Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The drive there, passing through airport security, and boarding the plane all felt like a blur. One moment he had been waking up (at a god awful hour, may he note) and the next he was settled in to his seat, politely refusing a drink from the flight attendant.

He’d been dizzy and quite “out of it” for the past few days. Every thought was filled with excitement, then quickly replaced by dread as he overthought every possibility of the trip.

What if the plane crashes? What if they think I’m gross, and they make me go back? What if no one wanted me there in the first place? What if this was some big joke?

It was all in his head. Wilbur knew very well that of all the places to be, and all the people to be around, VidCon with his best friends would be his best option. He wiped his palms on his jeans, exhaling his stress and glancing around the plane.

It’d been roughly a month since he and his friends planned their trip. It seemed like the perfect opportunity; to see everyone he cared about, meet fans, and make content while he was at it.

It was only when they started making plans that Wilbur began to worry. Every social outing had to include food, which was absurd, and frankly inconvenient. For him, at least.

When Tommy had enthusiastically piped up with “What do you wanna do, Will?” he didn’t have an answer. He said something about no preference and brushed it off. No one brought it up again. (Why should they? It was nothing out of the ordinary, Wilbur wouldn’t consider himself opinionated.)

The seat in front of him slid back, pressing on his knees if he didn’t sit up perfectly straight. Another flight attendant pushed past him with a cart of booze, the man next to him coughed and set his arm down on the armrest.

Everything felt so suffocating.

Wilbur politely excused himself, despite no one listening, and rushed into the vacant bathroom stall. He locked the door with trembling hands and leaned with his back in the wall, taking a deep interest in his shoes. His breathing grew shaky as he held back tears.

“Come on, you’re fine.” He muttered, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead roughly. He tapped himself, not gently, several times.

Wilbur hadn’t ever struggled this much on a flight. Legally, he supposes he could have flown his own plane to America. The hassle would’ve been quite a lot, but avoiding this portion of the flight would have been nice.

The panic wasn’t unfounded, he realized. Wilbur lifted his eyes to his reflection in the warped mirror.

He took up so much space.

All of this would’ve been fine if he was just smaller. The thought sickened him.

Wilbur reached a tentative hand to pull and prod at the skin on his thighs. He found little purchase, grabbing flimsily at skin and jean fabric. Everything around him felt like too much.

He let go of his legs and slid down the wall, resting on the floor with his head against his knees. His breathing sounded more like timed shudders, little gasps, and whispers to just “keep it together, can’t you?”

Wilbur sat there for maybe ten minutes, (which in retrospect, wasn’t quite long enough) before someone rudely knocked on the door, calling for him to open it and “let someone else have a turn!”

Gross.

“Yeah, yeah- give me a second.” His vocal chords were rough, although he hadn’t cried. He had certainly hyperventilated in an airplane bathroom, but he’d be damned if he cried in one.

He pulled himself up from the floor with a white-knuckled grip on the counter. For just a moment, he saw stars and the edges of his vision were pricked with black. The sight (or lack thereof) made him reminisce of fireworks.

The rest of the flight wasn’t “fine,” but he didn’t return back to the bathroom. He played music and tried to ignore how big he felt in comparison to his surroundings.

Things started to feel better when he arrived at the airport terminal, thirty minutes away from his hotel. Baggage claim was easy, (thank fuck) and his visit to customs went as smoothly as it could.

It was much harder to hail a taxi in Los Angeles than it was in Brighton, so he succumbed to his pride and ordered an Uber. It was a busy area, buzzing with the activity of people bustling to see their relatives and friends.

Stepping outside was supposed to be Wilbur’s breath of fresh air, but it felt just about the same as the airport. The air was hot on his skin, but he still felt cold. He gripped his own fingers, trying to warm his skin.

The Uber arrived, and the driver was polite enough. She didn’t talk much, which Wilbur was thankful for. He wasn’t in the mood for a conversation with anyone, for that matter. She dropped him off right in front of the hotel with a polite smile and an offer to help with Wilbur’s bags, which he declined as well.

Looping his hands in the holds of his suitcases, he rolled them inside the hotel. It was tropical themed (or maybe this was just how California looked.) Almost immediately he heard his name being called, loudly at that.

And who else could the voice belong to but his best friend, Tommy? The blond waved at him with far too much enthusiasm for being this jet lagged. Phil stood next to him, waving with less excitement and chuckling to himself. Kristin was there as well, speaking with the front desk worker.

Wilbur’s face split into a grin as he rolled his luggage toward the small group. He dropped his bags and pulled Tommy into a tight hug.

“Big man! You’re finally here!” Tommy exclaimed, smile wide across his cheeks.

“Oh, cmon. You can’t have waited that long!” Wilbur says back, ruffling Tommy’s hair and gently bumping their feet.

“No, he hasn’t. He’s just been excited to see you the whole time.” Phil chimes in, smiling just as widely as the other two boys.

It’s been quite a while since Wilbur left home at all, let alone to see his friends. Every time someone suggested a meetup, on camera or off, he made up an excuse about work, or his band, or something.

The truth was that he didn’t want to be seen as he was. Wilbur had gained weight two months ago and hadn’t stepped on a scale since, too scared to see the results. The fear of being seen as fat clawed at his insides and gnawed at the fibers in his brain. He dropped how much he ate to the point where he could barely get out of bed without blacking out.

The trip was exciting, yes; but the terror that surrounded something as simple as food was always consuming his thoughts.

Wilbur had even begun to rehearse excuses for why he couldn’t eat. He had a large breakfast, he didn’t like whatever was in the food, he was trying out a new diet, etc, etc. He practiced so much with his reflection, he almost began to believe himself.

Kristin finished her conversation with the desk worker, returning with three keys. “I could only get the extra keys for the people here already, so we’ll have to wait to give everyone else theirs.” She handed a key to Phil, Tommy, and finally to Wilbur.

“It’s nice to see you again, Will.” Her eyes crinkles into a smile, but it was apparent she meant something by what she said. Wilbur cringed internally, knowing now that it was obvious he had been avoiding his friends.

“Thanks Kristin. When do the rest of the guys get here?” Phil checked his watch, responding for her.

“George is set to be in at twelve, Niki and Jack at two, and Tubbo and Ranboo about thirty minutes after that.”

“Cool, cool. Who’s my room with? Not this annoying bastard, I hope.” Wilbur nudged Tommy with his shoulder, who feigned annoyance. It was clear he wasn’t upset by the smile he tried to hide.

“Fuckin’ prick!” Tommy said, pushing Wilbur back. Phil chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re with George. The children get their own room, Niki and Jack share, and I’ll be with Kristin.”

“I’m gonna kick Ranboo out into the cold. Remember when he did that to me? It’s payback time!” Tommy said, pushing a fist into his palm in mock threat.

“I wouldn’t consider a hotel hallway ‘the cold,’ but whatever helps you sleep at night, Tom.” Wilbur mustered his best ‘disappointed big brother’ look and watched as Tommy sputtered and spilled words of self defense.

“It’s an hour until George gets here if you want to drop off your bags and get a bite to eat.” Phil is obviously talking to Wilbur now, because no one else’s bags are anywhere to be seen.

Wilbur’s breath hitched in his throat, which he promptly cleared before scooping up his bags. “Yeah, I’ll drop my things off. I ate on the plane, so I’ll probably skip this one.”

Phil nodded, checking his phone nonchalantly. Success- Wilbur made his way out of an entirely unnecessary meal. It was only eleven, which was frankly an awkward time to eat anyway. Wilbur would be fine.

“Need help with the bags, king?” Tommy reached to take one from Wilbur, who obliged. “This is really just a scheme for me to find where your room is.” He added quickly, not wanting to admit he was being polite.

“I’m locking George and I in. You won’t see me for the rest of the trip.” Wilbur fired back, already checking his key to find the room number. 363- third floor, 63rd room. Easy enough, assuming the elevator worked.

It didn’t.

“Seriously? C’mon man, the one day we need you.” Tommy lightly kicked the elevator door, not wanting to leave any meaningful damage.

“It’s a sign. Let’s all go home.” Wilbur joked, turning around to find the stairs. Tommy lagged behind, still hopeful the elevator would come back to life in a moment of divine intervention.

