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Part 4 of Pangerbon's Brain Rot Anonymous
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Published:
2023-02-12
Updated:
2023-03-18
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17,757
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3/15
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KING OF EVERYTHING

Summary:

Tommy had been called many things throughout his life but never thought 'homeless' would be one of them.

Wilbur had also been called a lot of things and tended to call himself those things too, 'alcoholic' certainly being somewhere on there.

Never once did either of them think they would end up where they were, especially not now, staring face-to-face at one another. Tommy, sitting against a grime-covered brick wall and Wilbur, under the influence and a doorframe holding a bag of empty bottles.

It wasn't until Wilbur cracked a lopsided smile and Tommy a grimace that it kicked off.

"Heh, raccoon."

---

|| tommy is a mute foster runaway living on the streets and wilbur is a hopeless drunk just trying to get by. they meet and form an unlikely friendship. ||

Title from King Of Everything by Dominic Fike

——

effectively abandoned and discontinued

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR ANY OF MY WORKS TO BE USED FOR AI - ANYONE FOUND USING MY FICS FOR THAT PURPOSE WILL BE TAKEN DOWN

Notes:

heyup--this is my take on the foster tommy runaway trope that's been in my recommended for literal years

take this little dodad while i work on my bigger works and try and get out of the choke hold that is writers block - hope you enjoy :)

oh also this is inspired by this amazing series by Guilty_Pleasuress called Almost Home its very good make sure to check it out if you haven't i was heavily inspired by their stuff to make this so pop over and maybe tell them i sent you - or dont im not ur dad

CW: vomiting, broken bones? (not really), referenced child abuse, alcohol mentioned (lemme know if theres any i missed n stay safe o/ )

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: WATCHIN’ MOVIES ON MY PHONE

Chapter Text

Thomas Simons had been described in a lot of different ways throughout his life.  

 

‘Loud,  obnoxious,  difficult,  problem child,  leach,  lost cause,  bastard,  rat,  attention whore’...  The list went on for a good while.

 

The word ‘homeless’,  however,  for a foster kid,  was just a fact wasn't it?  He didn't have a house,  or a home,  or a place,  or other synonyms for ‘living space.’  

 

He was by definition,  homeless.

 

Looking back though,  he had always had a roof over his head.  Even if it wasn't his own and ultimately temporary,  no matter how much his caseworker would tell him otherwise,  he was usually always out of the cold.  At least if he behaved and remained agreeable.  

 

His caseworker would always come back to fetch Tommy like a dog and drag him to a new placement with promises of,  “This is the one I can feel it,”   and  “You just have to be optimistic Tommy,”   Hell,   even the times he was locked in that shed he at least had a roof.  Sure it was claustrophobic and the source of his many nightmares and panic attacks,  but it was at least something right?

 

Maybe Tommy was just delusional,  but right now?  He kind of missed that disgusting shed.  He sighed.  He missed a lot of things.

 

If someone were to have told Tommy seven months ago that at sixteen he’d be dumpster diving in the back of some alleyway looking for literally anything edible,  he’d’ve probably insincerely commended them for their originality.

 

That was if he still spoke.

 

It would be four years in April.  

 

The thought almost made him stop.  Damn,   had it really been that long?

 

He glanced down at his right hand poking out of his sleeve.  The appendage was covered in a white (more grey now) cast that went up to about mid-forearm.  He remembered being told to tell the doctors he fell.

 

He also remembered the look on his case worker's face when he saw the state he’d been in.  The man had also been the only one to sign it,  trying to cheer Tommy up.  It was a nice gesture but only served to make Tommy more miserable.

 

Safe to say it would be a hot minute before he’d get it off.

 

He figured it’d hurt quite a bit to get hit in the face with whatever these were made of,  so he guessed it had the potential to come in handy.

 

If the situation ever presented itself.

 

Though it definitely wasn't comfortable to sleep on that was for sure.

 

Even before and surly after he’d experienced and heard it all.  Every insult,  every punishment,  every rule,  every joke,  every word.   He’d heard and done all of it and the majority were pretty lazy quite frankly.

 

But even now,  fingers deep in someone's old takeaway box,  he still couldn't really believe it.

 

He always kind of figured that he’d eventually bounce from house to house with clenched teeth before inevitably growing out of the system like so many before him.  He didn't really expect to be homeless at sixteen.  But then again,  did anyone expect to be homeless?

 

He guessed not.

 

Tommy groaned near silently when he tossed the box to the back of the dumpster.  Nothing.   Who knew people were so stingy about wasting food these days?  He then nearly doubled over as he felt his stomach yell and turn,  screaming at him for the lack of sustenance he'd fed it lately.  He felt nauseous.  He felt disgusting.  

 

He grumbled when the feeling of his stomach trying to digest itself subsided.  He knew he should probably be worried.  After all,  he's always been a naturally slim person,  he didn’t think he had much mass to lose.  

 

‘This is pointless,’   Tommy thought as he sighed,  ‘how did you get here Simons?’

 

He didn't get an answer.  Predictably.  He didn't have an answer.  That's what happened when one talked to themself.  He's honestly too exhausted to even think,   let alone fucking sift through the rubbish like some rodent.  

 

‘This is pathetic..’

 

He huffed and rolled his jumper sleeves up higher on his elbows and carried on.  What else could he do after all?  Besides,  this was a big complex,  there had to be something.

 

So stubbornly,  Tommy kept going.  

 

He dug until there was nothing left to dig through.  Nothing besides a tied-up Tescos bag was left at the bottom.  Someone must have recently cleaned the bin out with how little there was.

 

Sighing,  Tommy reached for the lone bag,  grasping the bunny ear-like knot and pulling it out.  He turned and pressed his backpack covered back against the outside wall of the dumpster and began trying to untie the plastic.  He struggled to get his stupid cold fingers into the knot,  the cold making the limbs basically useless.  Eventually,  he huffed in annoyance and just decided to rip the flimsy material open because fuck plastic.

 

His eyes widened comically large as they landed on a package of tiny chocolate doughnuts.

 

Holy fuck..   

 

Tommy puffed out a shocked breath,  gently removing the package from the torn confines and bringing it closer to his face.  He turned the package over and saw that it was completely unopened.

 

Holy fuck—holy fuck-!

 

He rushed to rip open the packaging and haphazardly throw it behind himself.  He hadn't eaten chocolate in who knows how long,  these tiny pastries looked like a five-course meal.  Once the packaging had been torn open Tommy paused.  In his dirty,  cold hands,  were six,  untouched,  mini chocolate doughnuts.  

 

He's sure he looked absurd as he felt the pricks of tears in his eyes.  

 

Thank you thank you thank you-

 

He’d chant if he spoke as his fingers came to gingerly pluck a doughnut from its home next to the others.  His stomach growled loudly as he brought the pasty to his lips,  and then,  without wasting any more time,  sunk his teeth into it.

 

Now,  Tommy was a big man,  the self-proclaimed biggest man,  and he hadn't cried in years.  Not after that one house.   He promised himself he wouldn't let anyone see him so.. weak.   But right now,  Thomas Simons,   the biggest man to ever live,  was about to sob over a doughnut.  He hadn't eaten in three fuckin’ days,  okay,  sue him.

 

Quickly,  without thinking at all he shoved the rest in his mouth and then proceeded to do the same with the others.  Crumbs fell from his round cheeks and chocolate was definitely smeared across his lips and jaw,  but right now Tommy couldn't give a shit less.

 

It was so fucking good.

 

He personally wanted to thank whoever made these because they must have been a fucking god.   Fucking hell this was probably the best thing Tommy had ever eaten,  right up there with that one california roll he stole from a foster sister's plate once.  

 

He got one hell of a beating but it was so worth it;  nothing had ever tasted better.  If he imagined it hard enough he could still taste it.  

 

He remembered being so hungry and pissed that he had to watch them eat at the table while he was forced to sit on the floor.  He wasn't even allowed to have what they were having,  instead,  he had his special food.  He was young,  so much younger than he was now,  but even in grade school,  Tommy could tell it was wrong.  Looking back he's almost a hundred per cent sure he was forced to eat cat food.   Sometimes he could still taste that too.

 

Before Tommy’d even realized what he'd done,  the doughnuts were gone.  He blinked as he was left with an empty wrapper and speckled paper,  standing there with unshed tears and chocolate on his fingers.  

 

He then snorted,  and that turned into wheezes and then eventually to silent laughter.  His lungs expelled air and he put his hands on his knees as he folded over himself.  His shoulders shook and his cheeks hurt.

 

He must have looked absolutely fucking mental.   Standing in an alleyway,  chocolate on his mouth and fingers,  and laughing his ass off while tears stuck to his eyelashes.  

 

It must have been a sight,  to say the least.  He wouldn't blame anyone for thinking he’d gone mad or some shit.  

 

Eventually,  Tommy calmed down,  now just lightly chuckling at himself as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and his fingers on his jeans.  Gods know his clothes won't look any different.

 

Tommy sighed,  turning back to the dumpster and walking back up to the lid.  He pretty much looked everywhere,  but what if there was another hidden gem?  

 

So he started his routine over again,  digging through the pile once more just in case he missed something.  

 

And then he felt something horrifying.  His stomach flipped.  Tommy's eyes widened as he froze,  dropping the bag he was shaking.  His face palled as his stomach did another summersault,  his mouth rapidly filling with sickly sweet saliva.

 

He remembered in the earlier months when he had recently run away,  some homeless guy he had been hanging around told him not to eat so much so quickly,  especially after going long periods without food.  Tommy had asked him why while helping the guy look through a pile of trash outside some restaurant.  The man had said something about the stomach not being used to it,  and that it could make someone nauseous and potentially—

 

Tommy gagged wetly.

 

At the time,  Tommy had just nodded absentmindedly,  not particularly invested in the conversation.  But now,  he was regretting not being more attentive.

 

Fuck fuck fuck!

 

He shouldn't’ve eaten those doughnuts so fast!  Why was he such an-

 

He braced himself as his body lurched forward,  the doughnuts and a healthy amount of his stomach acid were forced out of him.  His hands curled around the dirty lid of the dumpster for dear life,  his cast-covered arm banging on the metal.  He would've been disgusted at the grime if he wasn't busy yacking his guts out.   

 

He gasped for breath,  his eyes stinging as water was forced from his tear ducts.  His stomach clenched and squeezed,  forcing more than he had until he was just pathetically dry heaving.  

 

Not soon enough,  his hell came to an end.  And as he wretched one more time he was finally able to suck in air.  His breathing was heavy and rapid and chopped as he forced oxygen into lungs that didn't even seem all too eager judging by the way they burned with every clipped breath.

 

Traitors.

 

He suddenly gasped high and loud,  startling even himself with the sound.  It was a noise he couldn't control as his heartbeat grew rapid.  He staggered back from the dumpster and turned until his worn backpack hit a brick wall.  A hand came up to clutch at his chest and he slowly fell to his knees.  He tried desperately to right his breathing,  deciding that having a fucking panic attack in a place like this was not something he would consider very ‘ pogchamp’.

 

He tried to remember how to breathe.  He was shown one time-  fuck how did it go again?  In for four seconds,  hold for four,  out for four,  hold for four?  

 

Yeah,  that-  that sounded right?

 

Tommy didn't know how long it took for him to feel like he wasn't dying,   but eventually,  he was able to sigh long and heavy.  His body sagged against the brick and his knees fell apart.  His hands grazed the pavement and his chin dropped to his chest.

 

A bone-deep tiredness washed over him completely,  blanketing him in it.

 

He looked disgusting.  He was sure of it.  

 

Tommy could feel tears and snot drying on his face,  not to mention the bile he could taste on his tongue that he's sure was staining his lips too.  But at that moment,  Tommy doesn't know if he cared.

 

Jesus Christ.

 

Jesus fucking Christ.

 

He put his head in his hands,  mindful of the rough cast,  pulling his legs up and letting his hand-covered face lay on his knees.

 

It was at times like this that Tommy really wanted to cry.  Have a good sob maybe.  But he couldn't.  Because crying meant that he was weak and that they were right.   Tommy wasn't weak.  He wasn't.

