of distress, Just as the floorboard shot up. Wilbur’s aim fumbled, and his knife, of his own clumsiness this time, clanged into the floor, sliding loudly across the floor.

Silence. A blonde head slowly, slowly emerged from the floor. With the most pitiful homemade mask known to what little remained of mankind (which was saying a lot coming from the idiot in the disgusting bandana), their face emerged, meeting his, unable to see Wilbur’s jaw dropped expression.

“Hey,” They held up their arms, Wilbur's eyes widened a bit. “Not trying to start shit with you, either, I’m just coming up to join the conversation!” Their head turned to Techno. “Since when could you fucking make noise?”

Wilbur’s head shot to this voice, another one, and holy hell. Judging by the prepubescent tone it was a fucking baby. “What the actual– who the hell are you?” Wilbur burst. “You’re also from England?”

“Oh, you’re interrogating me, are you?” They sneered, clearly as British as Wilbur himself. “I don’t have to answer you, old man, you almost killed me! Only reason you didn't is cuz he made some kinda fucking sound, which, again, since when could you make noise?”

Holy fuck, this baby was loud. Unlike mystery mask man who, until his unhappy noise Wil wasn't even sure if he could use his throat, this baby was clearly less of a threat. “Wh– Okay, what the hell. Congrats, we come from the same place. Now, for one, shush. Two, why are you in the floor?! Is there a bunker down there?”

“No no, no, you,” This person, blonde-headed and shrimpy, pointed at Technoblade. “You can talk?!”

“Do you not know each other?” Wilbur questioned, absolutely baffled.

“No, this guy just showed up here and was a total bitch like a couple days ago!”

“What the hell.” Wilbur’s face shifted to a disbelieving grimace. He gave a deep sigh, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. He was actually going to get fucking killed. How did he even get himself into this? “Alright. Okay. Whatever. I don’t care who you are, you need to lower your volume this instant before you get us all killed.”

Their shoulders shifted, arms crossing as their eyes darted away. Very clearly guilty. “I’m trying, aight? I’m a loud guy, what can I say? Anyway, you! Did you do that to save me? I knew you could say shit!”

Wilbur actually turned to Technoblade, now. “So you did, and defending this bombastic little child, too, although I don't know if that counted as saying shit.”

“NOT a child! And I can defend myself, you didn’t have to do that! In fact, you shouldn’t have, I wanted to catch it, like, midair! Totally badass it woulda been if you hadn’t gotten all defendy and ‘no don't hurt him’ ‘n shit.”

Wilbur’s anxiety, already at a fairly high level, somehow spiked even further. He lifted his broken electric guitar instinctively, growling, “Are you stupid? Shut your damn mouth before I make you. You are going to get us all killed!”

Whether by insulting this man, who Wilbur nor this child knew the fuse of, or by the kid attracting who knew what kinds of growlers there looking for a talkative meal.

The kid suddenly pulled a knife, flashing it in Wilbur’s direction. Wilbur’s lips, already back in a defensive frown, pulled further as he clenched his teeth, stepping backwards. Even if the child was still stuck under the floor he wasn’t getting near that. “Yeah, bitch, back away! I’ve got a knife, you ‘ear me, Clarissa’s her name and stabbin’ shit’s her game! Yeah. Yeah, I know, you’ve got regrets. I’ve got the aim of a god, so don’t test me, idiot! Think you can get near me, you’ve got another thing comin’!”

Wilbur scoffed, glaring as he turned away, keeping himself positioned in such a way that he could still keep an eye on the kid. “Alright, I’ve seen enough. I’m out of here. You’re nothing but trouble. You’re lucky Technoblade spared you.”

“Wait. Technoblade?” The child’s head turned to the man Wilbur had come here to meet out of desperation and crippling loneliness. 

“Yes. Speaking of, Technoblade, feel free to follow me out. If you’re smart, you’ll get away from this nuke of a child before this blows up in our faces.” Techno could very well actually know this child– the likelihood he ran into two separate survivors that had no idea of each other in the span of less than a week was pretty low at this point. Possible, but unlikely. Either way Wilbur had nothing to lose, or else he'd have shut this child up forcefully.

“No, no, wait, I’m sorry!” Their volume once again lowered, reaching almost desperately. “I’m, I’ll be quieter, I swear! I promise I can, I’m–I’m just so good at fighting by myself that it usually doesn’t matter a bit! But I can, really!”

Wilbur’s eyebrow raised, expression unimpressed. 

Their shoulders shook a tad, and their head downturned, knife lowering shakily. “Please, I don’t–don’t leave. I didn’t mean it.”

Wilbur had thought he was over the softness in his heart. Had thought himself willing to do whatever it took to keep his promise. This whole meeting was changing all of that. His own wish to see living beings again was going to do him in, at this rate. He was too soft, and this guy sounded so, so young. Wilbur gave a deep sigh. He was being such a fool. “Well. Shush, then.” Wilbur held a finger above his hidden lips. “You’re a risk when you talk like that, don’t you know? I’m only here for a nice chat, not to clean up your messes. I don’t want to fight off any hordes.”

