who? (Trans Wilbur)

nine | he doesn't want your pity cake

warnings: eating disorder, nausea

six month time skip lol

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Wilbur perched in front of the mirror in his bathroom. The bathroom was the only place with white light instead of a nice yellow, so it was the best place to see how he might actually look if he went outside. He made sure the buttons were even on his shirt. He held a beanie in his hand, trying to decide whether to wear it or not, and decided on not, since he recently got a nice, shorter haircut and he wanted his family to see (even if he was still terrified of judgement).

He speed-walked his way out of the apartment and building before he could decide to do something he'd regret later. He pulled his bike out from where it was artfully stashed between dumpsters, getting a quick start. Phil's house wasn't too far from the apartment complex, but he didn't feel like walking the whole way.

He skidded to a stop in Phil's driveway, leaning the bike against the door of the garage. He hopped up the steps and rang the doorbell.

"Get your ass inside. We've been waiting on you." Tommy grabbed Wilbur's sleeve and tugged him inside, shutting the door behind him. "It sucks that we always have to schedule time with you. We can't just bust up into your room anymore."

"I quite like the silence," Wilbur teased. "What are we eating, anyways?"

"Chicken sandwiches. All formal and shit for you. Really shows how much we care," Tommy replied. "It's not like this stuff takes twenty minutes in the oven and it's done."

i hope it's baked chicken, not the frozen fried ones. i don't think i'd handle that shit too well.

"Wilbur? That you?" Phil called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, it is," Wilbur called back.

"Hey, it's been a minute. How are you?" Technoblade just fucking spawned into existence.

"Currently not bankrupt, so alright. You?" Wilbur put his hands in his jean pockets.

"Could be worse."

"Boys! Dinner, come on!" Phil shouted. Techno rolled his eyes and led the younger two into the kitchen.

Wilbur's seat was still clean and ready. Nothing was sitting on it, his spot was clear, and it generally felt nice to see it wasn't stained. Felt almost like they cared a bit that he'd be coming back. It was a little detail, and he hadn't figured his chair would be missing, but it made him feel a kind of way. Maybe it was his various mental illnesses or the second puberty causing him to feel that way, who knows?

After he stopped studying the chair and actually sat down, he noticed the sandwiches and pasta salad. The sandwiches were the kind of chicken that used to be fried, but was frozen and could be reheated in an oven. There were also buns and condiments to everyone's preference. By everyone's preference, that meant Tommy fucking drowning his in ketchup.

Now, for Wilbur, this meant a spike in his already rampant anxiety. He couldn't handle fried stuff, even if the grease was wiped off. It made him feel like he should just die on the spot or was about to have a heart attack. He'd also just never liked pasta salad in the first place. Less of an intense reason, but just another thing on the pile of why he wished Phil had chosen anything to invite him over for other than dinner.

Nobody noticed his discomfort, because the boy is really fucking good at acting.

He slowly managed to convince himself to eat just a few small bites to appease his family. He'd never been a super hungry kid anyways. His father knew it was normal for him not to eat breakfast, and he skipped lunch a lot, too, because he forgot about it. Wilbur spent his time intentionally picking off the parts of the sandwich that were just skin or breading.

"What, is it not good, Wil?" Phil looked over jokingly.

"No, it's great. Just one of those days where I'm not so hungry." Wilbur offered a strained smile. As much as he hated to remember, he had days where he used to raid the fridge, eat the equivalent of four meals, and fill his day with snacks. He also didn't regret it back then.

Like most, he'd been a gangly little kid, shooting up too fast for even piles of caloric meals to fill him out. He was thin, and as was reality, being skinny was a cultural beauty standard.

And here he was again, on the verge of tears over a fucking sandwich. He was tired of this shit, but he took another bite and pushed his plate away. The thought of the food made him nauseous, and swallowing it only furthered the feeling.

Phil kept giving Wilbur sideways glances, and he didn't know if it was because he'd been away for so long, or because he looked sick. Either way, he didn't appreciate the special attention.

"I'm done," he managed to choke out, excusing himself. He stood up and scraped the rest of his food into the trash. He hated food waste, but he hated himself more.

He sat back down in his seat, waiting as everyone else finished as well and disposed of their leftovers. Wilbur then heard those dreaded fucking words.

"Who wants dessert?"

fuck damn ouch really had to do me like that

The other boys at the table chirped out "me!"s, while Wilbur reluctantly nodded, swallowing the growing nausea. Surprisingly enough, he was able to choke down foods that were desserts, so he just hoped it was one of those.

It wasn't one of those.

Phil brought out a massive chocolate cake. Don't get him wrong, Wilbur loved how it tasted, but they made him want to fucking die. The dessert was cut into eighths, Tommy's favorite way of cutting them to make the pieces absurdly large. Phil went ahead and set out one slice each for them all.

"I know how much you loved when your mother would make this," Phil explained. "You'd always eat so much frosting! I'd always hoped it might fill you out some."

damn he really had to go there

"I appreciate it, but I'm just not very hungry," Wilbur replied.

"Nonsense, you always found room when you were a kid! Didn't matter how many chicken fingers you ate that day, there was always a second stomach just for desserts." Phil grinned.

"How about I take some home?" Wilbur asked quietly.

"Sure thing." Phil spared Wilbur another glance, just as odd as the few from dinner. "I'll wrap these up for you."

"Thanks," Wilbur squeaked.

"But just eat, like, one slice, please? I want to know if I made them right." Phil took the rest of the cake away.

Wilbur swallowed. "Okay."

In no ways did he want to do this, but he was pretty sure his dad wasn't going to back down.

It took him about fifteen minutes to finish eating, hating himself all the way. Tommy was talking to him about what went on since they'd last spoken, but he was having trouble focusing. He threw away the paper plate he'd eaten off of.

"Tommy, would you go to your room for a bit? I want to catch up with Wilbur a bit on my own, if you don't mind." Phil gave another wide smile.

"Alright," Tommy whined, stretching out the word.

"Did you forget about me or am I meant to stay?" Techno asked from the doorway.

"Up to you."

"Yeah, I don't wanna stay here for your ass-beating. Sorry, Wil." Techno left quickly.

"I think we need a few words."

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