 

Tommy was so completely and unbelievably stupid.  How could he have waisted something like that?  He had six perfectly good doughnuts.  And he went and waisted it.  He fucking waisted it.   So yes,  Tommy was one stupid,  weak bitch.

 

He whimpered,  pushing his face further into his hands and shuffling his feet closer to himself.  He bit his bottom lip hard,  holding in another gross noise.  At this point,  crying would only be a waste of water.

 

‘Fuck..’  

 

He whimpered brokenly,  his voice was hoarser than it usually was and cracked.  

 

Four years of silence would do that to a person.

 

His throat protested him making any kind of sound with the pain it sent down his oesophagus.

 

His hands migrated apathetically from his face to thread through his dirty,  tangled hair.  He gripped it,  feeling the pain in his scalp and then slowly letting go,  only to do it a few more times.  The harsh plaster of his dirty cast scraped against his scalp which only added.

 

As fucked as it was,  the pain grounded him;  allowed him to focus.  

 

He turned his head slightly to look out the backstreet and then grumbled in annoyance as he returned to his previous position.

 

It was getting darker,  Tommy knew.  He knew he should probably get up soon and start his walk— another helpful homeless tip.   The guy was nice enough,  that was until he got arrested for having heroin on him or some shit.  Tommy doesn't think he could blame him though.  It was hard enough to just exist,   so anything to get through the day right?

 

Tommy grumbled as he felt his skin start to itch.  Right…

 

Just as Tommy was about to make the unfortunate move to stand and keep going instead of sitting there and just perishing,   something made him freeze.

 

Across from him,  in the flat complex,  he heard a voice,  or rather a laugh.   

 

Now that wouldn't have been a problem if the noise wasn't specifically getting quickly and progressively louder.  

 

But it definitely was.

 

His head snapped up to the metal door that he was quite literally sitting in ajacent to.  

 

His heart rate spiked as he swiftly realized that the voice was probably going to eventually come out of said door.   He needed to leave-  he needed to leave like now Simons move your ass!

 

He soon came to the horrifying realization that couldn't move.  Why couldn't he move?!   It was like his body was offline.   

 

And in a moment that happened both too slow and way too fucking fast,  the metal door thrust open.  Tommy flinched hard,  his eyes flicking to the figure standing in the doorway.  His nose scrunched when the familiar stink of alcohol hit him like a truck.  

 

Jesus fuck-

 

“I know old man!”  The man shouted behind him as he chuckled.  Tommy could hear something being yelled back,  but he couldn't make out what it was.  Not like he was particularly trying that hard.  No,  he was more focused on his current situation.  That being the stranger standing before him.

 

The man was tall,  like had to duck under the doorway tall and could probably kick Tommy's scrawny little ass if he wanted.  He had curly brown hair that drooped over his forehead and covered his right eye like some bullshit OC.  He was holding a black rubbish bag,  his cheeks were rosy and his eyes looked unfocused.  To top it all off the dude was dressed like a paperboy from the 1950s.  

 

What the fuck.

 

The man froze as soon as he saw Tommy,  the smile he was wearing drooped slightly.  Tommy flinched again,  not expecting their eyes to meet making his body go stock still.

 

Oh,  fuck me-

 

Tommy noticed the man sway a bit before righting his balance,  and Tommy had enough experience to know the guy was definitely drunk.  The man's behaviour struck a memory in Tommy making his brain scream at him to get the fuck outta there while he still could.   But Tommy couldn't,  he was frozen.

 

The man looked Tommy up and down,  making Tommy shiver before his eyes were back on his.  

 

The man then snorted,  the unexpected noise making Tommy jump.  And then a smile was spread into the man's cheeks.  

 

“Raccoon,”   The man slurred through a pretentious posh accent.

 

Tommy blinked,  seemingly pulled out of the trance with one word.  Pardon?   Now,  Tommy had never been one to think before he did anything really,  so of course,  his instant reaction was to scowl and shift himself further into the wall.

 

He wanted to curse the man out,  tell him to go fuck himself.

 

But Tommy knew he couldn't.  He hadn't spoken in fucking four years,   what made him think he could talk now?

 

So he did the next best thing,  he flipped the man the bird.

 

His stomach jumped with fear immediately for the actions of his idiot brain and hands,  but he was far too stubborn to back down now and in too deep to even think of doing so.  So he just deepened his scowl and swallowed the lump in his throat,  standing his ground even though historically that had only resulted with less than exceptional results.  

 

Another description to add to the list he supposed.   

 

Fuck this guy-  who the hell did he think he was?!   Okay,  sure Tommy was sitting in assumedly this dude's alleyway,  and sure it was technically private property- but fuck him anyway and his stupid fucking face and dumb button-down and-  ..was he fucking barefoot??

 

The curly-haired man snickered,  making Tommy's nose upturn.  

 

“‘M I wrong?”   He said,  a smirk filled with mirth and a hiccup escaping his throat.

 

Tommy wanted to spit something back,  something snarky and offensive and would definitely seal his fate with a beating,  but just like every time the urge to speak crept up his throat,  a horrible memory replayed like a projector at the front of his brain.  It never ceased to shut Tommy up every time without fail.

 

Despite the edge of fear coursing through his veins,  he sat defiantly,  more based on his fight or flight response than his own personality at this point,  but it didn't really matter.  His eyes hardened as he watched the guy chuckle and almost fall backwards with the shuffling of his feet.

 

What a clown.

 

The man hummed,  “Pretty shit at conversation ain'tcha,”  

 

Tommy was getting sick and tired of seeing this fucks stupid easy smile.  He wanted to punch the smug look off his face,  though if he tried the dude would probably level Tommy instantly.  

 

He didn't speak,  total shocker.  Just levelled the man with a stern,  unimpressed look.

 

He shook his head a bit as if to ask why he even cared in the first place,  squinting and furrowing his brows for further effect.

 

Why couldn't he just mind his own god damn business??

 

The man just laughed at him,  his eyes crinkling at the corners as somehow read Tommy's mind.  He slurred,  “You're in my backstreet kid,  that's my business.”

 

How the hell-

 

Tommy's face must have given away how baffled he felt because the man started cackling,  head thrown back as a hand came up to hold his stomach like some cartoon character.

 

Tommy huffed at the display.  He looked like an ass,  but..  He did have a point.   As infuriating as it was,  Tommy was technically trespassing.

 

Tommy followed the movement with watchful eyes as the man sucked in a steadying breath and moved to speak again,  but didn't get the chance to as right then a voice boomed from beyond the door's threshold,  interrupting him.  Tommy jumped when the voice shouted from inside past the open doorway,  he grumbled internally at the loud volume.

 

“How longs it take to take rubbish out mate—did you fall in?!”   

 

The man's head then turned to the door and a bigger smile lazily spread across his face to replace the other one,  seemingly completely forgetting Tommy was even there.  The boy would have been offended if the feeling of the man's eyes off him didn't make his shoulders relax.

 

“I’m workin’ on it!”  Was shouted back,  the man turning more into the doorway and raising a hand to amplify his voice.  The voice shouted something back but Tommy couldn't hear it very well.  Turns out the man didn't either,  stepping a little more into the opening to shout a “What?!” up at the other.

 

Tommy squinted and moved a bit,  leaning over slightly to try and see past the man and into the building.  All he could really see was a staircase on the left and then a hallway that looked to just lead to an opposing door.  Then reason suddenly hit Tommy square in the chest like a bullet,  and he realized how fucking stupid he was being.

 

He quickly,  and definitely without struggling at all,  big men don't struggle ,  stood on unsteady legs.  His hand came out to hold the wall as his vision dipped for a moment,  and the other held his stomach as it decided then that it wanted attention too.  

 

Man,  fuck today.

 

He blinked hard,  trying to get his eyes to fucking do their job,   and started to move forward when he began being able to see again.  

 

He moved quickly,  using the man's distracted state to slip past.  As much as he liked the back and forth (rather the large walls keeping the sharp wind off his back),  he didn't particularly want the man to call the cops on him.  He was technically trespassing,  after all.  Private property,  innit?

 

Tommy was almost to the end of the backstreet when he flinched at a voice calling out to him.  Fuck he was almost there.

 

“H-hey!   Raccoon Boy!”

 

‘Raccoon boy!?’

 

Again with the raccoon comment?  This guy must think he's- soo -funny.

 

Tommy moved a bit faster,  taking his hand off the wall to walk quicker.  

 

‘Fuck off!’   He wanted to shout back,  but because he couldn't,  he settled on his next best course of action.  He flipped the man off for the second time that day.  He felt smug about it before he grimaced at the realization that the man could have him arrested for even being there in the first place.  He was almost glad he couldn't speak,  fewer instances for him to get into trouble. 

 

He really hoped the man wouldn't call the police.

 

Tommy could hear the man shout out to him once more before he was finally on the pavement.  He didn't reply after that,  just started running down the block as quickly as he could.  He avoided the stares he got from the couple of people on the pavement,  keeping his head down as he ran as far as he could stand.  

 

His running staggered when he reached a turning point and he allowed himself to pause for a moment,  lungs generously swallowing oxygen.  He rested his hands on his knees as he righted his breathing.  He felt another bout of nausea as he came back up,  making him have to lean against the nearest object.  A lovely lamppost was his support, he'd probably thank it if he was able.  

 

Glancing around he noticed he was in a quieter part of the city,  maybe he could find another backstreet dumpster that didn't have creeps in them.

 

So with a sigh and a hand around his middle,  Tommy made the unfortunate decision to keep going;  forcing his feet to move in any direction.  He had been told that it was better to sleep during the day and move at night.  The sun was his best blanket,  he was told.

 

So he walked just to walk and maybe stopped if he thought he could find something in a rubbish bin.

 

It was another long and tiring night alone.

 

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Chapter 2: TURN IT AS LOUD AS IT GOES

Summary:

Wilbur's point of view isn't much better

Notes:

CW: alcoholism (this shouldn't be funny but it is im sorry) stay safe :)

Chapter Text

 

There wasn't a particular moment when Wilbur realized it had gone too far,  that he had a real problem.  It just kind of turned from something he did during celebrations to semi-occasionally ,   to eventually an everyday kind of thing.  He didn't even bat an eye at the now weekly non-food trips to the corner store or the new empty bottle of vodka on his counter every couple days.  

 

Both his parents had been known to drink pretty regularly,  so it was just an eventuality that he would too.  He even found a way to make content off it.  Just go live under the guise of a ‘drunk stream’ and watch the viewers pour in.  Though these days those streams never went uninterrupted with a call from Mister Minecraft himself.

 

He didn't use to do that.  But ever since the incident Wilbur thinks he felt he needed to.

 

It wasn't until Phil had said something to him the first time that the word was finally dropped into his head for real.  He had wondered a couple of times.  The few times he let himself be fully alone with his thoughts it popped up in the form of a question.  But he never took it seriously,  just shrugged it off and went to make himself ‘tea’.

 

But after he went to hospital under Phil's order following a pretty heavy argument,  he was forever labelled and stamped with that ugly brand.

 

Alcoholic.  

 

William (Wilbur Soot) Gold was a high-functioning alcoholic.  

 

Even after all these months,  he still had nightmares about that night.  The night he gave his closest friend a horrible black eye,  forcing the man to take a week-long break from his job because of him.  Wilbur immediately regretted it as soon as his fist made contact with the other’s cheek,  a blanket of guilt washing over him like a tidal wave.  And what made Wilbur feel even guiltier was the look Phil sent him.  

 

Disbelief,  betrayal,  and hurt were all etched into his features.  And behind his eyes,  was something Wilbur would never forget for as long as he lived.  Something that told Wilbur he had been expecting this,  that this was merely an eventuality rather than a spur-of-the-moment pissed-off mistake.   

 

And that was what cut the deepest.  

 

When Phil told him he was driving him to hospital,  Wilbur didn't argue.  He just slid on a coat and shuffled into some shoes and promptly followed Phil out the door.