“Right, no hordes, sir,” A salute. “QuietInnit they calls me, barely’ll hear a peep from me.”

Wilbur’s expression remained unimpressed, but he gave another deep sigh. He almost felt less threatened by the menacingly quiet, inhumanly skilled guy looming behind him than this bombshell teen. Almost. Not at all, really. Something told him he could rip this kid to pieces if need be. Technoblade not so much. 

“Okay, just– just let me get outta here. I wanna talk, too.” The kid squirmed a bit. Technoblade moved backwards, watching the area on the floor where the most thumping had come from. Wilbur moved backwards as well, even if he wasn’t as close as Techno, watching as a full body pulled themself out. The kid who had just popped out of the ground- and it was a kid, no doubt about it- backed up, slightly tripping over the open floorboard and then immediately pretending like he hadn’t, looking angrily at Techno. “Why did you pretend you couldn’t speak, eh?”

Technoblade stared back, either unphased, uncaring, or perhaps even ignoring him. Or maybe he was planning a murder. Wilbur wasn’t even sure he’d oppose that, child or not. “And who the fuck is this guy?! He tried to kill me! Why’d you bring him here?"

“I brought myself, thank you very much!" His words lacked as much fire as they normally would have as his eyes studied the newcomer. Lanky-limbs not quite fitting their own body, despite the fact that they looked healthy and surprisingly clean, seeing their tiny form and hearing them at the same time—"Holy shit, you’ve gotta be like twelve.”

The kid went from surprised to pissed off. "What the f—I'm not a twelve year old! What the hell?!" He burst out quickly, standing properly up and dusting himself off, "You're just an old bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" He turned towards Techno. “Seriously, why’d you allow this guy in here.”

A compelling answer of nothing. 

“Whatever! I’m nineteen anyway. Twelve. Yeah, right, like someone like me would be that tiny!”

“You’re my age?” Wilbur’s nose wrinkled in disbelief. The kid seemed to tense a bit. “And you called me an old bitch, did you?”

“...You look like. Actually fifty, there’s no way you’re my age.” They shot back, crossing their arms, carefully avoiding cutting themself with the knife they still held.

“You saying you had it first or something?” Wilbur teased.

“Obvious”–they cut themselves off, shoulders twitching. “I– no! I don’t know when your stupid birthday is. Maybe I did have it first, maybe I didn’t! Either way you look old!”

“And you,” Wilbur pointed his guitar at them. “Look twelve.”

Some sputtering, and Wilbur couldn’t help a self-pleased giggle as they snarked, “And you were gonna leave to get away from me! At least I’m not a fuckin’ jerk!”

“At least I can banter at a safe volume.” Wilbur fired back, grinning. His mouth hurt from it. Alright, he could admit he was having a bit of fun even if his anxiety was making his chest feel funny.

A bang on the door and Mister QuietInnit literally squeaked. Wilbur’s bored gaze shifted to the entrance, and he sighed once more.  A metal slide as Techno unsheathed his sword, and Wilbur twirled his guitar around, skipping to the door. “Mm, so much for being quiet enough, huh, child.”

For the first time, the kid didn’t seem to have a response, only clutching his knife and looking between Wilbur and his silent fight-buddy. “Whatever, don’t die.”

Wilbur raised a brow. "Hmm, caused it but not going to fix it?” The door opened, and Techno slid out. Moments later the sounds of dying growlers hit his ears, but Wil wasn’t really paying that any mind, he was pretty confident at this point that this Techno fella wasn’t going to die if left to fight alone. “These are your problems, you know.”

“...He’s already done it, so what am I gonna do, stand there and look at the bodies?” They sassed. Wilbur was so disbelieving that he actually turned his head away to look, and sure enough, Technoblade stood surrounded by a fresh ring of unmoving bodies, completely untouched.

“...” Wilbur watched the other come back in, unsure whether to be impressed, weary, or suspicious. Technoblade could thrash his ass in two mono crumbs of a second if he wanted to. “Wow. You’ve quite the skills.”

His thank you came in the form of an unmoving stare. How charming.

“Nothin’ compared to me, I say,” Quietinnie or whatever decided to brag. “I’m always being COOL as hell and last night, for example n shit, I was vibing in the sunset because I couldn’t come in here - because of you.” He paused to very clearly glare at Techno, “And then this group of Icky Things just came for me! I wonder if there were any women in it. That would have been so cool, and then I threw my knife in one’s skull and it was awesome, it was liKE WOO shoosh wham shoosh, and then a thump as it fell to the floor! And more of the things came for me and one almost touched me, but I set that bitch on fire! I have fire you know- It’s so cool! NO- I’m cool! I’m the coolest person you’ll ever see in this shitty ass world!”

“Uh-huuuh,” Wilbur nodded, slow. “Why did you not take care of those earlier then, hm?”

