Gentle | Wilbur Soot QSMP fic
Hurt/comfort. Wilbur Soot is in denial about needing a cane. Philza helps him out
(this isn’t projecting what no stfu)
word count: 2538
warnings: explicit internalized ableism. brief mention of disordered eating
Frankly, he’s too young for this.
That’s always his response to the pain. It’s all in his head, it has to be, because he’s too young to be having these problems. Old men need canes. Actually disabled people who have earned the title need canes. He, a perfectly spry twenty-something, does not need a cane.
Wilbur repeats these mantras to himself as he has time and time again, slumped against a tree about two chunks from his and Tallulah’s home. He keeps rechecking the map to be sure the marker is correct, because it doesn’t seem right. There’s no way he only made it a chunk before it got this bad. Before he had to sit down.
But, alas, he could only grit his teeth and bear the pain so long before it made him want to cry. How pathetic is that? He can’t even make it from Quackity’s base to his own without having to sit down.
He’s lazy, is what it is. He’s not injured, he’s not hurt, he’s not old, so he has to be lazy. This is the fault of overreliance on Warpstones. If he had been walking more like everyone else…
But walking hurts. He has to admit it, as much as he wants to insist that it doesn’t. The soles of his feet and his ankles and gods, his shins and his calves have been acting up now! He feels like he’s falling apart, and there’s no reason for it. Everyone else can do this. Everyone else can make these distances. Everyone’s legs get tired when they walk. He’s nothing special.
He’s lazy, is what he is. Just lazy.
Wilbur sighs as he eyes the horizon. The sky’s become red with a setting sun, and he’s not at all eager for Tallulah to be home alone during the night. So, with gritted teeth, he pulls himself back to standing (no matter the protesting in his knees). He’s fine. He can make it the rest of the way.
He appreciates the density of the woods as he goes along, using the passing trees to keep his balance. He doesn’t have to go far between leaning against one trunk or another, a sad stumble between trees as he heads towards home, eyes cautiously watching the sun as it sets.
Wilbur’s eyes are watching through the canopy when he starts, stumbling in his walk at the sight of two yellow eyes staring down at him.
Philza cocks his head in a way that makes Wilbur huff, having half a mind to throw something at him. “Don’t do that. Scared the shit outta me.”
Phil laughs, hopping down from the tree with the aid of his wings before landing in the grass beside Wilbur, who doesn’t stop to greet him. Wilbur keeps on forward, though without the aid of the trees in a way that makes his legs scream at him.
Phil follows behind him, arms crossed behind his back. “Really surprised you didn’t notice sooner.”
Sooner. Wilbur tries not to show the flush in his cheeks at the thought of Phil watching him be so dramatic while walking. (Dramatic, is exactly what it is. Why is he so dramatic about all of this?)
“I’m not exactly looking for old men in my trees, Phil.”
“Should be. Freaky shit on this server.”
“Don’t you have a kid to be watching?”
Phil chuckles a bit, shrugging as he follows alongside Wilbur. He keeps his eyes upwards, scanning the sky much like Wilbur had been, as he sighs. “School day. Sort of enjoying a few hours to myself. Not sure what to do without that fiend keeping my hands full, though.”
“So you come bother me?” Wilbur asks, though it’s less of a question and more of an tease.
Phil shrugs. “I can go.”
But Wilbur doesn’t want him to.
It’s silly, really, and Wilbur hates the way he almost begs Phil not to leave. Really, he’s in pain, and tired, and doesn’t want to have to walk anymore, and all he wants is the company of his father. Gods, it’s childish. Childish and dramatic and lazy and–
“How’ve you been?”
Wilbur blinks away the swirling thoughts, grounding himself to focus on Phil. His eyes have fallen, watching the ground they walk on instead. Wilbur tracks Phil’s attention to his own feet, and it makes him suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s limping a bit. Favoring one leg over the other.
He clears his throat, trying to force himself to center his gravity, but it doesn’t come naturally. “Good. Busy with your granddaughter, mostly.”
Phil catches Wilbur with a gaze that clearly reads: that isn’t what I meant. But Wilbur ignores it.
He tries to focus on Phil more so than he does himself. It’s easier to ignore the pain when there’s a distraction. Or, at the least, it makes the destination seem closer.
