Chapter Text
There was something fundamentally wrong with the school’s HVAC system.
No one could convince Wilbur otherwise. He’s complained about it enough in meetings so much so that even the slightest mention of the temperature was banned. And so he resorted to reporting it straight to the student council, and when President Eret shrugged him off he escalated straight to the principal.
Nothing changed.
No matter the season, no matter the weather, the debate room was always too warm. Not warm like a cozy classroom in winter, warm like sweat-on-the-back-of-your-neck, shirt-clinging-to-your-back, I-want-to-die-why-do-I-feel-like-I’m-slowly-being-roasted-alive warm.
Wilbur blamed the radiator at first — those ancient, sputtering pipes the school refused to fix — but sometime around the start of junior year, he realized the real problem was Quackity.
Because somehow, without fail, the temperature spiked a full ten degrees whenever that kid was in the room. Like a tide responding to something distant. It was like the universe decided to drag the sun indoors, cram it into a stuffy corner classroom, and force Wilbur Soot to argue with it twice a week.
That day, the debate room was stifling in that particular way classrooms got when the AC gave up sometime before lunch and never recovered. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows on the far side of the room, dust motes drifting lazily through the air like they had all the time in the world. Wilbur could feel the heat crawling under his collar already, prickling at the back of his neck, his patience thinning with every degree.
He had spent the better part of last night rewriting part of the debate rubric for a drill, half-asleep and irritated, the blue light of his laptop burning his eyes as he scrolled through criteria he should’ve reviewed weeks ago. It wasn’t a big change, but he’d known exactly who it would trip.
Wilbur had adjusted the wording with that in mind, a quiet, petty satisfaction settling in his chest at the thought of springing it on him mid-practice. It wasn’t cheating, not really. Just helping. If Quackity noticed — and Wilbur suspected he would — that was practically the point.
Which is why, when the Quackity opened his mouth that afternoon, Wilbur didn’t even hesitate to engage.
“—you can’t just rewrite the entire rubric because it doesn’t kiss your ass, Wilbur.” Quackity hissed from where he stood, binder hitting the desk hard enough to make several freshmen flinch.
Wilbur straightened in his chair on instinct, spine stiffening. His first reaction to Quackity’s voice was always to rise to it.
“I just fixed subsection C,” he said, running a hand through his brown curls so they didn’t stick to his forehead. His tone was rehearsed. “There’s a difference. Sorry if your reading comprehension is too subpar to grasp—”
“Oh my god.” Quackity groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are so insufferable. Every time we have a documented sparring match, suddenly you care about technicalities, Mr. Actually-If-You-Look-At-The-Subsection—”
“Because the subsection matters,” Wilbur interrupted, pulse spiking exactly the way he’d predicted it would. “If you bothered to read the packet before five minutes ago, then—”
“I did read it!”
“Then why are you arguing the wrong point?”
Quackity scoffed. “I’m not arguing the wrong— I’m arguing your point, because for some reason your pretentious ass thinks that your opinions are automatically correct cause you’re some debate messiah who came to save us all—”
“That is not—”
“This whole ‘subsection C’ thing?” Quackity jabbed a finger down onto the paper between them, the pages wrinkling under the force. “You changed the criteria, Wil. You can’t alter the standard halfway through prep just because it doesn’t align with how you debate.”
Wilbur’s jaw locked. “Coach’s feedback sheets literally said the phrasing was unclear. I adjusted the wording so people wouldn’t get docked for being too short with their arguments.”
Quackity scoffed. “You fixed it so you wouldn’t get docked for going on one of your twenty-minute tangents.”
“That’s not fair,” Wilbur shot back, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “It helps everyone. It keeps judging consistent. That’s the whole point of a rubric.”
“Yeah?” Quackity leaned closer, eyes sharp. “Funny how it always helps you the most.”
“Guys.” Eret sighed, stepping between them. The resigned expression of someone who has broken up this fight too many times is evident on his face despite the sunglasses that never leave his face. “Can we save the actual debating for, you know, debate?”
“No, no, let ‘em go at it,” Schlatt called from his perch on a desk, thoroughly enjoying being a spectator. “C’mon, Q. Rip his head off.”
Dream snorted. “I’m surprised they haven’t started throwing chairs.”
The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. Wilbur could feel sweat collecting at the base of his spine, the beginnings of that awful heat-induced fog creeping into his thoughts. He knew he should disengage. He knew escalating never ended well.
He didn’t.
“If the rubric says we’re supposed to stick to the resolution, you can’t just—”
“It wasn’t meant for abstract hypotheticals!” Quackity barked, binder slamming down again, rattling the papers. “It’s designed for concrete policy cases. Arguments that actually, y’know, matter in real life.”
