who? (Trans Wilbur)

fourteen | better or worse?

warnings: self-harm (blood included), vomiting, dysphoria, eating disorder 

look, plot

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Wilbur hadn't even eaten that day, but he still felt disgustingly nauseous. He told Technoblade this before locking himself in the bathroom and retching repeatedly, trying to dislodge whatever made him feel sick so often. Eventually, he managed to get a rise of bile, and flushed it down the toilet. 

You hurt Techno. You're being all needy.

Wilbur sighed. He gripped the edge of the sink, staring down his reflection. The same reflection that haunted him in his exhaustion and chased his dreams off of cliffs. So what if he just broke it? It wasn't like he wanted the girl in the mirror at all.

Wilbur briefly thought about shattering the mirror, but still had enough forethought to realize that he didn't want to clean that up. He took his shaving razor, that thing that he used to tear away his hard work at hair growth, and freed the blade.

Oh, fuck, am I really doing this? Wilbur gritted his teeth, pushing the doubts away. He was grossly, curiously itchy to feel the cut. Besides, he deserved it, really, he figured. He had hurt his family with his emotions, and it was time to fix that.

Wilbur tentatively pressed the sharp metal to the back of his forearm. He braced himself, then swiped a red line into his already scratched skin. He breathed out a sigh of relief. It burned, but  his stressed mind took a breath, easing its tight hold on his negative emotions for a brief second. Wilbur repeated the process, feeling himself ease further as the pain surged on.

"That- yeah. That's good," he whispered to himself. "I like it."

Wilbur's heart rate spiked when he heard a muffled "where is your brother?" through the door. Somehow, he also managed to filter out a touch of joy from not being misgendered, but it was quickly overridden by his panic.

The door knob rattled, and Wilbur shot to his feet clumsily, slipping on the bath mat and falling back to hit his head on the tile. A headache set in rapidly, but he didn't pass out, luckily enough. 

"I head a crash," Phil stated. "I'm coming in, Wilbur."

Wilbur could only whine in response, the pounding in his brain a bit much for him and the steady dripping of blood not quite helping either. The knob rattled again, then paused for a moment. The door was opened, and Phil was in the doorway with a fucking lock pick set.

"Sorry, Wil. I can't let you lock yourself in the bathroom if you might hurt yourself." Phil dropped the set on the counter and crouched down to meet Wilbur, who held the back of his head and cried.

"Oh, fuck," Phil hissed, pulling his son into a half hug while his other arm searched under the cabinet for a first aid kit. He eventually found a shitty roll of medical tape and some gauze.

"I'm so sorry, Wil. I didn't know you felt so awful," Phil apologized, wrapping the cuts in a thin layer of gauze and tape. "It's going to be okay, alright? We can help you."

"I'm sorry for hurting Techno," he mumbled. "I shouldn't be so insensitive. I knew about the scars and everything."

"Hey, it's okay. He's gonna be okay, too," Phil assured. "I'm glad you decided to reach out for help. A lot of people don't do that. I'm sure Techno is glad that you're getting help before you get as bad as him."

"Are you gonna make me eat?" Wilbur blurted. He shriveled into a little ball, awaiting the response.

"Do you not eat on your own?" Phil asked gently, almost invitingly.

"Fucking- no." Wilbur turned his head away frustratedly. "I hadn't eaten since dinner at yours until Techno came over."

"Shit's hit the fan, hasn't it, kid?" Phil took Wilbur's hand in his and pulled his to standing carefully. "Let's make you some instant macaroni, okay?"

"Shit hit the fan long ago, Dad. I just didn't want anyone to notice." Wilbur explained.

"Is that why you moved out?" Phil asked. 

"No, I wanted to transition on my own," Wilbur replied. Phil tugged him out to the kitchen, sitting him at the island while preparing some noodles.

Phil paused, eventually settling for a sigh. "I wish you'd told me."

"I wish I'd felt like I could," Wilbur mumbled. "I know you're supportive, I know that I shouldn't complain, but sometimes you act like you know me better than I know myself."

"In what ways?" Phil queried, voice guarded.

"It seems that you're ignoring my pronouns and name on the assumption that this is a phase," Wilbur said. "That, or you're just not putting in the effort at all."

"I don't ever want you to think I believe that you're faking your emotions," Phil insisted. "I believe you and trust you. I'll try harder, if that will help you."

"Yeah, that would be nice," Wilbur murmured. "It- yeah. Nice."

"Alright, son, ready to try eating?" Phil suggested, setting down a sizable bowl of macaroni.

"No."

"That's what I thought," Phil sighed. "Let's start with five little bites, okay? We'll see where that leaves us."

"It will leave me in a fucking hole of despair," Wilbur said, stabbing the pasta half-heartedly. He knew that he didn't want to waste his energy on fighting with his dad, though, so he ate the first bite as quickly as possible. He stifled his nausea with another bite, then regretted the decision and curled into the seat.

"Hey, it's okay if you want to go a little slower," Phil said, sitting down next to his son. "We can take our time. You don't need to rush through it."

"I wanna be done," Wilbur said, voice muffled by his sleeves. He took another bite, this time chewing for an unreasonably long time.

As he chewed, Wilbur sat and thought. He had fucked up his life, hadn't he? He left cuts in his skin, he couldn't eat, he would lay in bed until he rotted, and his chest fucking hurt.

"My chest hurts," Wilbur whispered hollowly. He buried his head in his arms.

"Let's take off your binder, then, okay?" Phil offered. "Give yourself a day or two of break."

"I'll want to tear them off of my chest if I take it off," Wilbur mumbled. "And I think I might do it."

"You're going to be okay," Phil assured, pulling Wilbur to standing. "We just have to make sure that the binder won't hurt you. If you feel like you're going to hurt yourself in any way, you have to tell me, okay? It's important to take it off, otherwise I wouldn't make you."

His father gently led Wilbur to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The brunet stared at his hands, feeling frozen. His mind felt blurred with blood and tears, he felt like disappearing to end the confusion, numbness, and blistering pain he always felt. He didn't realize he had begun to cry until the tears fell onto his outstretched palms. He didn't move to wipe them away, but they served as just enough of an anchor for Wilbur to remember to take off his binder.

Phil was waiting outside of the door, and seeing his son so distant-looking, eyes changing between hazily watching the walls or flicking to everything he could see, pulled him into a tight embrace. Wilbur blinked at the contact, chest feeling empty, head hurting, fingers cold and tongue tingling.

With a breathless shove, Wilbur buried himself in the hug, gripping Phil's shirt for dear life. The water from his eyes darkened the green top, and though he had to lean down to reach his dad's shoulder, he finally let the weight in his back drop.

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1.3k words

this chapter is not meant to promote self-harm!! it's a bad habit to get into and it can really harm your health and future. ask for help if you feel like you want to hurt yourself. it's best to get help before you start, but even if you already have, there's no reason you can't get help either.