As Lucifer talks, Wilhelm is left both trying to hold himself together and wanting to claw out of his own skin. It's a little bit like cradling the broken pieces of some fallen object, stuck on the notion of what those handfuls of glass used to be. A little bit like being a burning building — there's no fire escape out of yourself. Pacing on the spot, arms curled over his head, he ends up crumpled into a crouch too.

"You don't care!" He throws his words like a temper tantrum. "It's just that you can't use me anymore if I'm dead. That's why you saved me in the woods, isn't it? That's why you were so pissed off, you just saw all your hard work at manipulating me going up in smoke. And, hey, even better — it made me grateful to you. It made me so sure you were looking out for me. Fuck!"

A frustrated groan claws out of his throat. He pounds his fists against his skull. Stop crying, dumbass. Stop crying, stop crying. Not the whispering voices this time; just himself.

He should walk away. But he doesn't know where to go, who else to find shelter in. Loneliness, that chasm in him with enough mass to exert its own gravity, holds him there. However much being near Lucifer hurts right now, being alone — truly alone — terrifies him more than anything.