Quackbur Oneshots- [TNT DUO] (requests open)

Inside This Building Of Brick And Glass

Uhh hey guys here's my Wilbur angst
Here is a summary for you:

There's something brewing in his stomach, travelling to the tip of his tongue. He always refuses to admit it might taste something like regret.

This gas station is what was best. Still is. He does not regret coming to Utah.

Or, turns out forgetting isn't that easy. Nor is admitting your feelings- even to yourself

Now the story:
It's a repeat.

The day is nearly identical to yesterday, mundane events flowing after each other, one weed pulled after the other.

It's the same sun, unforgivingly beating down on his back as he walks on the dirt trail, dust sifting around him in the air as small rocks get stuck in his boots.

It takes the same amount of time it did last time to set foot on black, burning to the touch asphalt, meeting the same small building.

The gas station.

Wilbur creeps into the shadows, passing brick walls for a set of glass double doors that he passes through swiftly and silently before the bell chime disrupts the still silence.

But it's gone as soon as it's there, leaving the buzzing air conditioner and the smack of bubble gum to fill the quiteness. Wilbur doesn't spare a glance at his co-worker as a sharp pop comes from their direction. Blowing bubble gum and drinking Red Bull happen to be their hobbies, ones Wilbur doesn't really care to join them in.

He checks in, hesitating as he sees his name on a wrinkly, stained piece of paper. To think, once his name was on a declaration of independence. Now, it's on a dumb login sheet to count his hours.

Wilbur doesn't think about that for too long, he doesn't like to. Normally he's very good at stopping those thoughts from trickling into his brain, consuming his mind with memories of a life he once lived, a world he once knew...

People he once met.

Wilbur shakes his head and dismisses that familiar ache in his chest, dry hands tightening on the bathroom door for a hot second.

This is for the better.

He reminds himself, exhaling and opening thhe door, moving under a uncertain flickering panelled light to stand in front of a messy mirror, decorated with random fingerprints and dried water drops, and hopefully lotion or soap in one corner.

Wilbur grimaces at his reflection, hair poorly patted down in an attempt to make it look a little more tame and a little less tangled.

He knows he should shower more often, brush his hair frequently and do loads of laundry. He knows all about it.

But Wilbur also knows there's nobody miles from here that he would even care to listen to, let alone be presentable towards.

Wilbur doesn't let his mind trace back to dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and an obnoxious laugh mocking him for wearing a fancy shirt once. Or a pink haired baker kindly complimenting his new haircut one day.

He doesn't think about that at all, he shouldn't. Those were simplier times when he wasn't messing up. He's here in this gas station to afford a simple life once again.

One where he's just a nobody, sitting behind a cash register or laying head down on his bed, something his hard-ass landlord almost thought was him being dead. It was hilarious, honestly. Not dead, just pretending, Wilbur supposes.

He also supposes this is going to be a long day seeing as he can't keep a train of thought for too long without going back to the past.

Still, Wilbur begrudgingly chooses to chug along, even if today will be a bit rough.