#not my biggest problem rn but everything just keeps piling up can i have ONE good thing happen to me!! or bad things stop happening!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nicoletteduclare · 6 years

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Okay so I haven’t gotten a lot new done on this, but I’ve been rereadings and doing minor edits here and there. so here it is as of rn, in full form

Maxwell would have closed his eyes if it wasn't for the probable chance he'd get an earful about not paying attention, then he'd have to reply and to reply, he'd have to cough up the petals he can feel just sitting in his throat. And well, that would be a whole new issue to handle, that apparently concerns what they're all talking about. Which is, of course, people having far more frequent dips in their mental stability.

They're all suffering from whatever is causing it, and Max would add in that he is too, but he has an idea of what's causing it.

He's been suffering through it for seasons now. Seeing terrorbeaks out of the corner of his eyes, headaches, the world has a tendency to turn grey after a day or so if he doesn't bother to fix the problem... and it's all due to the petals that he'd really like to go cough up right now and bury or convert to nightmare fuel so no one could accidentally stumble upon them. They're full of thorns, and they've been getting worse... there's always a tinge of copper in his mouth these days.

He'd always thought that this was a myth, some fairy-tale disease. He'd struggled to tell Charlie at first, for god's sake, and he'd never coughed up petals. And he'd loved her, loved her so much and then he'd failed and ruined the both of them.

That leaves a sour pit in his stomach just thinking about it. That's maybe one of many, if not one of the biggest reasons that he's ended up with these petals stuck in his throat. Why get close to someone to fail them too, to most likely ruin them the way he's managed to destroy everything else. What's the point of even thinking it was possible? It'd blow up in his face, and what if they end up worse off then Charlie?

He'll choke to death on these flowers before letting that happen again. There's a nudge from his side, "I'm really starting to wonder if you ever pay attention to anything we talk about." Wilson said, a frown on his face.

He either has to cough these up or swallow them, and as much as it hurt, he looks to the side to swallow and turns back. "I pay plenty of attention, Higgsbury." He manages a dry, even tone, even though his throat is raw.

There's a annoyed sigh and Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, a flower crown perched nicely on his head. "Whatever. We're going to move camps tomorrow to see if maybe there's something we've missed that's been dragging down everyone. It's been getting pretty bad, though I doubt you're even aware of it."

Max just nods, it looks like he's agreeing with Wilson, and watches the other get up and walk off, the urge to cough again rising. If only Wilson knew half of it. Though, if Wilson even knew... He bites the inside of his cheek to keep the coughing reflex down and gets up to go dispose of the petals. It probably wouldn't make much difference anyway. - He'd already died a quite a few times of it before anyone finally noticed, really. Not that he could fully recall what the deaths were like, and whenever he came back no one pressed it. Max heard Willow mutter something about him being irresponsible, and he fell back into the habit of being alone for everyone's sake, including his own.

The idea of it being found out, besides mortifying, was that there would be questions. Attempts to fix it.

And the idea that his affections would be reciprocated was frankly, downright hilarious in the worst possible way. So Maxwell had accepted the thorny stems, the sharp black and rusty red petals as his penance. The worsening headaches and the fact that the world was frequently dull grey shot with streaks of red was just a added bonus, even as he managed to keep himself from teetering at the edge of his sanity, the world was never quite as colorful as it should be. His time between deaths was getting shorter, and the man had to wonder if there was a point where it'd just be hours between them. That, or the terrorbeaks and such would finally get him.

Maybe it's what he deserved. Through his time with the ragged band of survivors he'd managed to pull into this mad little game, in what was most likely years upon years now, guilt did find it's own ways in.

Just as well to have a punishment that fit that sort of crime.

It'd only been a week ago, and even without really remembering how each death felt, Max somewhat knew that it was close to the end again, as he was on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his mouth and onto the not-so small pile of dark petals below.

His arms were shaking, and yet he heard a voice. Max tried to force himself to stand, he couldn't let this be seen. Especially not by...

"Stars and atoms, Maxwell, what the hell are you-..." The statement didn't finish as Max choked up more petals, gagging on this bunch. A pathetic gasp for air as there was an arm trying to help him up, winding underneath his chest. It was too late this time. - He woke up at camp, and that might be the scariest thing by far, seeing as he hadn't had the materials to recreate a meat effigy since the first death by petals, and touchstones were what he was relying on to give him time to manage the coughing fits.

No, this time it was twilight and there was Wilson looking at him, the rest of the camp seemed... empty. Until he realized that it was their latest abandoned camp, only a couple of seasons old, fire-pit still in good condition.

He was still on the ground and was joined by Wilson kneeling. "Why didn't you tell anyone, you idiot!" Was hissed between teeth as Wilson was digging in his bag for something, and Max could only give a confused look at him at first before dawning realization set in fully.

Wilson must have seen him die. Wilson had seen the petals. Not that he could remember it of course, but it was the only conclusion.

Wilson knew, and that was quite frankly terrifying, due to that realization Max could barely react before one of those godawful needles was used. "How long?" Wilson asked, evaluating him, eyes bright and narrowed. "Frankly, if it wasn't for my mother's tale of her younger sister dying of it, I wouldn't have even believed it." He muttered, grabbing another needle as Maxwell pulled away finally.

He pushed down the sleeve and stood on slightly weak legs, ignoring his aching head and heart. "None of your business." Max said, tense and quiet.

"None of my business?" Wilson stood too, practically glaring daggers at Maxwell, and the man looked to the side to avoid it. "You think that it's none of my business when you're managing to affect the rest of us? I saw what kind of flower you were coughing up. Not to mention dying so often that I'd assume it's wasting resources. You think that any of that isn't my business, Maxwell?" It's venomous, and Max grit his teeth to keep from coughing up the blasted things right now, he knew it was always going to be a lost cause and this proved it. He silently turned on his heel and walked away, vision swimming. - Max sorted through his pack, just to make sure all of his things were accounted for. The codex, for one, as useless as it was in his current state, not to mention an assortment of food, winter gear, tools, a few salves, and torches. He hadn't taken much, seeing as he knew he had a walking death sentence. Just the essentials that he'd try to retireve from his corpse for the fifth time since heading off on his own. He shivered as he managed on the vest and earmuffs, sliding a unheated thermal stone into the interior pocket he'd stitched.

Next to his pack currently was a copied map of the underground cave system, touchstones marked off and slashed through. Max knew he was running out of them, but he couldn't face anyone right now. He wondered if anyone had believed Wilson, if the man had said anything. Honestly, even with the reality of magic, Maxwell had considered this disease a myth. A story told to children and young adults to warn them away from pining for people they could never be with. Well, he'd never listened to that, had he? His chest ached thanks to the flowers that were going to suffocate him once again.

Max remembered the first time he'd woken up to the urge to cough as he folded up the map and stood, walking away from the pile of bones. That night they'd both been working on bandaging themselves up after a mistake in the desert. Hound mounds were always trouble, and Wilson had forgotten the range. One of his own wounds was on his back, and Wilson had lent a hand in bandaging it up. Normally, he'd refuse the help, but it wasn't like he was able to fully bandage his back properly.

Some of their usual banter was exchanged, but Wilson's warm hands were against his back, a mutter of how lucky he was that it was superficial, and all too soon it was finished. The other had looked like he'd seen better days, the night wearing on an already tired mind. Max had offered to take over first watch, a rarity in itself, and Wilson had smiled at him before heading to bed.

There had been a flutter in Max's chest at the tired smile, a slightly wilted flower crown perched on Wilson's head to try and combat the night's effects. He'd tried very hard not to think about it when Wickerbottom came to relieve him of the job halfway through the night, and went to bed with a terrifying realization, then woke up to the start of a nightmare.

Looking back, that wasn't the catalyst of his affections for Wilson, but it was the first time he'd ever noticed that he cared so deeply and that had scared him. It still scared him. There was a awful gut feeling that came along with that, as well as the suffocating flowers that kept killing him.

He ruined things so easily. He ruined his last love, and so Max was fairly certain that even on the off chance Wilson would have returned his feelings, he'd destroy that too. With their last conversation still occasionally on his mind, more the tone then the words... well, at least he couldn't break something that wasn't ever going to happen.

Max shivered again, looking for a good place to set up a fire for the night. - Wilson huffed at he looked at the fracturing of the rock he was trying to break apart. He'd been at this for a while now, trying to get a handle on the anxiety he'd felt the moment he stumbled upon a new skeleton. There wasn't a satchel or anything of note around it. For all he knew, it wasn't one of theirs, just one he'd missed.

Still. Just seeing it made him feel sick. Stupid bloody Maxwell. Vanishing the day after Wilson had seen him die by coughing up flowers. Hanahaki is at least what his mother referred to it as, and he always thought it was a more poetic way of saying 'she died of a broken heart.'