Wilbur was incredibly thankful Tommy offered to help him with his bags, because holy shit his bags were heavy, the stairs were awful, and he hadn’t eaten in two days. With each thump of his suitcase up another stair, his arms and legs trembled and his breath grew heavier.

Finally, they arrived to his room. Wilbur dumped his share of the luggage to the ground, along with himself. He knew hotel floors weren’t the most sanitary, but he didn’t have it in him to care. His head was throbbing and he felt like he’d run a marathon.

Tommy stayed upright, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room like someone’s middle aged father. “Gotta say, Will- this room looks exactly like mine. Maybe I’ll spare you of my wrath.” Wilbur chuckled airily, still attempting to catch his breath.

“You alright, mate?” Tommy’s voice was filled with genuine concern. Wilbur’s heart pricked with a pang of guilt.

“Yeah, all good. You know me- I’m a pro gamer, not an athlete.” Tommy chuckled at that. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as hard as Wilbur had thought. Sure, the deceptions would weigh heavy on his conscious at a later, darker time— but many things did. Besides, he had no other choice.

Time passed quickly, similar to the morning Wilbur had arrived. The rest of his friends joined their group promptly, making for a lovely afternoon.

They spent about an hour meeting fans and taking photos before the jet lag seemed to catch up to each and every one of them, striking Tubbo and Niki first. The weariness crept into Wilbur’s bones quickly after, multiplied by his empty stomach and dreary demeanor.

He had no choice but to agree when Phil suggested they get a bite to eat- even if he didn’t intend on having any bites at all.

They settled in to some place local, not packed too tightly with tourists. The host scrambled to piece together tables and chairs to accommodate for the large group.

When they finally sat down, Wilbur melted directly into his seat. He hadn’t felt the effects of his long travel and lack of food until now, but god was it taking its toll.

“If I ordered fries, who’d eat them?” Kristin chimed, checking the appetizer section of the menu.

God, I wish I could.

“I’ll pass, not a fan of chips.” Wilbur said, smiling lightly. Tommy and Tubbo chimed in with agreements that “yes, as long as they’re not fucking nasty” they would share the fries. Wilbur chuckled, glancing across the table at the two boys, already bickering over who would eat what.

The waitress came to take everyone’s drink orders. This part was easy, of course: water, with no ice. Wilbur had once been an avid fan of ice-cold water, but when he could no longer recover from the chill in his bones that followed the beverage, he had to give it up.

She came back soon after with water, cola and iced tea (which Kristin declared an American staple.) Next, was the hard part.

Wilbur hadn’t read the menu in front of him yet— he had simply skimmed it in order to fit in with the rest of his friends. It would have been peculiar to just watch while everyone chose their own food.

“What’ll you have, sir?” The waitress held her notepad and stared expectantly at Wilbur. His mouth felt dry, despite having taken a sip of his water just a moment before.

“I’m alright for now, thanks.”

“C’mon mate, order something. You haven’t eaten all day.” Phil said quietly, nudging Wilbur’s elbow with his own.

“Hm? No, I ate crisps back in the building.” (He did not.) Phil gave him a disappointed glance before turning to the waitress.

“Sorry to bother, but he changed his mind. He’ll have a salad.” Wilbur’s eyes widened for a moment before he adjusted and laughed awkwardly.

“Really Phil, there’s no need. I’m not even that hungry.”

Those were obviously not the correct words to say to an already upset Philza Minecraft.

“We’re at a restaurant. If you’re hungry, you eat.” Suddenly, Wilbur felt very small. He shouldn’t have to be ordered for in a restaurant or scolded for bad behavior— he was an adult, for fuck’s sake. Instead of voicing this, however, Wilbur just nodded and muttered an apology. (What was he even apologizing for? Never mind.)

When the food arrives, the most atrocious salad Wilbur has ever seen is placed in front of him. It’s drenched in some kind of creamy dressing, and Wilbur can tell that it’s packed full of calories.

The panic begins to set in for just a moment, but he won’t let anyone catch on. He lightly picks up his fork and nudges the top layer away, trying to find anything dry. How many calories were in arugula? Was this arugula? He had no clue, but it made him nervous nonetheless.

Everyone else began to eat. They exclaimed that it was good food, “for America!” (Tommy had added.) Wilbur glanced around the makeshift table to make sure no one was watching him.

He tentatively took up his fork, with perhaps the most boring bite of salad atop it. Wilbur put it to his mouth slowly, covering it with a napkin as he chewed. God forbid anyone see his mouth, or see food on his lips, or food stuck in his teeth- everything felt overwhelming again.

Bite after bite, he managed to take down about half the salad, too scared to touch more in the fear someone would notice he had eaten so much. In reality, it didn’t taste half bad at all. He liked arugula.

“Good meal, eh Wilbur?” Jack chimed in, wiping his mouth after finishing his sandwich.

It appeared that covering the rest of his salad politely with a napkin had made them think he finished his food. They might think badly about him for eating so much, but maybe Phil would get off his back about it.

“Yeah, really good arugula.” He self-consciously ran his tongue against his teeth after speaking.

“Glad you liked it Will, but I have no clue what the fuck an arugula is.” Tommy added, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s a leaf. Wilbur’s a weirdo, no one just- likes leaves.” Ranboo said. The rest of the table laughed.

“They call me Wilbun Soot, yknow. The bun standing for bunny. Rabbit, if you will.” When he turned to look at Phil, there was a look of soft pride on his face that left Wilbur feeling more guilty than before.

The walk back to the hotel felt much easier with a little bit of energy in his stomach, but Wilbur couldn’t help the creeping guilt that trailed behind him. His insides felt heavier than before. A gag tickled his throat.

Upon their return, the group agreed to split up for the night to get rest and catch up on missed sleep. George walked alongside Wilbur to their shared room, silent for the most part. That was nothing new— George tended to be much quieter off camera, especially in person.

“I’m going to get a shower, I feel sticky. California’s hot.” George said, a moment after they entered the room. Wilbur hummed in agreement. They both needed the alone time, as self-proclaimed introverts.

George’s disappearance allowed Wilbur a moment to sit on his bed and catch up with Twitter. Of course, he wasn’t meant to have the app at all— but it couldn’t hurt to know what was going on, right?

Each picture he saw from the #VidCon2021 tag made him feel ill.

Every time he scrolled he was hit with him, him with his friends, or his friends without him. Of course it wasn’t true, but Wilbur couldn’t help but think his friends looked much happier without him.

That wasn’t the elephant in the room, however— he was.

With every picture, every zoomed-in stare, Wilbur spotted more and more flaws on himself. His hips had pudge around the edges, his cheeks looked chubby, and his stomach protruded grossly.

The guilt he had felt for eating earlier amplified, striking him across the face and kicking him in the gut.

Someone so sickening does not deserve to eat like you do.

Despite his “no-crying” streak of about two months, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Normally, this would be the time when he’d curl away and write song lyrics to get this awful feeling out of his head, but he didn’t want to worry George. The shower was still running but fuck, Wilbur needed this food out of him immediately.

Every second that George spent in the shower, Wilbur spent staring at his thighs. He could feel the fat trickling under his skin and padding his bones. Every second that George spent in the shower was another second Wilbur blinked away his tears and felt the familiar sting in his nose.

When he finally emerged, hair damp and hotel slippers on, Wilbur rushed to replace him in the bathroom.

“You doing ok, Wilbur?” George called as Wilbur locked the door.

No, not doing okay. Doing awful, in fact. Why can’t you tell? Why won’t you help me?

“Yeah, just need a piss.” Wilbur hoped his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.

He pulled his sleeves up to his elbows. They didn’t stay up, so he forced them up his barely-there biceps.

Kneeling over the toilet, he emptied his stomach as quietly as possible. The fear of George hearing made him even more anxious— this would be very hard to explain.

He wiped his mouth, flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth with lukewarm sink water. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he noticed his cheeks looked larger than usual.

Whatever, he thought. Feels better.

When he slid out of the bathroom quietly, knuckles red and face flushed, he prayed that George wouldn’t say anything.

“You alright?” He tried once more. Wilbur nodded.

“All good.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Wilbur is stricken with the familiar feeling of sheets clung too tight and sweat coating his body. He feels filthy and fatigued, groaning and clawing at his nightstand toward his phone. There’s nothing to check, but it’s instinct and he feels the need nonetheless.

