Chapter Text
Self-discovery is a long, messy journey. Though it cannot be easily described in a manner of words, or a sequence of years in one's life, it can be generalised; the majority of people begin to find themselves once they leave high school. Those late teens and early twenties become the decider of who they'll be for the rest of their lives. It's seen as a lonely period in life, where most go from filling restaurant tables with friends to struggling to find someone to fake-text when stuck in an awkward social situation.
Maybe this is an opinion formed from pretension and privilege. Mere assumptions with no real basis because it's all too likely that no one ever gets a true grasp on their own identity. Maybe the synopsis is that everyone lives their entire lives forming an ever-changing, ever-adapting identity that can never be vocalised or boxed into a definition.
Whatever the case, the facts remain the same. People seek to gain a semblance of self in the time following high school, and Wilbur's lost all those years to an eating disorder that refuses to die.
It's no problem, though. Wilbur knows who he is.
Wilbur is the kgs (or pounds, cause he knows both by heart, to the third decimal) the scale decided to grace him with that week.
He is the number of calories he's consumed in the day or his deficit for the past seven.
He's the inches around his waist or the centimetres lost off his hips.
Wilbur is his body fat percentage. He's his protein intake or his lack of carbohydrate intake.
Wilbur is stevia packets, low sugar alternatives, appetite suppressants, and laxatives.
Wilbur is anything that makes him less, but he's grown tired of seeking out a smaller frame. (Although Wilbur's not convinced any amount of therapy will ever starve out the dopamine rush he gets at seeing the number on the scale tick down.)
Wilbur knows who he is.
Or, at least, he did.
- - -
This is the first therapy appointment that Wilbur is driving himself to, and it shouldn't be this hard.
Maybe he's struggling because it's nine am, and he foolishly stayed up till three fucking around with Tommy and Techno on modded Minecraft servers too chaotic to ever air live. Maybe it's because he ran out of coffee this morning, and instead of having it with his usual two heaped spoonfuls, Wilbur drank a sad mug of watered-down milk with a few coffee granules sitting on top, more for decoration than adding any form of flavour. Or maybe it's because, up until now, there has always been someone to take him, someone his mind can hold responsible for forcing him to sit down and talk about his feelings and be honest and endure the agony of actually being helped. This time there's no scapegoat, no martyr. Only silly independent Wilbur taking care of himself and his mental health without needing to be pushed or persuaded by his dearest friends.
Who knows? They're all equally probable options.
This is the fifth therapist he's tried. The first three were... fine, but Niki's convinced him that "'...fine' isn't enough, Wilbur. You need someone you can really feel safe with."
Wilbur likes this therapist. She's approachable and keeps the pitiful, so-called-empathetic stares to a minimum. She's chatty and will laugh at the majority of his jokes, with an exemption to ones formed out of Wilbur's own discomfort or self-hatred. She also weighs him every session. After being in so many clinics, Wilbur is all too aware that it's just how some of them like to proceed. He's sure if he spoke out against it, she wouldn't weigh him. That, or she'd let him step on backwards so he couldn't see it, like a few have done in the past. He hated that even more. Sitting in a room with someone whose sole job is to tear you apart, analyse every piece and stitch you back together is hard enough. Being in that room knowing that that person is aware of your exact weight when you aren't? Wilbur's disorder is a thirst for control, and he's not yet strong enough to function without it.
And so he lets her weigh him. Every week, Wilbur steps on the scale in that office and stares down at that number and, always in the moment, he feels detached. Empty. Disconnected.
He's had several talks with Phil about this factor of the clinic. Wilbur's too sensible not to think his liking for this particular team may derive solely from the fact he's got access to a scale and the number on that scale weekly.
But they've deduced that that's not why he likes her. Or, at least, it's not the only reason. Sometimes, when appointments become a little too heavy and Wilbur's shaking so much he has to sit on his own hands, and he can't speak through the anxious jitter of his heart in his throat, his therapist will ask about Tommy. Just to get him to smile and get his heart to slow down a little and have the room stop spinning. He likes this therapist. She understands him. He hopes she's the last one, at least for a while.
It's exhausting trying to get better while accepting that the person helping you maybe isn't the right fit. Wilbur doesn't even know what the right fucking fit means. Recovering and forever being on the search for a new therapist is awful. Wilbur hates the first mandatory introductory session every office has. It saps all ounces of energy from his being, and frankly, the questions are humiliating and dehumanising. But he's trying. He's putting in the effort and being honest about what works and what doesn't, and that's what matters. That's what's gonna make the difference, in the end. That's what's gonna save his life.
