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Someday, Wilbur thinks, his morbid curiosity is going to get him into a bad situation.
His evening had passed with relative normality, to be fair. A brief band practice that left him humming with energy, pleasant conversations, a few lingering redundancies required to finally finish off the first song on a new EP. There’s fewer things in the world Wilbur loves more than making music for a living - though, admittedly, as he left the studio and began the journey home, his limbs began to feel heavier and heavier as the week’s exhaustion crept slowly into his bones. By the time he had arrived at his flat the sun had long since set, the UK winter bringing the fall of darkness far earlier than he would have preferred and the cold air prickling unpleasantly at his skin, making his hairs stand on end. Running an anxious hand up and down his arm, he leans into his door a bit, sliding the key into the lock and pushing it open.
The warmth of his home grants him immediate reprieve and Wilbur sighs deeply as he shrugs off his coat and allows the feeling of it to settle over him. Long days like these have been getting to him a little more often nowadays, exhaustion seizing his mind as soon as he arrives home.
After slipping off his shoes and padding quietly across the hall to his bedroom, Wilbur lets his shoulders finally drop as the lingering anxiety of socialization falls away and is replaced by the pleasant hum of warmth and comfort. It’s a familiar feeling, one that sometimes sneaks up on him in moments like these where he feels safe and free from his adult responsibilities. Flopping backward onto his bed, he pulls his phone out and begins a mindless scroll through Instagram, blindly reaching out behind himself for a blanket.
Wilbur knows from experience that warmth is good in moments like these, so he rolls onto his side and wraps the soft fabric around himself, peering up at his desk across the room where he suddenly notices the familiar shape of his stuffed orca across the room; a thrill of joy and excitement runs through him, soft and subdued but still so pleasant it makes his brain go a little fuzzy. Wilbur finds himself smiling, pulling himself out of bed and toward his desk with far more ease than he can usually manage, and picks up the orca.
All Wilbur can think of is how soft it feels on his fingertips as he hunches over a bit and hugs the orca close to his chest, resting the softness of his cheek on the material.
Everything is good, and warm, on nights like these. He sways in place for a moment, squishing the toy in his arms. A bit of coherent thought returns to him briefly, as he becomes distinctly aware he’s been standing in the corner of his bedroom hugging the stuffed whale for several minutes, and he blinks harshly.
Right. Bedtime.
Ambling back toward the mattress, the creak of the floorboards sounding a bit louder than usual, Wilbur finds his mind wandering stubbornly back to the plush toy, staring at it on his lap. His unrelenting curiosity persists through the fuzzy warm feeling, the more clear-headed part of him wondering randomly if the orca is even still sold. Perhaps a little too eager, he quickly acquiesces to find an answer, easing himself into the familiar routine of research so that he won't be caught in an endless loop of thinking about the orca for the rest of the night. Mindless rabbit holes and Wikipedia articles are as much a comfort as the soft fabric he’s curled up in, and in their familiarity he lets the hyperlinks and webpages lead him wherever they so choose.
Then, after pages of mindless scrolling, he sees something… different.
It had been easy enough to stumble onto - in retrospect, he’s surprised he hasn’t heard of it before.
The rabbit hole of obscure stuffed animals and cute plush toy moodboards leads him inevitably to Pinterest, where he stubbornly refuses to make an account despite using the website, albeit belligerently, frequently enough to warrant doing so. I wouldn’t even use it, he reasons with himself, and then wonders why he feels a reason to even internally debate himself about this.
It’s not hard to be reminded, though. After a long period of browsing cutesy photographs of stuffed toys, he happens to find the cute plushies more and more frequently next to pictures of things like baby toys, blankets, small cups and bottles with cartoon animals printed on the sides. Blogs seemingly run by adults, but with vast collections of the cutesy things. And then… pacifiers. Adult pacifiers, to be exact.
Wilbur feels an instinctual curl of discomfort at the sight of them, but isn’t quite sure why. Distantly, he remembers seeing similar images that were undoubtedly far more uncomfortable in subject, much more obviously crafted to suit a distinctly adult audience. Maybe that’s what this is, he ponders, confused at what got him here, but remains baffled when all the images seem relatively innocent. Simple innocuous photographs of cute objects, lacking any of the inappropriate implications he’s found in other similar images. Fuck it, some part of his brain acquiesces, despite the discomfort in his gut; I’m finding out what this is.
He clicks on one of the pacifiers, clearly not for children, what with the tiny rhinestones and intricate placement of beads adorning it. It’s a bit too gaudy, he finds himself thinking - and then he wonders why critiquing the aesthetic of the pacifier is anywhere on his list of priorities right now.
Sue him, he’s just tired. It’s been a long week, and he’s a curious guy.
Glancing down, Wilbur reads the subtitle of the image three times before it sinks into his brain and he recognizes a few of the terms. “Toys for age regressors,” the hyperlink says.
Age regression. Wilbur processes this, confused, squinting suspiciously at his monitor and working through his apprehension by sheer curiosity alone. Following the link, he finds a Tumblr blog, looking through that blog for more time than he’d care to admit. He’s especially careful to assure he’s not logged in as he scrolls past pastel pictures of baby toys and decorations - he finds a few websites as he goes along, and reads all of them carefully.
Okay, so… he was right; it’s not a strange kink thing. He pauses, relieved for a moment that he hadn’t accidentally been browsing some highly specific and uncomfortable adult shops this entire time, and yet the apprehension still lingers in the back of his mind. It’s just people feeling younger than they are - and it makes sense, too, in Wilbur’s opinion, that the human mind would want to regress to a simpler time to cope with stress. So… why did he still feel so strange about it?
He didn’t think it was a bad thing. That would be rude, unnecessarily critical, perhaps even a little bigoted, Wilbur thinks, remembering the almost-pleading tone many of the websites and blogs had in their posts attempting to explain the subject. This was clearly a coping mechanism that helped a lot of people dealing with very serious issues - he had no right to be judgemental, and yet the sickening sensation of discomfort lingers in Wilbur’s chest even after he’s closed the tab on his phone.
“It’s just unfamiliarity,” Wilbur reasons out loud, to himself. He ignores the part of his mind that immediately jumps to comment that it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of this, and resolves for the millionth fruitless time to stop talking to himself. He doesn’t want to judge this unfairly, so he clearly needs more exposure to it, is all. Once he gets used to it, frees himself of the guilt he feels every time his apprehension makes him click away from the websites, he won’t have to worry about it anymore.
He keeps looking, scrolling endlessly through the adorable photographs and textposts, and feels slightly vindicated as his discomfort eases, just enough for him to cave in and make a Pinterest account.
It’s fine. He’ll be accustomed to the harmless practice in no time, and then he won’t have to worry about it anymore.
…Yeah. That sounds about right.
~
Wilbur’s routine hasn’t changed much since that night. For better, and for worse.
He still shuffles into his flat after dark more often than not, hangs his coat by the doorway, lets the warmth of the indoors seep into his skin slowly as he relaxes into his mattress. Sometimes, he’ll rest on the couch instead, or linger on a Discord call long after he leaves his office. But without fail, every few days, Wilbur finds his mind wandering back to this age regression thing. It’s become a habit; one he’s avoided thinking too heavily about, and one that Wilbur would refuse to admit has slipped into his mind at bizarre frequency throughout his days, recently. It’s a cycle: come home, settle down, pull out his phone, and aimlessly scroll through pages filled with pictures of soft toys and cute, childish accessories until he feels sleep pulling at him. And, most importantly: ignore it all when he wakes up the next morning.