He has two notifications; one from Ash, asking about his trip, and one from his editor asking about a video he didn’t quite care about. He sent his responses of “all good,” and “do whatever you think works,” and dropped his phone to his side.

Wilbur pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, then to his head and rubbed vigorously, trying to breathe some life into himself.

The faucet stopped running; when had it turned on? George exited the bathroom, face clean-shaven and looking ready to be out of the hotel room. Wilbur didn’t feel ready at all— in fact, he felt ready to never leave this bed again.

“Shower’s all yours. Phil asked if he wanted to take a break from the streamer stuff today and just walk around, get a bite to eat, if you’re interested?” George said, clambering back into bed to wait out the rest of the morning grogginess.

Every single time he thought things would pass, food came up again. He groaned again, internally this time, and sat up from the comforting cocoon of his blankets.

“I feel gross. Need a shower. Tell Phil yeah for me.” Wilbur said, voice hoarse and eyes heavy. He flipped his phone screen-side down and grabbed his clothes from his suitcase, making his way to the bathroom to shower.

Ridding himself of the sweat clinging to his skin made him feel much better than he did upon waking up. He took notice of the excess amount of hair pulling from his scalp as he washed it. The benefit of showering was the warmth that accompanied it— Wilbur tended to have his shower on an almost unbearable level of scalding that left him warm long after he was finished. (Could you get sunburned from shower water?)

The weather in California was hot, which Wilbur had expected, but not to this extent. Despite this, he settled on a pair of gray sweatpants, a t-shirt for his favorite band, Los Campesinos!, and a plain brown hoodie to accompany it. The outfit was a mess, but it kept him cosy and hid his body from the world— or rather the LA pedestrians.

He left the bathroom with his hair still damp.

“Aren’t you going to be hot in that?” George queried, glancing over his phone up to Wilbur. “It’s like 80 degrees out.”

“Eh, I’ll be fine. I can just take the hoodie off if I need to.” Wilbur responded, a tad uncomfortable. That was the second time George had picked up on his abnormal behavior and it was beginning to stress him out. The entire goal of his trip was to be inconspicuous, not worry anyone, and have a good time.

Obviously, he was failing the first part.

George hummed in agreement, obviously not too worried about Wilbur’s outfit. Good— it was none of his business to begin with.

You’re being too harsh, that’s a normal thing to ask your friend. Chill, dude.

“When are we going out?” Wilbur asked, despite being uncertain about the current time in the first place.

“Thirty minutes, and then we’re gonna get hotel breakfast first. Tommy wanted to try it, said it was ‘the authentic American experience.’” Wilbur’s mouth turned up at the mocking voice George had given his Tommy impression.

There was nothing easier to skip than hotel breakfast, because it was fucking putrid— anyone with a brain would skip that. The only thing Wilbur had any desire to put in his body was coffee.

Frankly, he was exhausted.

Previous activities were finally catching up with him, and even a night of rest wasn’t enough to quell the beast that was his dreary demeanor and growling stomach.

As promised, everyone met up in the hotel lobby to get breakfast before going out for “a day on the town!” Jack had proposed, being laughed at immediately.

“Day on the town? What are you, a tory?” Tubbo had fired back.

The only people who ate the breakfast were Tommy and Tubbo, both plenty excited at the sight of Froot Loops. Ranboo had warned them not to, but alas— the two boys complained right away after tasting and feeling the stale texture. Wilbur had to contain his laugh.

“Anyone up for coffee? There’s a Starbucks down the street.” Wilbur suggested. Whether or not they agreed would be unrelated to his desperate need for caffeine. Plus, suggesting something edible would make him look less suspicious. Really, though, he just wanted coffee.

The rest of the group agreed without argument, including a very enthusiastic yes from a Kristin who looked like she hadn’t slept in days. It made sense, seeing as she was practically carrying the trip on her back.

Walking to the store was more taxing on Wilbur’s already-tired body than he had anticipated. Finally getting inside, he leaned against the nearest wall and tried to gather his composure again.

Everyone ordered their drinks, (two lattes, one iced, and a mocha cookie something or other— that was Tubbo’s doing.) When it was Wilbur’s turn, he ordered a black coffee, plain.

He didn’t like black coffee. No one did, and whoever said they “grew to like it” were fucking liars, because it tasted like sour dirt and regret. Maybe that was a bit dramatic— but seriously, the shit was terrible.

So Wilbur didn’t order it for the taste, or the texture, (it felt like water), he ordered it because he needed enough of a kick to keep him going for the rest of the day as he and his friends trekked the rugged sidewalks in the hot sun’s glare.

Speaking of glares, Tommy was giving him a look of disgust. “Fuck you ordering black coffee for? It tastes like ass, Will.”

“Yeah? You know what ass tastes like?” Wilbur joked, trying to shift the attention off himself. Clearly it didn’t work, seeing as Phil overheard and gave him a similar look of confusion, and perhaps a bit of disappointment.

To be fair, it could have been Wilbur’s imagination convincing him of something that wasn’t there. Tangibility and his own perception had become a blurred mess of yarn long ago.

Upon receiving his coffee and the glances from Phil not diminishing, he busied himself in front of the sugars station, dropping Splenda packets in his drink and watching them dissolve when he mixed it. The swirl was mesmerizing, though it could be attributed to his exhaustion thus far.

Kristin claimed there was no time to waste, so they took their coffees and set out into the city. Wilbur wrapped his cup in a little paper sleeve to protect his hands and let himself be yanked away by Tommy.

Early in the morning, the city wasn’t quite as crowded as it had been when they went for lunch the previous day. Wilbur’s friends ushered him to little shops, stands on the street, and bits of artwork they liked. It felt nice to feel normal.

A particular piece of art had caught Ranboo’s eye; a mural of angel wings that he had urged Wilbur to pose in front of. The wide-mouthed grin reached his eyes for Ranboo’s photo.

Two hours have passed before he begins to grow tired. Wilbur’s camera roll is filled to the brim with photos of interesting tidbits of nature and life. The exhaustion doesn’t reach his legs, only hitting him in the stomach and lungs, granting him a stitch in his side.

The group takes a rest in a stretch of park, resting in green grass. Wilbur lays his head on his now-removed hoodie and stares toward the sky. One of the clouds resembles a kitten, he notes.

“Who’s hungry?” Phil asked. Wilbur had the urge to call “not me,” but he held his tongue and listened to the cacophony of agreements from his friends. A sick feeling rose from his gut to his throat.

They settled on somewhere green, organic, all of the above and whatnot. That was good- vegans had peculiar food choices, but for the most part they tended to be low calorie.

He sometimes imagined a silent handshake between himself and the amalgamation of vegetables and milk substitutes that made his meals.

This restaurant was more prepared for big groups, as they welcomed the group in to a little circular booth in the corner. The seats were made of green laminate and a light hung low in the center. Not so low that it would bother him or Ranboo, but low enough that its luminescence grazed the top of his vision.

Settling into the very edge of the booth, Wilbur picked up one of the menus and flipped through it vacantly. His first issue was finding that the top of the list had “no substitutions,” and his second was that every single salad came with dressing.

Previously this wouldn’t have bothered him. But knowing now that the lowest calorie option on that menu was 700 fucking calories, the feeling in his throat grew to encompass panic.

And if he hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have noticed the look Phil gave him while he read. It was expectant, waiting— it felt like pressure.

When the waitress arrived, she went around the table in the opposite way of Wilbur’s seat. He had time to think and decide.

“I’ll get the blue cheese salad, thanks.” George finished from beside him.

“And for you, sir?” The waitress pointed her pen at him lightly. His mouth felt dry.

“The uhm- arugula tomato. Thanks.” He added hastily. Wilbur could feel the rest of the table looking at him. It was innocent enough, but the crawling feeling of stares made him anxious nonetheless. Phil didn’t comment, which eased something in his chest.

“Always you and the arugula, Will.” Ranboo joked, shaking his head in fake disappointment. Wilbur laughed, but the sound came out airy and weak. He noted, absentmindedly, that his ankles ached.

“Why’d we have to get vegan food again?” Tommy pouted. It wasn’t entirely serious, but he was acting like a child regardless.

