Chapter Text
For the past nine years, Wilbur’s prided himself on his ability to keep such a consistent daily routine. With all the shit life’s thrown his way with the inherently chaotic nature of internet fame, it’s honestly nothing short of a miracle that he’s kept the most important aspects practically identical almost down to the minute.
He almost wishes it was out of a desire to enhance his productivity instead of medical necessity. He wishes waking up at 6:30 sharp was something he did to get an early start of the day. Just some silly, self-indulgent desire to be able to sip his coffee as he watches the sunrise from his bedroom window.
Instead, the incessant beeping of his alarm is a reminder to get up and take his morning meds, the ones he couldn’t have with his breakfast. He washes them down with water from the bathroom sink before pulling out the blood pressure cuff so he could document his morning blood pressure in the ever-growing google doc of daily vitals he sends to his doctor the day before his monthly appointment, followed by his oxygen sats, resting heart rate, and weight, along with any side effects or symptoms. It would probably appear overly meticulous to an outside observer, but it had honestly made the transition from in-person visits to Zoom meetings during lockdown have next to no headaches involved, given how many of his medications would have been restricted by the lack of updated vitals that came with not going into the office.
He also wishes the stretches he did standing on the cool tile were purely out of a desire to shake the remaining sleep from his muscles, and not the adult version of homework assigned by his physical therapist to ease the general pain he'd come to view as normal.
From there, he hops in the shower to let the warm water soothe the sore muscles that came with the relatively tame workout. It’s almost pitiful, he muses, how little his body could do when compared to his previous life in the dance world, long before he had made a name for himself online by making music and roleplaying in a silly block game. A shadow of his former life as Wilbur Gold, the prodigal dancer that increasingly lived up to his last name with every competition he attended. He stubbornly locks away the yearning in his heart and gets out of the shower, snagging the old t-shirt he uses to dry his curls after toweling off the rest of his body and pulling on the clothes he'd set out the night before.
He made his way to the kitchen for a breakfast consisting of whatever food wouldn't set off nausea that's been plaguing him for the past week and a half, along with the meds he had to take with food, like his multivitamin. He'd learned that one the hard way, switching it to his breakfast pill organizer after having to pull over and dry heave on the side of the road on his way to the grocery store a mere hour after taking it for the first time.
He set about preparing his food, setting a mug under his little coffee maker, leaning on his cane, and pulling out his phone to add (Ask Dr. Platts about maybe changing the dose on his Paroxetine) to his appointment notes as he waited for the machine to finish brewing. Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he grabbed the freshly brewed decaf coffee and crossed the small kitchen to set it at his usual place at the table, finding it easier to put his stuff there as he went, rather than risking having it all fall to the floor due to a failed attempt to balance it all in his single free arm. He continued, pulling out the bread and peanut butter for some toast, one of the few things he'd deemed least likely to come back up this early in the morning.
Lunch and dinner options, unfortunately, were still a toss-up.
By the time he was able to sit down and actually eat, his coffee had cooled enough that he was able to take his meds with it without the heat dissolving them into bitter sediment on his tongue.
Perfectly timed, as always.
A series of loud pings from his phone pulled him from his planning for his upcoming appointment with the specialist in London, and when he unlocked his phone, he grinned. It was Tommy, incessantly pinging him on discord, demanding he joins the editing VC as repayment for waking him at "7 in the fucking A M" with a good morning message. He rolled his eyes and got up, putting the dishes in the sink to wash later and his meds in the drawer before making his way to his gaming setup to join his pseudo brother in the call.
"Ayup, Tommy!" He said, suppressing a grin as he heard the teen dramatically yell his name in response before immediately launching into his woes concerning the video he was working on. Wilbur settled into a morning of editing and banter, the tension in his shoulders melting away. As chaotic as his internet life could be, it was relaxing to be able to put away the thoughts of medications, symptoms, and doctor visits and pretend he was a normal person for a while.
He wasn't Will, the patient with the medical history long enough to have its own SparkNotes to his friends and fans online.
He wasn't Wilbur Gold, the dancer his studio instructor had looked upon in pity when he told her the news.
He was Wilbur Soot, the perfectly able-bodied musician and content creator.
A perfectly crafted persona, the antithesis of the reality of his existence.
And he was definitely fine with his decision to keep it that way, a perfectly built wall hiding the medical equipment that would betray his false facade of normalcy.