Wilbur wasn’t sure why he had said yes.

Alright, well, that wasn’t exactly the truth; he wasn’t sure why he had thought it was a good idea to say yes. When you had knocked on his door, blundering through a half-arsed plea to hitch a ride to Kinoko’s at 9pm on a Thursday night, Wilbur’s immediate impulse was to curtly say ‘no’ and close the door on his little siblings face. Sure, it would’ve been a bit bitchy, but Wilbur still hadn’t gotten over his jet-lag from the flight over and it was 7am his time (but it was pitch black outside, and Wilbur’s internal clock had no idea what to do with that), and he was still on edge from last night’s dinner-fiasco.

So he drove you to Kinoko, he saw the poetry you preferred and what had you done?

You had humiliated and shamed the family through that stupid slam poem, that’s what you did. Wilbur was furious.

The walk back to the car had been silent. Wilbur had fallen just short of frog-marching you out of the cafe (much to the alarm and protest of Dream, but Will had seemingly paid him no mind).

Wilbur slammed the car door.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Wilbur’s hands were gripping the steering wheel as though trying to rip it off of its axel, faced forward and refusing to meet your gaze. You felt the color drain from your face, and your fingers twitched where they lay curled in your lap. Wilbur’s lips were curled into a nasty snarl, dark eyes ablaze as he stared at the 2hr parking sign in front of them. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, going up there like that. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I—what? Will, what the hell are you talking about?” You blurted.

“Is that where you get off? Just-just talking shit about your family in front of a group of strangers? Is that fun for you, huh? It’s fun to make us all look like assholes at some stupid open mic.” Wilbur turned his key in the ignition and started the engine.