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Despite having had him beside you the entire time you'd been trapped in The Constant, even being close to Wilson felt like pulling teeth and looking at the bloody aftermath: a mess of illogical emotions and thoughts.
There were times when you felt as if you were going to die when you accidentally brushed against him while gathering firewood or met his tired eyes at any given point. There was something so bewitching about him, but you could never put your finger on exactly what it was. He was like no other and withheld an exposed nature nearly tangible; his typically gentle disposition was plagued with scientific inquisitiveness and curiosity that sparked such riveting endeavors and sidetracked adventures. With a sense of humor so strange but clever, you could never stop thinking about him. In a way, Wilson made the horrors of The Constant bearable, and if anything, almost pleasant. Every time you ran in fear from aggressive terrors or began to see shadows in your peripheral vision, Wilson had been there to aid you.
It was the sixth month anniversary since your fated, unlucky arrival in The Constant. Or, at least, that's how long it had been as time passed strangely in a realm as such. Wilson had been the first living person you'd met, and since then, you clung to each other like honey and spiderwebs for reasons uncertain. You were lucky enough to befriend someone who was somewhat okay at surviving, unlike a handful of other survivors who had frequent encounters with the Florid Postern.
The first—and so far only—time you had died was but an unexcusable trauma to Wilson. Despite being very well aware that death was not permanent in most circumstances within such an unorthodox and horrid world, he had convinced himself you were gone for good. You were without a touchstone for the length of a single day, and during that eerie day floating about, you simply followed Wilson around as a ghost. Long ago, you came to the conclusion that he did not fully realize you were there.
Someone like Wilson did not easily or often outwardly show such delicate emotions. You had never seen him cry before your death. To see Wilson mourn and wet his palms with tears by the glowing and diminishing heat of a fire rather than spend his night drawing up blueprints or messing around with his machines was enough to send you searching endlessly for a touchstone. It was evident that if you hadn't, a shadow creature would have brought him to meet you in the realm of the dead in due time. After your return, a sea of materials for meat effigies had been thrown your way by none other than a tense Wilson.
As the weeks went on and you showed the most vulnerable parts of one another to each other whilst trying to merely survive, your immense feelings for Wilson grew like wildfire. There were diminutive things about him that you adored and knew that Wilson never even acknowledged with emphases about himself, such as the particular way he treated his hair or the formal manner in which he spoke. He offered you kindness and companionship when he did not have to, and considering the way he interacted with everyone else, he held you closest to his homesick heart. Never once had he offered them as much food or shelter as he had you.
You had never expressed your tormenting internal feelings about Wilson. Neither of you enjoyed confrontation and you both lacked proficient social skills; cues were rarely observed and you both were fearful of rejection. You were aware that Wilson was a self-proclaimed "Man of Science" and dedicated most every waking moment to such exertions. It felt like you were on the brink of insanity every time you figured he would choose science over you in an instant.
Emotional suppression was something Wilson was familiar with. Having lived a lonesome life in his home lab and then being lured by false pretense into The Constant to live but an even more treacherous lonesome life, it felt like retribution to truly feel. It was a punishment to feel happy if he felt he did not deserve it. It was a punishment to experience longing if it was not reciprocated, and to Wilson, there was no reason you would ever in your right mind return his feelings towards you. He could not love you without reciprocation. He could not admire you in silence his entire life, it was too much a discipline. He was a gangly, self-absorbed "scientist" that couldn't even finish school, and you were more charming than the pearlescent glimmer of varied chemicals or the smooth and frigid feeling of glass beakers.
You unknowingly cherished one another with the light of a thousand stars, burning passionately in the expanse of the neverending universe of ample adoration.
A decision was made upon the discovery of erratically scattered notes littering Wilson's area of the base. You felt guilty for reading them because it was clear they were not meant to be scattered and definitely were not meant for your eyes, but your right mind was overrun with interest once you saw your name scrawled from feathered pen to paper. The letters were formatted comparable to his frequent field notes of ongoing experiments and discoveries, so you wouldn't have noticed if you did not read further. The words that followed struck you like the most piercing of Cupid's arrows. Worded so professionally yet delicately and dripping with faint and quiet fervency, the notes were poetic confessions of love and esteem. You had also noticed the faded crease lines in the paper, suggesting that he had crumpled them up time and time again, but could not live with himself knowing he kept trying to discard his feelings for you. You nearly could not believe your own eyes as you read the notes over multiple times, your heart pumping and hands shaking in stunned incredulity.
You then had a reason to tell him you loved him.