Tonight, the fatigue of the day catches up to him as it often does, and though he longs to hear his friends’ voices he knows he won’t have the energy to be engaged in a conversation himself, so calling anyone is out of the question. Instead, he falls into a heap on the couch, feeling around the cushions for the TV remote, and is pleasantly surprised to open Twitch and see Phil is still streaming.
Clicking on the thumbnail, he finds it’s as comforting as any Philza Minecraft stream - that is, immensely - and Wilbur eyes slip shut almost immediately as the ambience of the instrumental music and Phil’s cheerful replies to the text-to-speech donations gently lull him into comfort. This is another thing that has been happening with increasing frequency: this pleasant warm feeling that encases his mind in a fuzzy haze, makes his laughs come easier and his internal monologue a bit more jumbled.
It’s a good night, Wilbur finds himself thinking, although his blurred thoughts can only seem to articulate it through one word he feels ringing through his body: happy. The blanket draped across the back of the sofa is soft, Wilbur realizes, and he tucks his body against the couch so he can rub his cheek against it. Distantly, he hears the sound of Phil humming and the satisfying tap of blocks being put down, Phil quietly murmuring, “boosh, boosh, boosh,” as he clicks them into place.
“Boosh,” Wilbur finds himself echoing. His own voice sounds strange to himself - a little too soft, a little too high pitched. He opens his eyes blearily, just for a moment, and squints at the brightness of the room.
“Ow,” Wilbur whispers, turning back away from the television and clinging to the soft fabric of the blanket behind him, squeezing his eyes shut and letting the fluffy texture soothe the slight anxiety bubbling up in his chest. The blanket is wedged behind his body, though, and he can’t pull it down any further to hold onto. Unmistakable distress tugs at his heartstrings, and Wilbur hums quietly to soothe himself.
…He wants his orca.
Phil’s laugh chimes through the speakers in his living room, and something in his chest tightens. He thinks of the last time they got to hang out together in person, about a month ago at this point - Phil placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, checking in on him, encasing him in a gentle hug goodbye.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Wilbur’s voice breaks free and he whines, frowning against the blanket and trying uselessly to curl up in any way to make himself smaller than he really is. He feels like crying.
Suddenly, his mind flickers back to his orca, and then the cute plushie moodboards, the baby toys and decorated pacifiers, the posts by people longing to be cared for, to feel loved and safe and small and -
Shit.
Breath stuttering in his chest, Wilbur’s eyes snap open, and abruptly, it all falls into place. The nights of fixating, the warmth, the initial discomfort. The urge to keep coming back to it.
…It’s not a world-shattering realization.
In retrospect, it kind of makes sense; this fuzziness, although more noticeable since he found out about this whole thing in the first place, has always come and gone occasionally in his life. Whether during the stress of quarantine, after a long stream, or sneaking up on him alongside the feeling of safety while in a call with his friends, this has evidently been a part of him for far longer than he could have ever expected on that first night he stumbled onto blogs about the subject.
The air falls from his lungs and Wilbur slumps against the couch, willing his coherent thoughts to return to him slightly as he squints his eyes open and watches Phil fly around on the screen in front of him.
“Hello Dadza,” Brian’s text-to-speech voice begins to read out, as a 9 month subscription message appears in the top right corner of his screen. Something about this message feels like a reminder - starting with the simple term of endearment Wilbur’s called Phil many times, too, without much thought. “Nine months pog. Thanks for playing block game,” it says, “and being the best internet father figure I could ask for. Also, seven hundred seventy seven trillion-”
The message cuts off as Phil incredulously skips it and swears lightheartedly at the sender, and Wilbur laughs at the fond repetition of it all, finding the strange sense of longing still tight in his chest despite having forced the fuzzy feeling from earlier to dissipate. The words father figure rattle around in his brain, and Wilbur throws his blankets off his body and stands up suddenly in an attempt to physically shake the thought he knows is imminent. Ignoring the rush of blood to his head and the blackness clouding into his vision due to standing up so fast, Wilbur blindly reaches for the remote to turn off the TV and stumbles toward the hallway to reach his bedroom, the frustrated, helpless feeling from earlier clawing its way back into him. The press of his calloused heels against the hardwood floor feels harsher than usual — the lamp on his bedside table, usually soft and warm in its glow, now makes his eyes sting strenuously. He reaches for the orca plush sitting on his desk by the light switch, and reverts the room to darkness once more on his way to his bed.
Once his body finally makes contact with the mattress, he lets out a groan of relief, focusing intently to try and hear his own thoughts more clearly than whatever this fog does to him. He can’t manage to parse out anything other than comfy, and then, quieter, the still echoing Dadza, which he is eager to disregard. Belatedly, he realizes that the decision to curl up under his blankets and hug his favorite stuffed animal close to his chest is likely not helping in this venture. Even still, he remains there in bed, mind growing fuzzier again as the minutes pass, and the tension winding him up from earlier seems to melt away into the mattress.
This isn’t much different than usual, really. This realization doesn’t have to mean anything for Wilbur, if he doesn’t want it to.
…Yet, as he feels himself drifting off a bit, there’s something nagging at him to lean into this. In the haze of his thoughts he thinks about the cute baby toys, sippy cups, pacifiers, the stories of serenity and safety, and hesitantly raises the knuckle of his left thumb to his chin, just to rest there. His heart beats a little faster, and Wilbur pretends not to worry. He feels suddenly bigger, less immersed in this fuzziness, knows he’ll have to wash his hands after this, and even still, lifts his thumbnail up to his mouth to gently press against his lips.
It feels… weird. He doesn’t suck on it any further than the first knuckle if only for the growing sense of self awareness simmering to a boil within him, bringing with it the familiarity of discomfort and the albeit reasonable sensation of disgust at the feeling of his finger being covered in saliva. The feeling of having something occupying his mouth is relaxing, though, and Wilbur knows this; he finds himself chewing on the ends of his fidget toys and biting his nails all the time as a way to soothe himself, so the discomfort in his chest throws him for a loop. Over a week of looking at pictures of items made for infants and children, cataloguing and organizing them as he often does with information he enjoys, feeling pleasantly warm all the while, and this is what makes him uncomfortable? It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, nor is he acting like this in front of anyone else he should be embarrassed in front of — he’s just not like this, really. The fuzziness, sure, but he’s not really like the rest of these people, who clearly need this coping mechanism for much more important reasons than he does. He doesn’t need the stuffed toys that fill his chest with giddy excitement, or the miniature cups with cute patterns on the outside, or the comfort of being taken care of by someone he feels safe with, or a pacifier.
Shame, Wilbur’s mind manages to identify, like a child pointing at a dog, through the motion blur of his train of thought. His chest seems to cave in on itself just a little bit, feeling heavier, guilt gnawing at him, and he is ashamed. He imagines the thumb in his mouth is a pacifier instead, wonders how it would feel, curiosity clinging to the idea despite the revulsion simmering in the pit of his stomach.