 

It only got worse after that confirmation though.  

 

Phil tried to act like everything was normal,  tried to be subtle about getting Wilbur help.  And Wilbur felt too guilty to call him out,  so he just played along even though he had no intention of getting sober.  

 

He didn't need people telling him what was wrong with him,  he was the one who had to live in his own head for gods’ sake.

 

Wilbur had always been kind of a bastard.  He didn't necessarily want to be,  but hey,  he played the hand he was dealt.  What else could he do?

 

So Wilbur,  more often than not these days,  spent his time drowning in various alcoholic beverages to the displeasure and disappointment of his friend.

 

After years of destroying his liver,  he’d developed a pretty wicked tolerance.  Most of the time when he drank it wasn't enough to get him wasted,   but buzzed enough to make life more manageable.  Wilbur needed all the help he could get in that regard.

 

Phil had managed to talk Wilbur into seeing someone.  

 

He tried to quit,  get himself straight or whatever a couple times even.  Though it was more for Phil’s sake than his own if he was honest.

 

He'd even been to a few group therapy sessions in his time.  But no matter what he did,  nothing seemed to work.  

 

He’d be clean for a month,  maybe more and then something would happen and he’d go crawling back.  It was pathetic really,  and he knew it.  He knew how much of a degenerate he’d become.  And he knew that the people around him were only a thread break away from leaving his sorry ass.  He would deserve it too.

 

He couldn't even stand himself.   How was he supposed to expect others to care about him when he himself couldn't give less of a fuck?

 

But even then,  for some ungodly reason,  people stuck around.  And by ‘people’ he meant Mr Philza Minecraft himself.

 

Phil wasn't like Wilbur,  he had his life together.  A lovely wife,  loyal fans,  and...  Oh yeah—he wasn't a raging alcoholic.

 

Truly living the life a man could only dream of.

 

On the off occasion that they weren't working,  Phil streaming and Wilbur in the studio,  they would hang out.  Pretty regularly now that Wilbur thought about it.  Unfortunately for him,  Phil’s presence only really prevented him from drinking.  He always managed to find a way through.

 

In all honesty,  Phil probably hung out with him so often to inhibit his bad habits.  Not like that ever really stopped Wilbur.  His tea was almost always spiked with Smirnoff or Belvedere for gods’ sakes,  it didn't take a forensic scientist to look through his recycling.

 

Today,  however,  seemed to be Wilbur's lucky day though.  Somehow,  he managed to convince his older friend to throw a couple back with the idea that they’d been working hard recently and deserved to relax. 

 

Phil had agreed on the pretence of only allowing them a couple,   but now a bottle of Jameson and half a Smirnoff gone,  the promise of ‘ only a few’ was super forgotten. 

 

Wilbur nodded along as he refilled Phil's glass,  the man busy ranting about a new terms of service change Wilbur was honestly too buzzed to focus on.  He just dumbly hummed,  pulling the bottle of vodka away from Phil's cup before taking a long swig for himself.

 

“S’ bullshit I tell ya’,  can't believe they’d even implement somethin’ so backward!”  Phil slurred,  motioning with his drink in annoyance before taking a big gulp.

 

Wilbur nodded along,  injecting a couple of hums as he listened.  He didn't have any rightly idea what Phil was so pissed about.  He hadn't heard of a new site change,  but then again he hadn't been on Twitter since he ended his stream at three.

 

Phil then started giggling,  and Wilbur looked at him from across the counter with an amused smile,  eventually joining in on the drunk laughter.

 

“What’s so funny Philza? ”  Wilbur asked between chuckles,  over-enunciating the man's IGN.

 

Phil's smile then suddenly dropped off the face of the earth as he stared blankly and said with as much coordination he could muster,  “I hate this song.”  

 

Wilbur sputtered,  “ Was that it??

 

The other man just nodded,  trying valiantly to hold onto his stoic expression before breaking almost instantly and wheezing like a person with an extra lung.

 

Wilbur shook his head in amused disbelief,  shoulders shaking with his as he choked out a high-pitched giggle.

 

“I'll change it then old man.”  Wilbur turned around,  leaving the half bottle of vodka on the island as he reached for his charging phone.  He tilted it up towards his face and then hit shuffle again.

 

He skipped a couple of songs before eventually landing on a Minecraft parody.  He snorted,  how the hell did this get in there??

 

He was half tempted to leave it when he heard a groan from behind him.

 

“No work!  You know the rules!”  

 

Wilbur shook his head,  “Hardly my work anymore is it?”  but obliged even though the Captain was a god,  rules were rules.  

 

He decided the song that played after was good enough,  and receiving no complaints from the older male,  he left it.

 

When he turned back around ready to keep drinking,  he was met with a far sombrer sight he didn't think he wanted to deal with.  Phil just had this look in his eyes,  a look Wilbur had seen too many times now.  

 

“Wil,”  Phil started,  a finger tapping at the rim of his now empty glass.

 

Wilbur decided to humour him,  figuring Phil was getting to the point in his ‘drunk arc’ where he got sappy.  It was bound to happen eventually as it always did,  but it didn't usually happen this early.

 

Wilbur only hummed,  bringing the bottle to his red lips and taking several big gulps.  He wasn't nearly drunk enough for what was to come.

 

Phil watched his friend practically chug the rest of the bottle with eyes filled with too much sadness.  When Wilbur pulled the object from his mouth with a gasp and slight grunt Phil moved his gaze to the side.  

 

“I…”  He swallowed,  trying to find the right words,  “I can't do this anymore.”  He finally settled for.  He was keeping his head down to keep himself blind to Wilbur's reaction.

 

And Wilbur blinked,  he was too drunk for this.  Or was he too sober?   He honestly couldn't tell anymore,  belly warm with mixed drinks and slow-rising anxiety.

 

His cotton-filled brain lagged behind and was unable to fully register what Phil was saying.  Was he getting broken up with right now??   It sure sounded like a breakup.  Wilbur was no stranger to that,  but Phil too??  The man was married!

 

Staring at the man,  Wilbur waited for him to elaborate or explain or anything.  But he didn't,  just sat at Wilbur's kitchen island with his eyes unyieldingly boring holes in his glass cup.

 

Wilbur's eyes flicked off as he chuckled awkwardly,  before furrowing his brows in Phil's direction.  “What’d’ya mean?”

 

Phil's shoulders scrunched up before leaning back in his chair and gesturing out.  “This,”   He motioned to Wilbur going for another swig,  “you…”  He said the last bit with a bit of reverence and Wilbur stilled,  the bottle falling from his lips.

 

“Me..?”   Wilbur made a confused noise,  scoffing a bit,  “Sorry Phil,  I-...I'm not quite sure I—”

 

“Don't you see what I'm doing??”   Phil's voice wavered dangerously and that made Wilbur stop entirely.  This was leading somewhere he definitely didn't want to deal with.  He was never good at comforting people who were upset. 

 

Especially when they were upset with him.

 

“I'm—”  Phil's eyes darted to his open palms,  flicking between the two.  His head then fell into his hands,  “I'm enabling you.”

 

Wilbur flinched.

 

Enabling.

 

Enabling what?   His alcoholism??

 

The thought almost made Wilbur snort.

 

...Did Phil feel…  Responsible?

 

Wilbur's eyes widened.  

 

Phil felt responsible.

 

Wilbur’s knee-jerk reaction was to scoff and roll his eyes,  which he almost did but caught himself.  He was a bastard,  sure,  but he wasn't an asshole,  especially not to his drunk and emotionally vulnerable friends.  

 

Friend.

 

He settled with a sigh,  placing the quarter-full bottle on the marble before threading a hand through his hair. 

 

“Phil,”  Wilbur tried,  but couldn't continue with his self-deprecating spiel he’d said a hundred times already when he met Phil's guilty eyes.

 

Jesus Christ,  Gold—get it together.

 

“Listen,  you're not “enabling me” or whatever you said.  If anything I'm enabling myself.”  Wilbur tried to sound convincing but found he was failing horribly by the even guiltier look Phil sank into.

 

Fuck.

 

“But I am.”  Phil sounded on the verge of tears,   which was a big red flashing ‘uh oh’ for big man Wilbur.

 

Phil looked at his hands again,  “I know you have a problem—you've told me,”  he clenched his hands into tight balls.  “I should be helping you,  not—“  He cut himself off,  looking around wildly before grabbing the pretty much empty bottle from the counter,  “-Not indulging in your addictions with you!”  He shook the bottle for emphasis and then slammed it back on the counter with a harsh sound.

 

It was a miracle the thing didn't shatter all over the place.  It sure sounded like it should’ve.

 

Wilbur recoiled,  not at the volume but the word.   

 

He knew he was an addict— of course,   he knew he wasn't daft;  that wasn't new to him.  He’d been told for years by whatever doctor or therapist or clinic.   And it had always just been a fact.  Like obviously,   no healthy individual drank a bottle of whiskey every two bloody days.  But when Phil said it…  He didn't know,  it just felt different off his friend's tongue.

 

Wilbur rubbed the back of his neck as he sighed,  “My problems are my own,  nothing about you drinking with me changes any of that.”  He turned away slightly so he was no longer looking at Phil.  He doesn't think he could look him in the eyes right now.

 

“My choices are mine and mine alone,  Phil,”  Wilbur turned fully towards the cupboards and reached for a clean glass.  He then moved towards the sink and flicked the water on;  when the cup was full he pulled away.  He then set it on the island and pushed it silently towards his friend,  leaning himself on the marble countertop.  “So don't blame yourself,  yeah?  If I wanted to stop I—“  He swallowed before continuing in a lower tone that carried far too much weight than he was comfortable,  “…I would've by now.”

 

Wilbur mumbled the last bit,  letting his eyes lazily wander out to the dark window of his kitchen.  It was getting colder by the day,  the season gradually changing and ushering in colder and more unforgiving weather.  

 

He hummed,  “Hey,”  He tilted his head,  his eyes slightly following a crack on the pavement he could see,  “if it makes you feel better I'll maybe - big maybe here -  be up for trying that one place you and Krist—”

 

It was only when he heard a sniffle that he snapped his head to face the source of the noise.  

 

His eyes widened when he saw the state his friend was in,  tears streaming down his face and snot running from his nose.  He was shuddering and failing pretty miserably to wipe his face in time.  

 

“H- hey—”

 

“I-I'm sorry mate,  I-I don't know w-why I—“ Phil hiccuped and was thrown into another shudder,  not quite sobbing yet but Wilbur was sure that if he let his friend go long enough he’d eventually work himself there.

 

Wilbur wasn't sure what to do exactly.  He should probably do something,   this was his fault after all.

 

He ran a hand through his hair again,  fingers catching on a knot before he chuckled lightly.  He then reached behind him to grab a roll of paper towels before nudging them to Phil.  

 

Phil looked up silently and Wilbur smiled sadly,  “You're so drunk.”

 

Phil then chuckled wetly,  his laughter cutting off periodically to hiccup and wipe the salt from his cheeks.  Wilbur smiled sadly at the display,  shoulders shaking silently with him.

 

“No,  but really,”  Wilbur pushed the glass as well as the paper towels closer to him,  “you’re exceptionally drunk,  mate,  please drink that so we can go back to having a good night,  yeah?”

 

This earned another light yet sad chuckle.  Phil reached to grab the tissues and the water,  slowly taking a few sips before he tore a square of paper and whipped his eyes.

 

Wilbur smiled softly.  He hated to admit that Phil was a really good friend,  even if he constantly pressured Wilbur to get help.  Wilbur knew he was just doing that because he cared.  

 

Even though he wished he didn't more times than not.

 

“You'll really do it though?”

 

Wilbur slowly lifted his eyes up,  “Hm?”

 

“Go to that clinic we told you about?  For real this time?”

 

Oh,  that.   

 

Now that Wilbur was reminded he said that he was starting to regret it.  Clinics were… hard.   Especially because of what he did for work.  He was practically a distracting floater sliding across the public’s eye.

 

Phil seemed to notice his hesitance right away.  “I know you never wanted to because of your image—”

 

Wilbur winced.