Wilbur’s lips twitched. Matter in real life. As if every debate wasn’t about exploring the ideas themselves or the philosophy behind every motion. “The rubric says ‘all debates.’ All. That includes hypotheticals, thought experiments, whatever. If you can’t handle nuance, sunshine, that’s not my problem.”
Quackity stilled, like the word had snagged on something under his skin, before he stepped closer, Wilbur caught the faint citrus from his shampoo and froze for a millisecond too long. He’d never admit it, but the smell always made his pulse jump.
“I know what ‘all’ means,” Quackity said, voice low but sharp. “But forcing every debate into your… whatever… tangent-infested fantasy land isn’t fair to the other team. Not everything has to be a philosophy essay.”
Wilbur leaned forward without thinking, because clearly his body was no longer consulting his brain. “If you spent half as much time actually analyzing the cases as you do whining about my arguments—”
“Right, right,” Quackity cuts him off, heat now radiating in a way that made Wilbur feel like the sun had relocated itself into his chest. “Because you think I don’t prepare? You think I just show up to yell while you lecture us about ideal justice and ethical paradigms?”
Wilbur could feel the air in the room pressuring him from all sides, heavy with the remnants of sunlight, sweat, and adrenaline. And yet, of course, he doubled down. He always doubled down. Pride, idiocy, and something else entirely, tangled together. “If the shoe fits.”
Quackity’s eyes narrowed for the briefest second, unreadable.
“Asshole,” Quackity finally muttered.
“What the fuck.”
Jack froze at the door, camera aimed vaguely at their direction, blinking at the sight in front of him.
It was only then Wilbur realised the sheer proximity Quackity’s at. He was practically a breath away, the sunlight bouncing off his hair, the faint tang of citrus shampoo wafting toward him. Breath hit his cheek. One wrong move and he’d look either guilty, or insane.
The room shrank around them, full of the low hum of the broken AC and the faint scratching of papers, and Wilbur suddenly realized he could feel his pulse in his temples. He could feel it in his fingertips on the edge of the desk.
He didn’t move.
Quackity didn’t either.
Then Dream snorted.
That immediately turned into wheezing laughter as he slapped a hand over his mouth and failed horribly. “Dude— Jack— your timing— oh my god—”
“Jesus Christ,” Jack blinked slowly, lowering the camera. “I came here to get footage for the club newsletter,” he said, voice flat. “And instead I walk in on whatever… this is.”
Wilbur made a noise somewhere between offense and disbelief.
Eret pinched the bridge of their nose, exhaling as if every year in this club aged them five more. “Jack,” they said flatly, stepping between the two idiots with all the grace of a parent breaking up a fight that had gotten entirely out of hand. “I’m so sorry. I told them to stop. I really did.”
Jack blinked at them, then at Wilbur and Quackity who were now both very pointedly looking anywhere but each other. “No, yeah, that’s cool,” Jack said. “This is definitely the energy people want to see from the Debate Club. Intellectual discourse and thinly veiled sexual tension. Great PR.”
Wilbur sputtered. “Thinly ve— Jack, what—”
Schlatt whistled low, leaning back with the kind of smug only Schlatt could pull off. “Honestly? I’m proud of you both. I thought you two blew out all your material last semester, but this?” He gestured vaguely between them. “This is great.”
Eret muttered, “Please don’t encourage them.”
Jack glanced down at the camera, then swept his gaze across the room again. “Anyway, I’m supposed to get footage of your meeting. But if I record anything else today, I might have to file a report with the guidance counselor… so I’m just gonna—” He made a vague circular motion with his hand. “Pretend I didn’t walk in on whatever the hell that was.”
He pivoted, walking out with the kind of swagger that said I am telling everyone I know about this later.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft, almost apologetic click.
As soon as Jack was out of the door, Eret clapped their hands sharply. “Okay!” They said, the manic cheer of someone fighting for control. “Fun detour. Love the energy. Now if we could all sit down and get this meeting started—”
The members collectively chose to forget what they just witnessed. Everyone settled with the awkward shuffling of papers and the dragging of plastic chairs against linoleum.
Wilbur leaned into his chair at the far end of the classroom. The same one he always took, closest to the wall, where the blinds rattled softly when the (broken) AC kicked on. Predictable, but he liked being able to lean his head on the wall and not be in the direct line of the sun currently spilling across the opposite side of the room.
The sunbeam stretching across the other half of the room was a death sentence. He’d learned that the hard way in freshman year, when he’d tried sitting by the windows and spent the entire meeting sweating through his collar, blinking back the headache he absolutely convinced himself was heatstroke.