“It’s nice and tasty, kiddo. Don’t you wanna grow all big and tall?” Jack mocked.

“Prick! I’m taller than you. Cause I drink milk, n’ shit.” Tommy fired back. Niki let out a low “ooohh,” and grinned mischievously at Jack. He scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Taller, shorter, whatever. I‘ve got a better face.”

“Agree. You’ve got a funny looking face, Tom.” Wilbur responded, smiling widely at Tommy’s look of disappointment.

“We’re meant to be brothers, Will! Why’re you being such a dickhead?” From a quick glance at Tommy, it was clear he wasn’t upset in the slightest.

This kind of banter was exactly what Wilbur had been waiting for on the trip. He much preferred speaking to his friends when they were here, and tangible, and close enough to kick under the table, (which he had done to Tommy just a moment ago.)

Unfortunately, this uninterrupted conversation was cut short by the waitress returning with everyone’s food, precariously perched upon a plastic platter. Quite a mouthful, he thought.

The salad set in front of him looked... wet. There weren’t other words to describe the layer of ranch (or something else) drowning his perfectly good arugula.

Originally, the whole “Wilbur the arugula lover” topic had been a bit, a cover-up to avoid suspicion. But now, staring at arugula that could have been so good, he felt misplaced resentment.

Wilbur poked and prodded at the salad, trying to find spots without dressing. It was pointless, however— the dressing had seeped through, all the way to the bottom of his bowl. There was no escaping this stupid fucking sauce.

He picked at individual leaves and fruits, leaving big bites for later (a later which he hoped he wouldn’t get to.) The goal had always been to wait it out. When everyone was rearing to do something else, they wouldn’t mind too much if Will hadn’t finished his food.

That wasn’t the case this time around. Everyone was taking their sweet time conversing and enjoying their meals. Something that hadn’t bothered Wilbur in months returned to plague him.

Jealousy.

Envy was a sin, yet so was gluttony. Each meal, each day, each thought balanced between needing so badly to have what he couldn’t and not indulging himself to the point of disgust. Right now, in this moment, Wilbur wished so much that he could eat his food and laugh about stans with Tubbo, or mock Jack’s lack of hair.

Without noticing, Wilbur had stood up next to the table.

“Going somewhere?” Phil asked.

He hadn’t planned on it, no— but the allure of the quiet and food-less bathroom grew appealing.

“Yeah, the loo.” He said, dropping his napkin to the table and rushing into the stalls before someone could ask about his wavering voice and trembling hands.

He sunk to the ground for a moment. It was filthy, but he’d been around worse with no consequence. The tears burned in the corners of his eyes.
Ironic, he thought. Wouldn’t let yourself cry in an airplane bathroom, but restaurants are free game. He wiped the tears from his eyes futilely as more fell. He wasn’t even sure why he was crying.

Maybe it was because his stomach hurt, and he was so cold his fingers would grow numb, or that his hair was coming out at a rate much too quick. Maybe it was because he hurt, so badly. Especially now, surrounded by people who didn’t.

Creaking came from the door as it opened and closed swiftly. Wilbur held his breath and didn’t let himself sniffle.

“Will? Are you in here?” Ranboo called. Great, now he had to be a role model again.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “Yeah, just—“ What was he doing? What excuse would provide an explanation for sitting on his ass in a bathroom stall? “Just hanging out.” What?? Who hangs out on the bathroom floor?

“You don’t need to be worried, or anything. I’m just here to check on you.” Ranboo called. He hadn’t tried to enter the stall, but if he had he would have seen Wilbur’s nose and eyes red and puffy, his hoodie sleeve damp, and a hand tangled in his hair.

“I’m all good.” Wilbur responded, trying to hold his voice steady. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“People don’t go to the bathroom to cry during lunch if they’re ‘all good,’ Wilbur.” Ranboo snapped. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to be rude. Just don’t— don’t disregard me right now, okay? I don’t get what you’re going through totally. But I’m just saying, if you’re upset about... your appearance, or something, you don’t look as bad as you think you do.

“You don’t look bad at all, actually. Not in like, a weird way. I just mean that— well jeez, now I’m getting all worked up. I just mean that you don’t need to stress out so much about that. You’re... Wilbur, y’know? Everyone wants to be you. Ease up on yourself.” Ranboo finished. His outburst forced Wilbur to rise to his feet and open the door to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to come check on me. I’m fine, promise. I’m not usually... like this, I guess. Just a bad day. Thanks, Boo.” He leaned against the stall, unsure what kind of physical contact was appropriate at a time like this.

Ranboo answered his question by awkwardly pushing his hand out for a fist bump, which Wilbur reciprocated. “Cool, dude. I’m here. Not just now, all the time. If you need help, or anything.” He fidgeted with his mask and put his hands back in his pockets.

“If I need help, I’ll let you know. Thanks, man.” Wilbur pointed his gaze toward his shoes. Had his shoelaces always been so tattered? He idly wondered what the soles looked like, but didn’t move to check.

“Kay... well, I’m gonna go back to the table. You can take your time, we’re not leaving without you.”

“Yeah. Cool, thanks.” He felt like he’d said thanks about thirty times by now, but nothing else felt appropriate. Yeah, I have an eating disorder and this salad made me cry on a bathroom floor? Yeah, I was crying because everyone else was eating, and I couldn’t?

The door creaked as it swung shut.

In theory, he could tell anyone at that table and they would help him. Every time he considered it, something or other pulled him back with another excuse. The most prominent was that he “wasn’t sick enough.” It was often followed by a “yet,” and wisps of hope diminishing. He couldn’t even starve right, how could he need help?

Splashing water on his face and washing his hands did little to nothing to ease his nerves. Wilbur’s whole body felt like it was burning.

No one seemed to mind when he returned to the table and didn’t touch his salad anymore. Ranboo kept his eyes on his own food. It felt like avoidance, and it felt like an olive branch. Maybe he didn’t give the kid as much credit as he was due.

Everyone else finished their food without a hitch, cleaning up their dishes and setting out for a few more hours on the town. Maybe it was the time change, or maybe his own perception, but sunset seemed to sink in much sooner than Wilbur had anticipated.

No one wanted to end the night yet, most still accustomed to UK time and feeling bursts of energy run through their veins.

The result of the reluctance to turn in for the evening led to Wilbur’s current situation. He was settled on the floor of Jack and Niki’s hotel room with the rest of his friends, about to play a game of Truth or Dare, which he hadn’t thought about since college.

Surprisingly, George had been the one to suggest they play. You would expect someone much younger to advocate for a teenager’s game, but George seemed overjoyed to play.

“Okay, okay— I’m going first.” Tommy said, wiggling in his seat on the ground for a moment. “Tubbo, who’s your best friend?” He grinned mischievously.

“Tommy, that’s not even how truth or dare works. You’re meant to ask me, you dunce.” Tubbo laughed, pushing his shoulder.

“Ok, blah blah, answer the question!”

“Erm... no thank you.”

“Well I’m going to slap you then. And I’ll slap anyone else who doesn’t do their stuff!” Tommy called, appearing prideful regarding his genius punishment. It felt less like a punishment and more like an excuse for him to slap his friends.

“Whatever man. You probably would’ve slapped me sometime tonight anyway.” Tubbo said, angling his face so Tommy could slap him. The noise almost echoed, and the group laughed much louder than the strike.

“Oi, you dickhead! Why’d you hit me so hard?” Tubbo pouted, cradling his cheek. Tommy cackled wildly, slapping his knee and choking in oxygen. That promptly settled the debate of whether Tommy wanted to be fair or just derived pleasure from beating up his friends.

“Do I get to go now?” Tubbo asked. His left cheek was a comically pungent shade of red. It looked like it stung.

“Yeah Tubs, ask someone!” Wilbur called out.

Tubbo clapped his hands and pulled his eyes around the circle of his friends. “Okay, Jack! Truth or dare?”

“Dare! I’m not a bitch.”

Tubbo hummed for a moment before his eyes lit up. The imaginary lightbulb above his head dinged. “You’ve got to lick the doorknob!” he said, pointing toward the handle of the bathroom door. Niki fake-gagged and laughed at him.