The orca plush is soft in his arms. He thinks again of Phil, and the TTS message, and the many times he’s called Phil “Dad” already without even thinking about it. The ceaselessly logical part of him is pleased to have an explanation for it — the rest is localized to the burning of his cheeks.
He wiggles around a bit and pats down his blanket to find his phone, opening up Twitch once more when he finds it and letting Phil’s stream continue to play, ignoring the lingering embarrassment for the sake of the heavy and comforting feeling settling over him. Setting it aside, pressing his knuckle against his mouth, Wilbur’s eyes slip shut and he exhales against his pillow as the call of sleep becomes too great for him to deny.
The call of regression, he supposes - as Wilbur tosses the term around in his head, letting the rhythm of it bounce around in his head against the sound of Phil’s voice, until he finally drifts off.
~
Regression becomes a more commonplace occurrence for Wilbur, after that night. He tries to rationalize it, as it comes and goes, as he does with most things. He isn’t sure if this fuzziness was always so frequent and he just didn’t notice - he is certain he’s felt like this many times before, upset and needy after an anxiety-filled day or subdued and clingy on call with Techno while sick. Even still, the feeling of it now overcomes him several times a week, far more often than it used to. Idly, Wilbur wonders, fiddling with the fidget toy at his desk, if his past repression might have come back to haunt him.
Suddenly, the sharp ping of a Discord notification chimes from his speakers, and he snaps his head up from where he was staring down at the colorful toy in his lap to glance up at the screen showing his DMs.
Ph1LzA
Just got back home, we still chillin?
Instantly, Wilbur feels a smile pulling at his lips. Shaking his head briefly to brush off the stupor of overthinking he’d fallen into, he leans forward in his chair.
WilburSoot
Took you long enough
The joystick on the fidget toy clicks back and forth rhythmically as he stares at the screen and watches Technoblade’s icon suddenly appear in the online category of the group chat, and his hands fly to his keyboard.
WilburSoot
TECHNOBLADE
TECHNOBLADE
TECHNOBLADE
Technoblade
hello
Ph1LzA
heya mate
The simple message makes him eager to hear Phil’s voice, and he hesitates for only a few seconds before pressing the voice call button. The melodic ringtone plays twice before stopping, replaced by Phil’s profile picture.
“Phil!” Wilbur exclaims, feeling admittedly more giddy than he normally would for a simple evening Discord call.
“Hi mate,” Phil chimes, and it is even more pleasant than it was in text form a few moments prior. Warmth floods Wilbur’s chest and he giggles. Phil is asking how he’s doing when the call pings once more.
“Techno!” Wilbur calls out again.
“Hello,” Techno replies, Phil and him exchanging pleasantries and Wilbur fidgeting intently and listening to them talk. It’s like this sometimes - he gets very excited to call but when it comes time for him to actually talk it’s as though all the energy and motivation has somehow left him, and so he sits there quietly and lets the sound of their voices calm him, only chiming in when he gets especially enthused about a topic.
Belatedly, he recalls the wordlessness and scrambled state of his thoughts that comes with the fog of regression. Wilbur blinks several times and tries to focus.
“Where is the child?” He asks, unsure if he’s interrupting.
Phil hums. “Dunno. He said he’d be on, though.”
“Lame,” Techno jeers. “Imagine bein’ late. I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that.” Phil laughs.
Phil has a nice laugh. Familiar, Wilbur thinks, and sits idly by as his brain fixates on the word’s Latin root. “I think you’re perfectly punctual, Technoblade.” He remarks sincerely.
“Thank you, Wilbur.”
With a final ping, Tommy’s profile picture suddenly appears with a green circle around it, his loud microphone drowning out any possible further conversation.
“Hello?!”
“Tommy, what the fuck!” Phil scolds, and Wilbur can imagine him reeling back in his seat from the loud noise as Techno laughs.
“Hi Tommy,” Wilbur finds himself calling out, and even as he says it he knows his voice sounds a little childish, a little too eager, the pitch and tone atypical. He knows this, and he knows he should take a minute to try and clear the fog from his head but it’s just so easy with everyone here, because he’s safe, and cared for, and hell, he already used to act like this on call before he was aware, so it really shouldn’t be a big deal. He finds the feeling of it a little relieving, honestly; the fact that he feels comfortable enough around his friends to let himself slip slightly, albeit in secret. Wilbur wasn't even sure if this feeling he got was real enough to sneak up on him like this, convinced himself it must be something he's contrived for... for what? Attention? He'll admit that self-flagellating train of thought wasn't among his most logical.
“Hello, Wilbur. How are you?”
Besides, Wilbur thinks; logically he knows that he can pull himself out of this space if he really needs to. He does it all the time, now; shuffling to the kitchen with his orca in hand to make a snack for his younger mind, or even simply managing to stand up after laying with his blankie and chewing on his hoodie strings for so long that his stressful thoughts faded away almost entirely, if only briefly enough so he could raise himself up on shaky knees later on.
He has this under control.
“I’m good.” Wilbur responds, like a normal person. And then, “You were late.”
Tommy scoffs, offended, and Phil erupts into barely-contained laughter.
“I was not late!” Tommy insists. “Maybe the rest of you were just early, you ever think of that? I’m just living in the present in a world of future-livers.”
“No.” replies Wilbur. “I hadn’t thought of that, actually.”
“Well,” Tommy says, and then stops, as though that classifies as a response.
“Cause it’s stupid.” Wilbur adds, just to cause problems. And because the way Tommy sputters and Phil continues to laugh makes him feel like he’s outside on a beautiful day and there’s sunshine on his skin.
Tommy cycles through a few insults, most of which include the word bitch, with Phil calling out, “boys,” in the background, making Wilbur feel giddy. Tommy complains, “I would never call you stupid, Wilbur. You’re hurting me.”
“Am I?” Wilbur asks sardonically.
“You’re like a brother to me,” Tommy tells him, for no apparent reason.
The warm feeling in Wilbur’s chest inches its way up his spine and toward his brain, and unlike the normal that was his life a few weeks prior, he is now viscerally aware of it as it is happening. The lamp light on his desk makes his pale walls glow shades of orange and yellow, casting gentle shadows across the room, and the call swirls with fondness and laughter in the background. His ceiling fan spins near-silently, his curtains swaying out of the corner of his eye and Wilbur hums in response, unable to think of anything else to say. He shifts a bit in his seat and resigns himself to the growing fuzziness in his head for the rest of the night, if only for the sake of not disrupting the pleasant ambience of it all.
“Will?”
Pulled out of the fugue abruptly, Wilbur sits up in his chair again. “Yeah?”
Tommy sighs, as though relieved. Geez, how long had he been lost in thought?
“We thought you might have actually started crying this time.” Techno says, not mirthlessly.
Wilbur lets himself laugh a little bit, feeling suddenly like this conversation is out of his depth. He preens a bit at the attention being on him, not unhappy about it, but the pressure to be cool and funny and whatever else he’s constructed others to believe is Wilbur remains, a bit too much for the younger headspace he’s beginning to slip into.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Wilbur replies, ominously, voice strained. There’s a moment of silence, but ultimately nobody presses him on it, and Wilbur finds himself grateful through the haze as the mindless chatter picks up once more.