It must have been horrifying for her. It'd been horrifying enough for Wilson. Maxwell's mouth was dripping blood into the pile of dark colored petals as he asphyxiated. He shuddered and picked up his tool again. Why hadn't he just said something? To someone, anyone?

He had to find out by finding the man in the middle of suffocating. On reflection, his words after were maybe a little sharp, but he'd been terrified, worried, and upset Max hadn't even mentioned it when it was affecting everyone else too. Instead, apparently, Maxwell had decided to go pull a vanishing act, and he hadn't been able to find him. Wilson scowled and swung the pick-axe again. It helped, a little. Something to busy the hands and physical enough that afterwords he wouldn't be pacing in anxiety.

He'd talked to Wickerbottom about it in private, just out of the need to confide in someone; she'd looked stunned that out of all the things, he was coughing up evil flowers along with already suffering the normal struggles of the disease. There was the theory that the flower type might be more along the lines of being a flower he used and as bad as they were for sanity, grateful for, seeing as he converted them into the nightmare fuel used to make his clones. That, or it was a direct influence of his use of nightmare fuel. Which didn't bode well for the rest of them, but.. Wilson hadn't seen him summon a clone in a while. And for a long time, was using only one where he before he typically used two.

And then there was the question of pinning, but really, Wilson knew who it was. How could it be for anyone but Miss Charlie. He knew very little about her, but the few times he'd managed anything out of Max about her, there was a level of sad adoration mixed with the rare to see guilt that Max had over it. Just a few glimpses and Wilson knew Max loved her dearly.

It was a little bit frustrating when he realized his own affections for Max ran deeper, but he'd accepted it with ease at the time. That was usually how his life went, there wasn't anything he could do about it; so why bother tying himself up in knots over it?

But he did want to help. Maybe they could figure out a way to ease it so Maxwell didn't keep dying, or something. The story he'd been told by his mother always said there wasn't a cure that didn't also remove the feelings towards the other person, but Wilson couldn't see how that was possible.

There had to be a way. - It wasn't the nicest way to wake up, hacking up his lungs on a straw roll, the last few embers of a fire remaining in the dawn light, but it these days Max was getting used to it. He threw the flowers in the fire, pulling the second gobbler leg from where he'd stored it, using the paper he'd wrapped it in to also fuel the fire before working on cooking the leg to some form of done-ness.

The semi-burned gobbler leg wasn't greatest meal, but it was more filling then just a few charred carrots. And it made him at least feel a bit warmer, though the thermal stone warming up quickly with how close he sat to the fire was probably the real source of it.

Max finally finished with the paltry meal and took the remains of the roll and threw it onto the fire as well, skewering a few green mushroom caps to a stick to roast while the fire started to die again.

It wasn't long until he left, mushrooms wrapped and put gently on the top of his pack, fire smoldering until it would die. He didn't have the time to spend all day here, and the ashes would vanish under the snow. It wouldn't be long until he died again, and Max couldn't help but wonder how many days he had left this time. Not that it truly mattered, with the way things had been going. A close encounter with a terrorbeak that reminded him to try to sleep again, staying up all night wasn't exactly helping his already drastically low sanity.

Maybe it'd be easier to let one of those kill him instead. Bloody, for sure, but it's not like he'd fully remember the pain. He'd been carefully hoarding green and blue mushrooms to keep his sanity and health in check, but maybe it's just be easier to get it over with.

Still, not today. He might not even have a touchstone left, if the map was wrong or, a more likely option, he'd already used it on one of those wonderful times the lot of them were out in the cave. Then he'd be stuck for a while, even with the natural draw of ghosts towards the living. Max doubted that any of them would immediately bring him back, and worse, they'd corner him if they did.

He'd sigh if it wasn't for the pressure against his throat as he had to lean against a tree to hack up the latest batch of petals. Blasted things. He pocketed them to burn, he had plenty of nightmare fuel, and Max figured any trace that would lead to him was best disposed of.

It barely was morning and he was already starting to see faint shadows lurking. Would this keep accelerating until he wouldn't be able to go a few hours without a slew of mushrooms? He thought barely being able to last a day, not to even mention getting through a night was bad enough.

He shuddered and started to cough again, petals littering the icy ground as Max finally managed to stop, breathing hard. Stupid flowers. He winced as the faint shadows seemed to get more solid, and pulled the pack around to fish out his mushrooms. Wouldn't help the pain in his throat, but that was nothing compared to trying to fight off a shadow, and most likely failing.

He hadn't even swallowed when there was a crunch of snow behind him. There hadn't been any howls, so it couldn't be hounds...

Max turned, swallowing the mushroom as he stared at Wilson, who was staring back, before turning and running, a shout to stop behind him. - He'd been pacing around camp again, to the point where even the kids knew something was on his mind and everyone else who was currently in camp was probably ready to throttle him. Wickerbottom certainly looked like it as she calmly told him he might do better burning off that excess energy doing something useful, like chopping more wood, despite the approaching nightfall.

So now, here he was, in the midst of the woods, a small campfire in the clearing burning brightly enough to keep him safe as he started to chop down a tree. Wilson had found himself doing these chores a lot lately, the repetitive motion seemed to help somewhat. His brain was churning as he swung the axe, trying to figure out any sort of way to help Max, if he could get a hold of the man. There at least had to be a way to keep the flowers from affecting everyone else, and keep him from suffocating on them, even if he'd have to live with them.

But there was the biggest problem. Finding him. Wilson had kept an eye out for any sort of sign of Max, from fires and skeletons to just footprints.

He'd seen a few new skeletons when he'd been drug along to gather rabbit fur for new bed rolls and felt his stomach sink at the thought of Max dying alone, suffocating in the snow. Or, another option was him dying to shadow creatures. Another depressing outcome, seeing as he didn't have anyone to even attempt to protect him.

There couldn't be many places to hide, even the longer treks from camp were only a handful of days. Maxwell had to encounter one of them at some point. Wilson listened to the thunk of the tree hitting the ground before he started on breaking up the log. Stars, it didn't help his anxiety that he still was dwelling on what he'd said when he'd revived Max. What if he'd bit back his anger? Maybe he could have actually saved himself all of this frustration and worry.

Wilson huffed and capped his axe in the stump as he started to gather up the leafy branches to fuel his little fire before sitting down. He'd gather the logs and dig up the stump later. Even with all this, even with knowing who was probably at the heart of Maxwell's pining... His chest ached for Maxwell's situation, it probably would ache if Max was just a friend. But it was worse with how much he cared about Max.

He'd accepted that it wasn't going to happen immediately after figuring out his feelings about Maxwell. He'd put it behind him, and enjoyed their stupid arguments until they went too far and the times Maxwell actually was willing to explain about magic instead of being his usual cagey self. The times Max was the voice of reason when they were out exploring, and sometimes, the reverse. They both had a tendency to get in over their heads, but they seemed to also be able to pull one other back when they'd gone too far.

And now he needed to pull Max back and help him, because he was most certainly in over his head.

The fire flickered and Wilson threw another branch into the flames. At least the physical work was exhausting, he needed to eat, but maybe he'd pull his bedroll out and get some rest. That, or he'd end up awake all night thinking. At least he had something more then jerky, though that was also in his pack, but there had been enough in the fridge to make a stuffed eggplant that he was going to have a few morsels with.

Food was always a good distraction, Wilson had to focus on making sure he didn't doze off and drop the morsels into the fire, and the warm, filling meal was certainly enough to make him fairly sure that he could sleep tonight. It wasn't too long until he'd made sure the fire was burning brightly, enough fuel to keep it alive and bright through the night, and spread out the fur roll. As he watched the flames flicker, Wilson had to hope Max was managing to stay alive. Maybe he'd go check around one of the cave entrances in the morning, that had been where the new skeletons had appeared.

That was also the first thought on his mind as he got himself in order for the day, chewing on a piece of jerky as he bundled the logs into the bottom of his pack. It wasn't a walk to look forward to, but he'd would rather a long walk then more pacing and overthinking.

With his axe retrieved, Wilson was just glad they hadn't had another snowstorm. Walking in this was hard enough. The freezing wind was still harsh on his face and fingers, even as he was completely prepped for the cold weather; hat, beard, and vest, along with a thermal stone. He had to turn out of the wind whenever a particularly strong breeze came by to keep his nose and eyes from stinging too badly.

A few hours since sunrise, and Wilson was fairly certain he was about to be out of the woods and into the sparse clearing before a rock field. Maybe once he hit the rocks he'd head back to camp.

All those thoughts went right out the window as he heard a harsh hacking in the distance and it was impossible to mask his footsteps, but as Max came into view Wilson could see him hunched over, shaking against a tree, looking around like he was surrounded. And Wilson had a feeling he might be, as the other turned to grab his bag, a mushroom in hand and soon in mouth as Wilson got closer. He'd been noticed, Wilson knew that as soon as Maxwell suddenly went on the alert and turned to look at him.

