Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been a Bad day. That wasn’t anything unusual, in fact, Wilbur was far more prepared to deal with the Bad days than he was dealing with the good days, he was comfortable with the loudness in his head, resigned to it, even. Still, it made for an awful day, he’d woken up that morning knowing that it would be a bad day, sometimes he could tell in the mornings, with how heavy his limbs felt and how his mind whispered sickly sweat promises of nothingness that would come if he just ended it all, how he’d never have to feel this bone-tired again. He didn’t listen, he tried not to, his brain had proven to be incredibly unreliable, if he died, it wouldn’t solve anything, besides, he only ever thought about dying when he was at his weakest. These days though, he did seem to be getting weaker.

But he got out of bed, he combed his fingers through his hair instead of brushing it, dousing it with dry shampoo and splashing water on his face instead of showering. Days like this were full of compromise. He was 16, he had acquired some skill in dealing with the Bad days, he knew not to bother showering, he’d end up sitting on the floor, crying, thinking about all the bloody things he used to do in there, that he was trying not to do anymore. He knew which foods he could eat when his stomach felt most untrustworthy, when he wanted to run on empty because that felt like the safest thing to do. In the past he used to starve, though he didn’t remember why. Memory loss is a bitch. Still, he knows now how to coax himself into eating, knew not to bother with breakfast, knew to make sure to eat lunch and dinner, lest he start spiraling again.

He’d taught himself to survive himself because after years and years of managing everything on his own, he’d had to. No one was going to pick him up when he fell so he’d either have to stay down for the rest of his life or keep picking himself up – He was proud of himself for not giving up yet, at least. He’d had his moments, he’d taken more pills in an hour than some people had in their lives. He’d stumbled through the streets of town drunk off his tits after another family kicked him out and he’d, in one final “fuck you”, stolen their vodka on his way out. And he’d smashed the bottle on the corner of a wall and he’d picked up a shard of glass and… he’d found out that glass isn’t actually as sharp as you’d think. But that was then, and this is now, and now he was surviving, even through the bad days..

It was fine, he had coping mechanisms, not all good ones but he had ones. He used to smoke weed, sometimes, he’d caught a foster brother in a past home doing it and he’d forced him to join in so that he couldn’t tell anyone. It felt nice, like the feeling after you take too many pain meds, but without the liver pain. It felt really nice. He’d stopped though, after the initial high began to wear off, and he stopped being excited to smoke, started feeling like he had too, but even more uncomfortable than the feeling of an incoming addiction, was the feeling that he was becoming like his parents. They’d always smelled like weed, it was gross, it made him cough. He associated it with them, he didn’t want to be like them.

Eventually, he’d replaced weed and pain killers, that he’d barely ever actually needed, with cigarettes, stolen from the bags of strangers and nicked from corner shops. He’d gotten most of his fun from the success, the thrill of the chase.

If he got caught, maybe he’d get thrown out of this home too, moved somewhere new, maybe for the last time, he was almost 17 after all, at 17, he’d be moved to a half-way house instead of a new foster family. Hell, for all he knew, this household with Phil Minecraft and his kids could be his last shot at an actual family. That was terrifying and half of him, the half that was addicted to instability, that thrived in chaos because that’s what he was used to, wanted him to fuck up even more. Steal more and more until he got caught. He wanted to do harder drugs, some guy at his school had given him a hookup for pretty much most of the drugs you could think of too, and cheap, way too cheap to be legitimate, but hey, if he died, he died. He wanted to ruin everything and drag down anyone that tried to stop him.

He wanted to be loved, he wanted a family, he wanted someone who would ask him if he was doing okay, someone who would be able to tell if he was lying, someone who could tell when he was having a Bad day, and someone who could help, so he didn’t have to be alone, forever. And he wanted to know that this person wasn’t temporary, he wanted to trust that they had good intentions. Part of his brain whispered that that’s what he deserved, to be alone, to suffer alone on Bad days and to cope alone on better days. Phil seemed nice, he really did. Phil seemed lovely. He was the first adult to actually talk to him about “things” and talk about them in a way that wasn’t threatening, he hadn’t been called out on the things in his file. Some of his “habits” had been recorded over the years, including the two attempts that ended him in hospital, and the time he’d punched a wall and almost broken his knuckles. Previous families had mentioned it in front of everyone, ridiculed him even, he’d been called an attention seeker on his first day and told he deserved it. Or, he’d have families that didn’t let him leave the house, didn’t let him have pain killers even when he had a migraine, dangled his past in front of him just to control him.

