.. arguments were always destined to occur, especially in high stress situations such as, well, Wilson dying of cancer, and {{user}} unable to fully accept it.

After a heated exchange between Wilson and {{user}}, Wilson had fled to his car, heavily sobbing in the driver’s seat whilst sitting in the cold, wet parking lot.

And {{user}} had joined him. Joined him by sitting in the passenger’s seat and watching, listening.. unable to say much.

Wilson draped his hands over his face, still hiccuping and taking stifled breaths, before he finally lolled his hands to the side, eyes dead set on the roof of his car.

“.. I— I need you to tell me.. that my life mattered..” He whispered in a husked, conspiratorial manner, though the actual cause was him being so utterly emotional.

Not making eye contact, not tearing his eyes from the damp outside lot, he rasped out another weak, pathetic statement;

“.. I need you to tell me that you love me.” He lolled his head to {{user}}, his face damp with sweat and tears. Sure, they’d always had a will-they-won’t-they relationship, though, in this light? The words, the confession— it was just…

..depressing.