What he wasn't expecting was Maxwell to just bolt like a scared animal, not even pausing at a "Wait, stop, Max!" And Wilson followed.

Fully out of the forest and across the clearing and then... down into the caves. They'd both worked to pull out a torch without stopping, the trick to keep them basically strapped to the pack working well, as they lit their way in the dark. This part of the cave didn't seem to have light-bulb flowers, or at least, they were currently withered on the floor.

Wilson suddenly realized that Max had probably been using the caves, that should have been more obvious considering the skeletons. Easier to retrieve your things if you died right above where you'd be reviving. And, considering the chance of unused touchstones down there, despite Max's comments on claustrophobia, it made sense.

Maxwell wasn't stopping, and frankly, Wilson wasn't either. "Maxwell! Seriously, stop, please!" He shouted as they headed down a narrow causeway, and Wilson spied one of their markings on the wall, something Max might have missed in his panic. It was a dead-end. A good thing, logically, at least, but at the same time he didn't want to trap him.

And then there was a rumble from above and Wilson swallowed. Okay, dead end, most certainly not a good thing in a earthquake. "It's a dead end!" He said, trying to be loud enough to be heard over the rumble. Though, it seemed like Max had already hit the end and was against the wall, practically coughing up his lungs.

Even with the rumbling, Wilson still rushed over to Max and gently touched his shoulder with his free hand at first, Max catching his breath before descending into another fit, petals falling into a growing pile at his feet.

All Wilson could do at the moment was rub his back until the fit started to calm again. He hated the helpless feeling in his guts, but what could he realistically do right now? "Do you have any water or anything?" Wilson asked, before really getting a good look at him in the faint torchlight. His eyes were scanning for things that weren't there, it was so bad Wilson was starting to notice faint outlines, and he pushed Max to the floor of the cave before he slid the man's bag off his shoulders. He had a mushroom in his hands earlier, and Wilson hoped he had more.

Which he did, thank the stars, along with one of their water-skins, and Wilson pushed the mushroom at Max first, before scooting away to start a proper fire. There was silence, aside from the occasional rumble. They'd lucked out, nothing like a cave-in, but now here they were, Max now looking away from him, water-skin in hand. The sinking stone of helplessness in his guts got worse, and Wilson tried to at least look reassuring. "You've been gone awhile, you know?" There was just a quiet noise of agreement in Max's throat, and nothing else. So they were going to do this again. Wonderful. - Max leaned his head back against the wall of the cave, cursing everything. Why did it have to be Wilson? Not that it wasn't exceedingly comforting to have someone try to ease the pain, not to mention the fact that it was Wilson of all people, but this was bound to go in a direction he wasn't ready to tread. Wilson had expressed some sort of familiarity with this... from family, if Max could recall correctly. He'd only known it from fairy tales, a more glamorous account really. Rose petals falling from the mouth of a pinning maid for a prince or a knight or something.

If Wilson had a better sense of this then he did, well... this was going to go quite poorly. There was bound to be an inquiry into who.

This 'who' was currently staring at him from aside the fire, evaluating him. Since the last question he barely gave a response to, Wilson was just watching. He just wanted it to be over. Even though the last coughing fit was through, his chest was aching from it, as well as from being confronted with Wilson's care. He didn't deserve it, besides, wasn't Wilson making it worse on himself just being here? Why did he care, Maxwell had been sure to take care to make sure it wasn't any of Wilson's business now.

There was the awful scratchy feeling in the back of his throat and once again he was coughing. Blood came with it this time, the petals were larger, a few full flowers as well. It didn't help Wilson had his hands on his back again, and Max wanted him both to leave and stay right there in equal measure.

His mouth felt awful, like the flowers had managed to slice his cheeks too, with brambles or thorns or something sharp. He tried to hide the shake from exhaustion and once again lowering sanity, enough that things were looking dull even in the bright fire light, and his head ached with it before he looked up at the sound of music ringing in his ears.

"Wil- Higgsbury, the fire." Max's voice was raw but he could see the shadow hand starting to reach out, and Wilson left his side immediately to handle it before coming back, a few mushrooms handed over. A blue one in the mix this time, which was lovely as the green ones had a tendency to make the bleeding in his mouth worse.

It was silent again, and out of the corner of his eye Max watched Wilson weaving a flower crown. He probably needed it after Max had coughed up what looked like a whole ring's worth of flowers. There was that focused, narrowed in on whatever he was doing look on Wilson's face that Max was quite fond of, but he had to look away. It just made his heart hurt worse.

There were footsteps again, and a flower crown settled nicely on top of the awful winter hat Max had needed for warmth. "We're going to head back to camp." Wilson said, there was a insistence in the 'we.' "I'll see if we don't have the immediate supplies for a effigy, if not, I'll make sure there's a heart or two available so you don't have to exist as a ghost if this gets worse." Max finally looked back at him and regretted it. There was a sad smile under all that beard and it almost could have made someone more hopeful believe Wilson might love him back.

The cynic in him said it was because there was something that he was needed for, though that also didn't make much sense, considering the whole everyone's sanity was in jeopardy with these flowers blooming in him. It was probably just was the fact that Wilson had a tendency to help people. After the initial being thrown together in this world and that fistfight, Wilson had extended him a kebab, even after everything.

So it didn't exactly mean much of anything, now did it?

Max just nodded and stood, gathering the petals and throwing the whole lot into the fire. They at least burned nicely when one didn't have much else to do with them. Wilson ignited a torch in the resulting flame and they started back down the pathway. As they walked, he could feel the urge to cough come back and he just swallowed it down. There wasn't the time for that, and even though swallowing down the petals was also a bad idea, it was better then making a scene, even as they got out of the cave and hit snow. It was falling again, and they both shivered at a hard gust of wind.

Still, Max reasoned that if Wilson was dead set on getting back to camp today, they were going to have to walk through this. - Wilson scowled at the shadowy hand as he chased it away from the fire. He couldn't take this, there was a small trickle of blood down Max's lips even. The man looked so out of it, and if he was starting to cough up blood as well, Wilson wasn't sure how much time they'd have until he had to revive him.

Maybe if he could keep Max's health up he'd at least be able to make it back to camp. And something like a flower crown to lower the severe drops in his mental state when he did end up coughing.

He pulled out the mushrooms from his own bag, he'd replenish his stash of them for travels once they hit camp, and passed them over to Max, barely able to look at him. He had to make a meat effigy or something to replace the touchstones, and he didn't have any telltale heart supplies on him right now. Wilson busied his hands with making a flower crown instead. If he needed one, he had a wilting one stashed in his pack, but a fresh one would probably do a world of wonder for Max.

With luck, it wouldn't be more then a few hours of walking back to camp, and they'd hit it before nightfall. Wilson stood with the finished crown and walked over to Max and plopped it over the hat. Stars, he'd laugh at how silly it looked, especially on Maxwell, if it wasn't for everything, and just softly smiled before telling him that they were heading back together to camp, and his plans if Max died on him.

There wasn't much of a response, but Wilson could hardly blame him after that last fit. After lighting a torch, they were off walking, and Wilson couldn't help but keep looking back to make sure Maxwell was still there. That he hadn't run the other way and Wilson would have to chase after him, again.

He would, of course. Maybe back when he was still angry, he would have given up and walked away, but seasons after seasons have passed. While they physically weren't older, the wounds had closed enough that the bitterness gave way to old, buried emotions. Their odd companionship through a radio as he built the portal and Maxwell had talked.

Instead of running, Max followed silently. It was almost surreal to not have some sort of sarcastic commentary or complaint out of the other's mouth, especially once both of them finally exited the cave. The snow was blinding, and Wilson had to blink a few times to adjust to the light refraction off of it. Didn't help that even though it was bright, there was snow falling again, winds starting to whip. He almost had his doubts about getting back to camp, but out of the side of his eye Wilson could see Maxwell swallow hard, and he had to suspect Max was avoiding coughing up petals by forcing them down.

Stars, this man was too stubborn, and while it was at times amusing, at other times it was completely and utterly annoying.

This was the latter, but with another look at the trudge ahead, Wilson sighed and put out the torch. There were bigger things to handle, and he might as well save that for the next time he needed it. "Come on, shouldn't be too hard a walk." He said, barely getting anything in return.

Max was probably feeling awful already, Wilson tried to remind himself. Snapping would make things worse, it certainly didn't help the first time. He stopped himself from sighing and readjusted his satchel on his shoulders, and started on, listening for the footsteps behind him.