Heaving a breath, Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up a bit for nobody’s sake but his own. He sees his own reflection in the dark parts of his computer screen and refocuses his eyes to make it go away.
Someone playing Minecraft appears on his screen, an inevitability of nights like these, and Phil is then attempting to demonstrate a minor change made to elytra durability in the new snapshot. At least, that's what he said he’s doing, but at this point Wilbur can barely understand what half those words mean anymore. It takes only about a minute and a half for Tommy to interrupt, demanding an IP address so they can play together.
“It’s a singleplayer world, what are you talking about?”
“Find a way, Phil!”
Techno interjects, probably because he wants to play Minecraft, too, but won’t admit it; “You know, we do have servers for moments like these. Several, actually.”
Phil acquiesces nearly instantly at the suggestion from Techno, earning excited cheers and clapping.
It takes a few moments for the three of them to find their way onto a server, and after only a little bit of heckling (Tommy insulting him with a barrage of curse words and a single, “C’mon,” from Techno) Wilbur opens his game, too.
He’s in survival mode when he joins, with 6 sticks and a piece of bread in his inventory. He forgets he has command permissions.
“Phil,” he whines. “Can I have an elytra?”
“Where - oh, there you are. Sure. You can just give yourself one, though, mate.” Phil’s Minecraft character drifts to a landing in front of him and he hears typing on the other end.
“If it’s from you, maybe I’ll be better at it.” Wilbur states. And then, before he can feel embarrassed, “I wanna be just like you.”
“Awww,” Phil coos, sincerity in his tone. “Here you go, son.”
The last part is said with a bit of humor, but all Wilbur can hear is the fond tone and gentle words, and the softness of his headspace suddenly slams into him like a brick wall and oh, he is small. Smaller than he usually gets on his own -- it almost makes him dizzy with the force of it, and he has to rest his free hand flat on his desk to avoid letting it drift toward his mouth. His cheeks burn red and he presses his cool fingertips against them in an attempt to soothe the physical remnants of his embarrassment. Alas, his brain will do anything to work against him, and the sensation of something pressing against his cheek just reminds him of his stuffed orca and the way it feels to hold when he gets like this. He glances back at his bed behind him, where it lays, and feels a bit sad seeing it all by its lonesome, so he caves and rolls his chair back to grab it. Someone is calling his name on the voice channel.
The hum of anxiety about being small in front of his friends like this is, ironically, quelled by the feeling of the toy in his hands, and he slides his chair back to the desk as he presses it close so it brushes his cheek. It's funny, how some part of him was so sure that this headspace couldn't possibly be real for him like it seems to be for other people. He was convinced he'd been making all this up - it just doesn't seem like something someone like him should have to do. ...Should be even allowed to do. He's not like all the others, doesn't have any substantial trauma, nothing he would call especially traumatic. Wilbur is just a guy with some anxiety issues, isn't he? Sure, there's the pressure of his career, but he knows the privileges and joy he's gotten from his work far outweigh any of the stress it gives him. He just... doesn't think he deserves this. This peace, this safety. It's not for him.
“Will, you alright, mate?”
Wilbur hums. “M’okay,” he says, peering down at the stuffed toy in his hands. He squishes it and exhales carefully, feeling a little bit helpless all of a sudden. “Had to get… something. Better now.”
The call is quieter than it was before.
“Okay.” Phil says, voice gentle. “You, uh, had a glass of water recently?”
Wilbur shakes his head and makes a noise of disagreement. Phil hums back, and he feels overcome with gratitude and attachment.
“How about that, yeah? Go get some water, mate.” Phil encourages. He’s not very thirsty, admittedly, but if it will make Phil continue to speak softly and kindly to him like this then he’d do anything.
“Okay.” Wilbur responds, and pulls his earbuds from his ears. He grips the orca plushie with both hands, steeling himself briefly before pushing himself upward to rise unsteadily to his feet. The ground is further away than he remembers it, even while hunching over a little bit and leaning his side against the wall. But he’s… fine. He can think a little clearer, and he harnesses this moment of clarity to take a few steps out of his bedroom door and into the hallway.
The trek to the kitchen is slow but Wilbur completes it with relative ease, gently grasping onto the plush toy with both his hands, leaning against the countertops and squeezing the small fins on the side as he steps onto the cold tile. The lights are a bit too bright in here, the fixtures hanging from the ceiling radiating a harsher fluorescence than the gentle glow of his bedroom lamp, and the hum of electricity from his appliances is a little louder. It takes him setting down the orca on the countertop, reaching for a glass in the cabinet, and standing at the sink for several seconds as his glass begins to fill for his mind to finally return to him. His limbs move a little easier than they did a few minutes ago.
Wilbur takes a swig of the water, the coolness of it making him blink a little harder, and although the lingering warmth still rests in his chest, the overwhelming fuzziness from earlier has subsided a bit. It only took a few moments, and his anxiety rushes back to him all at once, a messy menagerie of wondering if he’s somehow faking it because of how quickly the headspace has faded away and the rush of shame and fear at the thought of rejection. The fog from earlier hasn’t dissipated entirely - Wilbur can sense it lingering and its impending return should he continue to ruminate like this. But he can control it, and he should, he thinks, guilt stabbing through him at the idea of forcing his friends to take care of him in a state like this.
Wilbur groans audibly and runs a hand through his hair, glancing over at the stuffed orca on the countertop. Its cute face and beady eyes mock him, remind him of how good it feels to just let go and relax for a little bit, of how much easier it was to care for himself when Phil was there to encourage him, of how he felt weightless as Phil called him son.
Sighing deeply, Wilbur stomps over to the orca and tucks it under his arm, walking quickly back to his room with the half full glass of water in his hand. His nerves are shot with the anxiety of explaining himself and potentially being shunned, making the water in the glass sway back and forth with the strength of his tremors. Wilbur sets it down a bit too hard on the counter and a drop lands on his arm.
He plants himself in his chair and mindlessly sets the orca in his lap, not noticing he’s left it there until both earbuds are already in his ears again.
…Fuck it. He deserves a little bit of comfort, right?
“I’m back.” He announces, the call chiming with greetings far too casual for how strange Wilbur feels about this whole thing.
“How ya feeling, mate?” Phil inquires, and there’s nothing but genuine concern in his voice. Wilbur feels as though he’s let him down, somehow. It was foolish to expect anything else.
“Better,” he says, pausing, and then adding: “sorry about that.”
“About what?” Phil asks him.
It’s a loaded question, and the wordless scrambling of his mind from earlier hasn’t left him well enough for him to summon up enough energy to answer.
“Dunno,” Wilbur mumbles, and resists the urge to apologize again.
Phil doesn’t press him much. “It’s okay, mate. No worries.”
…And that’s it. Nobody berates him, nobody even questions it. Hell, Phil’s even nice about it.
The water helped him clear his head enough for the rest of the evening to pass without incident, but it’s only a matter of time before Phil’s kindness comes back to bite him once more.
It turns out, the next time happens about two weeks later, in person.