But Phil, of all people, is anything but a distraction. Wilbur’s paranoid at this point, waiting for Phil to point out the obvious, to chide him.
It’s hard to imagine Philza Minecraft, of all people, chiding Wilbur on something like his physical health. Mental, sure (Phil hasn’t let that go unmonitored since the whole L’Manburg incident), but physical is hardly any of Phil’s concern. He’s never really cared what Wilbur did so long as he was alive and undamaged.
But here he is, damaged from something as simple as walking.
He knows the shit Phil could blame it on. He could call Wilbur out for being too lazy, claiming that this wouldn’t happen if he exercised more regularly. Or maybe he can point out the elephant in the room a la weight gain. He’s put on a few pounds since getting off the Dream SMP, mostly due to the stress which had left him with an unrecognized eating disorder. Has Philza noticed? Would he point out that the pain was correlated with putting on the weight?
Or would he insist that it’s all in Wilbur’s head? Maybe everyone feels this sort of pain. He’s just the only one weak enough to complain.
Regardless, there’s a lump in Wilbur’s throat that makes him scared to speak at all, as if Philza can sense his pain and insecurities and will bring it up.
Maybe he can.
Or maybe he had just seen how Wilbur was walking before.
Regardless, Philza takes his hat off to scratch the back of his head, avoiding Wilbur’s gaze entirely as he says, “Your feet been hurting you?”
Wilbur stumbles at the question, laughing as if he could cover up the panic that’s rising. “I mean, I guess. It’s nothing new. Not bad, though.”
Phil chuckles, stopping entirely to look Wilbur head-on. Wilbur wants to keep walking, to beeline straight to home and be able to close a locked-door on Phil’s face and say they can talk tomorrow. But something about Philza’s gaze catches him, and he pauses with him.
Phil throws a glance down to Wilbur’s feet, then up at him. “I don’t know. Just–bigger server than we’re used to. Not everything’s in one place. Been wondering if that’s hurting you?”
Wilbur swallows. Yes. Yes of course it has! He doesn’t have wings like Phil does. He can’t just fly around the server whenever he pleases. Bad invites him over and he has to walk, and every step makes him want to choke on his own breath and collapse on the ground and swear that he’s never going to walk again.
It’s fucking killing him doing this every single day. There’s so much he wants to do, so much he wants to see, but it’s all so far and he has to walk and there aren’t convenient Warpstones set up everywhere and–
And he says none of that. He just stares at Philza, focusing on his features, the familiar concern painted across them. He shrugs. “Like I said. Nothing new.”
“Wil–”
Wilbur doesn’t care to hear it. He turns to begin the walk back to his house, teeth gritted at the way his body protests.
Phil lags behind. “Wilbur. C’mon.”
“I’m fine, Phil.”
“Mate–”
He grabs Wilbur’s arm and Wilbur rips it away, turning back to face Phil with a heat rising in his chest. He won’t explode he won’t breakdown he won’t he won’t he won’t–
There’s something in Phil’s hand.
It takes Wilbur a moment to register it, vision blurred by the tears threatening to slip down his cheeks. But once they clear, he looks at the cane in his father’s hand with some fascination. It’s black all over, wooden, with the handle weathered in a way that makes it look vintage. Wilbur’s eyes trace the red-stained carvings moving down it, and only after focusing on them does he realize they’re words.
No, not just words.
Lyrics. This is his band’s song. The Fall. Every word carved into the length of this cane and stained a deep red.
Wilbur reaches out to touch it, feeling the texture of the words on his fingertips as he looks up at Philza, baffled. “What’s this?”
Philza seems truly surprised by the question, laughing like it’s stupid. “It’s a fucking cane mate. How have you never seen a cane before?”
“No, I know what–” Wilbur shakes his head. “Why? What’s it for?”
“You.”
“Me?” Wilbur retracts his hand like it’s burnt him, glaring down at the cane then up at Phil. “I don’t need that.”
“Mate–” “I told you. I’m fine Phil. I’m–I’m managing.”
Philza laughs again, and fuck Wilbur hates that laugh right now. It feels inappropriate. Rude. Like there’s some joke to all of this that Wilbur isn’t getting. “Mate, you aren’t. You’re fucking miserable. I can see the look on your face when I invite you anywhere. I can tell your legs have been bothering you.”