 

“—but this one’s in a small town so the chances of someone recognizing you in there is really slim and—”

 

“Calm down old man,”  Wilbur breathlessly chuckled,  trying to stall the conversation,  “you'll give yourself a heart attack.”

 

Phil scoffed,  taking another sip of water,  “I'm serious Wil,”

 

Wilbur nodded lowly,  his smile slowly slipping,  “I know you are.”

 

“I'm just worried about you,  mate.  I know not a lot of people know you're strugglin’,  but we all care the same.”

 

Wilbur almost laughed at that.  It wasn't just a few people— it was literally just Phil and his bloody wife.   

 

Maybe his parents if they bothered to contact him at all or his step-sister but that was pushing it.

 

Nobody was close enough to notice and he wasn't dumb enough to tell either.  And those drunk streams?  His tolerance was so high that he had to really try to get proper drunk anymore.  Besides,  that hardly counted and he rarely went live these days anyway,  too busy with the band and its rising success.  

 

He hid it well enough and made sure to carry a bottle of strong perfume everywhere he went.  He wasn't ever anything more than a bit tipsy anyway.  

 

“I know Phil,  thank you...”  He recited robotically,  having gone down this road on more than one occasion.

 

He made the fatal mistake of looking into his friend's eyes.  Once he was there he was utterly fucked.  The pleading look flooded his visual and Wilbur sucked in a sharp breath.  

 

He decided he really was too drunk to deal with this.

 

God damnnit—

 

Wilbur sighed,  “Fine yeah,  fuck it.”  He relented with no real intent,  nails digging into the soft palm of his hand.

 

He shook his head,  smiling uneasily at his friend and trying to ignore the way his hands itched to grab the unattended bottle of scotch.

 

He sucked in a hollow breath,  almost amping himself up to lie to his best friend.  

 

He really was a bastard,  wasn't he?

 

“I'll do it for you,  Phil,  you and Kristin.”  Wilbur said without even a shred of hesitance.  And wasn't that just the kicker?  How easy it was to say it,  to make a promise he knew he’d never keep.  Wouldn't even try to.   All to end a conversation of genuine concern and care.

 

It almost scared him how unapologetic he was about it.

 

‘Way to go,  Wil,  you’ve successfully become everything you hated.’

 

Phil's eyes widened to twice their normal size as he swallowed a mouth of water,  “Wh—a re you sure??”

 

‘What’s it like?’

 

Wilbur reluctantly nodded,  forcing a tightlipped smile,  “Yeah,  why not?”  He lied through his teeth as easily as he swiped Phil's drink from the counter and tipped his head back,  quickly downing the rest of the remaining liquid in one,  big gulp.  It burned addictively down his throat and he savoured it,  the taste seared into his memory at this point and was barely a bother anymore.

 

He was so used to it he didn't even need a chaser.  How cool and impressive.

 

‘Like cheap booze.’   He holloly replied to himself.

 

Phil smiled brightly at him,  practically beaming,   and Wilbur tried to smile back - tried to match Phil's excitement,  but he couldn't quite make it reach his eyes.  The chance of something like rehab working for a guy like Wilbur was slim at best,  and Wilbur knew that.  Especially since Wilbur didn't want to get sober.

 

So why was he even agreeing to something like this?   Wilbur was kind of hoping Phil wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning.  

 

And how could Wilbur say no to Phil?  

 

It was a trick question;  He couldn't.  He was forever fucked the moment he joined that stupid discord call.  But even so,  he doesn't think he would go back and change it,  even if he could.  

 

Lying tasted like cheap wine.

 

Wilbur managed to convince Phil to let him finish off the remaining whiskey and vodka,  which he did a bit too eagerly and to the sad and semi-disappointed iris of his guest.

 

It would've been a waste of perfectly good alcohol after all.  And after Wilbur was feeling great,   the warmth in his stomach started to spread to the rest of his limbs,  leaving his face with a nice red flush.  

 

He was well buzzed,  maybe even a bit tipsy if he was being liberal,  and after that depressing conversation,  he needed it.   

 

Phil tried to get him to drink some water,  but Wilbur declined.  Phil tried to protest,  tried to almost force the liquid down his throat,  but Wilbur was anything if not a stubborn bastard.  Eventually,  Phil stopped trying and let Wilbur's drunk ass dance around his flat,  though Phil practically held any more booze hostage from the brunette.

 

His poor wine cabinet!

 

After a few more minutes of Phil trying (pleading) to convince Wilbur to drink some water,  they compromised on tea.  The pair eventually ended up on Wilbur's couch watching some nature documentary,  mugs of tea in their hands and a blanket over their legs.  

 

It was comfortable,  a moment between them and them alone.  Wilbur cherished these types of moments.  

 

The documentary then started explaining the lives of anteaters,  and Wilbur couldn't help himself;  prime opportunity and all.  The bit didn't end when he turned off his camera it seemed.

 

He started scoffing and fake gagging at the animals on screen any chance he got.  Phil called him out for being ridiculous because of course he did,  which obviously only spurred Wilbur on further.  

 

They went back and forth on the ‘issue’ for a major chunk of the film,  eventually ending when Phil got tired of arguing over something so trivial and Wilbur declared he had won,  getting another scoff from his side.

 

“You wanna order food?”  Wilbur asked after a while of watching Tucans fight over another piece of food.

 

Phil hummed,  pulling his phone from his pocket and checking the time.  He exhaled out of his nose,  “Kristin’s still out,  so sure,”  He shrugged,  “I could eat.”

 

Wilbur pulled out his own phone,  pulling up some delivery app.  “Ooh,  what's Missus Minecraft doing?”  He quipped,  eyes not bothering to leave his screen.

 

He felt Phil shake his head and shrug beside him,  “A few of her friends flew out so she's been out with them.”

 

“From America?”  Wilbur asked,  “You good with alfredo sauce?”  This time Wilbur did look up when he asked.  When he received a nod he looked back down to confirm his pizza order.

 

“Yeah,  it’s for her birth week.”  Phil clarified.

 

Wilbur froze mid-way in his movements to get up,  slowly turning back to Phil who met his gaze with a confused one of his own.

 

“It's Kristin's birthday?”  

 

“Well no—”

 

Wilbur silently exhaled a sigh of relief,  he hadn't forgotten then,  good.   Having the confirmation he wasn't a complete asshole,  he continued from where he left off,  fully standing and walking into the kitchen to retrieve his wallet.

 

“It's on Friday,”  Phil explained with a slight chuckle,  arm slung over the back of the couch to face his friend while they talked.

 

Wilbur pulled his card from the beat-up leather and began typing in the numbers.  

“You guys doing anything for it?”  Wilbur looked up,  waving his card around in a circle while he talked,  “I mean,  besides the ‘traditional’ celebrating.”

 

He was referring to the pub hopping they usually did when the time for celebration came around.  It was always a good time,  and Wilbur was constantly looking for excuses to drink so it was a win-win really.

 

Phil hummed,  “Not really,”  He leaned over for the remote and paused the film which was reduced to nothing more than background noise at this point.  “I think she just wants to do somethin’ at home.”

 

Wilbur nodded,  hitting the order button and getting the confirmation email a half-second later.  

 

He set his wallet down on the marble and let his eyes wander around the kitchen.  He should really clean up.  There were a few empty beers and of course their empty glasses.  And then there was that bottle of vodka that was still a quarter full.

 

Wilbur's throat suddenly felt very dry.  

 

“When’s the food supposed to get here?”

 

Wilbur blinked and whipped his head to Phil.  He stuttered,  fumbling to check his phone.  “Uh—half hour I think.”

 

Phil hummed in agreement and Wilbur pocketed his phone again,  eyes trailing Phil's form as he too walked into the kitchen.  The older man brushed past him and swiped the bottle off the counter.

 

“I'll take care of this,  why don't you get a rubbish bag.”

 

Wilbur blinked,  pulled out of his stupor and raised a brow,  that was an idea.   Not one that particularly appealed to him though.  

 

He honestly didn't want to do housework right now,  just wanted the man to give in and leave the dishes and trash for future Wilbur to deal with.

 

He shook his head,  “No Phil,  you're the guest,  I can-”

 

“Please,”   He rolled his eyes,  “your face is flushed just looking at this,”  He shook the bottle,  making the liquid slosh around the glass,  “I got it covered mate,  rubbish bags.”

 

When Wilbur tried to reason,  tried to convince the man to just give up so they could watch Tv,  he laughed in Wilbur's face.

 

It was a shame Phil was almost as stubborn as he was though.

 

He rolled his eyes when Phil turned and eyed him from his place at the sink,  “The sooner you take the rubbish the sooner you can cancel animals.”

 

The lilt in Phil's voice told Wilbur he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Wilbur narrowed his eyes,  “You're such a dad.”

 

Phil burst into a fit of wheezes,  smacking his hand on the metal of the sink and cackling.

 

Wilbur rolled his eyes,  ignoring the smile that was threatening his annoyed expression.  He slid himself off the counter,  slinking around the island to the drawer that hid his bins,  “That's an insult by the way.”

 

Phil chuckled,  “Really,   I didn't notice.”

 

“Sorry,  my bad-”  Wilbur pulled the drawer open all the way,  ignoring the half-full rubbish bin and reaching for the recycling that was practically overflowing with glass bottles and the occasional pop tarts box,  “I hate you,  slash SRS.”

 

Phil turned around,  wet his hand in the sudsy water,  and flicked.  

 

Wilbur gasped at the soapy assault,  pulling the handles of the bag closed with a couple of clinks as he knotted the plastic closed,  “That's not very father figure of you Philza Mine,  creator of craft.”

 

“‘Creator of craft’- okay,”  Phil rolled his eyes with a chuckle as he turned back to his task,  “Don't you have something to do?”

 

“Yeah yeah—’m going.”   Wilbur waved him off,  hoisting the plastic bag up by its handle and throwing it over his shoulder with a ‘ka-chink’ as the glass bumped around.  He shuffled to the door,  “I'll be back,”  He threw an accusing glare at Phil,  beginning two fingers to his eyes and then turning them to point at the other,  “Don't start without me.”  He warned.

 

Phil just laughed,  same wheeze and infectiousness as always before he waved him off,  “Leave already,  prick.”

 

Wilbur just sighed,  laughing a bit at the end,  “Careful not to fall in and drown old man!”

 

He heard Phil simply scoff behind him as he walked towards the foyer,  a thought dawning on him as he hurriedly rounded the sofa,  reaching for the coffee table and picking up his tea with both hands before downing the whole thing in one gulp.

 

The liquid burned on its way down despite being room temperature and with the added flavour of something herbal.  but it was nothing Wilbur hadn't experienced before.  The two of them knocked the same back not even an hour ago so the taste was more than familiar.  

 

He didn't tell Phil he spiked his tea.  He wanted to keep his high for a bit longer,  sue him.  He wasn't going to tell him about his ‘morning routine’ either.  Call him an addict or alcoholic,  but the verdict was in,  and tea just tasted better with a little extra spice.

 

He was going to hell,  wasn't he?

 

While Phil had taken to sobering up,  drinking water,  as well as the tea Wilbur made,  Wilbur on the other hand wasn't as eager to come down as his friend.

He at least had the decency to feel a bit bad,  though not bad enough to not finish the whole mug like a predator unhinging its jaw.

 

Great metaphor.

 

Wilbur set the cup back down and began to the foyer.

 

They didn't say anything else as Wilbur resumed his previous task,  moving back to the door,  slinging the bag over his shoulder with slight trouble before he shut the door behind him.  

 

He opened the front door and slipped outside,  the cold air immediately hitting his socked feet and nose.  He suppressed a shiver at the chill breeze that brushed past his form.  He was grateful for the alcohol in his stomach warming him slightly.

 

He wobbled a bit as he walked to the steps,  a hand placing itself atop the peeling railing in an attempt not to roll down the stairs and meet his miserable creator.