Wilbur keeps his head down when entering and exiting his therapist's office. He doesn't want to see what other poor souls are coming in for help. He doesn't want to accidentally catch the sight of collarbones more prominent than his, or thighs that are smaller, or wrists that manage to look even more snappable than Wilbur's own. Wilbur knows he's getting better, but he's yet to find anything more triggering than people in his everyday life that are thinner than him, and he's well aware that if those skinny fucks are gonna be anywhere, they'll be waiting in those plastic chairs at an eating disorder clinic.
He forgets to avert his gaze today. He's too emotionally occupied after such a draining session to remember his rules and rituals when passing by the reception.
He catches the eyes of a teary-eyed, misery-ridden teenager slouched in a chair, with what must be a parent of theirs sitting to attention at their side.
A shiver of familiarity runs down Wilbur's spine. He's quick to look away from the heavy, piercing gaze and pays the waiting receptionist, whose hospitable smile had become much thinner with every second Wilbur stood at the desk unmoving. He gives her a small apologetic smile for wasting her time and is out of there in a flash.
- - -
He does well to keep himself busy after appointments. Writing sessions, recordings, work meetings, anything but going back to his apartment and stewing in whatever memories had been brought up that day. Today, he's going out for lunch with his band. This part is new. The eating-out-after-therapy is new, and Wilbur's trying not to overthink it.
They're seated in the corner of some small cafe near their usual recording studio. Wilbur clears his throat, chucks his fork onto the plate, and spares a glance of disdain for the singular chip that remains clinging stubbornly to the prongs. He's succeeded in drawing attention to himself, but Wilbur suddenly feels very unprepared to start this conversation.
"I, uh, actually need to talk to you guys about something." Wilbur isn't sure how far he wants to take this discussion. He doesn't even know how to begin, but he knows that the bands going to have to know eventually, and he wants them to find out from him. Wilbur's had several nightmares of live shows ending in him hunched over a toilet and Phil walking in on him, grin of congratulations falling into an expression of pure heartbreak as he picks Wilbur up off the cold bathroom floor and explains to his band that he can't be trusted to go on tour with them because he's a danger to himself.
"Go for it, man," Mark encourages with an easy grin. Wilbur aches to feel even a fraction of that tranquillity himself. He opens his mouth to speak and spill everything that's been sitting on the tip of his tongue since he entered rehearsal this morning. "...Wil?" Comes a second, still very gentle prompt from Mark.
"Does it have anything to do with the fact you've not even touched your food?" Joe asks carefully. His words are light, and he doesn't sound angry at all, but Wilbur still winces and glances guiltily at his heaped plate. Wilbur was comfortable enough inviting the guys out for lunch, but when faced with a mountain of fries doused in a mystery sauce along with chicken that looks to be more batter than bird, Wilbur isn't feeling very brave anymore.
"No," Wilbur chokes on an uncomfortable chuckle in an ineffective attempt to alleviate the tension that's fallen over the table. "Well, kind of. It's..." He pulls and twists at his fingers for a moment, his thumb grazing over a scab on his knuckle before he finally finds his voice. "I think we may need to push the tour back a little, or at least for, uh, the foreseeable future. I don't really have a date right now, just-" Wilbur shrugs helplessly and offers a weak smile to his band members. All of which are watching him with expressions of immense concern and care.
"It's alright, Wil. I mean, we're obviously nowhere near ready for a tour right now. Those crowds would eat us alive." They all laugh quietly at Joe's comment. Unfortunately, the chuckles die far quicker than Wilbur would have liked them to, leaving the group in a charged silence once again.
"Yeah, I... I just can't look into something like a tour right now because- Um... because I need to focus on recovering from my eating disorder," Wilbur spits the words out before he can change his mind. He blinks at his band in shock, surprised by himself. They all look a little surprised too, but not in a bad way, he thinks. He hopes.
"Thank you for telling us," Ash says. He's not quite smiling, but there's kindness in his eyes. He looks sad- fuck, they all look so sad, and Wilbur wishes they didn't, but they also look really relieved. Which... is not something he's choosing to scrutinise right now. "Is there anything we can do to help you?" The question never fails to startle Wilbur, no matter how much he knows it shouldn't. He has good friends. He has great people in his life; of course, they'd want to help him when he's struggling. It's just something his brain continuously fails to comprehend, and he doesn't know how to fix that part of him.
"Just... You don't need to treat me any different. And, like, it isn't your responsibility to make sure I eat or anything," Wilbur can't ignore how all three of them glance at his untouched meal.