~
They’re in Phil’s hotel room, the night after filming the first portion of a particularly exhausting yet fun vlog, Tommy passed out in the room adjacent. The TV plays quietly from its place on the dresser across from where Wilbur lays in the bed, glancing between his phone and Phil’s movements as he unpacks a phone charger and plugs it into the wall.
“Phil,” he calls out, to which Phil turns toward him, immediately granting him his attention. Too exhausted to look himself, he asks, “is my blue backpack over there?”
Phil peers around the room, glancing behind a chair in the corner. “Which one?
“My bag,” he responds, feeling as though his descriptive abilities have left him. “Kinda small. It has my clothes.”
“Would it not be in your own room?”
Wilbur pauses, lifting his head up and staring blankly up at Phil. “Oh, yeah.” He says, feeling a little stupid. “I guess it would be there.”
Wilbur makes no effort to extricate himself from the blanket mountain he’s buried himself underneath, instead staring with wide, pleading eyes at Phil, who looks back at him with an eyebrow raised.
“Phil,” Wilbur whines, and at the sound of his own voice leaving his throat he realizes it’s already too late. The comforting weight of the heavy blanket on top of his body coupled with the exhaustion from a long day is begging for him to regress, and he knows it’s only a matter of time. He could shove it down, sure, but Phil is here, and he’s so nice. Wilbur’s shame takes the backseat in favor of letting his small-brain’s unignorable desire to be cared for take the wheel, albeit with a bit of hesitation.
“My bag.” Wilbur says again, and Phil looks just about ready to tell Wilbur to fuck off and do it himself, but he doesn’t, for some reason. His eyes soften instead, and Wilbur lets the hope swell in his chest.
“…You want me to get it?” Phil offers, voice a little quieter than it was before. The fog in his mind grows a little thicker, and it’s suddenly even harder to speak.
Voice small, Wilbur implores; “Please?”
There’s a long pause. Phil breaks eye contact briefly to glance around the room, at the TV, at his phone, and then back to Wilbur, curled up as small as he can go under the blankets on the bed. The air conditioning unit hums, and there’s a distinct click as Phil locks his phone and sets it down on the nightstand. Something in him seems to break.
“…Okay. Where’s your room key?”
Wilbur thinks for a moment, processing the questioning like he’s moving through molasses.
“Hmm,” he hums. “Pocket.” He maneuvers an arm underneath the blanket to pat around his hips in an attempt to find which pocket it’s in, wiggling around uncomfortably when he has to turn over to reach the other one. He can hear Phil laughing quietly from the other side of the bed.
“You need some help, mate?”
Wilbur whines loudly in response, complaining as best he can when his brain is going fuzzier by the minute. Phil’s tone isn’t helping.
As he shifts his body he suddenly feels the sharp plastic edge of the keycard poking at his hipbone, and he makes a celebratory noise before clumsily digging it out of his pocket. He throws his arm out of the blanket mound to present it proudly to Phil, who is smiling at him when he does so.
“Here go!” Wilbur exclaims, ignoring the pounding of his heart, self conscious from allowing himself to act so unfiltered.
Phil takes it from him. “Thanks,” he says, laughing under his breath. “Good job, mate.”
Wilbur feels his heart clench as his mind latches onto the praise, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, and he resists crying and reaching out for Phil as he moves to leave the room.
“I’ll be right back, okay?”
And then he’s gone.
The simple phrase echoes around in Wilbur’s brain, the fog making it so he can hardly focus on any thoughts at all except the giddy and warm feeling of validation and safety he gets every time he thinks about Phil’s words.
To put it lightly, it doesn’t help with the encroaching fuzziness whatsoever. To put it more realistically, with his inhibitions lowered slightly by slowly slipping younger, it makes Wilbur’s mind wander even more than he usually lets it. Wandering through the mental fog, he stumbles upon images of his body being gently swaddled in blankets, cuddling his favorite toys, and a gentle voice telling him he’s okay, letting him lay on their lap while fingers run through his hair. Guilt lingers in the corners of his headspace, a voice in the back of his mind convincing him that indulging himself like this should be shameful, and yet it feels meaningless next to the feeling he gets imagining Phil giving him a tender hug, tucking him under the covers and telling him he’s good. He’s just a little baby at this point, and all Wilbur wants is to be cradled close and taken care of.
The world feels like it’s gone a bit sideways. He’s buzzing with nerves and yet his mindset is blurred together like watercolors being painted over without time to dry. Belatedly, he realizes his thumb is in his mouth, and he pulls it out a few seconds later when he hears footsteps down the hall and remembers Phil will be back any minute now.
Get a hold of yourself, one part of Wilbur’s mind urges him.
Dadza, the smaller part of him chimes happily as he hears the door creaking open.
“I got it,” Phil calls as he enters the room, walking up to the side of the bed and into Wilbur’s field of vision. He shrugs the small blue backpack off his shoulder. “What did you need?”
“Hmm,” Wilbur ponders aloud, squinting at the bag in frustration with his poor memory. “Open it?” He asks. God, talking is so hard right now. He’s trying his best and yet his voice still comes out far softer than he’d normally prefer, no matter how many times he clears his throat.
Phil reaches his arm around the side of it and unzips the largest pocket, the top of his laptop peeking out from the slot inside and in front of it, his stuffed orca popping up into view. Without warning, Wilbur gasps excitedly and flings both arms out from under the blanket, making grabby hands.
Phil looks surprised. “What’s up?”
Embarrassed, unsure of what to say and regretting not having named the plushie yet, he points at it and mumbles, “friend.”
“Oh!” Phil exclaims, suddenly smiling again, and Wilbur wiggles happily under the covers as Phil gently hands him the toy, hugging it close to his chest. His brain goes all fuzzy like it did when Phil told him good job earlier as he closes his eyes and nuzzles his cheek against the fluffy fabric, humming quietly. Distantly, he feels a weight settle next to his body on the edge of the mattress.
Prying open one eye at a time, Wilbur glances sleepily at Phil, who is sitting on the edge of the bed playing absentmindedly with the edge of the sheets, looking at Wilbur with an expression he can’t quite parse out. Wilbur almost wants to cry with embarrassment and self-consciousness, suddenly afraid he’s done something wrong. Wilbur knows he's smaller than he's ever been, right now. He knows this isn't like the times he could easily stand or push aside his headspace to get something done - he thinks he might be in babyspace, at this point. Wilbur didn't even know his mind would ever allow him to be so vulnerable, especially not in front of someone else. He hesitates.
“Dadza?”
Phil blinks a couple times, torn away from his concerned ponderings as he notices Wilbur’s large brown eyes peering up at him, familiar and comforting despite their unusual glassiness. His expression shifts, the harsh lines of his furrowed brow smoothing out. Wilbur smiles up at him.
“Hey, Will.” Phil responds, nearly a whisper. The softness of it all makes Wilbur melt into his pillow, sleepiness pulling at him. He feels entirely overcome, helpless against the force of this feeling, every part of him screaming to accept this reprieve he's been granted, a moment free from the omnipresent dread and anxiety permeating his every waking moment. “How you doing, mate?”
Wilbur squishes his face against the orca again and whimpers. “Sleepy.”
