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Dark was patient.He'd been that way as long as he could remember. Setting delicate plans and watching them unfold like perfect flowers before him was always more satisfying than rushing into things. He didn't mind taking his time, didn't mind going slow, didn't mind working for hours, weeks, months, to see his creations unfold.Patience was rewarding in ways creatures like Wilford and Anti would never understand.But that was fine. Dark didn't need others to be patient.Dark didn't need others, period, but that was another story.The point was, it took more than simply showing up late to meetings to tick the demon off. His control over the house was near absolute, even over the chaos that was the mad pink bastard. And small transgressions such as these were annoying, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.Because he'd already won. He owned the house. He owned the people in it. And it was only a matter of time before he owned Mark too.So why be annoyed when Wilford simply failed to show up to a meeting?He wasn't. He told himself that over and over as he tore through the void, chasing after the bubblegum flavor of Wilford's aura, following the sporadic trail of the creature all throughout the mansion and the other realms. It wasn't irritation boiling under his skin. He was calm. He was in control. He was not affected in the least by the madman's absence.He found him in his room, of all places.Not Warfstache's room.His room. Dark's room.He was not frightened by that fact.Wilford was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaned forward with his arms on his knees, head bent down as his soft pink hair billowed in the wake of the demon's arrival. Dark stepped out of the void, his presence echoing like thunder in a cave as he came to stand before the man, lips pulled down in distaste as he didn't move. Just sat there. Silent. Not even acknowledging his existence.That didn't jab at him like needles."You missed the meeting," Dark said after another moment of silence, his voice low and dangerous, reverberating with power. A simple sentence, but enough to put a mortal on his knees.Wilford didn't move.Dark's eyes bore into his form, shell shivering around him as a myriad of emotions writhed beneath his skin, quickly stifled by the demon's will. Wilford's silence was . . . out of character. But it shouldn't make him want to-"What are you doing in my room?" Dark seethed, his voice even and smooth even as the threat bloomed in his words. Wilford never responded to such threats like a sane person would. He never quaked in fear, or bowed his head, or apologized.But he always responded.Dark's lips twitched as he looked down at the still form, as if he wanted to say something. As if those echoing voices inside him, the ones that were aching like bullet wounds inside him, could somehow speak through his mouth. And he pressed his lips in a firm line as he glared down at the pink-haired man.That did not scare him."Wilford," he snapped after another moment, irritation in his tone now. He was patient. He was. He could remove this distraction if he wanted, dump it out through the void like yesterday's trash and be done with this minor distraction. It was unimportant. Inconsequential.He didn't move.Neither of them did.It felt like something cracked inside him before he brought his hand up to snap it harshly across the other ego's cheek.And finally, finally, Wilford looked up."Ah, Dark, ol' boy," he greeted, as if he was only just now noticing him. As if Dark hadn't just backhanded him with enough force to leave a mortal stunned, if not concussed.Not out of fear.But Wilford's face was . . . wrong. It wasn't bright and open and beaming, it wasn't infuriatingly unconcerned, flippantly happy, beautifully . . . something.It was . . . empty.Tired.Broken.Dark refused to recognize that."What are you doing in my room," he repeated, words clipped and curt as he continued to glare down at the man, even as those voices echoed through him like knives.Wilford smiled, but it was . . . wrong still. Sad and broken and he didn't care."Ah, well, I was just looking for a nice place to sit!" he said with that rolling way he did, like the words were marbles in his mouth. Only there seemed to be a lot . . . less. His hand came out to pat the bed beside him, and his smile crept a little higher. "And you do have a lovely bed for sitting, my friend.""Go sit on your own bed," Dark cut back, eyes black and soulless as he offered him nothing but ice. Wilford's smile seemed to falter, and Dark felt something coil sickeningly in his gut, something he wanted to tear out of him like a cancer, even though he knew he couldn't."Ah, yes, yes, I will, I will," he said, but the words seemed distant. Like he was saying them from a long way off, even as he sat on the bed before him, hardly a pace away. He brought his arm back to drape between his knees, head falling back down to stare at the carpet, and Dark's eyes were drawn to his hands. Big, familiar things, neatly trimmed nails and soft fingertips. And twined between one of those sets of fingers was a single, white rose, thorns on the stem scratching across his creamy skin, marring him even as it was pristine and perfect and beautiful.That thing in his gut wrenched harder, and the voices were like a broken melody crashing through his mind, even as he fought them back down."Sorry about missing the meeting," Wilford offered in an almost conversational tone, but it was still . . . hollow. Like a machine trying to imitate him. "Don't you worry now, I'll be at the next one."The pink-haired man stood, rising slowly, still gripping that rose in his hands, and Dark wanted to burn it. Tear it apart. Crush the petals in his hands as the thorns bit into his skin and bled him through.Wilford reached out a hand to pat his shoulder. Like he had a million times over, palm feeling scorchingly hot against his cold form. His grip was firm, just like he remembered, only it . . . clung."I'll just head back to my room, shall I?"But his hand didn't leave him. And he didn't move. He stood, staring down at Dark's chest, fingers biting rhythmically into his shoulder as he pushed against him. Like a jovial shove, only . . . not. And Dark wasn't aware of making the decision to do so before he was reaching out to catch that arm, grip iron. Like he was afraid Wilford was just going to . . . collapse.He wasn't afraid.He didn't care.But Wilford looked up at him then, and the weak facade he'd been wearing had crumbled, his face pulling up in . . . in pain. Heartache. Loss and need. And Dark should have dropped him through the void right then, because he wasn't here to be goddamn Wilford Warfstache's therapist. He had more important things to care about. He didn't want to deal with some depressed little madman, clinging to his suit, wrinkling the fabric.And yet, when Wilford reached out with the hand with the rose, several fingers releasing it to cling to his suit jacket, to pull him closer, let those thorns scratch at the smooth material, Dark didn't stop him.He didn't stop him when the hand at his shoulder fell to grip at his other side, to slide back to grip at his back.He didn't stop him when he pulled him into a desperate, trembling embrace, burying his face in Dark's shoulder, pink mustache tickling at his throat.Dark stood, a stone in a storm, letting Wilford cling to him as the first sob rocked the madman's body, and waited as those voices tumbled the worn out pictures inevitably into his mind.A boy grinning at him from up in a maple tree, hollering at him to come play. A kid taunting him to run faster as they fled through a meadow, still in their school uniforms. A young man grinning up at him as he lay with his legs propped against the trunk of an old oak, sunlight mottling on his face through the leaves. A bright-eyed man grasping his hand as he begged him to run away with him.A broken man, on his knees before him, smiling as he insisted it was just a joke.Wilford's fingers were biting into him as he clung to the demon that had been his friend. Had been his lover. Had been the two people he cared most about in the world. And Dark closed his eyes as he felt their voices slicing through him like knives in his black soul.He could throw him through the void if he wanted to. Rip those needy fingers from his frame and rid his room of the man's bubblegum taint.But he didn't.He stood in silence, in his room, in the mansion he had molded, he had conquered, in the world he had built to enact his revenge, and let the man hold him. Because he knew. He knew he'd broken him already. He'd knew he'd utterly destroyed this beautiful thing. Shattered him to fractured, mad pieces. And knew that every perfect, broken piece was his.His arms came up slowly, silently, to wrap around the trembling form, wrap the shattered creature in his cold embrace, and waited as he broke again and again. Waited to put him back together.He didn't know how long it would take. But it didn't matter.He was patient, after all.