“Big man’s immune to all diseases. Let me at it.” He said, clambering to his feet before licking the doorknob in a way that made Wilbur’s stomach turn. Gross.

“Now, I get to go. And I’m taking revenge on Tommy.” Jack said, focusing on an unsuspecting Tommy.

“What? What did I do? Revenge for what, you twat?”

“You’ve probably done something to deserve this at some point. Truth or dare?” Jack cracked his knuckles.

“Dare! I’ll do anything.” Tommy scoffed.

“Go outside and knock on someone’s door. And loudly!”

Tommy did just that, despite Phil’s protests. Kristin didn’t seem to mind as much, seeing as she recorded the whole ordeal. Wilbur hadn’t seen someone run so fast as when Tommy sprinted back to the room, lightly out of breath.

The night played on.

“Phil, do you even like Wilbur’s music?” Tommy asked after fulfilling a second dare.

“I wouldn’t listen to it if I didn’t. Yeah, I like it.” He shrugged.

George had to call Dream, who was conveniently live, and profess his undying love. He laughed so hard when he hung up he began to cough and wheeze so hard it sounded painful. Wilbur patted his back and ushered him through his fit.

“Twitter’s quite gonna like that one.” Tubbo noted, which started George’s laughter up all over again.

Questions were spread like wildfire between the friends. Unfortunately for Tommy, each person fulfilled their challenges and their faces remained un-slapped.

“Okay, Wilbur. You’ve got off easy tonight. Truth or dare?” Niki asked. She was right— he hadn’t done anything totally outrageous, opting only to tweet out a photo of arugula as his dare.

“Dare, I’m on a roll.” He responded quickly.

“Okay. Hmm... ah! Got it. Tell us what the last thing in your search history is!” She rubbed her hands together and leaned her head forward excitedly.

It took a moment to remember what he had last looked up. It wasn’t anything inappropriate, of course— he was sharing a room with George, and he wasn’t a weirdo.

“Hold on, I can’t even remember.” Wilbur said, leaning back and opening his phone out of the sightline of Phil, who was seated next to him. Much to his dismay, his last search was “calories in black coffee.”

It felt especially silly because the answer was 0, and he knew this. Alas, Wilbur had no intention of giving his friends more clues to solve this mysterious eating disorder puzzle, so he closed his phone.

“I’ve gotta pass on this one. Tommy you can beat me up, or whatever.” Ranboo chuckled, but George laughed loudly.

“What’re you so afraid of showing Wilbur? What were you looking at?” George wiped the moisture out of his eyes, procured from his evening of giggles.

“It was Dream rule 34, George. I’m sure you’d love to see it.” He bluffed.

Before he knew what was happening, Tommy was in front of him and his face stung. “I wasn’t ready!” He complained, reaching his hand to caress his aching cheek.

“‘S more funny when your face goes all woahh! Whaaat!” Tommy laughed at him.

“Can’t say I know what that means but... alright, child.” Wilbur reached a hand out to jab at Tommy’s knee, not intending on truly hurting him.

“We’ve come full circle. Start the game with a slap, and end with one?” Phil asks, clearly tired. The rest of the group hums in agreement. Niki looks akin to a sloth, leaning on Jack and yawning silently.

“Will, wanna come get a cookie with me?” Tommy asks, tugging on Wilbur’s sleeve.

“Why do you need me there? You’re a big boy, get one yourself.”

“They erm... won’t let me get one without an adult there.”

Wilbur barked out a laugh. “Alright, fine. We’ll get your cookie.”

Tommy grinned, extending a hand to help Wilbur to his feet. When he stood, blood rushed to his head. He felt dizzy for a moment, clamping a hand on Tommy’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Cookie time.” Tommy said, bouncing on his heels. Wilbur nodded, grabbing his phone and room key before they left the room.

They took the elevator down to the lobby, which did in fact smell like chocolate-chip cookies. It reminded Wilbur of a candle he had at home a few years ago. He wasn’t sure why this memory decided to resurface now, but it wasn’t unwelcome. He felt a sudden wave of homesickness. He wondered whether his neighbours had taken note of his absence yet.

Tommy was already bounds ahead of him, standing in the hall and waiting for Wilbur to snap out of his thoughts. He quickly caught up to the kid and they followed the scent.

“Can I get a cookie, please?” Tommy asked politely. He was much less boisterous around strangers. The man working the desk looked between Tommy and Wilbur before nodding and handing him the cookie. He reached his hand to grab another one, but Wilbur stopped him.

“I’m alright, thanks.” The desk worker nodded.

“Alright, enjoy.” The man said, clearly unhappy with his employment at this time of night. Wilbur checked his phone, and it made sense. It was 11:30 already. Time seemed to fly when he spent it with people he cared for.

The two boys found seats in a corner, side by side. Tommy took a bite, chewing quietly.

“Good cookie?” Wilbur asked, noticing Tommy’s expression. Something was troubling him. The cogs turned behind his eyes. Tommy just nodded in response.

“Will?” He muttered, so quiet it was almost inaudible. Wilbur turned to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you take the cookie?”

“I wasn’t hungry.” Wilbur answered curtly, not leaving the topic open for conversation. This moment was good, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“That’s bullshit.” Tommy whispered.

“Tommy, eat your food. I’m not arguing with you.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Will. You didn’t eat breakfast, you didn’t touch lunch, you never eat around me. Even before this. When I had lunch you just... watched. And I know that’s not normal, ‘cause Toby and I eat together all the time.

“I thought maybe you just didn’t like eating in call, but I’m here with you now and you haven’t eaten a full meal in two days. You don’t like eating at all, do you?”

The silence was tangible. It felt heavy and dangerous. What was he meant to say? Wilbur wasn’t sure, so he opted to say nothing at all and stare at the television playing adverts in front of him.

“You treat me like a kid. I’m not. I know things. And I notice things about you. Do you think anyone else has noticed you triple knot your shoes? Or that you call your guitar ‘she’ like a ship? You think I don’t see you’re being weird?

“Treat me like a kid. Whatever. Just listen to me for once. You need help, and we both know it. And I’m not giving up until you get that help because I care about you. Seriously, you’re my best friend. I don’t think I could live with myself if I knew what was happening and stayed quiet.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wilbur’s heart sunk at the way Tommy’s face contorted in his peripheral vision.

“Stop ignoring me. Please, I can’t fucking watch you starve to death in front of me.” Tommy began to pull at Wilbur’s sleeve, silently begging Wilbur to just face his eyes. Wilbur’s head snapped toward him.

“I’m fucking fine. You don’t know what you’re on about, and you’re making problems where there aren’t any,” Wilbur snatched a piece of Tommy’s cookie and waved it dramatically before slipping it in his mouth. “You see that? I’m not afraid of food. I’m not fucking scared, Tom. I’m fine.”

“Fuck you.” Tommy scoffed, dropping his food in Wilbur’s lap and storming off to the elevator.

Guilt started to creep up on Wilbur. Like ivy, it creeped in between his ribs and into his stomach. This feeling was tearing him apart and he hated it. He fucked things up with his best friend. Lately it seemed like he was fucking everything up.

He barely made it to his room, feeling weaker than ever. George seemed to be asleep already.

Wilbur locked himself away into the bathroom, sliding to the floor against the cabinets. The handles pressed into his spine. It hurt.

He tangled his hands into his hair, yanking and feeling bits of it give. Emotionally, it ripped him into bits to see himself fall apart, and it was even worse knowing Tommy saw it too. His heart and his scalp— all of it hurt.

When he leaned over himself, his knees pressed in to sensitive ribs and made him feel ill. The pain was sharp, but it wasn’t just his bones that ached. The pains were spread around organs he couldn’t name, and almost always his heart. All of that hurt.

The worst part about the pain was that he knew he deserved it. He was a burden and he was ruining this trip, and his friendships, and everything— because he was a coward. He had lied when he told Tommy he wasn’t afraid.

In reality, he was terrified.

Chapter Text

Waking up hurt. Wilbur wasn’t entirely sure how, or when, he had made it back to his room; but there was an aching soreness in his chest. He clutched a hand to it and breathed in painfully. He hunched over and it was gone after a moment.

It seemed as if George was still asleep. It made sense— as Wilbur checked his phone, he noticed it was only six in the morning. He had a missed text from Tommy and a few Tweet notifications from Tubbo.

