If We Could Go Back (I'd change the world for you)

|Chapter Two|

Tw: Alcohol abuse, mentions of past child abuse/neglect, mentions of suicide. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!

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Wilbur was completely numb as he threw the shot back, relishing in the burning feeling of liquor sliding down his throat. He could see out of the corner of his eye, the way his friends stared at him with concern clear as day on their faces. Wilbur could understand why they were nervous, after all, they'd never seen him behave like this before. Wilbur, whenever invited out for drinks, was usually quite modest with them, never drinking more than a few glasses and a couple of shots. This was Wilbur's eighth shot.

To be fair, however, no one had ever seen him on this day.

It was the ten year anniversary—

"Another one, barkeep!" Wilbur called, slamming the glass on the counter.

"Holy shit, Wilbur," Quackity chuckled, but there was a nervous tint to it. "Should we cut you off?"

"Big Q, my man, my main man," Wilbur had to swallow the desire to say Big Man like it was poison on his tongue. "If you take away my access to alcohol tonight, I will never forgive you."

Quackity shifted anxiously, shooting a wide-eyed glance to Nikki who was sitting peacefully across the bar. "What's his deal?" he asked in a stage whisper.

"Don't know," Nikki shrugged, however, despite her blase attitude, she too was eyeing Wilbur with an uneasy look. "He's never like this. Do you think something happened?"

"You know I'm not deaf, right?" Wilbur asked before he let out a series of uncontrollable giggles when the waiter returned with another glass of whiskey. "Oh, I think I've fallen in love with the barkeep!"

"Okay Wil, seriously, what's the matter with you?" Quackity finally said, leaning forward to snatch the shot glass away from Wilbur before he had the chance to drink any of it. Wilbur whined pitifully as his only method of escape was stolen from his grasp.

"Hey! Give it back! Come on man, don't be mean!" Wilbur whined, making grabby hands towards the glass.

"Seriously man, talk to us," Quackity demanded. "You're acting so weird!"

"Please," Wilbur whispered, fighting off the urge to cry. "I don't want to be sober right now."

"Wil, wha—" Quackity's attempt at interrogation was interrupted, however, by the sound of the door to the bar slamming open.

"Dream! My friend!" Wilbur called, momentarily forgetting his lack of alcohol in favor of greeting his friends. "Looking good, mate!"

Dream paused as he eyed Wilbur quizzically. "You're... not looking so good," he said, regaining his stride as he took a seat next to Wilbur, his bright emerald eyes filled with concern. "What's up, Wil?"

Wilbur was seriously starting to get tired of everyone asking if he was okay or not. Why couldn't they understand that Wilbur was okay because he was currently not sober? They did not want to see how he coped with this night when he was.

"I'm fineeee," Wilbur said, drawing out the end of the world in a slur. "Let it go."

"How many has he had?" Dream asked, incredulous.

"Eight or nine," Nikki said with a slight shrug, her narrowed eyes giving away her concern. "I've honestly lost count."

"Well, that's no good," Dream hummed. "What's got you drinking like there's no tomorrow?" Dream asked, lightly elbowing Wilbur in the gut. "Don't you have that huge meeting tomorrow with another record deal? Are you seriously going to show up hungover?"