Chapter Text
Wilbur slammed his foot into the door.
"Sorry! We are out of business! Thank you for your past patronage, and have a nice day!"
No. Wilbur will not have a "nice day". Kind of fucking ironic that a bar was wishing him a nice day, like the only reason most people ever went wasn't to drown their problems.
He let out a groan, scowling at the pulsing heat in his foot. Just his luck.
Wilbur was already having a god-awful day, and this is just the cherry on top of a shit-filled sundae. If he had believed in God still, enough swears would be thrown into the sky to make a sailor get goosebumps. But he doesn't, so instead those swears get thrown back and forth in the abyss that is his mind. Free will and all that.
The streetlights had come on at least an hour ago, fluorescent lights beating down on Wilbur's back. It was late. He could go home, no, he should, but he'd already walked all the way out here. Might as well branch out and find a new place to get blackout drunk.
Wilbur reached for his phone, opening his Maps app. A quick search showed that there were three bars/pubs still open in L'Manburg. One of them doubled as a nightclub, and he ignored that one instantly. Trying to be "social" on a day like this sounded like actual hell. The second one was across town. Once again, he ignored it. There was a reason he didn't have a car, and there was no way he was walking to the other side of town for a couple shots.
The last option was one Wilbur had never heard of. It was called the Syndicate and was only a few blocks away. It was listed as a pub, but the description sounded more like the owners couldn't decide on whether or not they wanted to own a bar or a bakery. The reviews were minimal, but they were all five stars. Huh.
Well, it's not like Wilbur cares about the reviews. As long as they don't kick him out, he doesn't give a shit where he drinks, so long as he can walk home well enough. Tapping "directions" on the app, he started his annoying journey to the Syndicate. Why did his favourite bar have to close...
An agonisingly sober five minutes later, Wilbur stood in front of the Syndicate. The outside had an almost medieval look to it, practically radiating Northern influence. Honestly, it looked less like a pub and more like a tavern. Wiping down his brown trenchcoat, Wilbur pushed open the odd wooden door.
A slow creak echoed in the dark street, and Wilbur slipped through the doorway. He was about to take a look around when the damned door slammed into him the moment he stopped opening it. A quite frankly embarrassing yelp escaped him as Wilbur shoved the door back in surprise. He glared, fixing his glasses.
"Oh-!" A voice came from beside him. Wilbur looked to his left to find an older man, probably in his thirties, reaching over to shut the door properly. "Sorry about that one, mate! The door has a mind of its own sometimes, I swear!" The man laughed as he pulled blond strings of hair back into his ponytail.
He extended his hand. "I'm Phil Craft, one of the owners here. I don't think I've seen you before!"
Wilbur stared at the hand for a second before jerkily grabbing it and giving it a shake. "...Wilbur Soot. You're very observant...never set foot in here before today." His lips quirked up in an awkward smile. He wanted to melt into the floor.
Phil either didn't notice his internal struggle or didn't care. "Well make yourself at home! We don't get many new faces, so don't be surprised if a couple of people want to say hi!" Phil's smile was blinding at this point.
Great. Next time, Wilbur's just opening one of the wine bottles at home. He'd have to be careful about it, and wine didn't really get him drunk anymore, but something was better than nothing.
The inside of the Syndicate was actually quite nice. The medieval look continued, the random polished sword hung up over barrels that might or might not be filled with something. The furniture was thankfully more modern, chairs and booths padded with built-in cushions.
But it had an almost...creepy vibe to it. Not because of the decorations, those were nice, but it was so...empty. Sure, it was a Wednesday night, but there should be more people. Or well, people at all. The place was barren aside from a few patrons and a worker cleaning a table in the far corner. The "bakery" portion on the back wall was still making fresh food, though. Wilbur looked to the large, circular booth in the corner next to a set of couches and a TV. Maybe it's a slow day?
Shaking his head, Wilbur gave Phil a quick nod before heading over to the bar. A group of two were huddled towards the right side, laughing loudly and occasionally talking to the bartender. Behind the bar was a man that looked to be around Wilbur's age, with long pink hair pulled into a braided ponytail, and golden glasses like Wilbur, except square. The brunette pushed his own up at the sight.
He hesitantly sat down in a bar seat towards the middle. Wilbur wanted nothing to do with the group to the right, but it would be rude to make the bartender walk back and forth like that.
The bartender caught Wilbur's eye, huffing at something one of the other patrons said before heading over. "Welcome. What can I get you?"
"You got a fireball and a mind eraser?"
"Sure, I can do that. Want to look at the menu? Niki just made some rolls, fresh out the oven." He offered, already sliding a laminated menu over.
Wilbur shook his head. "I'm good, thanks."
He ignored the fact that he hadn't eaten since dinner last night.
The pink-haired man shrugged, taking the menu away. "Suit yourself. I'll have that fireball and mind eraser to ya' in a second." He turned around, grabbing a few bottles and ingredients from behind him. Wilbur hummed, it looked like they make fireballs from scratch here.