Tommy (5:49)
Ranboo and Toby are out
Please come talk to me when youre up
(In my room cause its empty)

Wilbur sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Was he going to be scolded again? It felt pathetic to be told off by someone eight years younger than him, but there was a part of him calling that it was deserved. His behavior thus far had been less than ideal and he was putting a strain on their otherwise pleasant group.

There was an internal debate between whether or not he should go visit Tommy, but it was snuffed out quite quickly by the mental image of Tommy, high-strung and stressed out over Wilbur.

At no point was he conscious of his actions, yet he arrived in front of Tommy’s room a few minutes later nonetheless. He rapped on the door three times, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t remember putting on a coat, either.

The door swung open and Wilbur was face to face with a bleary-eyed, tear-stained Tommy. A flurry of emotions swirled about in Wilbur’s stomach, and none of them were pleasant. He felt like a right dick.

“Can I come in?” Wilbur shifted between his feet.

“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was croaky, as if he had been crying just moments before. Wilbur wondered if this was any part of why Toby and Ranboo were “out...” whatever that entailed.

Tommy led him over to the sofa and gestured for him to sit down. He took a seat in the armchair across from it and pulled at the hem of his sleeves.

“I’m sorry.” Wilbur said.

“No, that’s not— I’m meant to be the one apologizing.” Tommy replied.

It made no sense for Tommy to be remorseful, but it colored a piece of Wilbur relieved. He knew he was in the wrong, but at least Tommy didn’t hate him. And, called the little voice in his head— You can get away with starving a bit longer.

“No, I’m meant to apologize. I snapped at you, and I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Wilbur settled on, ignoring the consequences set on himself. It felt morally wrong to let Tommy take the blame for a situation that he shouldn’t have been a part of in the first place.

No one should be subjected to Wilbur’s wallowing. No one should have to accommodate him or worry.

“I’m apologizing because I overstepped. I should’ve listened when you said you were okay the first time. It’s not my place to say any of what I did. I just— y’know. I worry.”

“I get it. It’s not your fault for worrying. I’m okay, there’s nothing wrong, and I don’t want you to get worked up over me. Alright?”

Tommy nodded, but didn’t bring himself to look Wilbur in the eyes. Instead, his peace offering was moving to sit next to Wilbur on the sofa and stare at the door.

“Alright.” He whispered, leaning into Wilbur’s chest. Things had been complicated throughout the trip, but nothing felt more normal than this. It was him, and it was his best friend— and it always would be.

They remained that way for a while, Wilbur talking about lyric ideas for the next Lovejoy album while Tommy chimed in with a suggestion or comment every once in a while.

Tubbo and Ranboo returned with coffee and news from Phil, who claimed they would all be visiting the VidCon convention building until around 1 PM. It was the last day of their trip, and it felt necessary to spend at least some of it being productive and fulfilling the point of the excursion. They hadn’t come to California to hang out and slack off, but so far that’s about all they had been doing.

Wilbur bid a temporary farewell to the teens in order to get himself settled in his own room. When he opened the door, he found that George had awoken and was in the shower again.

Due to the occupied shower, Will turned to choosing his final outfit for the trip. Today must have dipped below 15 degrees, or something similar, because Wilbur was quite cold. Cold to the extent that he planned his outfit out in a series of layers. Shirt, hoodie, coat, and his thickest pair of jeans. He opted for a double pair of socks just in case.

Despite his knowing that George wouldn’t really care about his fashion choices, he tucked them away to hide regardless. George knew too much. In fact, it seemed like everyone knew too much. His friends were lovely, of course, but the way they saw straight through Wilbur filled him with a sense of increasing discomfort.

George exited the shower a moment later, toweling his hair and mumbling a half-awaken hello to Wilbur as he clutched his bundle of clothes and slipped into the bathroom.

When removing his clothes, the chill settled into his bones seemed to scream for release. The freezing nature of his body was clawing its way out of him— or at least it felt that way. With a glance to the mirror on his right, Wilbur noticed the prominence of his ribs and hip bones.

Logically, this would concern most people. But right now, seeing himself as he was, Wilbur settled on the idea that it wasn’t enough. He had seen the images of himself with fans, and the way he looked on camera when he streamed, and the way his friends looked at him when he took his shirt off to swim.

There was no excuse or explanation for his body, only a sick nagging at the back of his skull begging him to keep starving, keep dying. And when that wasn’t enough, it took on the appearance of his best friends and sweetly pleaded for me? There was no denying himself nor the voice which called to him in colors of gray and death.

Showering relieved the pain for a little while. The heat was pushed all the way to the left, and he could see the vapor rising around him— but still, it didn’t feel like enough.

Perhaps that was the theme of today. “Not enough.” Not enough of everything, yet always too much. There was a line to walk across, similar to that of a gymnast, and Wilbur clearly didn’t have the body of a dancer.

Even after the shower, and with his too-much outfit draped across his shoulders and tied around his waist, he felt no better. Usually the warmth would satisfy the beast in his bones, but today, it seemed, he would not be so lucky.

“Will, I’m going down to Phil’s room. Don’t take too long or we’ll leave without you.” George rapped on the door, clearly joking. Wilbur called out a “yeah, alright,” in response, but his voice felt weak and unlike himself.

It might have been better if they truly had left Wilbur behind. There was clearly something wrong with him today, proved true by his dizzy head and the spots that danced in his peripherals. Usually they would dissipate if he blinked hard enough, but they persisted like the mosquitoes that plagued him in June.

The metaphor pulled him into a memory of his youth. He had been 9, maybe 10, picking berries with his grandmother. He was a rosy-cheeked kid with the spirit of a racehorse. It made his predicament all the worse when he asked himself what went wrong?

Everything went by in a blur. It wasn’t a pleasant moment, like when he had an amazing time with friends and reminisced on how quick it had been over months later. It didn’t feel like chatting with Tommy on the phone and seeing the clock tick into the late morning hours. This quick natured day felt queasy and misplaced.

Fans were flocking him at what seemed like all times, and he wasn’t sure if he had smiled for a single photo. The blessing and the curse that was the internet would later answer that question.

Every once in a while Tommy would tug at his arm, or Jack would pat him on the shoulder and he would know to follow whoever’s footsteps reverberated the loudest in his ears. The sound was different— everything was so loud, but he couldn’t hear anything at all.

He knew vaguely they were almost done. Bits and pieces of speech stuck with him, similar to his comprehension while half-asleep or feverishly ill. He understood they were leaving the building, going somewhere else, and complaining about the heat. Wilbur was incredibly thankful he was finally out of that cesspool of tightly packed bodies and too many questions

“-seeing a movie. Will?” Ranboo nudged him with his shoulder.

“Hm?” He blinked again, still bothered by the spots in his vision.

“We’re going to see a movie. Are you feeling alright? Have you had any water?” Ranboo asks, clearly concerned for his wellbeing. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was strikingly clear that there was something very wrong.

Wilbur didn’t have the strength to respond, so he resorted to shaking his head and regretting it immediately after. He found the harsh sunlight— or the fluorescent lights indoors— had granted him a striking headache made better only by staring at the pavement beneath his converse. He had thought about these once before, and the recollection (albeit very recent) struck a sense of deja-vu. The situations weren’t all so different either. There was a similarity he couldn’t quite place, and subconsciously he knew it was the root of his problems thus far.

Ranboo tugged his arm to pull him back to reality, and it seemed they were already in the theater, tickets having been handled by someone more responsible than he.

There wasn’t time to reject Tommy’s presence before he was settled into the seat next to Wilbur, clearly excited about the movie. Will felt a slight twinge of guilt that he knew absolutely nothing about Tommy’s anticipation or interest in the current situation.

Sitting down has clearly done something to help Wilbur’s physical condition. The black spots in his vision are finally shaken off (but perhaps this could be attributed to the dark nature of the cinema.) The movie, he notes, is Spiderman.

As he watches Tom Holland portray Peter Parker and work his superhero magic, he can’t help but feel envious. There isn’t even a reason, seeing as he’s right where he wants to be, but something unpleasant is settled into his stomach nonetheless.

Tommy nudges Wilbur’s left shoulder and offers him a sweet. It’s a little yellow gummy bear, laying flat on his palm. He shakes his head and turns back to watch the movie again.

