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Wilbur was up late, that much was absolutely clear. He'd looked up at some point from his bed and noticed that the neon green numbers on the analogue clock atop his desk in the distance confidently read the time to be quickly sneaking up on the witching hours. Wilbur was tired, but Wilbur didn't want to go to sleep. You see, the sooner he went to bed, the sooner he'd have to wake up and do adult things again. If he could just stay in his warm bed, the cold night air licking his delicate cheeks for forever to the soothing white noise of his house's electrical functions, never falling asleep and therefore never waking up, then he'd never have to act all responsible, surely.
Wilbur's left hand was in a ball, his thumb worrying the corner of his mouth. His eyebrows were furrowed and he sat upright in the corner of his bed, knees drawn snugly to his chest and his tired eyes slowly becoming a little bit more unfocused as he swiped his clumsy fingers around the screen of his tablet, the colourful fish individually taking their time on his command to soar through the seaside skies in hopes of impressing the five crab judges. He fussed, flapping his dominant hand about with a little pout pushing his lips bossily; he couldn't get any of the fish to go through the hoops. He threw the pufferfish and tapped, the boosties urging the green fish onwards. Wilbur whined when the stupid fish bounced just below the ring again. He didn't want to keep playing, he thought as the reloaded the round anyways and threw the big blue whale across the screen. The whale missed also.
That was it, the very final straw. Wilbur would not fail the challenge again. He wouldn't. His old pout turning his face to ache, Wilbur stretched his legs out under the duvet after turning the tablet's screen off and letting it rest beside him, loving the way the covers felt against his legs. Mood changing between one breath and the next, Wilbur revelled in the action of simply pushing his legs lopsidedly around his bed beneath the covers, a little smile growing fast, carrying away any evidence of an old frown as he poked his left index into his mouth with a giggle, kicking his feet now. Forget the fishies, this was fantastic!
With a yawn, the boy's excitement faded, switching out for a neutral state dampened by a dull ache somewhere deep in his chest. Had he been feeling more like 25, Wilbur might have figured out how to fix this slow sinking feeling of restlessness that sometimes came around at quarter to three in the morning, but not-quite-2-year-old Wilbur just knew he didn't like it, effortlessly slapping the phrase "I'm bored" atop his problem and sliding down from where his back was pressed against his bed's headboard, rolling onto his tummy and pulling the duvet covers up to his messy brunette curls. What to do, what to do?
He could watch a show, but he didn't even know how he'd find one to watch, all of the hundreds of options Netflix offered overwhelming him at just the thought. Like a plaster over a scrape, Wilbur executively decided that he didn't want to make decisions, something some people might find a bit funny with a little thought. Wilbur hummed, enjoying the feeling, turning his body to lay on his side, absently wobbling his frame backwards and fords on the spot. His eyelids dropped shut for just a moment, and as the relief of it eased the hum in his throat, Wilbur contemplated that maybe sleep wasn't such a bad idea after all. But of course, one thought must lead to another, and the concept of tomorrow and everything it just might bring with it had Wilbur pulling his eyes back open, a fresh pout and whine embellishing the bags under his eyes pitifully. Any onlooker would want to soothe the little kid with one hand in his hair and another on his back, his precious head resting in their lap as finally his breathing evened out and his mind headed off to dreamland. Alas, Wilbur was alone.
Or was he?
The idea came fast but his follow-up movements were slow, reaching over for his tablet again and hurriedly closing the stupid fish game and taking a hot moment to locate the little purple Discord icon. He could do this: find the profile of the cartoonish drawing in a green hat and press the call button in the corner. Easy, easy, easy.
And as it turns out, yes! Yes, it was easy, Wilbur totally nailing the task first try though wincing at how loud the calling sound was as he fumbled the volume controls for a second. The call rang for years, it felt, every other second Wilbur's hope for the presence of his pseudo-dad slowly leaking out of his tired mind until suddenly, the call was answered!
