Sleepy Bois Inc. Angst Oneshots

Your City Gave Me Asthma

TW: cigarette addiction and withdrawal symptoms, depression, self-blame and self-harm, asthma, mentions of death
AN: hola, I've got over seventy drafts *finger guns in writer's block* this one's been in my drafts since February 18 because I don't know how I feel about it, so enjoy!
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Wilbur walked home, trying to force his lungs to take in a large enough breath. He was lightheaded from his last smoke, and adding the city's smog to the equation made breathing nearly impossible.

He puffed his way into the house, stopping at a medicine drawer to take a few shots of an inhaler. He sighed in relief at the newfound ease of breathing, yet his hand itched for a cigarette. He excused himself to his room, locked the door, and lit one. He opened a window and sucked in the smoke and air pollution.

If Phil found out he smoked, he'd be a dead man. Well, with the way his lungs were, he'd be a dead man soon either way. And yet, here he was smoking his fifteenth cigarette of the day.

The moment Wilbur decided to quit smoking was the moment he realized he could barely walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded.

That particular day, he had been chasing Tommy for stealing his guitar, and a simple two minute chase sent him desperately reaching for his inhaler. Tommy had rolled his eyes before putting the guitar down and getting Phil.

"Are you alright?" Phil had asked him. Wilbur nodded in between breaths. Phil had to have noticed his worsening asthma, but he never said anything. Wilbur felt guilty about the cigarette pack sitting on his bed. If his breathing was so bad, why did he insist on making it worse?

He didn't want to live like this, trapped in a vicious cycle of smoking until he couldn't breathe and using an inhaler until breathing came easier again. He despised his dependence on both.

In a split second decision, Wilbur gathered all of his cigarettes and lighters and locked them in a drawer. He was already itching for a smoke, so instead, he strummed his guitar. It helped take his mind off things.

Wilbur repeated this cycle; he'd go to work and whenever he needed a cigarette break, he would go play chords on his guitar. It worked for the most part, and Wilbur wasn't complaining.

However, a new challenge arose: Wilbur often found himself scratching his arms up whenever he felt a desperate need for a smoke. It was more obvious to the watchful eye of Phil, but he still hadn't said anything. He deemed it as fine; whatever he needed to do to quit, he'd do it.

This all worked great for months. He was clean for five whole months and ecstatic. To celebrate, he called his friends over to party.

The Dream Team happily accepted the invitation. Sapnap, George, and Dream met up at the Sleepy Bois household within minutes. Wilbur hadn't told them he was quitting; he hadn't even told them he had been smoking. He simply wanted their company.

They moved the party to Dream's house half on hour later because Dream had alcohol and wanted to spice up the party. Wilbur was fine with this. He knew his limits but still quietly hoped that there wouldn't be cigarettes at the party.

His hope was crushed pretty early on and so was his will. An hour into the party, he was offered a cigarette.

"Come on, dontcha want a smoke?" Dream slurred before handing him a cigarette. Wilbur was overcome with the urge to light it. He wanted to feel that power he felt when he inhaled the silver cloud, that feeling of floating above the world.

In less than a second, he threw away five months of being clean. Five months of slapping cigarettes out of his hands; five months of scratching his arms raw because he needed that fix of nicotine. Five months of feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred. Five months of pride and hard work.

He smoked a half a pack that quickly led to him polishing off his reserves. He felt sick. The smoke made him cough harder than ever. That high feeling faded, and he felt disgusted by himself. Wilbur fled the scene.

He stumbled homebound. The smog, the smokes, and his anxiety were suffocating him. He needed to breathe. He clawed at his throat and scratched up his arms.

Once he made it home, he rushed to the inhaler that he now kept under his pillow. He desperately breathed the medication in, yet breathing didn't get any easier. He coughed. Dizziness washed over him. His vision blurred. He had an urge to call for Phil, Techno, or anyone, but he didn't have the strength.

He hit the floor and spasmed, trying to suck in some air. Eventually, blackness consumed him.

He woke up with tubes surrounding him. He was in a hospital bed. Next to his bed, Philza sat in an armchair with his head in hands, and Techno stood behind him with his arms crossed. Tommy and Tubbo hugged each other in the doorway of Wil's room, as if they hadn't decided whether or not they should stay.

Techno noticed Wil was awake immediately, and he tapped on Phil's shoulder lightly. Phil jumped at the movement. He sat up quickly before getting up and hugging Wil. He got a better look at Phil's tired eyes and clumsy gait. He realized that Phil probably hadn't slept a wink while he was in the hospital. He wrapped his arms around his father, wincing at the angry red rash that stood out against his pale skin in the fluorescent lighting.

"Why'd you do it, Wilby?" Tommy asked softly. He was confused for a second before he remembered the feeling of smoking those two packs. It was addicting.

"I- I don't know. I tried to quit; I was five months clean-" His voice broke. "The second that Dream offered me one, I took it. I didn't even hesitate. I told myself 'How bad could it really be?' Once I started, I just couldn't stop."

He pinched his eyes closed to stop the tears that threatened fall. His throat felt raw, and his voice was raspy. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm so sorry."

Phil looked at him with an indiscernible emotion- was it anger, pity, or sadness? Wilbur didn't know, but he knew he didn't like it.

"I thought you were dead, Wil. That feeling- fuck, I don't want to feel that ever again. Promise me... promise me you'll stop. It'll kill you if you don't, and I can't lose my son. I can't." Phil started crying.

Wilbur sat in silence and felt the weight of this decision. Quitting always felt impossible: an insurmountable task only accomplished by the strongest of people. He wasn't strong enough to do it by himself, but maybe, maybe it would help to have people to support him.

He thought for moment more before promising, "I'll quit. I'm going to quit." Phil smiled tearfully at him before hugging him once more.

"I love you, son." Wilbur finally stopped holding back his tears. He let out a quiet sob, and tears ran down his cheek. Through it all, his dad still loved him. Through it all, he still had a family.

"I love you, Dad." He met the eyes of everyone else in the room before adding, "I love you all."
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(1199 words)
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AN: Thanks for 4.3k reads, over 150 votes, and over 50 comments! It's really encouraging to me, and it makes my day seeing people point out things they like about the story or complimenting my writing. It also makes me happy to see the votes and reads numbers climb.

I realized that I need more fluff in my book, so if any of you have a request, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message. (Hint, hint. Nudge, nudge.) Also, is anyone opposed to a oneshot about Tubbo joining a girls' volleyball team?

One last thing, Easter break is coming up, so I hope to post some more chapters then. I promise it won't be another week before I get the next update out. I'm also gonna be finishing and posting a ton of drafts soon.

Love you all, and I'm proud of you all. Take care of yourselves, lovelies. If you've made it this far, have a cookie 🍪