A click. Wilbur took a long-suffering breath and looked to his right. One of the men at the counter, closest to Wilbur, was shaking his head.
He clicked his tongue again. "You're missing out man. Niki makes the best food in town." He said, adjusting the blue and grey beanie atop his head. The other person beside him, wearing an ugly green hoodie, nodded in agreement.
"Okay...? I'm not looking for food."
"Says the guy ordering a fireball." Green Hoodie rolled his eyes. "Do you want to get a hangover?"
Now it was Wilbur's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm drinking. Of course I'm going to get a hangover." He shifted his gaze over to where Phil was cleaning a table across the room. "That's like stubbing your toe and being surprised it hurts."
Beanie snickered. "Man's got a point." His expression turned a bit more serious, however. Wilbur instinctually straightened. "Still. You should at least order something. If you're ordering two shots already, I'm guessing you're planning to get hammered, right?"
Wilbur scoffed at being called out. "Fine, if it'll make you get off my back."
"Stop scaring off the customers, Quackity." The bartender scolded, casting a glance behind him to the beanie-wearing man. The beanie-wearing man, Quackity, frowned, while Green Hoodie wheezed.
"You too, Dream. Don't think I forgot last Saturday. You're not one to talk when your puke still won't come off of my carpet."
Dream shut right up.
"That's more like it." The bartender nodded, pleased. He took the now-finished shots and set them in front of Wilbur. "Do you still want something? Sorry about these losers, being regulars made them forget about manners." He shot, ignoring the other two's protests.
"No no, it's alright," Wilbur said politely. It was annoying, but after a few shots, it would become tolerable. Quackity was still giving him a look, though. The brunette sighed. "I'll take some of those rolls, I guess."
Quackity lit up with a smirk, and his green friend shook his head at his antics like he didn't also help convince Wilbur to eat something.
The bartender nodded. "Got it." He went through a doorway that seemed to connect to the bakery. "Hey, Niki! Can I have some rolls?" He called.
"Sure! Here's a plate!" A woman, presumably Niki, shouted back.
A few seconds later, a plate of warm, fresh rolls was placed in front of Wilbur. He sent thanks to the bartender; they didn't look too bad.
His stomach turned dangerously. Wilbur knew he had to eat, he knew it. It was just that he wasn't ever hungry anymore. He didn't think he'd felt hungry since the day he left college seven years ago.
He hadn't felt much of anything since that day, seven years ago.
Wilbur downed a shot instead. The cinnamon of the fireball warmed his tongue as it blazed a fire through his intestines. His eye twitched as his mouth scrunched up, quickly chasing with the mind eraser. The coffee was a much better aftertaste.
A low whistle cut the air. Quackity's smirk changed tones. "Damn, got some balls on you, ey?" Dream looked intrigued behind him. "You got a story there, huh? Nobody walks into a pub on a Wednesday night and drinks like that without a backstory."
Already, a low buzz thrummed through Wilbur's skull, courtesy of an empty stomach. The liqueur stained his lips like lipstick from a kiss, and he took a deep breath.
Yes, he was an alcoholic. But everyone has their vices, right? He couldn't help it. The way a nice shot numbed the world like turning the dial down on a radio, the way a bottle of wine calmed him like a boat drifting off to sea. When his mind got to be too much, he'd hit up a bar. When the past threatened to choke him again, he'd pop open a bottle.
Tommy kept telling him to quit. He never did, so now he goes when Tommy's asleep.
Wilbur shrugged. "What's there to tell?" He responded, waving over the bartender again. "Same thing, please."
He got a nod in return. It was always nice when a bartender didn't ask questions. The bartender provides, and Wilbur pays. Simple as that. No need for friends, but the two regulars beside him didn't understand that.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Quackity continued. "But, just know I'm all ears. Not every day someone like you comes in. Most people just hang out at the tables and order a couple scones or something." He said casually, enunciating his words by snatching one of Wilbur's cooling rolls. Dream shook his head.
Wilbur snorted. "Surprised? What are you, a college kid?" He threw back another two shots the moment he got them, shaking his head with a grunt.
"Yep." Quackity said, popping the "p". "Not sure what I want to major in though. Techno's working on his doctorate in English," He gestured to the bartender. "Niki went for Culinary Arts. Dream over here is majoring in Computer Science to be with his boyfriend-"
"He's not my boyfriend!" Dream slapped Quackity's head, earning a glare from the bartender, Techno. Dream was blushing hard though; there was obviously a long-term detail Wilbur was missing.
"Anyway," Quackity waved his friend off, "I'm taking Law and Criminal Justice for the hell of it. Already a couple of years in, but I'm thinking about quitting."
"Don't." Wilbur cut in. "It's not worth it. Just finish your degree. A useless degree is better than none, trust me, and Law is pretty good. Makes you look smart on resumes."
