Wheatley knocked on the barn door, the music blasting. It was peculiar music, sounding like swing and dustep had a child. Wheatley found himself enjoying the sound of it. Mechanical yet still ALIVE, like him in a sense, emotional in the way only machines can be.
Rosalie answered and her eyes softened. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."
Wheatley forced a smile. "You were right I definitely needed to get out." He did like the sound of the music though. "I love this music."
Rosalie brightened. She wrapped her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're making an effort. It means so much to me."
Though Wheatley was terrified and not exactly pleased to be there hearing that definitely made him feel a bit more comfortable. He wasn't doing this for himself, he was doing it for a friend. The music was drawing him in like a magnet. So when Rosalie took his hand he followed without a second glance.
When Wheatley got inside he realized two things. One, there were only teens and young adults. The ages ranged from 15 to early 20 year olds. Two, he was the oldest person there, and unfortunately the tallest.
What felt like an hundred eyes turned when he walked in. He felt like he was about to faint. His hands became clammy as he gripped a bit harder to Rosalie's hand.
She didn't seem to notice as she brought him to a group of kids in their late teens. Wheatley recognized a few of them. Whisp was there, staring blankly at him. Another one of them had teased him for a while. Wheatley narrowed his eyes menacingly at the boy, who backed away slowly.
"Hey guys! You'll never geuss what I just dragged in!"
Wheatley felt the urge to to correct her. Technically he had walked in. But he knew it was better left alone.
One kid took off her(...or his... he couldn't tell their gender) glasses, and grinned widely. "Yo! It's the librarian! Thought you were a real bird!"
Wheatley gave a confused look. "Ah...bird?"
The kid jumped up and down giving peace signs. "Yeah dude! You step near a bird and they fly away all scared! "
Wheatley nodded. Modern lingo was so strange. "Yeah... Rosie here got me out of the house... I definitely needed it." He said, trying to make small talk.
"Yeah Maestro! Play a new song!"
Rosalie beamed. She had gotten Wheatley out of his shell.
"Wheatley, this is Lemon, and you know Whisper. "
Who names their kid after a fruit?
Wheatley waved nervously to Whisp, who wasn't responsive. Did Whisp not like him?
"Wanna dance, Glasses?" Lemon asked.
Wheatley gave a pitiful look to Rosalie, who urged him on. Lemon grabbed his hand and pulled him to the middle of the makeshift dance floor. An actual disco ball hung from the ceiling, a relic from a place time forgot.
Wheatley had no idea how to dance. Sure, he had read books on dancing, but that was far different from DOING it. Wheatley felt scared. This was new, usually new meant bad.
Wheatley calmed himself and allowed lemon to lead. Wheatley found himself repeating their movements. The music was bouncy, thus they danced widly.
Wheatley caught sight of a girl who did a back flip. Oh, he was definitely NOT doing that. He tried to pinpoint what style this was.
After a few moments he realized it was a heavily amped up version of swing dancing. How had he been so dumb? Of course. He remembered noticing that the music was swing earlier. Wheatley broke off from his repeated movements and started making his own.
He let the world melt away, and moved to the beat. He lost himself in this new world. He gripped Lemon's hand and pulled them into his new dance. Colors and movement became a blur of emotion and exhilaration.
He spun them, and in a movement so quick, he then did a split. A sign of intense discipline and practice, though he had never practiced a day in his life.
When the song ended all eyes were on him. Wheatley returned to reality and realized everyone was looking at him. He gripped his arm nervously. He did something wrong. This was his fault. He did this. He ruined everything. Why hadn't he just kept quiet? What had he done?
"YOOOOOO!!!! DUDE THAT WAS SIIIIICK!" Lemon yelled, their voice sounding hyper.
The entire room erupted into cheers. The rambunctious teens jumped up and down cheering raucously.
Rosalie ran up and hugged him. "See? I told you didn't i? You needed this!" She was happy.
Wheatley simply nodded, his mind too preoccupied to focus. Too much was going on, too much to follow.
Within a few minutes the teens had surrounded him and were giving him compliments. Wheatley's self confidence was in heaven but his anxiety was burning somewhere deep in android hell.
"Yo dude! Didn't know you could shake like that!" One boy said.
"Yeah you totally were killer!" Said another.
Wheatley gave a friendly smile to them. Just like the library. Except far far more terrifying.
"Oh, I'm not all that good, you are giving me too much credit. Seriously." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"No way man! You deserve this! You gotta tell us who taught you! "
"Yeah! Tell dude! "
"Well, actually. .." he paused, "I wasn't taught by anyone. .. I read books on dancing."
The crowd became silent. The silence made Wheatley uneasy. He didn't like silence. Silence was why he used to ramble. Anything to fill the silence. Wheatley felt his hands become clammy again.
"No way! Dude, you are freaking talented!" one of the teens yelled.
Wheatley sighed. People were too confusing. He honestly couldn't tell what any of them were thinking.
Rosalie grabbed his arm. "Come on, we got hurricanes." Rosalie had a devilish smirk.
"H-hurricanes? This far inland? That's awful!" He had read about hurricane Katrina hitting New Orleans. That had been awful, imagine how powerful it would have to be to come this far in.
Rosalie laughed. "You're killing me man, I mean the DRINK." Wheatley caught the emphasis she put on 'drink'.