They were only maybe an hour in when the snow worsened, and Wilson felt blind as the flakes pummeled his face. He stopped and reached back, waiting until he felt Maxwell bump against his hand. Wilson managed to grope around blindly to find Max's hand. "I need you to tug me to a stop if you need a break," He said over the wind. "I know the way, but I won't be able to see you and I'm not about to leave you behind."

It wasn't easy, navigating through the snowstorm, then he did feel a pull on his hand before it was dropped, and Wilson stepped back to find him. Oh stars, he had to kneel in the snow to find Max on his knees again, and he sounded like he was practically puking up the petals. There wasn't much he could do right now, and Wilson hated to do this but once it sounded like the worst of it was over, he tugged Maxwell up and drug him in the direction he was fairly certain was the woods.

Hopefully, the trees would buffer the wind and Wilson could actually see and make a successful fire. The world was grey, though Wilson was fairly sure that was the snow messing with his sight and not his own sanity.

Just to be sure though, once they were settled, he was going to tuck into the last of his green mushrooms for the both of them. Maybe another blue one for Maxwell.

They had to get deep into the woods for the wind to die to a manageable level, and he winced at the way Max dropped like a rock once he let him go to prep another fire. He didn't get a good look at the man as he heard more coughing, though he did get a quite a good look at the shadows surrounding them. They were completely tangible and Wilson looked back at Maxwell, who was shaking on his hands and knees, a pile of blood stained petals below.

Then the shadows started to notice them, as well.

In a panic, Wilson dug for his axe. Why hadn't he carried a spear? He managed it out just as one got too close for comfort and whacked at it, falling back and hoping to god none of the others took an interest in Max instead of him. - He barely could walk with the shaking panic and intense chest pain as Wilson hoisted him up to get into the woods, much less attempt to look around. Max kept his eyes closed and just tried to keep his legs moving without choking up more of the cursed petals.

Though, once Wilson let go, it was hard to hold back the urge to cough with the wind taken out of him. He couldn't even tell how much blood there was, his vision had gone grey and red, and Max collapsed into the snow, not exactly caring about the implications of his absolutely drained sanity, just trying to breathe. It wasn't often Maxwell had experienced this in full, he usually managed to get some of his sanity back before it got this far, even now, and the headache was almost completely incapacitating mixed with the pain in his chest.

It was freezing, and he hazily wondered if he'd freeze before dying to a shadow if he just laid here, he had to be close to the end of this run anyway.

His eyes were closed, though at one point the headache lessened, and then again. His body still ached, but he could think clearly.

There was only one option as to why the headache was vanishing, and as his eyes opened, closing again at the cold snow right next to his face, the crunch of footsteps in snow approaching him. "Oh stars, please don't be choking to death, Max." Was a mutter.

"I'm alive, I'm alive." Max's throat was raw again, and it ached as he pushed himself out of the snow. There were a few less violent coughs to try and lessen the tightness in his chest, accompanied with a few petals. Still, he managed to get a look at Wilson, who was gripping an axe like his life depended on it, his left shoulder bleeding through the vest. "You should have ran, pal. You don't look too good."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "You don't look or sound that great, either. I'll just count us lucky they decided I was more tempting then you." There was a smile that made Max's chest hurt with more then just the flowers and cold and he looked away as it faded with a wince as Wilson tried to move his injured arm. "I think we'll have to camp out here tonight, maybe the storm will die down by morning. Do you think you can let me know this time before things get that bad?"

It was rare to want to shrink back with shame, but Max almost did before he shook it off, trying to keep up the mask. Wilson was bleeding pretty badly as he walked over to his dropped bag and started to set up a campfire as Max struggled up to join him. "You really should have left me, pal." He mentioned again, watching the flint finally spark to ignite the grass. "I'm already just waiting to die again, would have been easier to just let it happen."

Wilson practically glared at him, and Max looked away from it. "I'm fairly certain you've died more then enough due to this in the last year, Maxwell. I went out to find you, and as much of a stubborn idiot you are, you need help with this." There was silence between them for a few moments, and a sigh. "Pass me your bag, I'll see what we have between us for dinner tonight. I have some jerky, though you always complain about it, and I'm fairly sure I have some mushroom caps left."

"It's fine, Higgsbury." Max's tone was some semblance of dry, though it was ruined by the obvious stress in his vocal cords. He shrugged it off his shoulders and passed it over. "I might have some bandages in there, I didn't end up with many injuries that needed them." At least it'd be something useful in there. He didn't want to touch the topic of Wilson searching for him, for god's sake, this had already been a disaster.

The food was laid out along with the bandages. A small bundle of carrots, a pouch of small strips of jerky, and a pile of mushrooms, a few cooked, a few not. "I think you need the green ones more then I do, and one of the blue mushrooms." Wilson muttered, more to himself as he shrugged off half of the puffy vest and started to peel off the other layers to reach his shoulder.

He might as well be somewhat useful, and even with shaking hands, took the bandage. "Let me help you bandage this then, shoulders are difficult." Max said quietly, wincing at the slightly black tinged bite marks. They certainly left nightmare fuel over everything.

Wilson quietly nodded, and Max wrapped it with practiced ease, they both probably could do this, but it helped ease the shame somewhat.

With it wrapped, Wilson took one of the blue mushrooms and popped it in his mouth while getting the shirt back over the bad arm, less of a wince this time. Max worked on skewering the uncooked green mushrooms and placed the over the fire. It was unnervingly quiet, and with the sun starting to set, Max could tell it was going to be a long night. - It'd been surprising to have Max offer to help bandage up the arm, the man looked like he was about to tilt over, but Wilson wasn't one to refuse help, especially for something as simple as wrapping up a bloody wound. Besides, it was nice to at least get a little bit of care after risking life and limb for him. He'd do it anyway though, stars, how could he leave him to die?

It was quiet, though after the day they've had, he wasn't surprised. He just cooked the carrots and passed over what basically amounted to a few strips of jerky, two carrots, and a handful of roasted green caps, along with one blue mushroom to help with whatever blood loss had happened.

There were a few left for tomorrow, and one green and one blue mushroom for himself, along with the other half of the carrots and jerky. There was shockingly no complain at the jerky from Maxwell. Stars, that alone was indication enough that they both were out of it. Before this, there were times when Max had been bleeding and starving and had still had the audacity to complain about jerky. At least he could shove the fur roll at Max, that should also hopefully keep any more disasters from occurring. At least with the mushrooms, Maxwell already looks a bit more alive, though there's still blood on his face.

Stars, as troublesome as the day had been, Wilson can't help but find comfort in the relative peace of the moment. They're alive, and he has somewhat of a plan, and he isn't worrying about this idiot being alone. Which, geez, under what circumstances right now would he leave Max to die? Wilson couldn't help but be baffled by Maxwell's utterly ridiculous notion that running would have been the proper thing to do.

Frankly, it seemed a little out of sorts for him. Wilson was tempted to ask what was up with that, but considering the whole 'waiting to die' thing, it may have just been a matter of misplaced practicality.

Instead of sighing, Wilson shook his head and ate. Right now, it was pointless. There were things they needed to handle, but while they were alone, trying to get through a snowstorm, and not dying to anything, Wilson was fairly sure a discussion on 'how long have you had it, how fast is the progression now, is there anything you think would help,' would be either have Max running, again, or just a very tense night.

Instead, Wilson threw another log onto the fire and pulled out the bed roll, lightly tossing it over. "I'll handle watch tonight."

Maxwell caught the roll, but frowned in Wilson's direction. "I'm fairly certain you fare worse in the night then I do."

"That was before you got sick, Max. Go to bed. I can handle one night, once we get back to camp we both can sleep." Wilson didn't look at Max, though he had a feeling there was an eye-roll as he could hear shifting. Wilson just didn't want to wake up and have to handle more shadows.

It was silent until he heard a very quite, "Thank you, Wilson." Oh, that was rare. Gratefulness and his first name. Wilson didn't look back, but it did prompt a smile.

"Night, Maxwell." He was looking forward to getting back to camp, at least. Ah, but there was one issue with taking longer to get back, though, now that he thought about it. People would be more awake, people with more questions then Wilson. He didn't want to hear any sort of response to someone being nosy and actually asking. 'So who are you pining over?' Even though he already knew who it was, there was something about hearing it out loud that even the thought of it made his stomach turn.

Why couldn't he fully close the book on this stupid one-sided affection. He knew it was pointless. They made a good team when they weren't fighting, and were now on friendly terms after a fair amount of time as allies with a truce. He'd gotten good at ignoring it, accepting it as a thing that would fade, and maybe he should try to find things like love in more likely places.

And then Max had to get sick and hide it until he just happened to stumbled onto Max in the process of dying. Ran off right after Wilson cut open his arm to revive him, and then Max spent more then a season getting himself killed alone. Wilson had frankly never seen him look so... well, frankly, pathetic and worn out. There was obviously an attempt at keeping up appearances, but he was constantly on high alert, and every coughing fit seemed to take all the life out of him.