"That's gonna make this next thing I say really awkward, Wil, but I promise there's no pressure behind it," Ash begins carefully, and Wilbur schools his expression into a thankfully blank one.
"Yeah?" He hopes they don't notice the shake in his voice. All three watch as Ash reaches into his tote and pulls out a plastic container. It's triangular, and it takes Wilbur exactly three seconds to identify it. "Now, why the fuck do you just have a Tesco's meal deal sandwich in your tote?"
"I didn't know we'd be going out to eat today! You sprung the invitation on me last minute, and I'd already purchased this beauty," Ash waves around what appears to be two slices of bread and a slab of cheese in between, all still within the confines of the wrapping. Wilbur notices the way Joe's nose scrunches in disgust, and Mark's eye twitches, like the action of not announcing how fucking gross the sandwich looks is physically hurting him. Wilbur suppresses a laugh.
"Can I have it?" Wilbur asks the question because he knows that's where Ash is going with this, considering the man's halfway through his breakfast burrito and hasn't held back on expressing his absolute delight for the café's current special. "These chips really aren't doing it for me, to be honest. I'm not a fan of the seasoning." Wilbur knows Ash pulled the sandwich out for him, and he wants to beat Ash to the punch line. It's control, he reminds himself. It's all a need for control.
"Yes, please, be my guest," Ash says quickly, practically throwing the sad sandwich across the table. Wilbur could've done without the 'please', but he'll take what he can get. He smiles his thanks and cautiously opens the plastic. Wilbur lifts his eyes and is pleasantly surprised to meet absolutely no one's gaze. They're all staring intently- a little too intently, these men are not subtle in the slightest- at the plates in front of them. Mark, ninja-like in his movements, spears a piece of Wilbur's unwanted chicken on his fork and inhales it in seconds. Wilbur bites back a chuckle and begins dissecting his sandwich.
- - -
"I told the Lovejoy boys about my uh... about everything today," Wilbur itches his nose and then places his right hand back on the steering wheel. He hears Phil hum inquisitively through the car's speaker.
"Oh yeah? What'd they say?" Wilbur chuckles quietly and flicks off his indicator.
"Ash gave me a Tesco's meal deal sandwich, actually."
"What?" Phil sounds as baffled as Wilbur felt in that moment.
"Yep. Just pulled it right out of his fuckin' bag, man. It was wild."
"Just like... Unprompted, or...?" Wilbur can hear the tinge of concern in Phil's voice. He rolls his eyes, then remembers he's still driving and proceeds to keep his stare on the road ahead. Wilbur's only just started driving again recently. He really doesn't want an accident.
"Not exactly. They'd all seen that I wasn't eating what the café had given me, and Ash just wanted to provide me with another option. It was chill."
"Oh, that's nice of him," Phil sounds relieved, but that annoying worry is yet to leave his voice. Wilbur chooses not to say anything about it, and just murmurs an agreement as he turns another corner. "How was therapy?" Wilbur's hand flexes on the wheel.
"It was good," he says neutrally. "She's asked me to keep a food diary for this week."
"A food diary?"
"Yep." Wilbur slows to a stop at a red light, glancing in his rearview to check for cars behind him. He often doesn't check before stopping. He needs to work on that before he gets rear-ended.
"Isn't that a little... counter-productive?"
"Yeah, hah, that's what I said. She didn't ask for calories or anything. Just a jot down of date and time, I guess."
"Have you started already?"
"Yeah," Wilbur replies. "Wrote down lunch when I got back to my car. I bought this scrappy notebook from the stationary shop next to the café before meeting with the band." Wilbur does his best to reroute the conversation, hoping he can get away from all of the food talk.
"Is it working?" He tilts his head in confusion at the seemingly random question.
"Is what?"
"Therapy." Wilbur is much, much less fond of this topic. He wants to go back to the food.
"I..." Wilbur is dangling from a crumbling cliff face by one lone finger because all the others have broken and turned to dust. He's looking two different futures in the eye and, despite knowing all too well which one is the right one, wanting so badly to let go of the cliff. Wilbur holds on tighter out of spite.
"It's probably too early to tell, isn't it?" Phil's statement breaks him from his reverie. Wilbur head-checks, turns the wheel and realises he head-checked the wrong fucking blind spot. Wilbur really needs to take a few refreshers on driving.
"Yeah, I think it is." They fall silent, and Wilbur is given a moment of grace to focus on his driving. His godawful, embarrassing driving. "I ate the sandwich," Wilbur says. He then winces and mouths an exasperated what the fuck to himself because yes, maybe in his head, eating anything is a crime that he must confess to and own up for at any moment possible, but Phil doesn't need to hear it.