“C’mon, take it.” Tommy whispers. Wilbur turns to him, but there’s no anger in his eyes. “Not hungry, Toms.”

“Dude, take the fucking bear.”

“I said I wasn’t hungry.” He wasn’t sure where this emotion had come from, or why he had said no in the first place. It seemed to be instinct at this point, cultivated from many years of avoiding and pretending.

Clearly he had raised his voice, because Wilbur could feel the cinema patrons’ eyes on him, snarling in disdain. Tommy turned away and dropped the bear back in the bag, crossing his arms and glaring at the screen. Wilbur has no way of knowing this, but Tommy’s nose burns and his eyes are teased by tears.

No more interruptions come for the rest of the film. Tommy chooses to walk with Ranboo and Tubbo, seemingly unbothered by the previous encounter. Wilbur feels bad nonetheless, as it’s glaringly obvious Tommy is ignoring him now.

Like a lost puppy, Wilbur continues to trail after his friends. He doesn’t quite care where they’re going or what they’re doing. Thankfully they all decide to head back to the hotel and rest for a little while. Social interaction to that extent is exhausting, no matter if you’re an extrovert or not.

George and Jack are going out for a trip-ending burger, leaving Wilbur alone in the hotel room. He strips off his coat and shoes, trades his pants for a pair of sweatpants, and promptly curls away in the depths of his bed. The mattress is awful, but he’s freezing and exhausted. He’d sleep on the top of a flagpole at this rate.

The original goal was to check his phone, which he had left in the room all day. He wasn’t fully there when he was getting ready this morning— or at all today, for that matter. The plan was quickly abandoned when Will tucked the comforter below his chin and drifted off to sleep, cozy and somewhat content.

He was awoken by George closing the door several hours later. It wasn’t intentional, and Wilbur didn’t blame him.

To be fair, he hadn’t slept much the past night— but this nap, rest, whatever— had left him feeling even more drained than he was before. It was a shitty feeling that he would normally fend off with a cup of coffee. The warmer, the better. It tasted the best when it scalded his throat and burned its way into his gut.

George didn’t stay long, just grabbing a coat and returning to the hall where Phil and Niki were waiting.

It was too late to go back to sleep now. Wilbur took this moment of brief sobriety and held it as an opportunity to get some things done, which meant text people back and feverishly check his Instagram for anything that made him look less than perfect.

Phil (16:20)
Oi m8 we’re all hanging out tonight in my room.
Don’t ditch it’s the last day
Text back
George said you’re sleeping my bad
Text when ur up

Wilbur chuckled at Phil’s antics. Despite his title as the responsible figure in any group he was a part of, he remained immature and joking for the most part. That was part of the allure of referring to him as a father figure. He felt like the kind of dad that would take you out for ice cream and crack jokes about your school bullies.

Wilbur (17:15)
sorry i was definitely assleep
i wil be there
whatt timr?

Phil (17:16)
Hey welcome back to Earth
I can tell you’re tired cuz ur spelling’s shite
In like two hours

Wilbur (17:16)
ok i huess i coyld clear my schelkjd
chedul
schedule***
sorry my hands r colld

Phil (17:17)
See you soon bud :)

Wilbur turned his phone off for just a second and tried to warm his hands up in between his thighs and the mattress. He waited for maybe five minutes, shivering brutally, before realizing nothing would heat him up. When was the last time he had eaten? Never mind— surely that wouldn’t have caused anything like this. Maybe the heater was broken.

The easiest solution was to put his coat back on and get under the covers again, which Wilbur opted to do. He scrolled Instagram for a little while, falling further into the rabbit hole of his own self image and the images of himself.

Gross. All of it felt gross. Being perceived and idolized when he couldn’t comprehend what was so special about him felt gross. He wasn’t skinny, or pretty enough to be a model, or funny to the extent that Tommy or George were. He was a pillar of mediocrity, a jack of all trades, and a pathetic excuse for a “celebrity.”

Before he knew it, phone still in hand, Wilbur had fallen asleep once more. This time it only lasted for about an hour and a half. Thankfully, he wouldn’t miss anything with Phil despite not setting an alarm. George must still be out— Wilbur was a light sleeper and would have noticed his newfound presence.

He stretched, pulling his arms above his head and grazing them against the rough beige paint of the hotel. The room felt impersonal and sad, but what else could be expected?

A sharp pain ripped through his left side when he stretched all the way out. Wilbur exhaled sharply and curled into himself quickly. What the fuck was happening? Every symptom had culminated today, right now— a sick display of his intentional negligence.

Maybe standing would help. Get a walk, get air.

Realistically, the air he would get would be sourced directly from the hotel lobby as he took the elevator to Phil’s room, a floor above his. It was so soon until they planned to meet up, and Wilbur felt if he went outside he might fall asleep standing up.

It sounded nice in theory. To be so content and cozy under the setting sun’s soft light. Really, he knew it would smell like pollution and be too loud to enjoy. When he got back to England, he vowed, he would visit his mother in Surrey where the sun wasn’t hindered by smog clouds.

Wilbur tugged his shoes back on and took his phone with him this time. Its absence hadn’t been noticed prior, during the earlier day, but frankly he had been loosely conscious, if that.

The halls and the elevator were empty. Right now, at 6:50 (or 18:50, as his phone would say) most visitors were out having a 5-star meal and chewing their forks. Wilbur was envious of the ease they must feel. That’s just like you, he scolded himself, to be angry over something you made up.

Will taps the door three times. It takes less than a moment for Phil to open it and smile softly at him, eyes crinkled in an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Something felt wrong, tense, and Wilbur had no idea what had happened in the room before he entered it.

“Hey Will, come in. We got snacks and stuff, if you want any.” The offer felt more like a thinly-veiled test. Wilbur’s palms were clammy and he suddenly felt much younger. He felt as he did in 9th grade where he flunked his maths final exam because of how painfully nervous he was. He had studied, and taken his mock exams, and aced them all. Sometimes he still wonders what went wrong.

“Nah, I ate just a bit ago. Thanks, though.” At this point Wilbur wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. Throughout his blur of a day, maybe he had eaten. The sudden onslaught of accompanying thoughts made him feel ill.

Looking around the room, no one seemed to be talking. Everyone was there, sat around the room on beds and chairs and a few on the floor. Tubbo picked at his nails anxiously. The tenseness that Phil had displayed seemed to be either infectious or inherently existent.

“Were you guys waiting for me to start the party, or...?” Wilbur asks, trying to lighten the mood. Typically, this wouldn’t be his job— but right now, standing in a room of silent people, he felt like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Jack smiled a little, but it looked more like a smile of necessity. It wasn’t genuine. “You wanna sit down? We left you a chair.” Kristin says, pointing at the chair near the edge of the first bed. Phil moves to sit on the bed next to Kristin.

“Uh- yeah. Yeah, sure.” That sick feeling of fluttering anxiety bubbled in Wilbur’s stomach. If he hadn’t thought he was in trouble then, he was sure now.

Continuing the trend of resurfacing childhood memories, Wilbur recalled when he had been sat in front of his classmates at age 6. He had done something stupid he couldn’t remember— maybe colored on the walls, or pulled a girl’s hair— but he had to apologize to everyone, and it had been so humiliating.

“This doesn’t feel like a um- like a fun game of ‘Would you Rather,’” Wilbur said, adding a dry chuckle at the end of his sentence to frame it as a joke. The waver in his voice was apparent and giving him away— his faux confidence was paper-thin.

“I don’t think now is the time for jokes, Will.” Niki said softly, clearly careful and precise in her words. She was treating him like a piece of porcelain.

“Is everything okay? Is this about someone we know, or..?” In truth, Wilbur knew what it was about. He knew the moment he had stepped foot on the flight from Brighton to Los Angeles that nothing would work out, because that was the life he lived. He knew when Phil looked at him, and when Tommy cried because of him, and when George knew so much but said so little.

“I think you know what it’s about.” Phil said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

The next person to speak was George, who for someone who said nearly nothing, clearly had a lot he wanted to get off his mind.

“There’s something... wrong. With you. And I don’t mean that in a mean way, I mean that in a ‘you need help and we can’t keep ignoring it’ way.”