"You sound like you're talking from experience."
He asked for another two shots. "I am."
So much for "no socialising". Nothing like a few drinks to make you do stuff you'll regret later, right? Hopefully, the only spilling of guts will be with words, not half-digested alcohol and stomach fluid.
Quackity kept talking as those two new shots were downed as quick as the other ones. He ignored Dream's look that screamed "Hey idiot! Don't go asking strangers about their personal lives!". Quackity was nothing if not nosy.
"Like I said," Quackity leaned in. "If you want to talk, I'm all ears. Besides," He tapped his pant pocket, a square box outlined in the fabric. "I'm always looking for new friends."
Cigarettes. Quackity was offering a cigarette. This Quackity guy was weird, but Wilbur's been down on his luck from the day he was born. It's surprisingly expensive to keep up an ugly habit.
The fire burning in Wilbur's gut gave him confidence. "I'm down." He slurred, the six shots catching up to him. "What do you wanna know?"
Techno was cleaning dirty glasses, watching the interaction. The brunette was too drunk to search for whatever expression the man may be holding. Quackity took another roll from the plate.
"Not much. Let's just get to know each other."
"Fair enough. If you wanna know, I did drop out of college." Wilbur smiled, a laugh on his lips. "Bachelor in Music, double majoring in Political Science."
The other two hummed. "I could see you doing music." Dream added in, now sucked into the promise of some fresh information. Wilbur laughed. "The Political Science came out of nowhere though. Taking music and politics? Why not choose one?" Dream asked honestly.
"They were my life's passions." He answered, nostalgic. "I always wanted to be a musician. Travelling the world, selling out concerts. People used to say I had a knack for words," Fingers traced around the empty shot glass in front of him. "Was always a scrawny kid. Harder to exercise than it is to convince the kids at school that it's not worth beating you up. Only thing is, you start saying something so much, people start to believe you." He laughed again, a weightless feeling entering his bones, sweeping away the lingering heaviness always there.
"Y'know, I was Student Council President four years in a row. They didn't even let underclassmen run! They saw my height and ran with it, no questions asked. It was only until I graduated that anybody actually noticed, and even then it was because they were surprised I wasn't running again!"
Dream and Quackity joined in the laughter. Wilbur preened at the sight. "No way!" Quackity took a moment to catch his breath. "But, but if you liked it so much, why'd you drop out?"
Wilbur's smile faded. He shrugged, heaviness sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders again. The whiskey and vodka sat like stones in his stomach. "Parents died. Little brother had nowhere to go, and no surviving relatives. Couldn't just...send him to the system..."
"...How...how old was he, if you don't mind me asking?" Dream frowned.
"Nine. It was his sixteenth birthday this year."
"Shit, man," Quackity rubbed Wilbur's shoulder in a pathetic attempt at comfort. Wilbur didn't spare him a look. "Sounds tough, but that's a good thing you did. You're a good brother, you know that?"
Dream agreed.
Wilbur huffed. "Yeah, right. What good brother spends every night drunk out of his mind at whatever random bar he can stumble upon?"
He sunk into his seat, arms crossed on the table in front of him. He knew he looked like shit. The epitome of a broken man, sitting drunk in front of two random college kids on a Wednesday night.
God, he's really hit a new low now, huh?
"That doesn't make you a bad brother." A new voice entered the conversation. Wilbur looked up to see pink hair in his unfocused vision. "Sorry, couldn't help but overhear. But seriously, you've got problems. That's for sure. Doesn't make you bad, though." Techno flipped the wash rag he was holding onto his shoulder. "What you should do, is go home." He shoved a finger into Wilbur's forehead, earning a scowl. "It's midnight, still early enough to be able to sober up before the schools open up. Go home, get some sleep, wake up and be there for your brother. That's what makes you a good brother."
Wilbur sat in stunned silence. Be there. Be there. As much as he'd hate to admit it, Techno's right. It's not like he's neglectful or anything, but Wilbur hasn't been there mentally in a while.
"Take care of yourself, too," Techno added. "You're all that kid's got. Don't throw that away."
He sighed, defeated. Standing up, he reached into his pocket, fumbling before pulling out two crumpled twenties and placing them on the bar.
"Thanks for the advice, I guess," Wilbur mumbled. "And for the drinks or something."
"No problem. Stop by again if you want. We could always use the customers," Techno shrugged. "And bring that kid too sometime. We don't only sell alcohol, y'know."
Wilbur knew an olive branch when he saw it. "Yeah yeah, I'll think about it." And it wasn't a lie either.
He sent a quick wave to Dream and Quackity, the latter pushing a fresh cigarette into his hand. Wilbur just pocketed it and turned to leave.
Phil tried to say goodbye, but Wilbur didn't hear him.
As he stumbled out the door, all Wilbur could think about was why those people were so nice for nothing in return.