Wheatley hadn't ever had alcohol. Ever. He wasn't quite sure he wanted it now either. Sure he'd been offered alcahol a few times but he had always declined.
"... A-alcohol? Are you absolutely daft? You're all underage! " Wheatley didn't want to be part of anything else bad.
"But YOU'RE not."
That was true. He WAS an adult, but he didn't feel he was responsible enough to drink. If he still slept with a stuffed animal, how could he be mature enough to consume alcohol?
"I'm sorry, Rosie. It's not your fault but- between you and me-" he leaned in to her ear. "I'm not responsible. I could do something really dumb." He stood up again. "I just don't want to be part of anything bad, you see?"
Rosalie chuckled. "Just this once? You need to let go for once, you square." She playfully punched his arm.
Wheatley knew there wasn't any arguing at this point. She'd keep dodging his requests. He sighed.
"Only one. Understand? " His eyes spoke authority. He was serious. But nobody respected Wheatley to begin with, who cared if he was serious or not?
'Great idea! A limit, she gets her way and I get mine! Why, it's good on both ends!' Wheatley thought happily, thinking he'd won.
Rosalie pulled him to the long table situated across the dance floor, near the wall. A rough looking girl that was built like a tank sat behind the makeshift bar, polishing a shot glass. The 'bar' was dotted with underage drinkers. Wheatley felt uneasy.
"Ey Rosie. What can I do you for?"
The girl had whiskey on her breath and a new York accent.
"Nothing for me, Marabelle, but for the house beanpole..." she jabbed a thumb at Wheatley, whom only blinked confusedly.
Marabelle looked Wheatley up and down. "Think he can take a Hurricane? Or should I just give him a watered down Mimosa?" Marabelle asked Rosalie.
"He can take a hurricane." Rosie shot him a wink. Wheatley gulped. He had a feeling this wasn't going to end well.
Marabelle gave him a big cup with the words 'Hurricane Pat o' briens, New Orleans' on it. The cup was filled with a red liquid. He had heard of New Orleans, in the hurricane book. He wondered if it was still there.
Wheatley shakily took the glass and gave a pleading look to Rosalie. She urged him on with a wide grin.
He sighed. "Well... bottoms up I geuss..."
He took a sip and instantly fell in love. Sweet and tangy, overly addictive. He wanted more. He tipped the glass back and chugged.
"Slow down man! You don't want to puke do you dude?" Rosie said, pulling the now half empty glass from his hands.
Wheatley gave a dopey grin. "You were right, Rosie. I DID need to let go." Wheatley's smile grew wider.
Rosalie relaxed. She handed him the drink back. Wheatley took it and chugged it. He hiccuped and turned to Rosalie.
"You got anymore of that?"
"Oh hell yeah!" Rosalie grinned.
Marabelle slid him another. With that second hurricane everything went to hell. Wheatley's anxiety was gone. As well as the filter on his mouth. Old Wheatley was back, blabbering, stupid, irresponsible Wheatley.
Wheatley drunkenly gravitated into the crowd, with a buzzed Rosalie in tow. The crowd enjoyed Wheatley's enthusiasm and idiocy. It was funny. Wheatley was funny. He was entertainment. Time began to blur, and Wheatley lost track of how many drinks he had.
"Yeahhh, and I never even cared about that bloke, I tell you, he wouldn't ever shut up about bleeding space! He sure had lot of it in his processor if you ask me." Wheatley was in a big group of teens chatting.
Nobody had any idea what the hell he was talking about but it was funny as hell. One second he'd be talking about the fact that nobody liked that one jerk and then he'd start talking about Aperture.
Wheatley continued making stupid comments, doing stupid things, and making people realize he was an idiot. Not just a regular idiot. A moron. The dumbest moron to ever live.
At one point he even tripped over a bundle of cords that powered the lights and music. Everyone laughed, but he had laughed too, unaware that they'd been laughing at him.
By the end of the night Wheatley had downed so much alcohol that his shirt had ridden up exposing a sliver of his pale skin. He couldn't think. He could barely walk. He hadn't realized how big of a fool he'd made himself.
Rosie waved him off. "Bye Wheatley! Stay safe!"
Wheatley drunkenly waved goodbye.
" -hic!- toodles Rosy!"
Rosalie chuckled.
"Go home you dummy."
She pushed him away from the door, hugging him. "Don't get sick."
"I'll be fine-!" He slurred.
Wheatley turned heel, and made his way down the dirt path. Wheatley began rubbing his stomach, a slight rumbling hum deep in his throat beginning to start.
He had a big dopey grin. "Why was I so -Hic!- worried...? Bloody hell, alcohol is amazing!" He stifled a burp. "Why, I'm feeling giddy!"
He laughed goofily.
He stumbled, catching himself on the white fence surrounding the family's property. "Wooahh...-ic!- I nearly fell! That would've been pretty damn bad, wouldn't it! Bloody hell..."
He ran his hand through his hair, hiccuping again. "Blimey, I'm kind've dizzy, aren't I?"
He blinked a few times, then he steadied himself and started back on his way. His stomach was so full. He sighed, still rubbing at the flesh. He felt kind of sick.
Wheatley stumbled home, raided his fridgerator, and with an overfull stomach, promptly fell asleep.