“Aw,” Phil coos, a little teasing and a lot fond, and tentatively reaches a hand out to ruffle Wilbur’s hair. Wilbur’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “You can go to bed, then,” Phil says. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay?” Wilbur repeats back.
“Of course.”
Wilbur lets his eyes slip shut briefly as Phil rests a firm hand on his shoulder, patting him on the bicep and staying there, watching him attentively. When he looks back, that gentle smile is still there, and Phil is moving his hand away to pull up the covers from where they’ve slipped and tuck him in further. He feels like he’s floating.
“Do you need anything?” Phil asks him, sounding a little anxious. Wilbur shakes his head against the mound of soft things around his head and mumbles incoherent reassurances into them. The last part of him left clinging to his dignity pushes him slightly out of his infantile mindset just in time for Phil to stand up from his seat on the bed.
“Thank you.” Wilbur says.
For some reason, that gets a smile and a breathy, seemingly relieved laugh out of Phil. He gestures swiftly with his left hand in a way that roughly translates to no big deal, and begins to put some things in his own bag that lies on the nightstand.
“No worries, son. Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”
Wilbur’s eyes fall shut again against his own volition, and he can barely feel the ghost of a hand ruffling his hair again before the door closes and he’s already drifting off to sleep.
~
The morning after he slips in Phil’s hotel room, he wakes up feeling more refreshed than has in weeks, and completely forgets about the night prior until he pushes the blanket off and realizes he slept in his jeans. Inexplicable guilt, anxiety, and shame come back full force, multiplied by the fact that Phil is nowhere to be seen so he’d apparently completely stolen the man’s room on top of forcing Phil to care for him.
Halfway to the elevator, feeling exceptionally sorry for himself, someone yells his name down the hallway and Wilbur jerks to attention.
Running far too quickly and waving far too energetically for 10am, Tommy comes barreling toward him from the other end of the hallway.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Wilbur exhales as Tommy runs up and clings to his arm, pulling him toward the elevator. “What the hell’s got you so excited?”
“Finishing the vlog today!” Tommy says, pressing the elevator button and bouncing eagerly in place as they wait. “…Also, Phil’s just texted me that they have unlimited pancakes at the breakfast buffet.”
Wilbur snorts. “Of course that was your motive.”
“Bitch,” Tommy says, simply. The elevator dings and slides open.
“Wait,” Wilbur starts, suddenly feeling apprehensive again. “You said Phil’s down at the buffet already?”
“Yeah,” Tommy replies, and then glares up at him with a suspicious expression. “…Why? You scared of Philza Minecraft all of a sudden?”
Screw this child and his eerie levels of perception. Wilbur briefly laments ever letting Tommy know him so well and considers leaping from a window to spare him the embarrassment swallowing him whole.
“No,” Wilbur lies.
Tommy chatters at him, a fact for which Wilbur is grateful, partially because he knows that Tommy’s doing it to try and soothe whatever nerves he’s picked up from Wilbur, and partially because he does love the kid and hearing his familiar rambling is admittedly relaxing. He continues talking all the way to the dining area, a large room with shimmering lights hanging from the ceiling and an ostentatious, slightly ugly wallpaper. Tommy points him in the direction of the plates and they stand side by side as they get breakfast. Some part of Wilbur knows the patience and slowness is for his sake; any other day and the kid would be running circles around him.
When they turn the corner, they catch sight of a waving Phil from a small, round table. He has a half eaten omelette in front of him and a smile on his face.
“Phil!” Tommy calls excitedly, dropping himself into the seat adjacent to Phil’s, leaving Wilbur to be seated directly across from him. Wilbur can’t bear to make eye contact.
“Hey, Will,” Phil greets him, sounding oddly normal. Wilbur glances at him tentatively, waits for the disgust or hesitance to show in his face, but it never does. Instead, Phil asks, “You feeling better, mate?”
He can feel Tommy’s inquisitive gaze burning into the side of his head and his heart stutters a bit.
“Yeah,” Wilbur nods.
After an uncomfortable pause, Tommy, bless his heart, changes the subject and starts badgering Phil about his breakfast choices for the next five minutes or so while Wilbur tries to catch his breath.
Maybe… maybe he should tell him?
He just feels so guilty, making Phil worry when he doesn’t need to, especially when he knows this will surely happen again at this rate. Phil deserves to at least know, and yet Wilbur doesn’t even know where to start. Does he start from the beginning? Describe the late nights of weird internet searches and rabbit holes, the blogs and articles and pictures on Pinterest? Does he jump right to defining what age regression even is? Would Phil have heard of it before? Would he think it strange, or have any unpleasant associations with it?
What if Phil doesn’t believe him that this is a real thing? What if he judges him?
Wilbur thinks back to that night on call, where Phil had gently asked him how he was doing and brushed off any attempts Wilbur had made to apologize. He thinks of the gentle hand in his hair as he drifted off to sleep last night.
…Maybe he should have a little more faith.
Wilbur observes Tommy and Phil chatting lightheartedly for a good while longer, their voices cheerful against the background noise of plates clattering and some pop music playing on the speakers. Wilbur’s just starting to relax into his uncomfortable plastic chair when Tommy finishes his plate and stands up abruptly, rushing to get more pancakes before the buffet closes.
Phil yells at him to stop running, laughing all the while, until he finally turns back to Wilbur, whose anxiety skyrockets.
Fuck. Explanation, quick. Apologize!
“Uh, Phil,” he starts, looking off to the side, voice a little shaky, but if Phil notices he doesn’t comment on it. “I’m so sorry about last night.” Wilbur rushes to speak, “I was probably being really weird, and I made you take care of me anyway, and I’m really-”
“Will.” Phil interrupts, voice firm. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”
Dumbfounded, Wilbur stutters, “Well, I - what do you mean what am I apologizing for?! I - I practically kicked you out of your own room because I couldn’t just… leave you alone and take care of myself.”
Phil tilts his head, eyebrows pinching together a little.
“Wilbur,” Phil says, taking a deep breath so Wilbur knows he’s in some deep shit.
“You didn’t force me to do anything. I stayed and took care of you because I wanted to, that’s it.”
“But the-”
“Nope!” Phil ignores him. “I don’t care about the room, either; you gave me your room key so I slept there. Besides, I kinda liked that one better, anyway. You haven’t done anything wrong, so stop apologizing.”
Wilbur notices Tommy approaching with a plate that has a frankly absurd amount of pancakes on it, and decides to concede at least to that, if only for the sake of not making a fool of himself in front of anyone else.
“I should explain, though,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, mate.”
Tommy sets his plate down but clearly picks up on whatever weird atmosphere is happening at the table, so he remains blissfully silent as he sits down. Wilbur can tell he’s resisting the urge to stare immensely and he feels a wave of fondness bubble up in him.
“No, I just…” Wilbur shakes his head. “After the vlog, I’ll just… we can call about it, or something.”
Phil pauses, seemingly contemplating whether he needs to scold him anymore for being too hard on himself, but eventually decides against it and sits back in his chair.
“Okay.”
~
Wilbur has walked past the coffee stain on his bedroom carpet thirty-six times in the past ten minutes. He’s starting to think he’ll see it in his dreams.
