Chapter Text
‘fuck’ wilbur sighs, the incessant knocking coming from his door making his head snap up from the pile of dirty laundry he’d been searching through.
“jesus- fuck! hold on tom, i’m coming!” he calls out, swiftly slinking to his front door, twisting the lock. “there, holy hell.” he spoke breathlessly, seemingly exasperated.
tommy wastes no time, pushing through the door and glancing around at his brother’s barren apartment. “are you ready?” tommy asked, almost bouncing on his feet.
wilbur sighs again, turning on his heels before rushing back down the hall. “yeah- well no. give me just a minute. sit on the couch for a bit, yeah?” he speaks lowly, voice fading as he dips in through his bedroom door.
wilbur glances around his room. ‘where the hell…’ he mutters, tossing some dirty clothes from his bed to the floor before his eyes finally lock onto what he’s been searching for. ‘there it is!’ he whispers, quickly snatching his black beanie from the foot of his bed.
he pulls it over his head, tucking his messy brown curls into the void colored cotton. as he grabs his bag, hanging from the doorknob, he catches a glimpse of himself in the full length mirror propped against his wall.
he looks… almost normal, he thinks as he glances over his reflection, combing his fingers through the showing locks of his hair. he can’t remember the last time he willingly looked into the mirror. ‘i should have shaved.’
tommy had been pestering him since the beginning of the semester to come to a party with him. “come on, wil!” he’d plead, hands clasped together as he stared up at his brother, bottom lip pouted exaggeratedly. “it’ll be fun! you only have to go once! i’ll quit asking!” he’d try and bargain, and it worked. wilbur told him that he would go to ONE party with him, just to shut him up. he couldn’t handle the unending pressuring and begging. he’s already started to regret it.
as hard as he’s trying to hide it, it’s still there, the sweat pooling in his palms and the lump sat heavy in the back of his throat, a constant reminder. he’s fucking petrified. his eyes lock onto the clothes draped over his lanky frame and he feels deeply uncomfortable.
the tag on the back of his ‘american psycho’ t-shirt makes his neck itch, his black ripped jeans are a sit too low on his hips, his black zip up is too baggy, his black converse are dirty and faded and he can’t help but worry that his beanie makes his ears look too big. he sighs, throwing his fade gray messenger bag over himself before stepping back out into the hall, sulking his way back to his living room. ‘this is going be fucking miserable.’
“come on, tom.” wilbur says, barely glancing back at tommy as he twists his front door open, grabbing his car keys from their hanger next to the door and making his way towards the stairwell.
tommy jumps up from his couch and bolts after him. shutting the door behind him, he practically skips down the stairs next to wilbur, jabbering on about his classes and friends. wilbur only hums in response, giving small nods of acknowledgment. he has nothing to add, he can’t remember the last time he had actual friends to hang out with. he hates going out. he just knows that everyone who sees him is staring, judging him and his pathetic appearance, especially the women…
then it hits him, as he’s sinking down into the driver’s seat of his car, buckling his seatbelt, it hits him. hard. it’s a party. there’s going to be women. they’re going to stare at him. they’re going to hate him. they’re going mock and ridicule and judge him. his face flushes with mortification and what almost seems like anger as his hand rests on the key in his ignition.
he tries to speak, to tell tommy that he’s changed his mind, that he’s not going and to get out of his car. he tries tell him that he can’t go, that he’ll keel over dead if he sees a stacey whispering to some chad about how fucking ‘stupid’ he looks. but nothing. his voice catches in his throat and his words fall dead on his tongue as he turns the key with a shaky hand.
wilbur is silent the entirety of the drive, fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to the house where the party’s being held. he parks across street, swallowing deeply as he steps out of his car door onto the pavement.
tommy hurries into the house, waving for wilbur to come after him but wilbur walks slowly, eyes squinting at the setting sun caught in his eyes as he focuses on not stumbling over his own feet. as soon as he crosses the threshold the scent of cheep booze and sweat mixed with pot assaults his nose, nearly making him gag as he shuts the door behind him.
the booming music and loud chattering of the people around him makes his head spin as he makes his way through the crowd, scanning the faces of passerby’s in an attempt to locate his brother. he can’t seem to find him. with a shaky, defeated sigh he pauses, head throbbing as he settles on propping himself against the wall in corner and trying to make himself as small as possible. he keeps his head down as he walks, only tilted just high enough for him to be able to make sure he doesn’t knock shoulders with someone.
as his back presses against the cool drywall he lets out a soft sigh, hands shaking as he reaches into his back pocket, fumbling to unlock his phone.
wilby! - 9:37 p.m
‘where did u go?’
