Chapter Text
Wilbur didn't know what time it was, and frankly, he didn’t care. All he knew was the whiskey on his tongue and the stone on his fingertips, bracing himself against the smooth walls of the ravine, slick with rouge spring water, reaching with clawing fingers to the floor. The underground nation of Pogtopia was nigh silent at this hour, the only discernible noises the quiet dripping of the wet stone and the fizzling of bugs as they burned in the kerosene lamps, unaware of their own demise. Wilbur thought himself akin to them these nights when he was intoxicated on alcohol and unable to think straight. In those hours before the sun, he found himself more insect than man, bumbling about with no real purpose, searching for the light, the place where he can catch a glimpse of his former glory.
He found he could only see that reflection in the bottom of a flask. He wondered how he got here, how he fell so far from grace so quickly. He was so close to everything he wanted. Everything he deserved, and before he could blink it was all gone, no more tangible than the ashes of the bugs as they floated to the floor, now worthless to the universe. Wilbur took another deep swig from the flask, a parting gift of irony from his greatest enemy, engraved with the simple phrase, Long Live President Schlatt. Wilbur grinned wickedly as the whiskey burned his throat, exposing his politician's smile, the only thing remaining clean in his ragged appearance, although his teeth were starting to yellow, the constant nicotine and alcohol taking their effect.
I’ll deal with my problems in the morning, he told himself, like he had a million times before. I’ll think of my next move tomorrow, once my head is clear. He never did, because it never was.
Deeper in the cavern, a pair of light footsteps and a splash of water echoed against the stone walls, an invasion of Wilbur’s peace. He winced at the noise, instinctively straightening up and stashing his silver flask in his coat, a subconscious motion to hide his weakness, his fatal flaw. He tried to look casual, as if it were normal for such a person as himself to be out of bed in the witching hour. He waited for one minute, two, but the footsteps never returned, a trick of the night, he reasoned, another game by his diseased mine. Sighing deeply, Wilbur slid down to the floor and removed his drink from his coat once more, nursing the bottle like a new-open wound. At some point in the moments following, spots began to cloud Wilbur’s vision, and he leaned his head back against the stone breathing in the cold air, ready for the drunkenness to take him. But then he heard them again- the footsteps, ever closer than before, hurried and anxious, as if on the run. Wilbur scrambled to stand, a lanky mess of limbs and fabric, and managed to knock his head on an outcropping, the force just enough to completely throw off his drunken balance. The next moment he was on his back, staring wide-eyed at the heavens from the cold, damp floor. All hope of being inconspicuous dissipated, chased away by his broken breaths as he tried to get the air back in his lungs.
“W-Wilbur?” a timid voice asked. “What are you doing, Boss Man?” Wilbur stilled completely and grimaced at the sound, annoyed that he had been disturbed.
“Tubbo,” he croaked, a weak attempt to sound authoritative. “What are you doing abed at this hour?” Dirtied, loafer-clad feet shuffled into his vision, along with the boy who was their owner. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, shining Schlatt’s shoes or some shit?” Wilbur chuckled weakly, amused by his own alliteration, though the consonants slurred together. He managed to pull himself into a seated position, and fumbled for his glasses, as to better inspect the young spy.
Tubbo looked rough. His tie was ripped in at least two places, and his suit coated in mud. Tears streamed down his face, eyes red and puffy. “What happened to you?” Wilbur questioned, only half aware of Tubbo’s distress. “You look like shit.”
That was all it took for Tubbo to break, he rushed forward and dropped to his knees, embracing a very disgruntled Wilbur, whose head slumped into Tubbo’s shoulder.
“He hit me,” Tubbo sobbed, causing Wilbur to tense as the sound was amplified in the cave. “He got drunk and hit Q and then he hit me and threw me out of the White House and said I couldn’t come back until I brought more alcohol but I can't give him anymore because I know he’ll drink himself to death and-” the ramble collapsed into further sobs as Wilbur comforted the teen with a stiff hand.
“That’s rough, bud. Why don’t you go on off to bed, I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Wilbur drawled, blackout drawing near. Tubbo stiffened in his arms as if he realized his leader’s state. Fury rapidly replaced vulnerability as Tubbo pulled away and stood.
“You’re drunk too, aren’t you? I thought you were better than him, you said you were better. God, I should have known, shouldn’t I? Does Tommy know that you are like this? Has he seen how far his big brother has fallen? Does he know? Does he? Answer me, Will!” He was right in Wilbur’s face now, clutching tightly to the collar of his coat, able to smell the whiskey on Wilbur’s breath.
“No,” He mumbled, looking away from Tubbo and down to the floor. “And you aren’t going to tell him.”
“I don’t think I’ll have to at this rate, you obviously haven't had a clear head in days!” Tubbo shouted as he let go of Wilbur’s collar, his anger reverberating in the dark as he paced before Wilbur, drying his now forgotten tears with the back of his hand. “Get up, I’m not going to leave you here so that you can end up God knows where in the morning.” He pulled Wilbur to his feet and shouldered most of his weight, but not before slipping the elder’s flask into his own pocket to hide later. Wilbur protested as he stumbled about, but let the young boy lead him to his room, a mess of paper and words etched into walls, the residence of a true madman.
“I’m gone for five days and this is what it has come to?” Tubbo mumbled, gracelessly depositing Wilbur, now crying, on the messy floor, and brushed off his suit as if he had been contaminated where the drunk man had touched him. “Now go to bed, and don’t come out until you have a clear head. The last thing anyone else needs is to see you like this. I’m sorry I had to.” With the slam of a frail wooden door, Tubbo was gone, and Wilbur was left in the dark, and after pulling himself together, searched once more for the silver flask, only to find an empty pocket.
“Curse you, you incompetent goat.” Wilbur grumbled, collapsing on his bed fully clothed.
He didn’t have the energy to change. He didn’t have the energy to move. He didn’t have the energy to protest a few hours later when a scared, blonde boy dashed into his room and crawled in bed with him. He barely had the energy to even acknowledge him, and instead waited for sleep to take them both.