Wilson looked behind him and saw Max slightly tucked into himself on the fur roll, snoring. Stars, it was relieving to see him at some form of ease. The night was long, but quiet, and Wilson just tried to relax. - Sunrise came too soon, and while Wilson might have decided to let him rest longer, the sun wasn't as kind, especially not sun that had snow to reflect off of. Even in the denser woods, the sunlight that made it through the trees was magnified by snow.

He groaned in complaint before starting to cough again. Even the less violent coughs hurt, and his throat was not having his attempt at a good morning as he started to work on standing up. It was just a raspy "Good-" before Max winced and didn't finish the statement.

"Morning, Max." Wilson had a bundle of twigs in his hands that he was storing away, possibly fresh tinder. "Just roll up the sleeping mat, we probably should get going before we get too cold." Max really could only nod as he started to wrap the mat up, not wanting to stress his throat worse. "Am I getting the silent treatment today?"

Max could only scowl and pointed at his throat, which prompted a confused look until he managed to mouth 'Hurts to talk.'

Wilson at least had the common sense to look apologetic before glancing away. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. When we get back, there should be some honey stored away, you can make some wildflower tea with honey to soothe it?"

It was a good suggestion, plus, Max hadn't had tea in a long time. Not since before all this flower mess had escalated. Before then, he would make the time to at least once a week to enjoy the warm flowery tea with Ms. Wickerbottom. He'd made a few attempts to do so after he'd started coughing up petals, but eventually he'd just pretended he was too busy so he could avoid choking on these blasted petals in front of her. He made a soft noise of agreement and even that felt like glass in his throat. Oh, the next coughing fit was going to be a grand old time, wasn't it. Drat.

Wilson motioned ahead with his head for them to get going once Maxwell had snagged his bag out of the snow. The walk was unusually quiet which was a shame. Usually, even if he wasn't talking for whatever reason and they were alone and having to gather resources, Wilson would end up on some tangent or another.

It'd been irritating at first, he'd traded the endless ragtime for endless babbling. But, unlike the endlessly looping music, Wilson had many, many things to talk about, and now that they had their truce, the man was eager to have a conversation. With some time, they became enjoyable to listen to. If things were good, Wilson talked about plans, the future, his latest blueprint. If things weren't so good, either mentally or physically, it seemed to go to more general science; medical, chemical, engineering.

Wilson always seemed less sure of himself when things were rocky. Like he had to go back to comfortable, well tread ground. Even if it was just talking about scientific advancements, some of which were quite new to Max. Besides, even if he'd heard it before, and there'd been many a half smile and that sheepish "I know I've probably talked about this before," right before Wilson would launch into whatever was on his mind, these days, Max found it soothing.

With that thought, though, as they pushed through a good few new inches of snow, Max could feel the creeping tickle in the back of his throat and covered his mouth. It at least muffled the hacking noise, enough so that Wilson didn't turn until he didn't hear the crunch of snow behind him.

Max was too busy staring in horror at the absolutely blood soaked plant to notice, he'd felt something big hit his hands and pulled them away. Oh sure, petals were one thing to casually cough up, and he knew there had been more then a few full fledged flowers in the coughing fits he'd had. Never a full plant, roots and all. And typically, while there was plenty of blood, it wasn't so much that he could feel it through the gloves.

He could barely manage a groan, his throat was on fire with pain, almost on par with the constant pain of his chest. He'd gotten used to that, but right now swallowing hurt, even just breathing hurt.

He didn't even notice Wilson next to him, entirely focused on that little plant in his hand. "Are you oka-" There was suddenly silence. - That... that was a full flower in Maxwell's hand. In terms of things he would expect someone to hack up while in the throws of this affliction, Wilson was not expecting a flower with roots and all.

If it wasn't for the snow on the ground, he'd make Maxwell sit so he could check his throat, was this the reason he'd been unable to talk all morning? His eyes darted to Max and back down to the plant. Wilson's stomach twisted at the thought of his first reaction to his sudden inability to talk. The silent treatment. Of course it wasn't that.

"This... hasn't happened before, has it?" He asked quietly, looking back up to Maxwell, who was entirely focused on the flower. It took a second for that to register, before Max shook his head. So, it hadn't happened before, usually Max had managed to die before this.

That... was somewhat horrifying. He'd never heard of the true extent of the disease, and had assumed that his aunt must of been choking like Maxwell was. Wilson barely worried about the blood and picked it up, looking at the roots. There was flesh sticking to them like dirt would if you pulled the flower straight up from the ground.

That was utterly sickening to think about. A flower buried in the flesh of someone's throat or windpipe or worse, the lungs. No wonder this disease was a death sentence.

To distract himself from the reality of this, Wilson delicately put the flower back into Maxwell's hands and gave a shaky smile, more akin to a grimace then a smile, but an attempt at something comforting all the same. "At least you can't choke on this one now." A false bit of comfort, but at least it's out, Wilson figured. The roots aren't too severe either, so hopefully his throat is repairable.

Some honey and maybe instead of wildflower, mandrake tea with it to recover his throat and put him out for the night would be good if they get back to camp. And Wilson would love to be able to scrub this memory from his mind the way that deaths are faded and half there, or not there at all, because Maxwell looks... well, he's pale, even the shade of red his cheeks turned in the cold has become washed out. His hand is shaking, and he can't look away from that damned flower.

It's fear. Maxwell looks honestly and truly scared and frankly, Wilson hasn't ever seen it so clear on Max before. He pressed a hand to Max's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Look, we need to keep moving. Once we get to camp, I'll take a look at your throat." Maxwell looked away from him and the flower and Wilson tried to backtrack, "Or, Wickerbottom can help you. I just..." He trailed off. There was no good way to end that without sounding desperate. "Don't want to see you die like that again." There. That wasn't a really awkward way to finish that statement. It was horrifying the first time, the blue tinge of suffocation, blood...

He didn't need to relive that. It wasn't often that there was a time any of them actually had watched someone die. Battles were distracting, it wasn't often he was able to pay attention to someone in their death throws, and if it wasn't death from a fight, then it was highly likely they all were suffering and it was a quiet, painful thing that no one could help with. If help could be given, it was likely they wouldn't die.

The only time he could really remember just standing back and watching was when he'd put the Divining Rod into the keyhole, but that was... intensely different. He'd still been extremely angry, hurt at the false friendship and companionship his dear 'voice on the radio' had faked, and there had been sick satisfaction underneath the pity for the reality of Maxwell's existence. He'd done enough mercy by turning off the gramophone, which was more of a selfish act, the ragtime tune was annoying enough after just one or two repeats. Then Wilson watched Max die the first time with cold eyes until shadows pulled him under and onto the throne.

He shook his head, getting rid of the memory, and tapped Max's shoulder, the man still not looking at him. "Come on, let's get moving before we freeze to death. We'll get your throat patched up and we can both get some sleep." There was a silent nod, their eyes barely meeting, the bloody flower dropped into the snow. He wanted to do something, watching Max slowly trudge forward, but what could he possibly do right now? Everything feasible... involved getting back to camp. - There was shame as he looked away at the offer of checking on his throat, god, why did he need this. He wanted to just tell Wilson to give up, there wasn't any point to this. But even more shamefully, he wanted the attention too. How pathetic.

Could something just kill him now? His face burned at the bare minimum admittance of not wanting to see him die again. Of course any sane human being would rather not see any of their companions die. And yet that little scrap was enough to probably make his cheeks look terribly windburned.

After the tap to his shoulder reminding him they had places to be, he let the bloody flower drop to the snow and managed to trudge forward. Minus a few coughing fits, there was still a strange silence between them as they approached camp, even in the calf deep snow, he could still see bush branches picked clean of berries.

To be fair, the silence was half due to his own throat, but he'd have liked something still. Even just the noise of Wilson muttering to himself about things; there was that habit too. Talking to himself, a whole conversation out of one person.

Instead, their walk, which ended just as dusk began, was as muted as everything else in the snow covered world.

The first words he's heard since their conversation out in the snow was of course, "Hey, you found ol' tall nerd!" Willow smirked, arms full of wood for a fire that was starting to wane in the distance.

"Yeah, I sure did." Wilson's voice has forced humor in it, and Max frowned, looking away from them both. "We got caught out in that storm last night... I think we both just need some sleep, you know?" He gives a forced chuckle and Max closed his eyes, ignoring the growing knot in his guts.

"Is something eating Maxwell, or has he finally learned to not inject a smart comment every time he's near a conversation?"

He tries to respond with 'A skill you need to learn, certainly.' But he barely makes a noise before wincing, time hadn't helped his throat.