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On the night that marked a half-year of being bounded to the spindly grip of The Constant, the stars aligned perfectly. It was a full moon, so not many stars were easily visible through the drowning light of the moon, but the brightest shone the most radiant and that was enough for the both of you: the two most obsessive over the unknown and captivating in The Constant.
The brilliance of the moon washed out any dangers lurking in the shadows and allowed you to explore freely without the fear of leaving Wilson behind again, or anyone behind in general. All of your friends were dying, some more frequently and nearing permanence than others, therefore any circumstance that took your mind off the inevitable was desirable. Once they began to disappear for good, small moments would no longer hone any significance. Without meaningful relationships in an unforgiving world, there was no point in trying.
You and Wilson raced out into a birchnut tree-lined field full of bestrewn flowers illuminated with a shining pale blue glow that reminded you of the Lunar Island. The autumn forests were beautiful during the day, but they were even lovelier in the dim light of a moonlit sky, and what was even lovelier than such scenery was being able to enjoy it with Wilson by your side.
Dropping to the feathery grass, you sprawled out and felt your heartbeat sink into the earth, if that's what you could even call it. You had no idea where you truly were, and it became difficult to think about often. Nevertheless, basking in the comfort of Wilson's presence was enough to remind you that it was worth it to continue, regardless of the constant dangers and fears that you were daily presented with. Nothing lasted forever, and some things were not meant to be, but you believed deep in your heart that meeting Wilson was meant to be. It did, however, hurt to accept that forever was not a reality, and that is why you decided to finally admit to him that someone saw him in such a way incomparable to the most reputable and gently crafted poetry of the gods and star-crossed lovers.
You looked to the moon for guidance and conviction, but all confidence was stripped from you upon turning to look at Wilson's nervous face, picking at the grass with trembling gloved fingers and weaving the blades together. He had no idea how perfect he was in your eyes.
Silence ensued, but it did not worry you. The two of you enjoyed the silence and often sat in its warmth for hours at a time, just the two of you and the pleasant scent of the campfire. It was enough to mutually recognize that you appreciated each other's company and that verbality was not a requirement. However, in a case such as confessing devotion, verbality was recommended, but you had no idea how to go about it. Instead of pondering and carefully selecting words that would show leaps and bounds of unadulterated adoration and respect that you would likely stumble and falter over, a few simple words were enough to get the point across.
Swimming in moonlight, blanketed under faded stars, the deepest part of your heart and head escaped you.
"I think I love you."
You didn't think, you knew. But somehow, the suggestion that you had thought about it for longer than you could remember was more tantalizing than a sudden decision and predisposition to love. It meant more.
Wilson immediately jerked his head towards you, his grass crafts swept from his mind with much intensity. His eyes widened with shock, he uttered, "What did you say?" He did not trust his own ears. Wilson had grown so accustomed to the baits and ploys of The Constant that he found it nearly impossible for you to love him in the same way that he loved you without any strings attached.
"I said I love you. More than literally anything," you laughed towards the end of your sentence, turning your gaze back to the sky to avoid losing track of your thoughts by looking into Wilson's eyes. You couldn't bare to look at him; it felt as if you were melting and meeting his stare would send you over the edge.
Instead of responding, Wilson, still with wide eyes, let himself fall back into the grass beside you and go completely silent. He was in utter disbelief and truly could not choose words that would convey his emotions. Wilson, typically very proficient with his words, then stuttered any time he tried to speak a single word. Seeing him out of the corner of your eye in such a state was amusing. Acknowledging that he was not great with emotional responses, you held your hand out to him, to which he grabbed instantly with vigor, but his grip soon loosened into a soft embrace.
After nearly five minutes of listening to the comforting noises of the evening, Wilson finally spoke. "You're not playing a joke on me... correct?" After a lifetime of disappointments, such an event was unheard of in possibility.
You tightened your grip on his shaking hand in an attempt to calm him. "I love you. I mean it," you whispered, turning towards him to make sure he believed you. "Eventually, something is going to happen," you paused, cursing yourself for considering existentialism during such a moment, "but I want to be with you when it does. I can't bare going another moment without you knowing how I treasure you and also knowing I could lose you before you know just to what extent I love you. Do you get it yet? I love you."
Assuring Wilson that your feelings were sincere and that you had found fondness in a person like him in which he felt so unloveable, his fears had finally been diminished. He loved you, and you loved him.
After calming down from racing hearts and butterfly-infested stomachs, the two of you fell asleep in the flowery birchnut field in the comfort of one another's affectionate embrace and tender, trusting love.