Wilbur remained silent. He wished someone had read him his Miranda Rights right about now. Something about anything he said being used against him. He felt his grave would sink deeper if he said anything.

“You haven’t been eating enough, or really at all. And it’s really worrying us.” Jack said, eyes trained on Wilbur. He only noticed from his peripheral. Will’s eyes were trained on a shitty piece of art across from him.

It looked like a woman, or maybe a dolphin? Maybe whoever painted it was really shitty at art, or maybe it was a criticism of modern art, or something. Wilbur wasn’t an art critic. He wasn’t anything beautiful.

“Will, please look at us.” Niki pleaded, reaching her arm toward his hand.

He pulled his arm in toward his chest as if scalded. Ironic, isn’t it? Scalded is a funny choice of vocabulary for someone so very cold. His breathing felt rapid and unhealthy. The spots came back to prick at his vision, but so much more intensely. A million-and-one black holes opened around him, beckoning him into their warm grasp.

Wilbur was angry. At his friends, yes. But mostly at himself. This wasn’t anyone else’s responsibility, and the burden he had placed on them was unfair and upsetting. This was his problem, Wilbur’s problem, and he had dragged other people into his misery.

Rule number one about having an eating disorder is that you’re not supposed to tell anyone, because no one will understand, and no one will care because you’re too fat. Wilbur had convinced himself of this for the past 4 years, slowly letting the weight drop off his bones and off the scale.

He spent his birthdays alone and terrified of the cake his mother would bring him. He would rather be blackout drunk and painfully hungover in the morning than eat that fucking filth.

Wilbur used to love walks. Wherever he was— London, Surrey, Brighton’s beaches— a stroll to clear his head would patch up any issues he was experiencing. Then, over time, he would black out on sides of rural roads and throw up in bins on the beach. The decline was gradual and always present.

Perhaps that was how things had become so bad. These issues had always been there, but now he saw the full extent of his change. It felt like a before and after of his identity and his body destroying itself.

“Who decided this? Who said I had an eating disorder?” Wilbur asked angrily, sending pointed glares around the room.

“You did, Will.” Phil says calmly. Wilbur realizes now that he had given it up. He had given up the secret he’d kept for so long. He’d fucked everything up with a slip of the tongue.

“No, you did this. This is all your fault,” he points at Tommy, face red and hands trembling. “Because I didn’t eat the stupid fucking cookie? Because I didn’t want your fucking bear? And you have to ruin my life because of it?” He didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t feel bad at all, in fact.

“Don’t yell at him. We’ve all seen it, this was not his fault.” Kristin says, trying to defend Tommy.

“George said you were wearing far too much for the weather. Tommy said you yelled at him, and we all saw it the second time— and over what? Sweets? Ranboo saw you crying over salad. And I have seen so much, Wilbur.” Phil adds, voice laced heavily with pain and plead.

“No one is blaming you. No one hates you and no one is angry. We’re scared. And we want to get you help.” Ranboo adds. In this situation, it seems frustrating that an 18 year old is acting so much more mature than he is.

“I don’t want your fucking help. There isn’t an issue. I don’t need help. I need to go.” Wilbur says abruptly, grabbing his phone and preparing to storm out and just face the consequences later.

“Wilbur, no-“ Tubbo reached out to stop him, grasping at his arm and pushing his jacket up in the process. The sight was almost unbearable.

His arms, once able to carry the weight of the world, were now reduced to bones and skin and fragility. Niki began to cry. Wilbur ripped his arm from Tubbo’s grasp and stood up, prepared to leave and not turn back until someone let him be, and let him figure this out on his own.

As he stands to leave, the black spots in his vision grow to the size of the sun and eat him alive.

One moment he’s standing, and he’s angry— the next moment he’s in between consciousness and forced sleep listening to Niki sob, and Tommy pace and hyperventilate, and Phil trying to shake him awake— and he’s on the floor and his head aches.

It’s like sleep. It feels like a fever dream, when you’re so painfully ill your nose is stuffy and all you can do is pray for it to get better. Kristin is suggesting they call 911. That seems silly.

Jack is leading Niki out of the room. The door closes and the room is a bit quieter. Wilbur isn’t sure if he wants to wake up or not. It’s almost peaceful... he feels like a blind spectator. He could listen forever.

The worst part is that he knows he isn’t dead. He’s passed out on his friends’ hotel room floor because he has an eating disorder and he’s convinced himself that help is not, and will never be, an option. Phil is asking everyone to leave, and he’s being lifted into the bed.

He’s sure there’s a great song about this, and if there isn’t he’ll write one himself. Wilbur thinks blankly about the lyrics of a Los Campesinos! song, but can’t remember anything about it. He doesn’t even know the song title. The tap is running and Kristin is still talking

That’s it— The Sea is a Good Place to Think of the Future. The beginning line talks about wrapping hands around wrists and not eating enough, and it all feels too familiar. The contrast between the comfort he felt when grasping his own wrist and the sheer hatred he felt when Tubbo had done the same. Light is beginning to grab the edges of his irises.

How many times had he listened to that song? How many times had he wished to be the dainty girl who looked so beautiful and so small? How many times had he refused himself help because he was a man, and men shouldn’t feel like he does?

Wilbur is awake now.

He has absolutely no clue how much time has passed, but it doesn’t feel like enough. He can’t think like that any other time... not even when he closes his eyes does it feel so peaceful.

Phil is at his side in a moment, handing him a glass of water and begging him “to drink just a little bit, whatever you can,” and Wilbur thinks he might choke on it in spite.

It takes a minute to come back around all the way. Whatever trip he just took has ended with his father turning the car around and punishing him once again and as always.

“You gave us a fucking heart attack, Will.” Phil whispered, laughing insincerely and running a shaking hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t have much energy to say anything else, and he’s not apologizing for the right reasons. Wilbur is sorry because he didn’t hide it enough, and because he’s a burden to his friends. He’s ruined their trip.

Phil wants him to be sorry he’s done this to himself. Phil wants him to get better. Phil isn’t selfish like Wilbur is.

“I’m gonna talk, okay? And you’re going to listen. And you’re not going to move, or run away, or say anything.” Phil phrases it like it could have been a question, but Wilbur knows this is a demand. Besides— even if he wanted to get up and leave, his body doesn’t have the strength to carry him further than a few steps.

Phil takes his lack of response as a ‘yes’ and begins to speak.

“Things have been different with you since I met you, Will. When we went out you didn’t eat enough. I thought maybe it was because you were anxious about being in public, or because you can’t taste anything, so maybe you just didn’t like food? And I feel awfully stupid now because I was lying to myself because I didn’t want it to be true.

“Over time, it just got worse and worse... then, you would eat half your meal and you’d be able to go the rest of the day with so much energy. You were so happy. And I thought then, if it was enough for you, it had to be enough for me.

“But now... you’re not eating at all. And when you do, it’s something nearly inedible and definitely not enough. You cover up so often that I barely know what you look like. But Toby, when we all saw your arm... it terrified me. Because you’re so small, and you shouldn’t be. I’m so scared for you. I have no idea how to help, but I need you to know that so many people care about you. You’ve got a brother now, Wilbur. You’ve got all of us.

“You need help. Not from me, not from any of us— from someone who can really help you and who can really understand. I want you to get better. I want you to want to get better. Please, Wilbur.”

It sinks in now that he had never really hidden anything. Everything until now was a silent plea for help, because he was drowning in this, and until now no one had said anything. He didn’t doubt that his friends cared. He knew that they thought so highly of him they assumed he would fix himself.

Maybe he just needed a little help. Maybe all Wilbur needed was a hand to help him up, a pat on the back and a note that sent him on his way. Maybe he could have done that himself... but when? 20 years down the line when he was a skeleton and still rotting away in his shitty apartment?

The gift Phil had given him beat every birthday cake his mother had ever given him. It beat the watch his dad gave him before he passed. It beat the postcard his grandmother sent on his 13th birthday that said she was “so proud of you, my little bear.”

This gift was not tangible. This gift could not be wrapped, laced with a red ribbon, and shipped in the post. This gift could not be torn open by hungry hands filled with excitement.

“Will you try? Not for us. Will you try for you?”

“I’ll talk to someone. I’ll try... for me.”

This gift was freedom.