“Hey, Phil,” he mutters to himself. “It’s kinda weird, but I do this thing where…” No. Too casual. Why would he announce it as weird off the bat, anyway? Isn’t that just encouraging Phil to find it weird? “There’s this coping mechanism that helps me deal with my anxiety…” God, that’s so clinical. It’s just Phil, for God’s sake, he doesn’t need to pull out the DSM. “I just want to explain the other night,” he reasons to himself, and it sounds casual enough. He paces to the corner of the room again and pivots to turn around, met with the same brown stain, which he steps carefully over for the thirty-seventh time. His computer screen mocks him as he passes by his desk, open to his DMs with Phil, where they’ve agreed to call about 5 minutes from now.
“I’m an age regressor,” Wilbur breathes out, anxiety making his stomach turn, horrible dread rising up in his throat. “I age regress. I do something called age regression.” Wilbur hasn’t even said these things out loud before to himself, let alone anyone else. His voice is already shaking, and they’re not even on call yet.
Wilbur keels over for a moment, kneeling on the rough carpet and staring at the coffee stain which has somehow ended up right in front of him again. He exhales shakily, pressing a hand against his chest to feel the rapid pounding and tries desperately to not convince himself he’s having a heart attack. Fuck. It’s… it’s only Phil. He doesn’t know why he’s so terrified. He tries a breathing exercise, but two breaths in he ends up coughing and he gives up.
Wilbur closes his eyes and pulls at the fabric of his sweater, running his other hand across the carpet, over and over again. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
A few seconds pass and another stab of anxiety hits him. He jerks his head up to see 8:58pm on his computer’s monitor - 2 minutes until they’re supposed to call. He lets out another haggard breath before pushing himself off the ground and immediately collapsing onto his desk chair.
It’s fine, he tries to repeat in his mind. It’s only Phil. Phil would never judge you. And then, because the fight or flight part of his brain won’t stop agonizing, Phil would never hurt you. You aren’t dying. You’re safe.
The plush orca sits on the desk in front of him, tucked behind his monitor, and Wilbur reaches out a hand to pet it, but refuses the urge to pull it close to his chest. He needs to be big for this, can’t risk slipping whatsoever.
His computer pings.
Ph1LzA
you still wanna call m8? I’m good whenever you are
Deep breath. He glances to the word document he has open in the background, half finished but still full of at least a dozen conversation starters and bullet points about his regression. It’s reassuring, even though Wilbur’s sure he won’t use most of it. He shifts side to side in his seat and breathes until he can hold his hands steady enough to use the keyboard. He can do this.
WilburSoot
Yeah I’m good
The Discord ringtone chimes out not 30 seconds later. Wilbur takes a deep breath, and answers it.
“Hey mate,” Phil greets, and Wilbur instantly feels his shoulders drop from where they were holding tension. It’s always so much easier, with Phil here. He almost forgets why he was so scared.
…Almost.
“What did you want to talk about?”
The sharp stab of fear returns, knocking the wind out of him for a moment. It’s familiar, and it hurts him, feels like he's being eaten away at from the inside out. But it's him, it's his reality, and so he breathes through it.
“Uh, I - Uh,” Wilbur starts, eloquently. He feels like he’s not getting enough oxygen to get a word out, but forces himself to continue anyway. “I’m, uh. Shit, sorry. I’m… really nervous.” Wilbur stammers.
“Shit, you sound it, mate. Are you okay?”
He breathes, again, adamantly ignoring the sunspot of hypochondriasis burned into the backs of his eyelids that's telling him he needs his inhaler. “I’m fine.” It’s only Phil.
“Are you sure? You know, you don’t need to tell me anything if it’s… if you aren’t ready.”
God bless Phil and his infinite patience and understanding. Despite the adrenaline running through his veins, trying to convince him he’s about to die, he’s reminded that Phil is one of the people he trusts most in the entire world. This is a friend - hell, this is family. Phil stays quiet for a few moments while Wilbur breathes deeply.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to… explain something.” Wilbur says, feeling proud when his voice is far less shaky than he expected it to be.
“…About the other night?”
Wilbur pulls his fidget cube out of his pocket and twiddles the joystick back and forth. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Phil says, and then goes quiet, giving him space to gather his thoughts.
Glancing at the word document, skimming over the ideas he’d hastily written a few hours prior, he gathers himself once more and tries not to let his voice get stuck in his throat. It’s now or never.
“Yeah, so… uh. That whole thing.” Yes. Nailing it. So good at words, Wilbur, he internally condescends himself.
“So that wasn’t just me being sleepy. I mean, I was sleepy, but that wasn’t… why I was acting weird.”
“I didn’t find it weird.” Phil interjects, and Wilbur goes blank. “I mean, it was different than you usually were, but… it wasn’t weird, or anything. Just… you.”
Just… him? Christ. His shame is being beaten with a wooden stick, chased back into the woods from whence it came, thanks to Phil. What in the hell is he so strung up about?
“Thank you, Phil.” Wilbur replies, genuine. Words feel a little easier - he braces himself. “Well, it’s a… thing I do. A headspace I get into.” Inhale. “The technical term is, uh… age regression. …Have you ever heard of that?” Exhale. He said it, he said it, he said it!
There’s a heavy pause, and then Phil replies, carefully, “I might have heard of it, before. But I’m not really sure. Could you explain it to me?”
Wilbur takes another deep breath, his hands shaking as he shifts in his chair and repeatedly presses a button on the fidget toy in his hands. Explanations; this, he can do. He prepared for this. Wilbur glances at the document.
“Right, well… you know how I struggle with anxiety?”
Phil sounds a little confused at the change of subject, but hums out an affirmative regardless.
“So, age regression is like a coping mechanism. Basically, uh… adult life is stressful as hell, right? So, the brain reverts to a younger state. To try and alleviate some of the stress.”
“Oh,” Phil says, sounding less confused. “That makes sense.” Wilbur really wonders if it’s this simple. It can’t be.
“And, uh,” Wilbur rushes to clarify, “It’s not a sexual thing, or whatever. Fuckin’… ‘age play’ or whatever they call it. That’s a totally different thing.”
“I figured,” Phil agrees. “That would be… weird. Cause you’re like, actually in the mindset of a child, right?”
“Yeah,” says Wilbur. He laments for the millionth time tonight how Phil somehow always knows what to say. Is it really this simple?
“Do you, uh…” Wilbur starts, tentative, waiting for something to go wrong. “Do you have any questions about it? It’s kinda… hard to explain, so.”
Phil hums thoughtfully on the other line. “What exactly does ‘reverting to a younger age’ entail? I can make a guess, based off how you were acting the other night, but… I’d like to be sure, I suppose.”
“Ah,” Wilbur feels embarrassment surging in him at the reminder. “Well, it’s… different for everyone I guess. People regress to, uh… different ages, and stuff.” He’s at a loss from how well this is going.
“I’m here for you, though, mate. What’s it like for you?”
Wilbur glances at the stuffed orca behind his monitor again, shaking his head and turning his head back down to stare at his lap at the fidget toy in his hands.