"Will?" Phil whispered into his phone, his voice freshly unused. "Why are you calling me?" He didn't mean it rudely, he never could with any of his faux-children.
Wilbur didn't have words for the man, the blonde's presence over the line driving the brunette almost to the point of hugging his tablet.
"Will?" Phil prompted again, his voice a little louder and more echoey than before, the sound of a staircase's creaky floorboards just about sneaking its way into his mic's range of audio pick up. "Are you there?"
Wilbur's mind was totally blank; he needed nothing now that dad was there. Dad was there!
There was a sigh on Phil's end, "I swear if you've accidentally called me..." he trailed off his muttering, silence pouring through either end's receivers for the space of 10 seconds. There came another Phil sigh, and suddenly the call was ended, Wilbur instantly crying out. What happened? He reached out from beneath his covers and called Phil back as quickly as he could manage. The call went through a lot faster the second time.
"Will, if this is a joke it isn't very funny," the older man sounded tired and very fed up, something Wilbur was decidedly very much not a fan of. He whined, feeling about internally for his voice, and it was not long at all before distant, muffled alarm bells began to ring when he realized that, no, he actually wasn't able to speak at the moment. Now what?
Wilbur whined a little louder, opening his mouth to see what he could get to come out, nothing comprehensible making it past his lips. Maybe Phil was magic, Wilbur considered, because the man's next words were just about perfect.
"Oh, poor dear, we're feeling small, aren't we?" Wilbur smiled goofily, a little squeal well mixed up with a string of babbles affirming the blonde's assumption. "That explains it," Phil spoke to himself, the sound of him sitting down, presumably on a sofa, encroaching on the private call.
"What do you need, huh?" The childish lilt to Phil's tone was greatly appreciated, the baby voice soothing the "bored" itch that had been keeping him up as silently as a master assassin alongside his own impending responsibility. Wilbur partly hummed-partly whined, letting his eyelids fall shut once more, the dulling of the tablet's light bliss.
"Can't sleep?" Phil guessed with all-knowing accuracy. Wilbur gave a short, resigned hum.
"Hmm, I hear you, bud," Phil empathized with his non-verbal little like he had time and time before. "You have your paci?" The blonde knew that under-stimulation was a problem Wilbur constantly battled, even more so while little.
And okay, Wilbur was a little bit silly.
Earlier in the night when it had truly still been the night and not the very, very early morning, Wilbur had indeed had his paci. But the issue here is that Wilbur, in all of his intelligent, competent glory, had sloshed water down his front while trying to drink from a big kid cup without a lid on it. Cold and upset, he'd rushed himself to his closet and then his bathroom, paci temporarily left to sit in the hand pocket of the drenched hoodie he'd had on while he changed, not wanting to put it on the bathroom counter because of germs. Wilbur had dried himself up and, with only some slight difficulty, had managed to pull a new, dry sweatshirt on, dropping his wet hoodie straight into his laundry basket as he made his way back to his bed and his fish game, completely forgetting where he'd left his paci.
Like Phil had been teaching cavemen about fire, Wilbur groaned a hum of realization, distantly disappointed in himself when he realized where his paci had gone to. Clumsily, Wilbur clambered wordlessly out of bed and toddled his way to his bathroom, stooping down next to his hamper to locate his still white damp hoodie and, more importantly, his paci. Victorious in less than half a minute, Wilbur let the pacifier back into his mouth and relished the way it fit just right, the stimulation just right for his shoulder to fall away and his brain to give up the moment he made it back safe and soundly to his bed, Phil hearing the bedsheets moving and calling out for his pseudo-son expectantly. "You got it?"
Wilbur hummed happily around his paci, pressing himself deeper into the warmth of his covers and the squishiness of his pillow. This was much better.
"You ready to go sleep now, sleepyhead?" Phil checked, wishing he could be in-person to hug kiddo and tuck him in, sleepy grins and everything. Wilbur gave another little hum, more quietly this time as he already began to drift to sleep, the pacifier in his mouth working miracles.