Phil hadn’t. Phil had brought it up on his third day, he’d called him into his office and let him decide whether or not to close the door, like he knew it might make him feel trapped. He’d sat him down and asked how he could help, what he needed from him. He’d offered to take him to therapy, if he needed, reassured him that his other sons had been to therapy too, that it was fine. And oh god he wanted to say yes, he wanted to say, yes, please, thank you so much, please, I just want it to stop, please help. But he still didn’t trust him, so he said no, that he was fine. However, he had seized the opportunity to ask if/when he could play the guitar because the guitar helped, it was a good coping mechanism, and It helped. Phil had nodded, almost knowingly and said that it was fine, he could play whenever/wherever he wanted but to be quieter at night. Apparently Techno, one of his sons, played the violin too, to help him manage his ADHD, and could be heard playing at weird hours of the night. That was nice. Phil was nice. His house was nice.

But Wilbur wasn’t nice, he was Bad, and that’s why he had Bad days, because he deserved them. He deserved to feel scared, to never be able to settle, to never trust that he was loved, to be alone.

It was 2am. He was tired, it had been a Bad day, where he spent the whole day stuck in his head, the glass between him and reality thick and cloudy and impossible, trapping him somewhere else entirely. He ate food, he splashed water on his face, he probably spoke to someone, he couldn’t remember, it was foggy.

Wilbur got up off of his bed, where he’d been laying, staring up at the ceiling, thinking, drifting – He needed a cigarette, luckily he still had a few left. The next steps came naturally to him, he picked up a jacket off the back of his desk chair and jammed it under the crack in the bottom of the door, taking the pack out of the pocket before doing so, lighter too. Luckily he had his own room, otherwise it would have been much more difficult to get away with swinging his window open and leaning out. The outside air knocked some of the fogginess out of him, it was refreshing, the cold, as dangerous as it was, always was too him. It was such a satisfying noise, when he flicked the lighter, bringing the flame up to the cigarette in his lips and sucking in.

God it was nice. It felt like breathing for the first time, clearing the thoughts out of his brain, finally feeling whole. A smile crossed his face as he smoked, at least he still had this. After everything, he still had his coping mechanisms, they kept him going. But as he smoked, he began to think, thinking about every other window he'd leaned out of to smoke, or the time he snuck out to smoke only to get locked outside as a punishment. The cold was dangerous.

Suddenly, everything caught up to him and he was crying. Why was he crying? God damn he was a mess.

It was so loud, he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t stop crying, for some fucking reason, it just wouldn’t stop. He quickly finished the rest of his cigarette, stubbing it out on exterior brick wall and pocketing it, so he could deal with the sobbing. His body was in control, like an injured animal that wouldn’t stop whining no matter what you did, he couldn’t stop the tears. He couldn’t stop. He wasn’t in control.

He grappled desperately for the deodorant on his bedside table, luckily able to grab it without knocking it over in the process, even though he couldn’t see through blurry, watery eyes. He sprayed it to cover the smell, a self preservation instinct kicking in, always protecting himself, always hiding, always getting away with everything and never being caught.

No one ever stopped him.

He had to stop himself from crying though, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to choke, panic mixed in with his already terrible mood, his smoke break happiness had been temporary huh? Like everything else in his life, he thought bitterly. Every sob he trapped in his throat reminded him of other time he’d had to sob silently, in houses with thin walls and volatile adults, in bathroom stalls in shopping centers, in the streets at night, in classrooms with people who would never cut him any fucking slack.

Red marks began to form on his throat, where he’d begun to claw without realising. Pain made things easier.

Knock, knock

Oh god he was fucked, he’d woken someone up and he was going to be in deep, deep trouble. He was going to get kicked out of his last shot at a family. He was going to be hit. Whoever it was at the door would smell the smoke and absolutely ruin him.

“Hey mate, can I come in?” it was Phil, quiet and concerned, always asking him what he wanted, if he was okay with things, better than any father figure that had ever let him stay more than a week, and it had already been three.

He wanted to say “no”, he’d been conditioned to say “yes”. He let out some pathetic whimper, the result of his panic, injured throat, and the conflict between his desire to be safe and the desire for someone to finally, finally help.

