I’ve seen a lot of Darkstache angst lately, and felt like I needed to throw my own hat into the ring, because I’m feeling the friendshippy vibes. Our poor Manor boys have an unenviable lot in life, don’t they?
I’m total Darkiplier/Mayor Damien trash. But this is only my second attempt at writing Wilford’s voice, so be gentle on me.
(Gif by toonprincess on Tumblr.)
Wilford was screaming, a tangle of unintelligible syllables punctuated by slurred names. “Damien! Celine!” he wept in his sleep. “Come back! Please, come back!”
Dark, who hadn’t slept at all despite his exhaustion, had heard the pain in his companion’s voice and immediately went to his room. He braced himself as he opened the door, but was unsurprised to see Wilford desperately flailing and kicking, as if attempting to fight off an unseen enemy.
Dark reached out his aura, as gently as he could, wrapping Wilford in a spidery cocoon of smoky black tendrils so the mustachioed entity wouldn’t harm himself as he slept.
That done, Dark simply waited.
Wilford, now unable to move, was flung mentally out of his sleep. “Damien!” he gasped, groggy and only half-aware, when he saw the monochromatic personage standing at the foot of his bed. “You… you’re back.”
“I never left, Will,” Dark soothed, the tendrils of his aura receding. His own tiredness caused him to lapse; unintentionally responding to the old, dead name he had never wanted to hear again. “I’m here.”
“It happened again. I saw it, with my own eyes! The blood and the darkness! But it was just a joke, right? A lark,” the former Colonel desperately tried to convince himself. “Nobody died, right? Nobody ever dies! They… they get back up.”
“Will…” Dark began.
“It’s not real, it can’t be real. None of it.” Wilford began to shudder uncontrollably, becoming progressively more hysterical as he rambled. “It’s not real, it’s not real. But the walls are caving in, Damien. I can feel everything coming closer. I can’t breathe, I can’t see. There’s darkness all around me! So much blood!”
Dark laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Though the demon could feel his rage rising at the memory of that cursed house, he knew he had to stay strong for William… no, Wilford’s sake. “Will, come. Walk with me.”
Gently, with a hand on his friend’s back, Dark led the other man up the stairs and to the door that led to the roof. Pulling open the door, he gestured for Wilford to walk through.
His friend made a few shaky, limping steps onto the roof. Dark knew the limping only happened when Wilford was particularly affected by the memories. And he had to be very troubled indeed, for that to happen.
“Take a deep breath, Will,” Dark gently coached him. “Nice and slow. In… and out.”
Wilford’s breaths were at first shallow and near-hyperventilation, but as Dark repeated his instruction, the other man slowly began to calm.
“That’s right, Will. Just breathe,” he said. “That’s all in the past now. We cannot control what has already happened, but we can choose where to go from here.”
Wilford nodded, taking another shaky breath. “All in the past,” he repeated.
“That’s right. We had no choice then, but we are the masters of our own destiny now.”
Wilford propped his elbows against the ledge, staring at the bright, nocturnal cityscape laid out before them. Dark stood beside him, cracking his neck because the damned thing had locked up again.
“This world is so small,” Wilford mused aloud. “Not like home. That was bigger, grander. Everything is so small.”
“We have no home,” Dark replied, his multi-tonal voice tinged with regret. “Not anymore. But we have each other.”
“We’re in a small world, and we trap ourselves in rooms even smaller.”
“The walls aren’t as visible from up here. They don’t press as strongly when you can see the stars above.”
Dark placed his hands behind his back, as he pondered the swirl of constellations over their heads. The two men remained side by side, deep in thought, outwardly different… yet, twins in their madness and pain.
“We’re so broken and lost, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Yes, we are.”