"Leave him be, Willow, he's not feeling well." Wilson's defense softens the frown, and then Wilson turns back to Max, startling him, but Wilson gives half a smile. "We're both really tired, anyway." He turned back to Willow. "Have all the other tents been taken over yet, or is one still available for Max to use?"

Willow snorts and shakes her head, possible disbelief, or just that there isn't a free tent. "Yeah, yeah, you know we've had the extra tent up in case he showed back up. Go sleep, you both look dead." It's a fairly tame reaction, and there's suddenly a warm arm around his back, moving him towards the bank of tents. "Thanks, Willow. Have a good night."

"A good night? I'm on a watch shift that's suppose to be yours." Willow laughs. "I'll see you in the morning." Wilson softly laughs at her words, and there's a quiet thank you from him as they end up out of her earshot.

Wilson looks up, "Look, you settle in and I'll see if there's any mandrakes... if not, I'll make you some wildflower tea with honey." Max can't help the shake of his head, he doesn't need the fussing over him. "Don't give me that, you can barely make a noise without wincing. Let me help you with this, please." There's a stress on the please that makes his shoulders sag and Maxwell sighs, nodding along, the shame back as Wilson gave a tiny smile and patted his back before leaving for the crock pots and food stash.

It's obvious which of the tents is the extra one, there's still snow at the entrance, instead of it being treaded down or shoveled away. Still, it's better then a straw roll, and in the dim light of the setting sun and the faint firelight, Max shoves the snow away from the entrance of the tent with his foot and he finally crawls in. There's a fur roll, and a lantern. He shoves off his pack and sits, exhaling and glancing around.

It's odd to be back in camp. It's also incredibly weird to hear the muted rabble, but it's soothing too, it's not just the slight chatter of birds, nor the empty silence of the caves.

Maxwell finally moves to spread out the fur roll and peels off his outer layers and bloody gloves, the hat bringing the flower crown with it as he started to cough, wincing as he looked at the small handful of bloody petals, throat practically throbbing with pain.

Still, wouldn't do to bleed over his bed, and he uses his clean hand to pull some of the used paper out of his bag and wraps the petals and wipes most of the blood off of his hand. - He'd been accosted as he dug through the icebox. "Wilson, you certainly don't look like you need a mandrake..."

At least it was only Ms. Wickerbottom. "It's not for me, I'm shocked Willow hasn't spread the news." He deadpanned, then followed with the actual info. "I found Max. He isn't able to speak at the moment, so I thought maybe mandrake tea would heal his throat up."

There was a hum of understanding, and he was about to continue on before she spoke up. "While I think it's a valiant cause, I can't help but wonder if it's worth it." Wilson freezes and Wickerbottom sighs. "He's going to die again with this aliment. You can't hold it off forever. You do know the full extent of damage it can do to the body, correct?"

"Well, considering it was never covered in any of my medical texts, I probably don't." Wilson sighed and closed the icebox door. He certainly didn't, thinking of Max's ashen face and that flower in the man's hands.

"Flowers typically start to sprout through and destroy organs, the heart and lungs in particular. The lucky ones choke to death before that happens." She sighed again. "It's not something you can just treat the symptoms of. And Wilson?" There's a pause, silence between them, her voice quiet, even though they're not around anyone else. "Don't let your own feelings cause you to get sick as well."

He blinks, a tinge of fear that everyone knows, and to be fair, maybe his pacing was a little obvious... "It's not like that." He manages, voice a little strained. "I'd do this if someone else was sick like this too." And well, that's... mostly true. He's trying not to pine, at the very least. And he would help, if someone like Wigfrid or Willow was this sick... well... maybe not quite so personally. Please, don't let the whole camp have this figured out, and stars forbid that Maxwell already knew.

There's a curious look on her face as she glances over him. "Well, the point still stands, don't let yourself ever get to the point our dear Maxwell has. Don't let your heart get you sick." There's a glance at the mandrake too. "Maybe try wildflower first, before you go and use a mandrake on him. But get some sleep afterwards." Wickerbottom smiled and turned to leave, and Wilson couldn't make a real smile back, but he tried, even with worry burrowing into his stomach.

He stuffed the mandrake back into the ice chest and took just the honey. There were dried petals in a chest near their water-pot, which just needed a fire underneath to be lit, and Wilson found the makeshift infuser, strips from twigs woven into a netted basket.

Once the water boiled, he took the chipped cup and filled it with hot water, honey and a filled infuser and headed to the tents. There was almost no activity, but to be fair, in this weather, everyone would probably want to go to bed if they didn't have watch. Wickerbottom is probably taking a shift as always, but she'll even go curl up in a tent to warm up and read after someone else wakes up for their watch shift.

Poor Willow. He'd forgotten that he was supposed to have a shift tonight, fueling the fire and keeping an ear out for hounds or a giant, but he'd found Max, and that felt far more important then remembering to get back in time for watch. Even if the man's presence felt a bit draining due to the dark petals, Wilson was far more settled knowing where he was, he couldn't help the petals. Maxwell surprisingly had it far worse then they did.

Max being laid low so easily by coughing up dark petals was... strange to see. While most certainly not as physically durable as the rest of them, Maxwell weathered plenty of things that mentally took it out on the rest of them.

Wilson hummed, glad for the warmth in his hands as he eyed the one tent that didn't have much snow brushed away from the entrance and opened the flap. Maxwell blinked in surprise and Wilson offered a weak smile, noticing the smear of blood on the other's mouth, before offering the cup. "It's wildflower, and if it doesn't help, I'll make you some mandrake tea in the morning."

It was taken with a tiny nod, and Wilson couldn't help lingering for a few seconds. Irrational, Maxwell's pride would never let him ask for help, or much of anything. Oh, he complained about meaningless things, but complaints weren't requests. It left Wilson feeling like he was clumsily hovering, and with one more glance, Maxwell gently blowing on the hot tea, not even looking at him, Wilson managed an awkward "Good night," and left.

He sighed once he reached the entrance to his own tent. He was rather transparent, wasn't he? Though, he should be thankful no one else has brought it up, at least to his face.

At least the tent was reasonably warm, he considered, settling down and pulling out a razor. It'd be a hit to conserving warmth, but they were out of the supplies for a new effigy, he'd checked before making tea, and he was not about to try and get close enough to the rock bottom of his sanity to find beardlings. He'd just have to carry extra fire supplies and keep better track of his thermal stone.

It was cold the moment Wilson had a pile of hair at the side and a clean-shaven face. He rubs at a tiny cut on his face in irritation and looks at the flint razor. Needed to be sharpened again, there were nicks in the knapped edge. Still, the job was done and Wilson grabbed the quilt stuffed with beefalo and rabbit fur and bundled up.

Sleep would take a while to come, as exhausted as he was, Wilson figured. Worry always nestled deep and kept him up. Worry about what he was doing with his life, worry about not managing to make anything out of his degree, out of his passion.

Now it was worry regarding how utterly transparent he must be.

How stupid. Everything in his life was an absolute failure anyway. Wilson sighed and turned over. The eldest of his siblings, and most certainly the failure in his parents eyes. They'd hated his over-enthusiastic pursuit of science, they'd pushed him into medicine because at least that was useful. Instead of becoming a doctor or a surgeon though, he'd stayed in academia for a while.

Then, before he finished that pursuit, only one degree under his belt, he'd left to do research on his own. He'd been exhausted of doing other people's research for them. And he was a failure of a scientist, really, after studying so hard, and for so long. The temptation of maybe, just maybe, learning something that would benefit not just him, but everyone, was too much.

This is where that had landed him. A sad, stupid scientist, pinning over a sad, stupid magician who'd been the one to land him in this mess. It was pinning. He'd just have to be honest with himself. A fondness he couldn't eradicate. Oh, he'd been fond of people before, men and women alike, but it faded with time or new knowledge. Maxwell was... an odd case. An outlier in some ways. He'd hated him for a while. He'd tricked him, damn it.

Granted, he doubted Maxwell had fully been in control on the Throne, but at the time, it was all on Maxwell.

Minus the impatience at the end... Maxwell had managed to make himself quite the companion during their first encounter, Wilson making the portal and Maxwell doing what he did best, talking. Encouragement, praise, swapping stories and jokes. A comforting, enjoyable voice on the radio. Then it was gone. Instead, the once warm voice was cold and he was in this hell. A broken, bitter heart, Maxwell was a devil, an asshole, and a right pain in the ass.

The second portal they built, their every interaction was strained. He could remember the manic energy between them though, excitement at an attempt at leaving. The thrill of learning. Not much, sadly as much as Maxwell was willing to teach him what was needed, he didn't have hands on time with the codex alone. A few strained jokes but mostly work and arguments and they'd been so close to what was hopefully success before Ms. Charlie intervened.