- read 9:38 p.m
thomas (brother) - 9:40 p.m
‘downstairs! thought i told you that i was gonna hang out in the basement in the car, sorry!’
- read 9:40 p.m
wilby! - 9:41 p.m
‘u might have, wasn’t listening.’
- read 9:45
wilbur sighs, shoving his phone and hands into the pockets of his jacket and pressing his arms tightly to his sides, his breathing heavy. he scans over the crowd again, eyes flickering over scantily clad college girls and the chads that were obviously just trying to get in their pants. his brows furrow. ‘it’s so stupid- they’re so stupid’ he thinks to himself, fingers twitching nervously in his pockets.
‘it’s unfair.’ he thinks as he lowers his eyes, staring down at the ground. ‘it’s so unfair. i’m such a nice guy. i’m funny, im talented, but just because i’m not some roid-raging chad i don’t have a chance’. his breath hitches, nerves building in his stomach as angry jealousy seeps into his chest. ‘stupid fucking whores.’
he places his left hand to the back of his head, a soft, barely audible groan pushing through his chapped lips as he lifts his gaze again. were there always this many girls here? and why are they so close? a girl he’s pretty sure he’s seen on a cam girl website he frequents brushes against him, giving a mouthed ‘sorry’ as she passes by him. he feels nauseous.
he makes a break for the hallway, keeping his head down as he gasps for air, stumbling slightly over his feet as his pushes through the first door he sees, eyes closed tight as he pressed his back to the door, shutting it behind him. he prays that it’s empty, maybe a bathroom if he’s lucky. apparently, the god he’d landed on hadn’t existed. or, if he did, he was a cruel motherfucker.
“hello?” your head shoots up from your laptop, face filled with shock as your eyes land on wilbur. he lifts his head, eyes opening wide as he meets your gaze. his mouth goes dry.
“g-god! fuck- fuck i’m sorry!” he stammers out, face flushing a dull red, though you can see it in the dim lighting. he pushes his fingers through his hair, too much of a nervous wreck to move from in front of your bedroom door. “fuck- i’m so sorry. i thought- i didn’t know there was anyone in here.” his voice is almost shaky.
your expression softens, a faint, understanding smile playing on your lips. wilbur’s throat feels like its closing around itself. “oh, it’s alright.” you speak softly, it’s like honey is dripping from your words.
your eyes scan over him and he feels like he’s about to vomit. a million thought flood through wilbur’s head as he feels your gaze focus on him. he just knows you’re going to ridicule him, call him a grody freak and a pervert who shoves himself in girls’ rooms without permission. it’s over for him.
“i love your shirt, where’d you get it?” you ask, eyes lifting from his torso to his eyes as you speak, your warm smile never faltering.
he stammers, eyes widening at the question. he glances down at his shirt. ‘american psycho…? women don’t- how would a femoid know- most women are far too… vapid to understand such complex media..’ he thinks to himself, finally taking a moment to give you a once over. you… you definitely didn’t look like most women.
your hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a few stray strands falling to frame your face. you’ve got on a baggy graphic t-shirt that's hanging off one of your shoulders and fuzzy pajama pants covering your crossed legs. your face is bare, no deceptive makeup. his eyes trace your figure, almost frustrated at the looseness of your clothes.
“u-um..” he muttered, finally snapping his eyes back to your face. “spencer’s i think.. my brother got it for me for christmas last year.” his eyes keep wandering from your body to your face but you don’t seem to notice.
you nod, smiling up at him. he feels sick again. a girl, a woman, is talking to him. and she doesn’t seem disgusted. it’s probably because he showered for the first time in a week this morning, actually brushed his hair and put deodorant on too. he looks… normal. “cool! i haven’t been to a spencer’s in ages! the closest one is such a far drive!” you say, pulling out your words. “i’m (y/n) by the way! what’s your name?”