 

The batch of stairs eventually ended and intersected with a small landing.  He rounded the corner,  eyes turned down so he could watch his step.  He silently began giggling to himself about the fact he was supposedly a ‘famous singer’ and yet he was walking around with his big toe poking out of his sock.  

 

He wiggled it for effect,  giggling a bit more at the absurdity.

 

What was his life?

 

Heh...

 

What was his life...

 

Was he really going to go to rehab?  Who knew.  

 

Wilbur sure didn't.  

 

But given his track record and the fact he really didn't want to,  it was probably a cold two-letter answer.

 

He wobbled at the last step,  giggling to himself at the image of him in a hospital gown locked in one of those facilities.  Fat chance.

 

The alcohol in his system seemed to finally start doing its job.

 

He managed to not faceplant on the dirty concrete by some grace of the gods as he bounced on the balls of his feet towards the heavy metal door.

 

He shrugged the recycling bag from his shoulder,  catching it before it could hit the ground and shatter all the glass inside making a mess he definitely wouldn't clean.  

 

Wilbur turned and leaned back against the long pressurized handle and pushed his weight against it as it opened to reveal the dingy and dirty alley of his lovely flat.

 

“Remember,  there's a different bin for recycling!”   Wilbur heard being shouted from the stairwell.

 

He rolled his eyes,  turning slightly to shout back up to Phil,  “I know old man!”

 

He chuckled,  sometimes the man acted as if he lived with him.  

 

Now that was an image.  Wilbur having roommates?   Funniest shit he’d ever seen.

 

Turning back to the alleyway revealed it looked just as disgusting and decrepit as it always had,  only this time it had a new addition.

 

Wilbur froze when his eyes landed on the form of an emaciated child sat huddled against the rough brick across from him.

 

He had dirty and matted curls but piercing sky eyes.  A green bandaid rested over the bridge of his dirty wrinkled nose and Wilbur's eyes caught on a white cast on the kid's right arm hidden under his clothes.  With an old-looking red hoodie and even older blue jacket that looked too big,  paired with ripped and stained cargo pants and worse-looking trainers,  it was obvious to see the kid wasn't in the best shape.

 

Wilbur’s eyes lingered a little longer on the dirty white cast under the boy's jumpers,  and he almost wished he hadn't even noticed at all with the gross feeling beginning to pool in his full stomach.

 

It certainly didn't take sober Wilbur to figure the boy was homeless.  Even through his inebriated eyes he could see the scratches on the kid's clothes and the dirt on his cheeks and caked on his shoes.

 

His heart squeezed a bit at the thought of this kid being out here alone behind his shitty complex.  It was made worse by the fact that he didn't look older than fifteen.   If that didn't piss all over his birthday cake he didn't know what did.

 

It felt like an eternity he stared at this kid,  the boy staring back at him with wide eyes full of fear or mistrust or whatever Wilbur was drunk.

 

He blinked,  he should say something.  

 

The boy's wide eyes then turned into a deep and angry scowl.

 

Or… He shouldn't?   

 

The longer he stared at this kid,  the funnier the situation seemed to his inebriated mind,  as fucked up as it was,  the absurdity was starting to get to him.

 

Like,  who just finds a homeless kid in their back avenue??

 

And before he knew it,  his mouth was forming words before he could really think about them,  and suddenly he was calling the kid a dirty raccoon with the prose of a standard English drunk.  …Hey,  that’s a good lyric.  He should write that down.

 

A small thought in the back of his head was berating and beating him over the head for his ineptitude right now,  but a larger part was dying over the kid's offended frown and then completely disintegrated at the middle finger he received.

 

Wilbur snickered,  “‘M I wrong?”   He slurred,  his tongue and brain lagging.

 

The kid's expression only served to sour further at Wilbur's drunk jests.  He should probably stop harassing some street kid,  shouldn't he.

 

Besides the kids not even saying anything back.  It'd just be distasteful to riff on his discomfort— Wilbur was doing it anyway wasn't he?

 

“Pretty shit at conversation ain'tcha,”

 

The look the raggedy child sent the brunette was nothing short of befuddlement.  His face scrunched up like he ate a sour candy as he shook his head almost in disbelief at Wilbur's stupidity.  

 

Him too,  kid.

 

Wilbur instantly pipped out a laugh before he slurred,  “You're in my backstreet kid,  that's my business.”

 

And he was.  The kid was practically trespassing and Wilbur would have every right to call the police.  But why would he?

 

In fact,  why was he even having a conversation,  a one-sided conversation,   with the homeless kid in his back alley?

 

The face the kid made though,  like Wilbur had read his mind,  was priceless.  He couldn't help but chuckle dumbly.  This kid was funny,  Wilbur's intoxicated brain supplied.

 

The boy huffed like he was done with Wilbur’s shit already and it hadn't even been five minutes yet.  Wilbur was about to respond with some sarcastic remark when he heard Phil shout again from down the stairwell.

 

“How longs it take to take rubbish out mate—did you fall in?!”

 

Wilbur wanted to roll his eyes,  so he did,  an easy smile on his lips as he turned to yell back up,  “I’m workin’ on it!”

 

Wilbur snickered when he heard a snide comment thrown down in return,  and then another one he couldn't quite hear.  Turning more into the building he shouted back in question,  “What?!”

 

He waited a minute,  but heard nothing from the older man,  assuming he gave up and shut his door.

 

Wilbur was starting to sober up against his will despite all the shit he drank.  He could feel the buzz slowly fading as his head cleared slowly;  fuck his tolerance.

 

Eventually,  Wilbur too gave in and sighed.  

 

The situation he was in began to really sink in.  He had a literal child in his alleyway.

 

What the hell does someone even do in that situation??

 

He sank a hand into his brown curls and scratched at his scalp.  He wasn't nearly drunk enough to answer these kinds of questions let alone had the mental dexterity to talk to a kid.

 

He should probably be a responsible adult though,  that was maybe a good idea.  

 

‘Yeah,  be an adult for once in your miserable life.’

 

Should he offer the kid in?  Or no—that was a bad idea wasn't it?  He should probably start with food or something.  Fuck he was horrible at this.  Phil would be better equipt to deal with children,  not Wilbur The Literal Twenty-Four-Year-Old Toddler.

 

He sighed again,  and plastered a smile on his face,  holding onto the alcohol still sitting at the bottom of his stomach for confidence.  

 

Here goes nothing...

 

He turned back to the alley,  a question already falling out of his lips to the kid and--

 

The kid was gone from his spot on the pavement.  

 

Wilbur's eyes widened a bit as he leaned out from the archway his eyes darted around until he eventually found the kid's shuffling figure.

 

He was holding onto the wall with his casted hand,  the other holding his stomach as he slinked away.

 

If he wasn't worried before,

 

“H- hey!   Raccoon Boy!”  He unceremoniously shouted,  which admittedly wasn't the smartest thing to do as the boy just flipped him off again and continued till he slipped out of the backstreet and stumbled onto the main road.

 

And then he was gone,  and Wilbur was left there with an empty thruway,  a bag full of glass,  and a dry mouth full of questions.

 

Even in his drunk state,  he couldn't help but be worried for the kid.

 

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how hard it must be being homeless in general let alone at his age.  Whatever that was.

 

‘Young.’   His brain helpfully supplied,  ‘Too young.’

 

He sighed deeply and folded his arms,  letting his weight slump on the dirty doorway as he stared at the end of the backstreet.  It was hard enough just being a teenager,  but slap nowhere to sleep and no guarantee of food and--

 

…Shit.   

 

Wilbur rubbed his face.

 

He hoped he’d be okay.

 

He really did.

 

Wilbur tried to surmise that it looked like the kid had been out on his own for a while and that he looked like he knew how to take care of himself.  But that didn't really help the anxiety in his stomach too much,  especially since it was just a dumb theory thrown together by circumstantial evidence.

 

He sighed,  heavy and deep.

 

If Phil’s mother henning hadn't ruined the night,  seeing a scared and defensive homeless kid sure did the trick.

 

Yum,  more piss for the cake.

 

It seemed like an eternity before he was mindlessly moving towards the dumpsters,  uncaring and unnoticing in which he tossed the glass bag--if there even was a different dumpster,  to begin with.

 

He moved back up the stairs without thought,  hand wrapping around his doorknob and closing it again when his now dirty socks met the carpet.

 

He registered Phil's voice from his kitchen but not what he said,  he wasn't really paying attention if he was honest.

 

Wilbur followed it though,  dragging his feet and stopping when he reached the tile.

 

Phil was now wiping the counters down with a soapy hand towel,  his laugh ringing out and to Wilbur's ears when the man lays eyes on his complicated state.

 

“You see a ghost down there mate?”  Phil chuckled jokingly,  pushing a box of pizza toward his friend.

 

Well,  that was faster than Wilbur thought.

 

How long had he been down there?

 

He looked up from where his gaze had been fixed on the ground,  “I dunno,”  He responded vaguely.  

 

Phil chuckled at this,  “You don't know?”  A concerned brow raised as he asked if Wilbur was okay. 

 

Wilbur didn't respond,  instead,  his eyes remained trained on the sealed takeaway,  still hot and ready for them to dig into.

 

Then,  he lifted his head to Phil who was leaning against the counter with a confused yet concerned brow.

 

Wilbur's face set,  a determined yet quizzical look smeared on his flushed face.

 

“I think I met a homeless kid.”



Chapter 3: I CAN BREAK 'EM IF I PLEASE

Summary:

Phil continues to lay into Wilbur, another chance meeting and - oh yeah, Wilbur's infertile now :D

Notes:

lemme know if there're any errors o/ stay safe

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“So let me get this straight,”

 

Wilbur could feel the headache already.  It was the nice kind too,  the one right behind his eyes.  Had to love those.  Mhm.  For sure,  for sure.

 

“You see a homeless kid in your backstreet,  and the first thing you think to do is insult him!?”   Phil's voice was harsh and judgmental,  and if Wilbur didn't know any better,  also held a hint of amused disbelief.

 

A hint.

 

He couldn't help the slight quirk to the corners of his mouth.

 

God,  he needed another drink.

 

“Look,”   Wilbur’s hands came up to gesture as he spoke,  his elbows resting against his cool island counter as he leaned over.  He opened his mouth,  slowly swivelling his head like a bobble toy as he failed to come up with any reasonable explanation.

 

Truth was he didn’t have one,  at all.  And trying to come up with one on the spot when one’s particularly buzzed (well,  at least he was) was surprisingly harder than he thought.

 

He chuckled,  his hands falling to slap against the marble.  He blinked,  turning his eyes to a frowning Phil,  “I was drunk?”

 

The smile he tried didn't seem to be doing him any favours as Phil just rolled his eyes and breathed a laugh that sounded like he was a moment away from either cackling or ripping Wilbur a new one.

 

Personally,  Wilbur’s money was on that latter.

 

“You’re always drunk Wil-!”   Phil cried through a slight,  disbelieving wheeze.

 

“Um,” The brunette shifted his eyes from side to side before giving Phil a pointed look,  “that's the point?”

 

Phil just groaned in response,  his head falling in his hands as he turned to start pacing circles.  

 

Why was he so pressed about this anyway?  Wasn't this a good thing?

 

Wilbur let his head fall from his shoulders,  the smooth rock cool against his flushed cheeks and he mumbled,  “I wasn't thinking,  a’right?”  

 

“Clearly.”   One of Phil’s hands wiped down his face,  his fingers pulling the skin around his eyes to show off the fleshy pink under the lids.

 

Wilbur threw his hands out,  his chin moving his head up and down as he spoke.  “You’re acting like I sentenced some child to certain death,”  his hands turned as he spoke,  “now that he’s not in my dumpster he’ll...”  Wilbur tucked one arm under his chin while the other hand twirled in an attempt to help Wilbur’s slowly sobering brain play catchup with his tongue.  “Go to a shelter?”

 

A shelter.

 

Yeah.

 

The kid’ll go to a shelter where he can stay the night and get something to eat.

 

Problem solved right?

 

Apparently,  a certain blonde didn't think so as Wilbur’s lazy eyes were drawn by a heavy sigh.