“For me,” he starts, “I regress kinda young. I’m… not really sure, it’s hard to pinpoint an age, but from what I’ve read I’d guess I’m usually in the headspace, of, like… a 2 to 4 year old. But maybe younger. I think I get into, uh…” he hesitates, mostly because he’s barely figured this out for himself, so it’s exceptionally hard to put into words. “I feel like a baby, too, sometimes. But that’s hard when I’m alone, so…”
“Awww,” Phil downright coos. “Mate, that’s really sweet!”
His mind goes blank.
Stunned, Wilbur chokes out, “What?”
“Well, you’re basically just like a little kid, yeah?”
Wilbur ignores the sudden wave of fuzzy warmth that hits him when Phil says that. “Uh, yeah. I… like to do kiddy things, when I’m like that. You know, cartoons, and stuff. I mostly just lay in bed with a stuffed animal, though, cause I… don’t really have any kid things.”
Phil coos again, and Wilbur’s traitor heart surges with happiness. ”Will, I like kids.” He reassures. “Honestly, in terms of coping mechanisms, like… I don’t wanna minimize it, or anything, but it’s kind of cute. Is that fine to say?”
“Is that…” Wilbur echoes to himself, shocked. “Phil, that’s - of course it’s-” He drops his fidget toy and covers his face with his hands. “Ugh!” He groans.
“Mate? Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
Wilbur groans again. “Phil,” he whines. “For fuck’s sake, no, you didn’t say anything wrong!”
“Oh,” Phil exhales, clearly relieved. “Then, what-”
Wilbur pulls at his own hair to ground himself. “You always know just what to say,” He complains, the fuzziness an undeniable presence, now, albeit one that he ignores. “Even when I slipped back at the hotel, you knew what to say.” His voice breaks. “I don’t understand.”
There’s a pause. Then, Phil’s sympathetic voice. “Oh, Will…” Wilbur shakes his head to himself, unable to shake off the syrupy glee that comes with Phil being so kind to him. “I would never judge you, mate. Especially not for something like this.” Wilbur wants to cry with the force of his relief. He doesn’t even realize he’s making a high-pitched keening noise until Phil is soothing him on the other line.
“Sorry,” Wilbur chokes out. “I was just so scared. I don’t know why.”
“It’s okay,” Phil says placatingly. “It’s scary to share something like that. People might not get it, right?”
Wilbur nods and exhales, pulling his hands away from his face to wrap around himself. “A lot of people,” he says. “It’s a weird subject.”
“It’s personal, too,” Phil adds. “I understand. But… this really helps you, yeah?”
Wilbur thinks of all the rumination and spiraling he’s avoided these past few weeks, the overwhelming happiness and safety he felt when small, the way the troubles of his adult life seem to melt away, just long enough for him to finally rest. The small moments where the constant chatter of worry fades into the background, where he doesn't shake and tremble at nothing at all, when he can leave the house the next day with a full night's sleep untainted by hypochondriac spiraling and panic-driven insomnia, where his breath is steady and he's not convinced he's about to die at any given moment. Small moments where he finally lives, exists as purely himself, and forgives himself for doing so.
“Yeah,” answers Wilbur. It's a hell of an understatement. “It helps me a lot.”
“Then you have nothing to be ashamed of.” Phil tells him, as though it’s that simple.
And there it is, all the tension of the past month or so falling from his body like a rope held taut finally coming loose after decades of strain. His heaving breaths and pounding heart feel as though they’re slipping out of his white-knuckled grasp, and he lets them go, breathing deeply.
“I made you take care of me,” Wilbur argues, with Phil, with himself, with this feeling of love and acceptance pouring into him. A last-ditch-effort to resist. “I don’t want to be a burden. You shouldn’t have to do that.”
He can sense Phil bristling with a scolding immediately. “Will,” He says. “It was a joy taking care of you. You were very sweet.”
“But…”
“No buts.” Phil insists. “I took care of you then because I wanted to, and if you wanted me to take care of you again in the future, I’d be honored. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you having to be alone when you’re like that, anyway.”
Wilbur is rapidly losing his verbal skills, overwhelmed with relief and confused that he’s not being made fun of or dismissed. This isn’t what he’s… used to. This isn’t what he deserves.
Phil takes the pause to mean he’s overstepped, clearly. “If you don’t want me to take care of you, that’s fine, of course.” He adds hastily. “I just… wanted you to know that I’m here. If you’re ever, uh… in that headspace, and you want somebody there with you. I’d be happy to help.”
There’s a long silence, then, as Wilbur lets the words soak into his brain. He pulls the orca down from its place on the desk and hugs it, listening to Phil’s occasional keyboard tapping and the background noise of his own ceiling fan whirring.
“Small,” Wilbur tentatively adds.
“Hm?”
Wilbur repeats, “Small. The headspace, that’s what I call it. Feeling small.” He pauses. “Or, just, uh, regressed. If you wanna get technical.”
“Ah, I see,” Phil hums. “Noted. I’m probably gonna try to do some research on this just to make sure I understand, is that fine?”
“Yeah,” Wilbur responds, mindlessly. Then, he realizes what Phil’s asked. Hastily, he adds, “I’ll send you an article to start, cause there’s… it’s kinda hard to find good information about this sort of thing online. Be careful.”
“Okay.” says Phil, and then after a moment of thought asks, “Where did you find all your information?”
Wilbur laughs, he isn’t sure why - probably because all those nights of going down rabbit holes have come full circle once again. “Honestly? Besides the few good articles, mostly… Tumblr.” Phil laughs lightheartedly and Wilbur doesn’t blame him. “Blogs and things made by other age regressors were the most helpful.”
“When did you figure all this out?” Phil asks, sounding genuinely curious.
Wilbur feels a little peculiar thinking about it. “I, uh… I’ve been regressing for a long time, in retrospect, but I only learned all the technical stuff like… two months ago?” Processing things about himself normally takes a bit longer, for him, nevertheless getting to the point where he can share it with someone else. It’s not like this was technically an issue to process, though. It helps him, so he leaned into it, he supposes. He still feels as guilty and uncomfortable with it as he did on day one, sometimes, though.
“Interesting,” Phil comments. Wilbur guesses it is.
The call drifts into comfortable silence, only the sound of a ping as Wilbur sends an article to Phil, and the ambience of Phil typing for long after. Wilbur tentatively asks about Phil’s plans for the new year, and they chat idly about streams and vlogs and travel plans. Wilbur speaks longingly of a trip to Norway, and Phil muses about what to do for his upcoming wedding anniversary. The plush orca is soft and secure in Wilbur’s arms, and Phil’s voice is soft and kind in his headphones. He has a slight headache pushing at his temples, probably a consequence of the anxiety attack he had, but the tension in his body contributing to it has long since passed. Wilbur wrings out his hands and watches Phil’s profile picture light up green every so often. The gentle pull of regression calls for him; Wilbur isn't sure if he'll be able slip very much after forcing himself to be big tonight, but he lets the soft comfort drag him along, anyway. Allows himself to simply be, without overthinking it.
He is safe, after all. After all the agonizing and crippling panic, he’s safe.
Intermittently, Phil asks him about a website he’s on, or part of an article about regression, and he’s so casual about it Wilbur almost can think of this as normal. Comfortable, even. Comfortable knowing that he’s shown Phil this vulnerable part of himself and was accepted without hesitation. Comfortable with the fact that the most tender parts of himself are cradled gently by those he cares most about.