It was still a good result. Instead of the two of them arguing alone for eternity, it'd been other people, other lonely survivors. A gift in itself, even if he'd never been the kind of person who was overtly social, the time he'd spent alone here had made him crave company even more then his self imposed isolation in the woods.

Not that Maxwell wasn't company. Even at the end of that whole project, things were starting to mend, but it was better to not always handle that bundle of emotions that came with Maxwell. Though, he had, frequently. Forever prickly, sharp barbs and a ego that was out of check just enough now-days to get under anyone's skin who wasn't used to it. Maxwell was more often his companion on excursions then not.

It wasn't always bad. Sometimes it was absolutely insufferable, that had been early on, but now he'd just ramble about thoughts and plans, or what he found interesting and frankly, it was mostly because it never seemed like Maxwell was listening, considering the fact that there never was a 'would you shut up, Higgsbury' that he had been expecting. Max didn't care, and so it gave him the space to just talk things out to himself, Then, one day Maxwell chipped in with, "Hm, I'd never considered that."

He'd frozen in his spot and after a few moments of realizing that Maxwell had been listening, either for once, or he always had been, it branched into a discussion. He didn't always chime in, but Maxwell was listening, and yet didn't deride him for the overenthusiastic chatter. It was nice. More then nice, it was flattering that he actually paid attention. Wilson figured Maxwell zoned out most of the time.

Oh, why was he thinking over all of this now. Wilson sighed, cheeks red and turned over in the blanket. Why couldn't he just forget the little things and go back to hating the man instead of worrying over him and worrying about the fact that he might be considerably obvious about his feelings towards Maxwell? He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and closed his eyes, mentally chastising himself for focusing on this so much. Maxwell was always just going to be a companion, and he was going to help him out because he wanted to see him better.

And that was that. - He'd figured Wilson left immediately, but apparently not. He would have said it back, but his throat was a barrier there. He'd nodded, but it seemed like Wilson hadn't seen. No matter. Wilson was probably far more exhausted, he'd fought off shadows and still hadn't slept. The man needed the sleep.

The tea was warm against his cooling hands, and Maxwell sighed, gently spinning the cup to make the infuser swirl slightly. It smelled comforting, vaguely flowery. Herbal teas had never been his favorites back when he had a choice, but he was not going to complain about that now. There were so many flavours that were faintly in his memories that he missed, it was pointless to think about them, though black tea always came to mind when having tea. Still, he took a tiny sip, the liquid still too hot really, but there was the slight sweetness of the honey, and while not perfect it did seem to help. Breathing didn't hurt quite so much.

A few more moments, and the heat was more in his hands then in the cup. The drink was wonderfully warm though, and that was pleasant. Max noticed he was a bit hungry, now that the drink had slightly soother the painful ache in his throat but that could be handled later. Even though he was hungry, he winced at the idea of swallowing much more then the tea.

Oh well. An empty cup, and he tried to murmur out something, trying to regain his voice, but instead all he felt was something tear and the pain was far, far worse as he started to cough.

So much for keeping blood off his bedding. Another full plant, flesh stuck to the roots , and besides intense pain, any attempt at talking was just breath.

All he could taste was copper, and he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, a huge smear of blood along it, and he barely could manage a huff as he looked at how vibrant the blood was to anything else. Food, or mushrooms, weren’t going to be an option then, his throat wouldn't allow it. He needed to sleep, though Max really doubted he would manage to sleep through the pain, he was never great with sleep anyway. Last night had been rare, exhaustion sleep wasn’t fully refreshing, but he’d slept harder then he had in a while.

God. He wouldn't be surprised if he died in the night, really. As grim as it was, he almost would rather choking to death instead right now. He wondered if there were more of those in his throat, as he pitched the flower to the side. It was smaller then the last, but the roots were long. Probably were, considering his luck.

He flipped the roll over, to the side that wasn’t bloody, and settled in, ignoring the blood on his hand, he didn’t have time, and he was not in any shape to handle another bout of shadows, not to mention the mere idea of the rest of camp having to fare with that, he already wasn’t a welcome member of the group. Still, it was nicer to hear people around, even while he was in pain, as Maxwell closed his eyes and tried to rest. - Morning comes, and Wilson burrowed more into the blankets. Stars, did morning have to be so obnoxious? At least no one else had woken him up, it was just the natural timing he’d developed, but why today?

He wasn’t ready to face today yet. Head somehow still managing to swim with worries and thoughts and memories that made his chest hurt if he thought too hard about them. “Damn it, get yourself together.” He grumbled to himself as he finally unwound himself from the cocoon of blanket. “Go check on him, and then do something else for a few hours.” He muttered to himself, even if he had no idea what else to do.

Chop more wood, maybe. Though now he wasn’t sure if that would actually work with Maxwell back with them and not out alone in the wilderness. Still, it was worth a shot, maybe work would clear his head and ease the ache in his chest. Besides, at least then no one would say he was hovering.

He glanced at the pile of hair and sighed. Well, that came first, didn’t it. Check on Maxwell, help him get a meat effigy set up, then go chop wood.

It was a plan, at least. With a extra check to make sure he had a well repaired vest and hat, even though he knew he’d just patched them up before the last few days, it never hurt to check again, he pulled them on and snagged his satchel with a blue heat stone. He’d replace one of the fresh ones at the fire with his. Well, he got to the fire and set the stone down before he heard harsh hacking.

There was only one person it could even remotely be and he didn’t even grab a fresh stone before heading over to the tent he’d left so abruptly the night before. “Oh, stars…” Wilson managed as he pulled back the canvas. There was a lot of blood, some of it must have been from last night, brown and dried, though there was far more fresh, staining the white fur and some of the ground, but most of all it covered the man’s mouth, at least what he could see of it, an uncovered hand covering his mouth, dried blood on the back of it.

Wilson didn’t have any more words at his disposal, there was just the sinking pit in his stomach at the other little details. The pale, drained look to his face, teary eyes darting around before another horrible cough wracked his shaking body. There was absolutely nothing he could do at the moment.

It felt like there was nothing he could do, period.

All his determination fell away, and Wilson only felt helpless as he finally entered the tent, kneeling down and only then did he notice the discarded flower crown, still encircling the woolen hat. With his own shaking hands, he settled it back onto Maxwell’s head. A effigy would literally kill Maxwell at this point. So much for that.

His voice felt dis-attached and far too quiet to really be his. “I guess I can’t fix this, can I?” It was a sad approximation of sarcasm, his hand on Maxwell’s back.

“I’m sorry.” - He’d slept. Somehow. Maxwell wasn’t going to look too deeply into it, and it was frankly hard to think too deeply about it when his throat wasn’t working. He must have passed out. Everything since coughing up the last flower had been somewhat a blur. He could believe passing out with how much he wanted to pass out right now.

It hurt to breathe. The slightest bit of air going to or out of his lungs was misery, not to mention the involuntary swallow when he woke up. There were tears budding in his eyes, if it wasn’t for the lack of voice, Maxwell would probably be unable to hold back any sort of noise from the pain that just existing was granting him at the moment.

And then the coughing started up again. Oh, he was most certainly near the end. Hopefully he wouldn’t recall this. It was a stupid hope, knowing his luck, but Maxwell could go for just a bit of mercy right now.

Not that he was going to get much mercy from this disease when it seemed like it tore his throat apart again. If he was going to ever use this tent again, he’d have to burn this poor fur roll, but he covered his mouth anyway. Maxwell tried to breathe again, but after a brief, painful inhale, the cough started up again.

It was around this time that there was a rustling he couldn’t fully pay attention to, frankly, he was surprised that there wasn’t a crowd growing. Instead, the familiar oath of stars told him exactly who it was, but there was no energy to even try and turn away, shadows flitting past his vision as he started another fit, petals spilling from his lips as readily as the blood.

He didn’t feel the crown, though he was vaguely aware of the hand, and the barest thought of ‘Why do you go through this, do you pity me that much?’ flashed by before it was overtaken by pain, once again. - “I’m so sorry.”

Wilson stayed until the end, trying to at least be comforting; he didn’t know what else to do. He choked on blood, mercifully enough. Grotesque business, and Maxwell wouldn’t remember it, but he couldn’t find it in him to leave until he saw the ghostly shadow that death left now. “I’ll take care of it, don’t go running off.” There was a quiet wind noise that these shades could produce, and it wasn’t like he’d have any memory of the events after he woke up again, But he also just didn’t want to deal with chasing down a damned ghost.

The man was stubborn enough to manage to even do that in death if he didn’t warn him off the mere idea. Exhausted; emotionally, and somehow physically, Wilson picked himself up and walked out of the tent to wash up and prepare the heart. There should be some spider glands in one of these chests, if not, he’d have to ask Webber where the nearest un-befriended nest was to avoid killing any of the young child’s spider friends. There was a bit of blood on his clothing, that he finally noticed at the worst time, just as he ran into a bleary eyed Winona. “Mornin’ egghea- what’s with the blood.” It went from a tired mutter to alert at the sign of fresh blood.