 

“Wil,”  Phil exhaled,  running a hand through his hair as his other rested on his hip.  The hand he was threading through his short hair jutted out,  the man flicking his wrist as if to admonish just how dumb he thought the sentiment was.

 

“The closest shelter is a good five blocks down the way.”

 

Wilbur blinked.

 

Oh.

 

“Yeah ‘oh’.”   

 

Had he said that out loud?

 

The drunk man watched his friend shake his head to himself for a moment before Wilbur sighed,  pulling his arms inward and moving his head onto his new fleshy pillow.  

 

He must’ve said that aloud or maybe just looked like the word.  Sure,  why not,  that was plausible.

 

“That’s assuming he’s even old enough—“  Phil snapped his head to the side,  sending a sudden pointed look towards the lump on the counter,  “-Wil,  how old was he??”

 

Wilbur shrugged,  not really paying attention,  “‘Iun-no,”  he mumbled,  borderline inaudible.

 

Phil waited a moment,  waiting for Wilbur to elaborate or give some kind of estimate maybe.  Literally anything at all.

 

But no.

 

He grumbled when he realized Wilbur had zero intention of doing any of the above.  “Fantastic.”  His hands slapped against his jeans.  “Great work Wil.  You found some homeless child and scared him away to gods know where.”

 

Wilbur ignored the comment,  or at the very least looked like he ignored it.

 

He grumbled.

 

“What was that?”  

 

Wilbur rolled his eyes,  burying his nose in his folded arms,  “Nothing.”

 

Phil made a face but Wilbur didn't keep eye contact long enough to dissect it.  His attention slowly began to wander until he was basically checked out entirely.  Eyes fell over the many appliances his kitchen countertops housed as Phil started to think aloud.

 

He really cleaned up while Wilbur was gone didn't he?

 

Wilbur didn't think he'd ever seen his counters that clean,  not to mention actually organized.

 

The miscellaneous mail he probably hadn't looked at in weeks was even stacked and pushed to the edge by the expensive baking mixer he’d bought because he thought it’d ‘look nice.’

 

All it looked like now was a waste of money.  But it wasn't like Wilbur wasn't already used to doing that anyway.

 

Now that he thought about it...why did he own a mixing pot?

 

He never used it,  not even once.  It just sat there.  Collecting dust and taking up space when he could replace it with something else.  Maybe even something he’d actually use.

 

But what would he replace it with?  It was kind of in an awkward spot.  Tucked away haphazardly near the edge of the counter.  Kind of impressive it hadn't fallen already to be honest.

 

He lazily blinked before he hummed to himself.

 

He could put rum there.  Or maybe a tequila?  No,  actually it better not be tequila.  A gin could be nice?  He liked gin a lot more than tequila.   Maybe He should buy some more when he goes out next.

 

Wilbur quickly grew bored of staring at the unused mixer and picturing various other liquids he should be more worried about fantasizing over.  He pursed his lips and tutted.

 

He might as well just buy an Alcohols Anonymous bat signal at this point.

 

Did they make those?

 

That's a genius idea - they should make those.

 

“What do we do?”  Phil murmured a bit louder,  a hand pressed to his lips while the other was tucked under his armpit as he worried a path into the carpet.

 

Wilbur perked up at the question,  pulling him from his fantasy as his brows furrowed and lips pointed down,  “What do you mean,  ‘what do we do?’”   

 

Phil jutted a finger towards Wilbur's back wall,  the one that separated them from the dumpster smell.  An incredulous look dawned on his face.  

 

“You found a homeless kid just chillin’ in your backstreet--”  Wilbur rolled his eyes,  “-and you don't wanna do anything?”

 

Wilbur groaned,  that headache from earlier rearing up.  “He’s probably long gone by now,”

 

“I'm guessing you didn't even get his name?”

 

Wilbur turned his head away like that would get him out of this conversation.

 

He could only dream.

 

Phil’s shoulders slouched as his mouth parted and his hands fell,  “Wil,”  it sounded like disbelief.  For the millionth time.

 

Wilbur pursed his lips together,  going to rest his head in his arms again.  Doing his best to ignore the man.

 

“Wil.”

 

“He didn't even speak to me!”  Wilbur shot up,  an annoyed expression plagued his features. 

 

Phil’s brows creased,  a look Wilbur had a hard time seeing as anything but a taunt.  “No - don’t get loud with me.”

 

Wilbur smacked his lips and shook his head,  “What would you’ve had me do,  Phil?”  His index fingers tapped against his temples as he leaned forward antagonistically,  “Read his fuckin’ mind??”

 

So much for ignorance.

 

Phil’s mouth formed a tight line,  his lip rolling between his teeth.  “That kid coulda needed your help.”

 

Wilbur scoffed,  “Here we go,”

 

“And you just turned your back on him--!”

 

“Yeah,   I turned my back!”  Wilbur’s hands hit the surface of the island with a slap.  “I called him a fucking raccoon and yanno what he did Philza?”

 

The use of the man's online alias seemed to deepen his glare,  and Wilbur couldn't bring himself to feel anything but the dull throb of annoyance and the ever-present building headache.

 

His spit tasted like poison,  and he knew his friend didn't deserve the vitriol but he just couldn't stop it once it started.

 

Phil just squinted at him,  a look that said ‘go on then.’   

 

Carry on.

 

So that was exactly what Wilbur did.

 

He backed up so suddenly the stool's feet scrapped the linoleum with a grating sound.

 

“He didn't say a pissing word,”   he made a zipping motion over his lips with a thumb and index finger,  his back straightening up as he over-enunciated his next words.  “Not a peep.”

 

Phil’s scowl morphed into more of a confused sort of look as Wilbur continued on,  the blonde's eyes shifting down the kitchen.

 

“I mean,”  Wilbur huffed a laugh devoid of anything humorous at the shifting expression.  His nose twitched as he clenched his fists and sighed heavily,  rounding the island to rummage through his medicine cabinet before mumbling monotonously,  “We all know what I'm like..”

 

Either that or under his sink.

 

If he was lucky Phil didn't know about that since,  judging by the cleanliness of his kitchen and the lack of anything worth drinking,  he’d need to go grocery shopping.

 

He pulled a pill bottle from its place on the cupboard shelf.  He turned it in his hand to read the label before the throb behind his eyes reminded him that he didn't actually care.

 

“I couldn't even get him to curse me out.”  He twisted the cap off before shooting a pointed look at Phil,  who glanced up just in time to catch it,  “What makes you think he’d tell me his name?”

 

Phil pursed his lips,  thinking,  “You don’t know his age,  don’t know his name-“  He sighed,  a tired sound that made Wilbur crease his brow and turn his eyes away.  

 

“Was he deaf maybe?”

 

The thought of a deaf homeless kid made something wilt in Wilbur’s chest and he quickly shook his head in both retaliation and response.

 

“No,”  His eyes drooped further down minutely as he shook the bottle once into his open palm,  a single,  blue capsule tumbling out.  

 

Great.

 

“He gave me the finger,”  a small smirk made his eyes crinkle briefly at the memory,  a hand reaching for the detachable head of his sink.  A puff of air exited his nose making his stomach twitch,  “Twice.”

 

He tilted his head back and dropped the pill into his mouth before leaning over the sink and drinking right from the faucet.

 

Who was the raccoon now,  huh?

 

“So,”  Wilbur could hear a slight tut from behind him as Phil continued,  “he could hear,  or at least heard enough to flip you off.”

 

Wilbur wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand,  sitting up enough to lean against the basin lid.  He nodded even though Phil wasn't looking at him to see.

 

Phil hummed,  and Wilbur watched the gears turn in his head.  

 

A strange sense of anxiety started to bubble and swirl slowly at the bottom of Wilbur’s stomach with the look beginning to drape over his friend's brows.  It wasn't the normal,  familiar dread he was used to but rather a more situational anxiousness.

 

It was worrying.

 

He’d known Phil long enough to know that look.  It was the type of expression that let him know he was... thinking.   Which was always a bad sign.  Especially when it had anything to do with that annoying heart of gold he owned.

 

Eventually though,  and to the quelling of Wilbur’s anxiety,   Phil just ended up sighing deeply.

 

The man rubbed his face and Wilbur took a cursory glance away to the window above the sink,  a hand of his own coming up to scratch lowly at where his hairline ended at the base of his neck.

 

“You're right,”  Phil admitted with a defeated cadence.  “We can only hope he finds a shelter of some kind or that someone helps him.”

 

Wilbur had been right.

 

Even if they wanted to do anything,  how would they?

 

They didn't know this kid,  and even if they did he had no obligation to go with them or accept help,  whatever that looked like,  from a couple strangers.

 

The best thing to do was to just let it be.  

 

Wilbur had been right.

 

So then why did he suddenly feel a pit of guilt in his stomach cuddling up with the anxiety there?  Or how his chest tightened with a misplaced sense of duty.   It wasn't any of his business - their business.  Better to not get involved.

 

He pursed his lips.

 

This was why he was hardly ever sober.  The stabbing behind his eyes seemed to rear up again,  reminding Wilbur of all the reasons to hate himself and also serving as a mental note to pick up stronger,  faster-acting pain pills while he was out.

 

Wilbur just hummed,  his eyes falling from the window to trail down limply across the floor before he flicked them to Phil,  flashing a brief smile and then letting his irises droop back to his feet.

 

“Right.”

 

God,  he needed a drink.

 

-----

 

Light was lazily sliding into the pink sky,  Tommy could see the hazy colours of the sunrise through the gaps in his curls.

 

He had the ends of his jumper sleeves fisted over his hands,  or what he could manage with the shitty cast ,  and then had shoved the appendages into his jacket pockets.

 

It wasn't perfect,  not by a long shot.  He would definitely have preferred to have a pair of gloves,  but it did the job to the barest of definitions.

 

Now that the sun was starting to rise to its rightful place in the sky,  the air was getting a bit warmer.  Tommy was thankful.  He really wanted to sit down somewhere and be dead to the world for a few hours,  ready to knock out after walking all night.  His shoes had never felt so tight around his feet as they did right then.

 

Maybe there's a corner somewhere I can--

 

“Oye-!  Watch it kid!”

 

He startled in his stride when he hit something,  or someone judging by the gruff voice.  The force knocked him back a bit and his eyes frantically looked up to meet the cold pair of some man in a large overcoat.  Some very angry-looking man.

 

His accent sounded northern,  or maybe it was western.  All Tommy knew was that it at least sounded a bit Irish.  But then again what did Tommy know about accents?  Or the Irish for that matter.   He was just guessing at that point and guessing poorly at that.

 

“Others are walkin’ yeah?  Not just you.”

 

Oh god-

 

The Irishman looked pissed.  Pissed enough in fact to stop in the dead middle of the pavement at what Tommy could only assume was five in the morning and shout at him.

 

People really had their priorities in order.

 

Nice going,  Simons.

 

Tommy quickly removed a hand from his pocket,  shaking his head and hurriedly signing an apology.  A quick fist rubbed in a circle over his chest he hoped was enough for him to keep on.

 

Please let this man know a little sign—

 

Tommy held his breath,  waiting for the other shoe to drop.  The guy didn't look the type to beat up a homeless person,  but did anyone?

 

He guessed not,  besides,  Tommy’s never had the best track record regarding his judgment.

 

With his luck,  he’d be leaving a crimson trail behind long after the man left.

 

The Irishman narrowed his eyes,  looking from Tommy's hand to his wide blues and back again.  Tommy was sure he was in for it now,  the world proving once again that he wasn't supposed to be there.

 

He tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him he deserved this,  that this wouldn’t’ve happened if he’d just paid attention to where he was walking.

 

This was his fault,  and he was getting what he deserved.

 

But to Tommy's surprise,  fists never came,  nor did heavy boots or open palms.  Not yet anyway...

 

The man simply grumbled and straightened his coat,  throwing one more piercing glare Tommy's way.

 

His lips curled into a snarl and Tommy unconsciously shrunk into himself,  bracing for impact.  Surely now the blow would come.  It had to eventually,  he deserved it after all.