Again, Wilbur swallows at that lump in his throat, but there’s some anger to it this time. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t. He’s fucking–he’s young and there’s nothing wrong with him, he’s just attention-seeking, why would he need a cane?
“I just thought it could help.”
Wilbur grimaces at that. “Don’t see you using one.”
“I’ve got fucking wings mate. I’m not on my feet as much as you are.”
Again, Wilbur just scowls. “I don’t need that. I don’t–”
“Don’t what?”
“I don’t deserve it,” Wilbur hisses. He can feel tears prickling in his eyes and, fuck, it’s too much for him to bear at this point. He lets himself lean back against a tree before slowly sliding to the ground, trying to count his breaths so he doesn’t fucking cry over this.
His legs hurt in a way that makes him despise them. Dysfunctional pieces of shit. That’s all he is. Dysfunctional and over dramatic and–
Philza crouches down in front of Wilbur, discarding the cane in the grass. Wilbur looks up at him with a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, to find the words to eloquently express why he doesn’t need something like that.
“I’m fine,” Wilbur manages after a moment. “I’m fine, Phil. It’s my own fault for not, I dunno, stretching more as a kid. For not working out more. I don’t deserve something like that.”
Phil places his hands on Wilbur’s shoulder, head tilted in a softer form of concern. “Is that what you think? Mate, you don’t have to deserve being disabled. That’s not something you earn through suffering or whatever.”
Disabled. Wilbur laughs a bit harshly at that word.
He has nothing against it, really. He knows he’s disabled. He’s got a hefty list of mental disorders that have earned him that status.
But he’s not physically disabled. “There are people who actually need shit like that.”
Another laugh from Phil. “There’s not, like, a limited number of them, mate. If you need it you need it.”
“But I don’t need it. I shouldn’t need it. I should be fine.”
“But you aren’t.”
“Goddammit, Phil, I know that.”
Wilbur chokes on a sob, pulling his knees up to his chest so he can duck his head against them. Count your breaths, calm down–
But fuck he’s in so much pain right now, and they still have a chunk to go until they hit his base, and he doesn’t want to do it he doesn’t want to fucking walk.
“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep walking. I’m miserable, and I fucking hate being miserable, because no one else is. Everyone else is fine with all of this. I’m the one being dramatic.”
“Dramatic–?”
“In-turned fucking arches Phil. That’s all this is. Inserts and good sneakers should work but nope. And what am I supposed to fucking do? Curl up inside? Not walk?”
“Wil…”
“There are people in this goddamn Universe with real fucking problems. This isn’t real. I’m just being over-dramatic and it isn’t fucking f–”
Wilbur loses his words as arms curl around him. He hadn’t even noticed Phil change positions to be beside him, but his arms curl around him protectively, wings finding their places in a familiar sort of hug.
There’s a part of him that wants to escape. He doesn’t deserve this comfort. This sympathy isn’t earned.
But a larger part can’t help but feel relief.
No disappointment. No pity. Just love. Love from his father.
Wilbur leans into the hug, eyes screwed shut as he counts his breathing.
One. Two. Three.
“It’s real, mate.”
Four. Five. Six.
“I promise.”
Seven. Eight. Nine.
“You don’t have to earn that. You don’t have to earn being gentle to your body.”
Ten.
Wilbur releases an exhale as he blinks his eyes open. The sun has set by now, night fallen over the forest, but they’re bathed in the warm glow of Phil’s lantern. He feels safe here. He feels…
Gentle…
Wilbur sits in the hug for a few moments before, at last, unraveling himself from Philza’s embrace. Phil doesn’t stop Wil, just gently pulls his limbs away as Wilbur reaches across the grass.
His fingers wrap around the carved length of a cane, and he pulls it towards him.
“Just try it,” Phil says after a moment. “See if it helps. If it doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out. But you don’t have to be in pain, Wil. You deserve to be helped.”
—
Wilbur smiles as the warm glow of his home cuts through the trees, a welcoming spot of light through the darkness. Philza opens the gate for him, and Wilbur tries not to feel embarrassed as he makes his way through.
He sees Tallulah watching from the window of his room and waves at her with his free hand. At once she disappears, and Wilbur knows she’s coming to greet them.
So he waits. He lets the cane in his hand hold his weight, and lets out a steady exhale.
He can be gentle.
He deserves that.