“He was in my place, duh! Suspicious guy that won’t say shit about why he invaded my hideout, why the hell would I risk it? People are dangerous!”

Wilbur nodded. “Ah, ah, I see.” This kid was naive as fuck, it seemed. Technoblade had known literally everywhere this kid had been in those walls judging by how easy he’d ratted his exact location out to Wil– who’d used Techno’s intuition to find them– and had the skills of a real person with a natural aimbot in their brain. In the floor or walls or not this kid would have been dead if Techno had wanted him that way. “You’re clearly well aware of that.”

“Obviously. Thanks, old man, you’re not half bad.”

"If that is the case, though," Wilbur continued, pointing his guitar at him, "Why did you come out here now?"

"...Fuckin' wanted to."

Wilbur snorted. Uh-huh. “Of course. Now, once again, lower your volume.” His arms went from taut and ready to fight to crossed in front of his chest. He huffed, a half-smile on his face. He was still tense and didn't particularly like this kid, but it was refreshing to see so much energy in someone, even if they were describing decimating growlers and also possibly attracting more of them by the second. “No-one is going to want to be around you if you speak like that. You’re a walking danger.”

Techno’s head turned to Wilbur quickly.

“See,” Wilbur pointed to him, not mentioning his own cautious step away from the most dangerous person in the room. “Even he agrees.”

“Fuck, I keep…” The kid sighed. “I keep fucking up. Why is this so hard?”

“Only the apocalypse,” Wil crossed his arms. “Volume is a dangerous thing. You have a lot of it. You're either brave or just plain stupid.”

“I know that shit!” They snapped, although they were still being fairly hushed. “I just said it doesn’t usually matter! You’re the one making a big deal of it!”

Wilbur’s teeth gritted. He did not like this child. They made his anxiety go through the roof. He had no idea if they were going to pull a weapon on him any second. “You’re the one putting everyone in here in danger!” Wilbur turned to Technoblade. “Technoblade, do you actually not know this kid?”

A shake of the head.

“Let us go somewhere else to speak, then.” Wilbur moved towards the door. “This shit isn’t worth it.” 

“No, stay!”

Wilbur stopped at the door upon realising that the other wasn’t following. “Oh, come on, you’re not listening to this loudmouthed kid, are you?”

Techno looked back and forth between them.

“I’ve been quieter, why are you leaving?” They whined.

Wilbur scoffed, pissy. “Are you seriously asking me that? Well, child, you aren’t exactly the most safe person I’ve ever had a conversation with, and we can leave it at that. I don’t want to fight a horde every time I leave this building!”

“Techno’s doin’ all the work anyways, he’s not complaining!” They retorted.

“Techno barely talks!” Wilbur threw a hand in the air. “Technoblade, say hello.”

…

“Oh, come on, that isn’t fair! Just cuz he doesn’t talk doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings,” The child continued. “You’re being a twat.”

“Shouldn’t that mean you should care about putting him in the line of fire,” Wilbur questioned. “Making him fear for his life? You’re putting him at risk. No, I don’t want to be around you. You’re a danger and a risk, and you clearly give no shits about his life or mine, or possibly even your own. I get it, life’s shit, but don’t throw others into your disaster zone.” Wilbur’s gaze would have been harsh if the kid could see it. “The people that drag other people into that shit for their own gain are the worst of the worst.”

A moment of silence, then, “...I was here first, man, you guys kinda broke into my base.”

Wilbur paused, freezing. He’d forgotten about that. “...we did, didn’t we.”

“Yeah, dipshit. You guys disturbed my peace.”

Wilbur’s lips flattened. A bit of shame overtook the burning distaste. If these two were telling the truth– they weren’t conspirators and met purely out of some weird, cosmically unlikely coincidence– then the child was the one they were really harassing. “...you’ve a bit of a point there, don’t you.”

“Bitch.”

***

Wilbur stuck around, in the end. Not for a lack of distrust, obviously. He didn’t trust Technoblade, in his silent, ominous nature. He didn’t trust the kid, whom he’d discovered was named Tommy Innit, either, in his energetic optimism or egotistical rants. There could be any sort of hidden intent behind any move they made. But also Wil was still lonely and nobody else in the apocalypse was this good at bantering. Most people would shoot first and ask questions later. Rob him and bolt before he knew what hit him. Techno not doing any of that was what had drawn Wil in in the first place. These two were unique. 

Wilbur felt a little less lonely.

Chapter Text

So. Wilbur Soot situation and all, I'm not gonna keep advertising him in my book. He won't be tagged. I planned it out with a character based on c!Wilbur, unfortunately, and I don't wanna put the work in to change it, since it would just change way too much of the story to be worth it. I don't wanna make that much effort for an abuser.

I'm not gonna be tagging him in here, and I'll be changing his in-world name to either Wilson Root, or Wilbur Root, depending on what yall think is better.

If Shelby/Shubble asks for works even involving a character based on his characters to be removed, I shall delete this fic gladly. Anyone here that supports what cc!Wilbur did, please leave.