"Yeah?" Phil sounds pleased and hopeful. Wilbur hates himself.
"Well," he begins nervously. The honking behind him is loud enough to make him jump and step on the gas but not so loud that he misses the sigh from Phil. "I had the bread. Most of it, actually. And... I tried the cheese, but it was just... Um..."
"It's okay, Wil," Phil says, sounding disappointed but like he's trying not to. That's the worst kind of disappointment. Wilbur doesn't need to be sheltered like some kid.
"It isn't," he comments quietly. "It's not enough for lunch."
"It not enough for lunch," Phil repeats softly, sounding every bit empathetic and apologetic. An annoyed frown pulls at the corners of Wilbur's mouth.
"... it was a sandwich. With cheese and white bread, Phil." Wilbur doesn't know why he's trying so hard to explain a struggle that only someone who's had an eating disorder would understand. He must sound insane. Listing off the minimal ingredients of a sad, store-bought sandwich like they're trying to kill him.
"Yes, I hear you about the bread, mate. Well done-"
"And the butter." This part is a little white lie. Wilbur's fairly certain there wasn't a slather of butter on that dry-ass bread but... plausible deniability?
"... and the butter. Good job, I'm proud of you, but-"
"Thank you, that shits hard," Wilbur jests with a wide grin because if he doesn't smile, then he just might cry or scream or throw himself right out his ajar window. The car would probably drive itself better without him in it.
"I can only imagine. It's still not enough, though. I'm sorry."
"It was over three hundred calories!" Wilbur cries out. The silence on the other line is enough of an indicator that Phil doesn't care for the caloric intake of the meal. "What is enough? How am I supposed to know what enough is, Phil?" Phil says nothing, and Wilbur breathes out a heavy sigh. "Sorry, man. I'm just a little frustrated." He turns into his driveway, only after head-checking the right way, of course. Wilbur won't be hitting any poor bike riders today, thank you.
"That's alright." Wilbur puts the car into park and leans back in his seat, switching off the lights. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you're over six and a half feet tall. You need a lot of food just to function."
"Yeah," Wilbur responds shortly. "But 'a lot' isn't a very helpful amount," Wilbur says slowly.
"I don't know, man, just.... listen to your hunger cues, alright?" Wilbur's eye twitches. He disconnects his phone from the car and lifts it to his ear.
"Yeah, thanks, Phil. Good shout."
"Wait, Wil-" Wilbur exits the car and is quick to lock it, not bothering to double-check before walking towards the front door.
"I'm gonna head inside and talk to Tommy. Chat in the morning, yeah?"
"Yeah... have a good evening, then."
"You too," Wilbur says softly. They both hear the break in his voice, but neither says anything about it.
- - -
Wilbur crashes through the front door, drops his bag on the floor and collapses onto the nearest couch. He chucks his phone on the table in front of him and rubs his eyes harshly.
"Rough day?"
"Hey, Tommy," Wilbur says, lifting his head from his hands. "How was your day?"
"A lot better than yours, from the looks of it." Tommy fiddles with the remote in his hand, and Wilbur notices the tv is playing, or it was. Tommy's paused whatever reality shows he's currently binging.
"It's been alright. Just... long." Wilbur turns his head towards the kitchen, where he's just now noticing the telltale sounds of the oven and fan above the stovetop. "Are you cooking?"
"Yeah! I just made this pasta bake dish my mom likes to cook sometimes, it's a new one for me, but I think it's gonna be real nice." Tommy stands from the other couch and walks past Wilbur to head toward the kitchen. He picks the older's phone off of the table and goes to place it on charge on his way. "Would you like some?" Tommy pauses to glance back at him, a sweet smile on his face.
"Of course. That sounds lovely." Tommy grins and ducks into the kitchen.
"I grated mozzarella on top!"
"The expensive shit?" Wilbur calls back, a fond smile warping his tone.
"You know it!"
"Fuck yeah!" Wilbur chuckles quietly as Tommy parrots his exclamation, then turns back to the television. The blond won't mind if he switches the channel. These reality episodes are looping on every second channel these days.
Wilbur and Tommy have been flatting together since a few weeks into his recovery. The decision didn't have anything to do with his disorder; they both knew it'd happen eventually. It really was just a matter of circumstance, in the end.
Wilbur's lease on his place ended, and it was an unspoken consensus that they had to get Tommy out of that nightmare of an apartment as fast as they could. A few conversations and several painstaking weeks of moving later, they were living out by the water. It's nice. They're shamelessly codependent and take walks together almost every evening.