Wilson sighed, pressing the clean hand over his eye, the other covered with specs of blood. “Nothing you need to worry about, I just have to do some clean up and make a telltale heart.” To be specific, he needed to burn that roll and break up the skeleton and dispose of it properly. Stars, he was so drained from all this. It was heart wrenching and taxing all at once to try and comfort someone in their death throws. To comfort someone you loved while they were dying. “Someone die?” She asked, looking over him.

Wilson sighed. He was well aware of the vague contention between Winona and Maxwell, and that it revolved around Charlie of all people, because Maxwell had loved her, and she was Winona’s sister. “Maxwell’s still sick, I found him a couple of days ago and brought him back to camp. He died this morning.”

There was a light frown. “Ah. Right. Remember you talking about petals and choking a while back. 'Maxy’ can’t even bother to care about her now.” Oh stars. He didn't need this.

“How are you so sure he isn’t sick over her?” Wilson said back, already exhausted. There wasn’t anyone else it could be, and he shook his head. “Never mind. I have to handle this.”

Winona shook her head. “They were a couple, at least briefly. They were going on vacation together, to our family’s cabin. You don’t do that if you aren’t at least somewhat romantically entangled. She was so syrupy over that idiot, and look where it landed her.” He did somewhat understand her anger, but honestly? He wanted to get this done, set Maxwell up with a effigy, and go to bed. “So it can’t be her. He’s fallen in love with someone else.” She rolled her eyes and waved it off. “It doesn’t matter, she’s better off without him anyway.”

He hummed sightly in acknowledgement and left with a nod. He wasn’t going to argue about it, it made him sick to think about anyway. He was sick enough after having to let Max pass away in his grip once again. He didn't need to overthink the obvious.

Maybe something was giving him a break, there were spider glands in the medical supplies, and Wilson sighed a breath of relief as he gathered the rest of the materials, along with a flint knife and a booster shot. He’d make it after he cleaned out that tent, there was too much bone and blood to really want to revive someone who also was probably going to just collapse in a heap.

Surprisingly, the ghost was actually listening, still in the tent, though Wilson wouldn’t doubt part of that was also the man’s pride also managing to linger. He was shocked everyone else wasn’t reacting to the lingering presence, ghosts tended to do a bit of number over time.

Wilson was already planning on something warm and mentally healing, after this whole fiasco. Maybe after a nap, however.

“Ooo?” A more audible variation of ghost noises.

Wilson shook his head. “Need to get rid of the blood soaked things first, then I’ll get it made. I already know what your reaction would be to reviving and then dealing with your own skeleton. It’ll save both of us some bitching.”

Oh, even dead he could assume there was an eye roll there. Stars, Maxwell. It was normal enough though that it actually managed a small smile onto Wilson’s face as he quickly smashed the skeleton to bits and gathered it all up in the ruined bed mat. “Can you be patient for once, or is that just not feasible?” Somehow, the next “Ooo” managed to sound indignant. Wilson shook his head in actual amusement as he took the mess outside.

“Did he not survive the night?” Wilson’s back shot up, as much as he knew exactly who it was, stars, he could do without being snuck up on. Instead, he turned, the bone shards clinking against each other.

“He did, Ma'am, just didn’t survive the morning.” Wilson shook his head, tired. He really didn’t want to go through this again. “Just handling clearing up the mess it left before I revive him. I promised him I’d help.” Well, more like he’d promised himself.

She sighed, a sad smile on her face. “You do certainly care about him. I checked in on him before I went to get warm, he seemed to be sleeping fine. I’m sorry that I didn’t check this morning.”

He winced slightly, at least no one else had stumbled in. It was easier when there wasn't a crowd. “It’s okay, I mean, I think I’m the only one who knew he’s been coughing up a lot of blood. Should have seen it coming.” He gestured to the blood stained disaster he was holding. “I need to handle this.”

She nodded. “I need to make myself some breakfast, I’ll make you something as well, you probably need it.”

His shoulders finally relaxed. There was something off his plate. “Thank you. I’ll get this finished up, and get him on his feet.” She waved him off and he went to dispose of the bone. They kept a pile of them to pulverize and use in the gardens during the growing months, the bone meal was a decent fertilizer. After dumping those off, he tossed the ruined mat into the flames, finally taking a few moments to warm up. He wasn’t freezing, but now that he had a second to himself, Wilson knew he was losing body heat at a decent pace, considering he’d lost the beard.

So, he took the time to sit and put together the heart, might as well not add more blood to the ground near Maxwell’s tent. Wilson winced as he sliced his arm open and held it over the tied up glands. It started to beat and he waited til his arm started to scab over before picking it up.

At least now he hopefully wouldn’t be coughing up blood for a few days. - Telltale hearts always left him a touch disoriented for a few moments. Maxwell blinked, brain slowly managing through the fog that death always left. Wilson had lead him back, Willow having a smart comment about the silence, and a warm hand guiding him to the tent. A welcome cup of tea, as weird as it felt to have someone take care of him, and then a coughing fit, and that's when it got hazy. "-ell, are you alright?"

Oh. Right.

This death had left him in enough of a haze he wasn't even fully aware of the world yet. Instead, he nodded and winced as he sat up, seeing the syringe in Wilson's hand, his own sleeve already rolled up. Even though logically, he knew they worked, Maxwell's hand went to his other arm defensively.

"Don't be stubborn about this. Honestly. You're in enough of a bad shape as it is." Wilson murmured. He gave a few tired glances over the other finally, the fog still slowly lifting. There was a smattering of blood on him, and considering they hadn't been back too long, must have been his.

That was an uneasy feeling. Why did Wilson keep doing this? There wasn't a good reason to. He was just going to keep wasting resources and time, because even if there was a smattering of hope that it was returned, he'd just ruin it. So he wasn't going to pursue it. Maxwell knew he would only destroy the few scraps of goodness he'd find.

Like everything else. Like Char- he had to stop thinking about this. He had to live with it, suck it up and just keep going. Maybe someday, he'd get to make it up to her.

"No one likes injecting themselves with th-" Maxwell stopped mid sentence, the hand holding his arm going to the throat, touching it lightly. It still hurt, yes, but it wasn't the mess it had been the morning before, even; not to mention the rest of the day. "Well, that's better certai-" He winced as Wilson took the opening.

There was a smug look as the spent needle was pulled away. A smug look that he actually liked, heavens help him. "Was that so bad?" The man mentioned, putting it on the ground. "Glad to see you're able to speak again, though. I was worried that whatever damage was done might need more repair then just revival." Why was he worried, what was even the bloody point, Higgsbury? No one else seemed to go to these lengths.

Though... if he remembered right, Wilson had mentioned family with this. It was probably just misguided pity, knowing the horror it wrought, thinking that he could fix this. Sounded about right for Wilson, man could never deny wanting to puzzle over a problem, even if his solutions were unconventional or faulty. "Max?" Oh, he'd never replied. "Resurrection haze?" Was a gentle question, which made sense. Out of all of them, Wilson seemed to have a higher chance to lose full days if it was a traumatic death, and would get lost in his thoughts for hours, picking apart what he could remember so he could finish whatever he'd been up to.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He brushed it off, looking away. Heavens help him, Wilson was giving him that concerned look that would almost give him the impression that there was something more there. "Probably just shock from that awful concoction."

Wilson snorted at that at least. He couldn't tell if it was amusement or irritation, but he'd take it over that look. He was not a hopeful man, but sometimes Wilson tested that. "It keeps you alive longer, I guess it has be awful." Wilson smirked before getting up. "I need to go eat, but if you wanted to come warm up, you aren't stuck in your tent."

Maxwell tried not to flush. It was absolutely not what he was imagining, and he must still be out of sorts from reviving because he had usually had far better self control then to let himself fantasize about cuddling or anything.

Why break what was left of his heart more?

"M-maybe," Oh heavens, he stuttered, and attempted to save face with a more usual infliction to his voice. "Hopefully I won't end up muted today, though I'm sure that will be big hit with everyone." Instead of dwelling on the wanted and yet unneeded thought, he felt the ground underneath him, just the lay of canvas that they used to keep their bed rolls from picking up dirt and twigs. "Seems like I'll have to replace my bedroll, before I can sleep."

"Believe me, you wouldn't want to sleep on that thing. It was soaked in blood. Anyway, you can handle that after we get a effigy made for you later." Ah, that gave him more of an idea of how he died. Probably bled out from an internal throat injury and coughed up a good potion of blood. "If you do need something, let me know, I'm going to go warm up."

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