Don't Call me That -SEQUEL TO SCMT

2- Changes

Read T&C or don't, it has content warnings that I'm not gonna give u a heads up on mid-chapter

Change: beautiful, terrifying, constant.

Wilbur had always always always wanted to move to America. He wasn't entirely sure why, just what had struck that beautiful fascination into his heart; Exactly what it was that made the California coasts and bright sunshiny skies so warming- beyond in the physical sense of course.

So of course, when Phil had called him and asked if he'd ever consider joining him in uprooting his entire life and starting anew in America, a 'no' had never for a moment crossed his mind, let alone made it to his lips.

He didn't have a second thought on the matter until the day after they'd finalized the plan.

At which point it seemed that 'logical wilbur' made his return similarly to the way a truck might make its way through a brick wall.

He'd yet to break out of his relapse, despite it being months since he'd agreed to work on it.

It wasn't for a lack of effort as much as it was from a lack of knowing how. Yes, he'd done it before, but it'd never stuck. Never permanently, at least, always knocked back into him by some event or change in his life. The same applied here, though his tolerance for such things seemed to be growing weaker by the day.

The past few months had left him with no progress to speak of, a mental marathon worth of running in place as the monster in his head and his determination fought tooth and nail for opposite causes.

Ironic as it was, the anxiety over that and how it would affect his soon to be changing living arrangement had been the tipping point that'd led him to relenting to his thoughts.

He sat at his kitchen table, leg bouncing, nursing a cup of long past cold black coffee. The familiar bitterness didn't phase him anymore. If anything, it did quite the opposite. Whether or not it was appropriate to be doing so at nearly 7 at night was of no concern to him, only the way he knew it'd distract him from his body's efforts to get him to actually eat anything other than his toast from that morning.

Did he want to be better? Of course he did.

He knew that with each year the lack of care he'd given his body would become more and more dangerous, knew that spending this much of his time focusing on things that shouldn't matter nearly as much as they felt like would only turn to regret. But the safety, the control, the box he'd built himself in this; it wasn't something he could just pop out of at a moment's notice. It was an addiction. A deadly one at that, not that it made it any easier to quit.

At least he had the next two months to try and get his shit together. Two months.. which had felt like a lot more time five hours ago when he'd tried to hype himself up.

He knew he couldn't do this alone, and that scared him as much as the idea of trying to break out of the pattern to begin with.

But he was stronger than his mind would let him believe. He told himself this over and over as he filled out the form on his phone, scheduling an appointment with a psychiatrist. It was a start, and from there, who knows- maybe he'd have a good enough start into making progress to keep it up despite all the big changes, to show Phil that he was ok, that he was going to be ok. He could only hope so.

Either way, he took some of the pressure off for the moment by keeping this decision to himself. He knew it'd be a personal thing and he was already embarrassed enough about it to begin with.

Who knows, maybe this could be it: his last recovery.