 

The man's hand lifted,  “Jus’ watch where you're fookin’ goin’ next time you little brat—”

 

Tommy flinched back a little,  his eyes shut tight as he waited for the hit,  the shove,  the anything.

 

But instead—

 

“I think he gets it,  mate.”  

 

Tommy jerked his head up,  wide eyes locked on the new addition standing behind the taller Irishman.  

 

He wished he didn’t look because now it was suddenly so much worse.

 

God - why him?

 

Tommy found a familiar face standing there,  unfortunately for him...the same tall,  dickish looking brunette man from yesterday’s alley stood with his hand patting the Irishman’s shoulder and a bored-looking frown on his lips.

 

“Who the fuck-?”

 

“Just lay off,  yeah?”  The other man's voice was softer,  less gruff and with a more English-sounding accent to contrast the others.

 

And noticeably less slurred.

 

He sounded tired though and if the dark bags under his eyes weren't any indication Tommy didn’t know what was.

 

The bags looked like they could rival even Tommy’s,  which was impressive considering Tommy was an actual street rat and this man looked like he shopped at thrift stores because it was ‘trendy’.

 

Tomm y unintentionally fl inched when the man's eyes met his,  more from surprise than actual fear.  He stared dumbly and watched the brunette's tired and bored gaze turn into a more thoughtful sort of look.  

 

Tommy felt his knees lock in place.

 

The brunette blinked before his eyes widened a bit,  standing as frozen as Tommy was.

 

“It’s you...”  He breathed lightly like he couldn’t believe it,  almost in pure disbelief and Tommy very much wanted to be anywhere but there.

 

Tommy was able to shake himself from his stupor faster than the familiar prick and curled his fingers into fists.  His brows drew together and he sent a deadly glare up to his supposed ‘saviour’.   

 

He probably should be thankful he stepped in,  but Tommy wasn't.  At all.  He honestly would’ve rather the prick hadn’t intervened at all.

 

The man didn’t seem to care,  not at all bothered by Tommy’s visible hostility.  He just kept on staring,  making Tommy’s skin crawl for an overly long moment.  That was until the Irishman went off again and his eyes were gratefully pulled from Tommy and back into the moment.

 

“The fuck are you?”   The gruff voice spat accusingly,  spinning around and slapping the prick's hand away.

 

Tommy flinched,  barely noticeable through his constant trembling from both anxiety and anger.  The cold air was also a probable factor but mostly the first two.

 

The brunette prick's posture changed then,  Tommy noticed easily and watched as he squared his shoulders before stepping in front of Tommy entirely.

 

“The ‘brat’s brother actually.”

 

Tommy blanched.

 

His fucking what??

 

“And I don’t appreciate you harassing him like this.”  

 

Tommy was shaking with something a lot stronger than anger now.

 

Who the fuck was this guy??  And who did he think he was!?

 

Tommy wished he could curse the man out and shout that no,   they were not related!   But his broken tongue just sat heavy in his mouth,  completely useless.

 

As per usual.

 

Rather he silently seethed and felt his anger spike when he caught a glance from over his ‘brother’s shoulder. 

 

The prick winked at him.

 

 

The prick winked at him!?

 

“Harassin’—“   The Irishman’s bushy brows wrinkled,  “he’s the one who ran in’ta me!”

 

Tommy strangled a flinch with his bare hands at the shout,  his brain momentarily forgoing the anger and overriding with instinct.  

 

He didn’t miss the way the post-boy prick stepped closer ever so slightly.

 

“And he apologized,”  he enunciated,  turning a bit back to acknowledge Tommy,  “isn’t that right?”

 

It took a full second to register that the brunette-post-boy-prick was now referring to him,   and then another second before he was jumping into action with a silent gasp,  nodding furiously and signing ‘sorry’ a few more times for good measure.

 

His stint of anger forgotten in favour of keeping all his bones intact.

 

This time the Irishman scoffed,  shrugging the taller man’s hand away roughly before he huffed something under his breath and pushed past Tommy.  His shoulder clipped the blonde’s as he went which caused the boy to stumble back a bit.

 

Tommy's heart was still beating out of his chest,  a mix of anger,  anxiety and fear all formulating this sick adrenaline that was starting to make him nauseous.  Sweat coated his hands and the back of his neck in a sickly embrace,  and when he caught his balance he heaved a quiet sigh of relief.  Relief that it was over,  at least for the moment.

 

The man then chuckled lightly and Tommy suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone.  “Are you alright?”  The post-boy-looking prick asked.

 

Blues met hazel and Tommy huffed through his nose,  a hardened glare being shot at his would-be hero.

 

Hero.

 

Yeah right.

 

Tommy could’ve handled himself.  He didn’t need some prick with a stupid pretentious outfit to ‘save him’.

 

Post-boy-looking mother fucker.

 

And he wanted to tell him just that.

 

But to the surprise of nobody and no one,  nothing came out of his sealed lips.

 

His look seemed to be enough though,  for whatever reason the brunette man was able to understand him just fine without words.

 

Tommy still wondered if he was some kind of psychic.  Was that even how that worked?  He remembered seeing a tv show about something resembling that,  didn’t he?

 

Tommy brought shot his middle finger out of a tight fist.

 

‘Fuck you.’

 

Surprisingly there was a chuckle,  regardless Tommy refused to let up.  In fact,  he only deepened his scowl,  the reaction only spurring him on.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Tommy frowned and curled his lip.

 

He didn’t thank him.

 

He huffed again before turning on his heel and walking right out of there.

 

they were done anyway.  No need to stick around when the prick served his purpose and Tommy had trash to dig through and diseases to accrue.

 

“Hey—wait!”

 

Tommy walked faster.

 

“Kid-”

 

Tommy grumbled silently and balled his fists,  attempting to outpace this guy.

 

Why couldn’t he just leave him alone??

 

“Raccoon boy-!”

 

At that Tommy’s temper boiled over as he spun around angrily causing the man trailing behind him to stumble slightly.

 

Tommy flailed his arms out as if to shout:  ‘What!?’

 

The man blinked,  a little caught off guard but recovered quickly as he frowned at Tommy’s obvious animosity.  

 

“Wh-what's your name?”  The post-boy asked,  causing Tommy to squint at him in confusion.  

 

After a few long seconds of tense silence,  the man coughed,  “Uhm…are you hungry?”

 

...

 

What?

 

Tommy's whole body suddenly felt like rusted steel,  moving slowly and jerkily like he’d been left out in the rain.

 

He was.  Gods was he hungry.   The mere thought of food simultaneously made his mouth water and his stomach churn.  He didn't want a repeat of last night and the poor doughnuts.  But…he couldn't he--

 

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.  

 

Tommy shook his head as if to shake the very thought itself from his head.

 

Don't be stupid.

 

He hadn't forgotten what happened last night like this jackoff seemed to have.

 

Speaking of which was this guy completely daft?   They had clearly (unfortunately) met the day before and the guy had watched Tommy sign not even two minutes ago.  Either he was incredibly stupid,  the dumbest person Tommy had ever had the displeasure of meeting or was just a wanker.

 

He was honestly leaning towards the latter.

 

Tommy just stared at the prick,  deadpanning at the sheer audacity.

 

The man looked uncomfortable in the ever-increasing silence as he shifted from foot to foot.  Tommy tried not to revel in it too much.

 

Unfortunately for him though,  the mere mention of food had Tommy’s stomach grumbling,  and loudly at that.

 

Tommy flushed instantly.  How embarrassing.

 

His frown deepened when the post boy’s eyes not so subtly trailed down with the noise and Tommy watched the corners of his lips curl up.

 

Tommy’s mouth curled in the exact opposite direction.

 

Creepy fucker.

 

The man chuckled lightly before throwing a thumb behind his head,  “There's a pretty decent chip shop by my place,  o-on me,   of course.”

 

Tommy glared.  ‘Good for you??’

 

Unlike this strange man,  Tommy wasn't stupid.  He’d been offered food by people before,  people who looked like the person standing before him now.  Well-dressed people who smiled and laughed and made Tommy think they actually wanted to help.

 

He’d long since learned his lesson.  Admittedly not as quickly as he probably should have.  He needed to stop letting his stomach make so many decisions.

 

He’d eaten one too many ziplock PB&Js tainted with laxatives and toothpaste to last someone a lifetime because of that.  He’d heard of people sometimes getting rat poison in their food before.  He shuddered at the thought and was thankful he hadn't been that unfortunate just yet.

 

Now Tommy didn't believe in hell,  he was currently living it after all,  but if there was an afterlife he hoped those assholes went to the worst one.

 

So it was safe to assume he’d grown pretty wise to people’s tricks.  He wasn't about to fall for any more any time soon.  Especially not from another well-dressed asshat like this one.

 

Tommy sneered,  plastering a disgusted look on his face as he proceeded to lift his hands up to his face,  fingers pointed in before flicking them out towards himself:  the sign for ‘leave me alone’.

 

He didn't even care if the guy understood him or not,  though he hoped his face at least translated.

 

Additionally,  he flipped the man the finger.  Again.  Just for good measure.  

 

The post-boy prick stared at Tommy for a moment,  his face resembling the spinning wheel of death on an old computer.  It would've been funny in any other context.

 

He blinked,  looking from Tommy’s hands back to his face seemingly trying to deduce what it was had just been said to him.  Again,  hilarious in another context.  

 

The prick then shook his head.  “I'm sorry,”  he chuckled,  Tommy’s eyes darting down to the man's hand as he moved to hold it out.  “We got off on the wrong foot.”

 

Tommy just stared incredulously at the man and his weird smile.  There was no way in hell he was going to shake this dude's hand.  Fucking forget it.

 

For whatever reason,  just like everything else that didn't seem to deter the prick at all.  Damnnit.  Instead,  he just kept.  Fucking.  Talking.

 

“I'm Wilbur,”  he pointlessly introduced himself like Tommy would smile along and give his own name in return.

 

Yet again he asked himself:  Was this guy daft?

Unfortunately for this man, - uh,  Wilbur - Tommy was beginning to get more and more fed up the longer they stood there.  Eventually,  the irrational part of his brain took the wheel and harshly jerked it to the side.

 

He was exhausted and hungry and more or less on the verge of deliriousness so when he backed up and his leg launched up without a second thought he didn't bother trying to stop it.  The worn,  rubber tip of his ratty trainer was sledgehammered directly into the man's - Wilbur’s ballsack.

 

The reaction was instantaneous.  

 

Wilbur went down with nothing more than a wheezed cough,  hands flying down to cover the pain.  His knees hit the pavement first,  his back rigidly straight before he curled over himself with a pathetic whimper.

 

Tommy almost felt bad.  Almost.   That was until he remembered all the other times he’d been too slow to do this exact thing and was beaten within an inch of his life and the guilt quickly fell away like a handful of sand.

 

Wilbur shook like a leaf against the pavement,  a few people glancing over but ultimately minding their business,  though Tommy knew that wouldn't last for long.  This was why he wasted no more time revelling in the other's pain before turning on his heel and marching into a crowded gathering at an intersection,  disappearing into the mass of people.

 

Just as he reached the group,  some of which gave him an unpleasant side eye,  the light turned and the walk symbol flashed signalling to everyone they were free to cross.

 

Tommy quickly disappeared into the busy street,  giggling to himself silently and eyeing the people around him.  He was the best.  

 

As he walked he also kept an eye out for potential places to nap and or sleuth through for snacks.

 

Snacks that wouldn't have any problems about them aside from being in a rubbish bin.

 

---

 

“HE KICKED YOU IN THE BALLS!?”  

 

The wheezy laughter that billows over the phone speaker is just the icing on top that Wilbur needed.  The Creme de la Crumb,  so to speak.

 

Needless to say,  Wilbur didn't find it as funny as his friend apparently did,  the man sounding like he was about to hack up his own lungs over it.  

 

“It’s not that funny,  Phil,”  Wilbur said over the other's infectious laughter.  He had to hold back a smile out of pure spite.

 

It was the principle of it after all.