"Dinners ready! I've made your bowl, but you better drag your ass into the kitchen because I refuse to enable your lazy behaviour any longer."
"When have you ever enabled me?!" Wilbur stands a little too quick and forgets to brace himself. He waits for a minute as his body fights against gravity and very nearly takes a dip towards the hardwood floor. Once he's fairly certain he won't be plummeting gracelessly, Wilbur strolls into the kitchen to face the meal his best friend has so lovingly made for him.
"Took you long enough," Tommy snarks from his perch at the marble counter. Wilbur pulls out the stool next to him and snags the second bowl of pasta. He shovels the first mouthful before he can think to hesitate. Wilbur lets out a hum of appreciation and pauses to swallow the bite.
"Damn, this is really good!" He looks up to meet wide eyes and scoffs playfully. "Oh, come on, Tommy. Like you didn't know that already."
"No, I did," Tommy admits immediately, the pleased flush not leaving his cheeks. "I did. It's just... nice hearing it come from you. Your opinion means a lot to me for some fuckin' reason. I dunno." Wilbur cracks a wide smile. "Stop staring at me like that, you prick. Eat your bloody pasta." Tommy ducks his head into his own bowl and glares when Wilbur can't quite contain a soft chuckle.
- - -
Dinner is fine. Really, it is. Wilbur got through it just fine. He enjoyed the food and the conversation he'd had with Tommy during it. There's just one, minuscule mistake he's made that has the possibility of ruining his whole evening.
"Are you alright?" Tommy's question is quiet, barely heard over the hum of the tv in front of them. They're back on the couch after eating, and Wilbur's been staring into space for a good fifteen minutes.
"I forgot to shower when I got home." Wilbur needs a shower. He's been out in public all day. He needs to shower, but Wilbur's just eaten a decent-sized bowl of pasta, and his body is still at that awkward stage of recovery where any carb has him bloating like nobody's business. Wilbur needs to shower. He just wants to do so in a different body than the one he currently resides in.
"Do you want a candle? I used up the last one but bought a new set last night." Wilbur smiles gratefully. Tommy's up on his feet and searching before Wilbur can even reply. He knows.
"Yes, please." Tommy returns the smile, if not with a little bit of worry in his gaze, as he hands Wilbur a new candle. Wilbur only really uses candles in the bathroom on no-light days when he can't bear to see his own figure, so he instead showers in the dark and allows the weak candlelight to guide him around the room.
"I made a new playlist this morning. I'll send you the link right now, and you can listen while you shower and then tell me your thoughts?"
"Sure, Tommy. Sounds great." The way Wilbur sees himself is no secret. It only took two therapists and three appointments for them to drill it into his thin skull that communication is vital in these early stages of recovery. Wilbur is lucky enough to have a support system full of people who love him and are ready to do whatever he asks of them. It only took a few gentle suggestions and polished casual statements from clinical professionals for Wilbur to agree to be open with his friends. To a degree. Tommy is well acquainted with Wilbur's fragile self-esteem and the way his very being is delicately built on a mass of numbers. He's not shy about announcing his disdain for it all. Wilbur loves him a little bit more for that.
He survives the shower. He's in and out in five minutes. Wilbur can't bare being naked for any longer than that, but he makes sure to take extra long to wash his face and dry his hair afterwards so he can get through a decent portion of Tommy's current accumulation of favourite songs.
They both go to bed soon enough, and Wilbur, not for the first time, can't help but appreciate how nice it is to lie down to sleep and not have to wrestle with an aching, weeping stomach that begs to be given something, anything to make the churning stop. His head, however, is yet to quiet down at night.
Wilbur doesn't know what to do. He's torn between two alternate realities and can't decide which one is his perfect world; a life where he was never sick to begin with or one where no one knew enough to try to stop him.
Some days Wilbur wakes up and is convinced his friends brainwashed him into thinking that recovery was something positive. Something achievable, something with a light at the end of the tunnel compared to it being the very tree that shades Wilbur's every waking moment. It's hard for him to see recovery as anything bright or promising when it makes him feel so shit, so often.
He tries to stay optimistic. He's attending band rehearsals and giving the performances his all. He's standing on stages, singing his heart out, dancing around and is sure to make use of all of his newfound energy. (It's not compensating with exercise, though. It's not.)
(Wilbur doesn't tell his therapist about his impromptu dance routines. Not because he thinks he has anything to hide, he just hates that sympathetic, pity stare she gives him sometimes. Wilbur doesn't want to say anything that may cause her to look at him that way. It makes his skin crawl.)
He tries to stay optimistic.
And then, his world ends.