“Alright, I’m coming in, I hope you’re decent”, he chuckled awkwardly, Phil was beginning to panic a bit himself, after all, he barely knew this kid, only knew of him, the things his file said he’d been through and the things that he’d done to himself, needless to say, hearing his muffled sobs down the corridor one night raised some red flags.

Wilbur was not his son, not yet at least, but he was a child, a child under his protection. He had been waiting for the day that Wilbur didn’t go straight back into his room after every meal, hung around the others of his own accord, got to know his foster brothers and feel comfortable in the shared space that was their home. He knew that that would take time, both Techno and Tommy had spent a long while on edge before settling in, but he was worried about Wilbur and his self-destructive tendencies, not wanting to be too overbearing, lest he make him uncomfortable, but still wanting the boy to know that he was cared about, that someone would be there for him. It was a fine, fine line.

He had to shove the door a little to get it to open, noticing the jacket he’d dislodged on the floor before trailing his eyes up to the mess of a person against the wall, curled in on himself, breathing haphazardly but no longer sobbing quite so aggressively, only left with strangled, raspy gasps.

Fuck, he had to help.

He’d had plenty of experience helping people calm down from panic attacks, from friends back in college to his sons. He knew that everyone who experienced them experienced them differently, had different triggers and could be comforted in different ways, normally, he’d discuss with them in advance, ask them what they needed from him. He knew that Tommy didn’t want him to move too fast, to always stay in his line of sight, to touch him but only after asking first, to take him through breathing exercises but to not call it a panic attack. Ask what had set it off but remember that Tommy’s pride was always ready to lash out, that was fine, as long as he could help. He knew that Techno needed space, when he panicked, he’d find somewhere else to go to be alone and to simply let him work through it himself and that afterwards, he’d come up to Phil and hug him tight, grounding himself – That’s how Phil could help, being there to hug him afterwards.

He did not know what Wilbur needed but he knew that he needed something, because it looked like he was close to passing out.

“Hey kid, can I touch you?” No response. So, no.

So… breathing exercises, or grounding techniques, he had no idea which he needed, had no idea why the boy was panicking in the first place, god damn social services and their shitty recording of trauma.

“Okay, I won’t touch you then, I promise,” he spoke calmly, letting him see his own panic would only make things worse, he needed to be a reassuring presence, “How about some breathing exercises then? Just follow my breathing as best as you can.”

And so, he sat next to this teenager, who’d been living in his house for three weeks, barely speaking to anyone, hell, the most he’d really heard out of him was the sound of his singing to the guitar, though the bands he played were an indicator of a lot of things (I mean, Crywank? Jesus), he sat next to him, breathing deeply, and counting, talking to him in a low, consistent tone for long enough that he could breathe normally again.

He wasn’t expecting, however, Wilbur’s head to come crashing into his chest with a soft thud. Guess the adrenaline had worn off then, though after a quick murmur from the other, he wasn’t quite asleep yet, probably close to it though, panic attacks are exhausting.

“Do you want to talk about this tommorow mate? It’s too late now,” Wilbur slowly got up, looking a little embarrassed but significantly less on edge than he’d seen him so far in his stay, probably didn’t have the energy to be afraid anymore.

He looked up at him, when they were both standing, the teenager was significantly taller than him, though you wouldn’t tell with how much he slouched typically, and, after a beat, slowly nodded. Wilbur was tired of vigilance, tired of fighting alone, Phil was nice, he’d helped him, that’s what he wanted, right? He wanted help. He wanted someone who would listen and care and look after him, like a father is supposed to. Now, he wasn’t going to take his defences down immediately, for all he knew it could have been a sick trick that he was playing, but he was only agreeing to talk about it. Talking is a starting point, not a huge commitment.

He might not be willing to let him in yet, but god it felt nice to not be alone, to have someone to rest on after a panic attack. But for now, for now, he was tired, really, properly tired, not the depression tired.

He turned to Phil and quietly muttered, "Thank you"

Phil got the hint, gave him a warm smile, bid him good night, and left. He hoped that Phil hadn’t noticed the lingering scent of smoke (he had, he’d decided that that was a much less pressing issue, for a later date) before crashing on his bed. Right before he passed out, he had one lingering thought in his head, maybe he'd say yes to therapy. 

And for the first time in months, he slept well that night.