 

“Oh c’mon,  mate,”   Phil chuckled,  “you have to admit it's a little funny.”

 

Wilbur shook his head,  scoffing as he shut the freezer door.  He couldn't find anything appetizing to heat up anyway,  though it wasn't like there were many options to pick from.

 

“I will do no such thing.”  Socks shuffled against the floor as it transitioned from tile to carpet and walked himself to his little makeshift office.  “

 

Phil let out a huff of lazy laughter that grew louder when Wilbur switched the call to speaker,  setting the phone on his desk.  “I can’t believe he kicked you in the balls,”

 

Wilbur groaned as he dropped himself into his mesh chair.  He entwined his fingers and stretched back,  his knuckles popping.  He then slumped into his seat,  clicking his mouse a few times until his PC made a whirring sound.  He frowned before mumbling,  “My cock certainly believed it.”

 

“WIL-!”

 

The call instantly devolved into another set of frenzied wheezes and giggles and Wilbur didn't even try to fight the smile this time nor object to the small puffs of amusement that came from his nose.

 

“It's true!”  Wilbur continued,  navigating his cursor along the bottom of his screen and clicking open a few applications,  “That kid’s got a kick like a professional kickboxer Phil,  I'm serious.”

 

“Jesus Christ-”

 

“I actually think I might be infertile now,  that's how hard he hit me.”  Wilbur smirked,  his hands moving to his keyboard,  typing out a response to someone in his DM,  “Fuck a vasectomy,  I'm fixed.  One good kick to the sack and ‘bye-bye kids.’”

 

Phil choked,  coughing a few times before his giggles calmed down marginally,  “Oh my god,”   he sniffled,  “Jesus fucking Christ,  Wil,”

 

Wilbur breathed out a few chuckles as he went to minimise discord and instead pull up his email,  scrolling through junk and business stuff.

 

The call soon fell into a comfortable silence as the two did whatever it was they had or were doing.  It was nice.  Wilbur appreciated that he and Phil had the kind of relationship where they could just sort of exist by each other and it was enough.

 

It was easy.  Light.

 

That was until Phil gently asked,  “How was he?”

 

Wilbur scoffed lightheartedly,  “Before or after he neutered me.”

 

That earned a chuckle and a halfhearted,  “Wil,”

 

A puff of amused air pushed out from Wilbur’s nose,  “He looked fine if that's what you're asking.”  He tacked on,  “Nothing different from when I saw him last.”

 

“Helpful considering you were near blackout last time,”

 

Wilbur clicked his tongue as he momentarily stopped scrolling and glanced at his phone,  “You must be going senile old man 'cause that was you,   thank you very much.”

 

Phil scoffed,  “I'm only eight years older than you,  you fuck!”

 

“Yeah,  in dog years.”  

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

Wilbur smiled,  looking at his second monitor.  “You love it.”

 

“Yeah,  yeah,”   Phil chided making Wilbur chuckle,  “But really,  did you talk to him?”

 

Wilbur rolled his eyes,  “How do you think I got kicked in the dick exactly?  By crossing the street??”

 

“Hey,  I dunno what happens over there!  You're the one living in London - you tell me.” 

 

“Oh yeah,  Phil,”  Wilbur laid on the sarcasm so thick it was dripping all over the place,  “‘lot of people kicking people in the cock down here,  how did you know?”

 

Phil exclaimed,  “I knew it!”

 

Wilbur couldn't help but roll his eyes and chuff at his friend's outburst.  How absurd.

 

“But seriously,  he looked fine.  Fine enough to take me down at least.”

 

Phil laughed lightly,  humming towards the end,  “Good then.”

 

Wilbur hummed back,  googling a name and reading through the results.

 

“Have you thought about what you're going to do then?”

 

Wilbur glanced down at the phone idly laying against his desk as if Phil could see him,  “What do you mean?”

 

“Oh sorry,  did you not-”   Phil stopped and started,  “it just sounded like you…wanted to do more.”

 

Do more?   Wilbur frowned.  What more could he possibly do?  He asked as much.

 

“I dunno,  mate,  you just sounded like is all,”

 

Wilbur was still confused.

 

He had no idea what that even meant.  “I mean…”  He began before he shrugged to himself and made a sort of unsure sound,  mumbling,  “Maybe.”

 

Phil just made a noise of agreement before going quiet.

 

Wilbur fell into the same quiet Phil had and before long they were back to the same comfortable silence as before.  The only difference being it wasn't as calming.  

 

Wilbur couldn't stop thinking about what Phil insinuated and what it even meant.  Had he sounded eager to help?  He didn't think so but could it have just been that he couldn't hear it?

 

What did that even mean anyway?  

 

Wilbur sighed.  He certainly had no idea and was far too sober to think,  so he stopped trying to psychoanalyze it.

 

After a bit he wasn't even reading anymore,  his eyes scrolling across lines of letters that constructed words which in turn constructed sentences which made paragraphs and so on.  The only problem was that his brain was somewhere else completely.  As letters and words and paragraphs continued to go by his mind was preoccupied with nothing and everything all at once.

 

Eventually,  his cursor migrated to google and without thinking he began typing.

 

His searches ranged anywhere from:  “basic sign language”   and  “how to tell if someone is angry at you in BSL”   to  “is it rude to give food to the homeless”   and ended up stumbling through various Quora articles.

 

His eyes skimmed across his dual monitors as he read entries he half wished he hadn't.  

 

Stories of people finding broken glass in gifted sandwiches.  Tellings of animal faeces and dead bugs.  Cigarette butts,  phlegm,  the whole works.  It was disgusting.  Wilbur’s lip curled as he read the horrible things these people had found in food of all places.

 

What sick fucks would fuck with the homeless?

 

Had this kid had similar experiences?  Wilbur couldn't help but wonder and then promptly answer himself with a grim expression.  

 

Probably.

 

He read further and further and soon he was falling into a rabbit hole of tens of stories from people they’ve met or themselves,  all times of homelessness and Wilbur had never been so grateful and so resentful at the same time.

 

He had never been homeless.  Had never had to struggle like these people had - like that kid had.  He’d had the privilege to be able to read all that and not have personal,  first-hand accounts.  He could look at all those entries and feel sympathy and resentment towards these people’s experiences rather than mutual experience and being able to relate.

 

He doesn't feel so bad about being kicked in the bollocks now.  Not that he ever really did,  but the sentiment was still there.

 

Wilbur audibly hummed as he began to squint.  He hadn't realized he had gotten so close to his monitors.  He squinted and without looking away from the screen reached for his glasses across the table.

 

“What’re you lookin’ at?”   Phil asked causally,  most likely just trying to make conversation.

 

“Just reading some article,”  Wilbur replied,  intentionally vague.  He didn't really feel like getting into it.  That would mean having to admit Wilbur did want to help and face getting ragged on when Phil found out he’d been right.  Wilbur was interested in doing more,  just not openly.  At least not yet.

 

He honestly had no reason to be.  They were strangers,  him and this homeless kid.  But maybe in some weird way,  Wilbur saw himself in him.  A scrappy,  skinny,  angry teenager just trying to get by.

 

Maybe he was projecting.  Maybe he was definitely projecting but he just...he couldn't let it go.  He had to do something right?  Make up for being a piece of shit all the time?

 

He had tried,  before he was promptly kicked in the balls,   to offer a meal,  as measly as that sounded now.  After reading all that and more about the shit people did when they thought they could get away with it he now understood.  Or at least thought he did.  Thought he might.

 

For some,  random,  listless reason,  Wilbur wanted to help.  Needed to help.  Be it selfish or not he was going to try. 

 

After a beat of silence and realizing he had left Phil hanging.  “What are you doing for stream tonight?”   Wilbur asked idly,  his eyes continuing to scan through articles and google pages.

 

Phil hummed over the speaker,  “Probably some hardcore,”   he yawned,  “there's this cherry blossom build I wanna finish soon so I’ll probably do that.”

Wilbur hummed back,  nodding to nobody.  

 

“What about you,  mate?”

 

Wilbur made a generic questioning noise.

 

Phil chuckled lightly,  “You are streaming tonight,  aren’t you?”

 

Oh yeah.  

 

He probably should,   considering he’d only streamed a few hours this month and seeing as said month was already half over it’d be a good idea.  Otherwise,  he’d need to do a Subathon or something to make up the hours and he definitely was not doing that.

 

But what would he stream?  He could follow in Phil’s footsteps and launch Minecraft or he could play something else.  Maybe even go the opposite route and stick with a Just Chatting stream - make it simple and interactive.

 

He itched his palm in thought.  “Y-yeh-yuh--”  Wilbur flushed abruptly.  He quickly and harshly cleared his throat,  shutting his eyes so tight the lids wrinkled,  “-Yeah.”   He finally grit,  “Streaming tonight.”

 

Wilbur internally cringed so hard he thought he might faint.  He was suddenly sixteen again,  stuttering and tripping over his own words like a baby animal.  His heart began beating against his ribcage roughly and noticeably.  His palms dampened and his skin grew progressively itchier.

 

Had it been that long already?   

 

Surely not right?  He would’ve noticed.

 

“You alright,  Wil?”   Phil then asked,  breaking into Wilbur’s internal monologue. Concern progressively leaked into Phil’s tone.  “Is it your anx--”

 

“Fuh- fine,  Phil.”   Wilbur ground his teeth,  his face burning uncomfortably as he pushed himself back in his seat and reached down under the desk until his fingers gripped a familiar bottle.  “I'm-mmh fine.”

 

Anxiety and a lot of it.  It was embarrassing how one slip-up - one little stammer could throw him right back.  

 

It’s pathetic was what it was.

 

Phil didn't press it further to the relief of Wilbur.  If the man heard the clinking of glass and large gulps he didn't comment on it either.  Wilbur was grateful.

 

He was already embarrassed enough,  he didn't think he could handle another reprimand from Phil about his bad habits.

 

None came through.  Even Phil knew there was a time and place.

 

Wilbur sighed heavily,  slumping further into his chair and setting the near-empty bottle of whatever it was he had just downed loudly on his desk.  If he had to guess he’d probably say it was a brandy of some kind though he couldn't be bothered to look at the label. 

 

At this point though he probably didn't have to.  He could,  in all likelihood,  tell what something was by smell alone if he was honest.

 

That should’ve been a lot more alarming than it was.

 

It should,  shouldn't it?  He should be alarmed.  

 

He wasn't though.  And that was worse.

 

Wilbur cleared his throat after a minute,  “Maybe...”  He said,  testing the feel of words in his mouth again but all he could taste was cheap brandy.  He then sighed a rubbed at his face harshly,  pushing his glasses up off his nose bridge.

 

“Why don't you just hop on my stream for a bit instead?”   Phil offered after remaining quiet for a while,  maybe waiting to see if Wilbur would continue.  Or maybe not.  Phil knew him too well to guess.

 

“Push your own back till tomorrow,”   

 

Wilbur sighed again,  fixing his frames before turning his head to glance at the blank phone screen.

 

“We could hop on the SMP or something,  maybe play some Geoguesser,”

 

There were a few notable constants in Wilbur's life.  Twitch,  alcohol,  and music to name a few.  Remarkably there was also Phil.  Philza Minecraft himself.

 

The man,  the myth,  the legend.

 

Wilbur released an airy if a bit stilted laugh.

 

He didn't know how the man did it but somehow he always knew what to say.  Phil was a good friend.

 

“Shu-suh-sh--”  Wilbur took a deep breath,  visualizing the word before exhaling,   “Sure,   Phil.” 

 

Even without seeing him,  Wilbur knew the man was smiling.  He didn't need visuals to tell when he could hear it just as clearly.

 

“Sounds like a plan,”

 

Phil was a good friend.

 

Wilbur smiled back,  folding his arms over his chest.  “Sounds like a plan.”

 

Phil was a good friend.

 

Wilbur was not.

Notes:

updates are gonna be inconsistent if you couldn't tell already, my appologies. got a lot on my plate rn but if you're bored consider my other works: blue eyes and 103.9MC (superhero au + band au)

later skater

Notes:

later skater
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