He hated sitting in direct sunlight. Despised it. It made his phone screen reflective to the point of uselessness and turned his worksheets into blinding white slabs. Give him ten minutes in it and he was sweating through his shirt, getting that horrible prickly-hot sensation on his neck, turning blotchy-red in ways the universe definitely did not intend for human skin to do. Then came the headache. And the eye strain. And the inevitable thought spirals about how he probably had sunstroke, or dehydration, or would faint dramatically in front of everyone like a Victorian orphan.
So he stayed in the shade, where his thoughts stayed in one piece and his skin didn’t feel like it was cooking.
Across the room, of course, Quackity had taken the spot.
He always did.
He sat angled toward the window like he was soaking it in, the golden spill of late-afternoon light landing across his shoulders, catching in his hair and turning it warm, almost coppery. He leaned back casually with one foot hooked around the leg of the table, already jumping into a conversation with one of the freshmen in the club.
Wilbur looked away so fast he nearly sprained something.
Schlatt cleared his throat at the front of the class, not where anyone expected him to be, which was half the joke. “Alright, degenerates,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Debate Club meeting number one of the semester. Let’s get this circus started.”
Wilbur resisted the urge to groan out loud.
Most people would assume Eret ran the debate club. They had the presence, the organization, the ability to speak in complete, elegant sentences without threatening to commit a felony.
But a technicality in the school charter barred Eret from holding two major leadership positions at once. Student Council President was already theirs, which meant the Debate Club needed a different captain. Schlatt and Wilbur both ran. And after a chaotic election filled with bribery and one catastrophic campaign speech done by none other than Quackity, Schlatt had won by exactly three votes. He’d been insufferable ever since.
If you asked Wilbur, he’d say — confidently, repeatedly, dramatically — that he should have been president. He had the experience, the commitment, and the vision. He cared about the club. He’d practically kept it afloat last year while Schlatt spent half the meetings doodling horns on people’s faces. But no, apparently democracy was a mistake, one that had cost him both authority and the slight ego boost of having his name on the official roster sheet in bold ink.
Schlatt started droning through the agenda, voice flat and a little too loud. Wilbur tried to listen. Really. He did. But the words kept turning into white noise, dissolving into the ambient hum of the scratch of pens on paper.
The meeting blurred comfortably into the background, and he was just about to rest his head when—
“Just saying,” Quackity said, gesturing loosely as he spoke to the group, sunlight slanting in through the high windows behind him, outlining his shoulders like the universe had elected him its spokesperson. “If we’re covering government policy for next week’s practice, we should probably debate something that isn’t too niche. Budget allocations could work. Public school funding, maybe. Everyone has takes on that.”
Wilbur’s brain recoiled on instinct alone. Budget allocations.
It was the kind of topic that strangled the life out of a room before anyone even opened their mouth. Every debate ended the exact same way. Someone citing statistics nobody cared about, someone else pretending to care about fiscal responsibility, and someone — usually Wilbur — trying not to claw his way out through the carpet.
And yet — of course — Quackity looked genuinely interested. Earnest, even. Like this was the good stuff. Like law and policy were the bones of the world and not the scaffolding slapped on after the fact.
“Actually,” Wilbur said, before his better judgment could get a restraining order involved, “that’s a terrible idea.”
The room stalled. Quackity’s brows lifted, incredulous. “I— what? That’s literally the most neutral topic anyone could’ve picked.”
“It’s still a bad topic,” Wilbur insisted, heat rising in his cheeks for reasons he refused to examine. “Too broad. It’s lazy.”
“Lazy,” Quackity echoed, leaning forward now. “Right. Sure. Okay, then what isn’t lazy?”
“Literally anything else,” Wilbur shot back. “Pick something with depth.”
“It has depth!”
“Not when you bring it up.”
Quackity scoffed. “Oh my god, you’re actually unbelievable—”
Across the room, Dream slid down in his seat like he wanted gravity to take him out permanently. “Here we go,” he muttered.
Eret didn’t look up from their notes. “Already?”
“It’s been five minutes,” Dream whispered back, voice flat with the weight of someone who’d survived several wars and all of them were named Wilbur and Quackity. “Five.”
Eret sighed. “Should we intervene?”
“No,” Dream said immediately. “They’ll just redirect the yelling at us. Let them tire themselves out.”
Eret clicked their pen in resignation. “This is going to be a long meeting.”
Dream groaned softly. “What’s new?”
────────
“So then he says—” Tommy was halfway standing on his chair now, one knee planted on the seat, fork gesturing wildly in the air, “—he says, ‘Tommy, you can’t bring a football into drama club,’ right? And I’m like, why not, because what if my character is a footballer—”
“You’re playing Theseus,” Techno said flatly, stabbing a piece of chicken without looking up. “Theseus do not traditionally engage in football.”
“You don’t know that!” Tommy shot back immediately.
“Tommy,” Phil said calmly from the head of the table, lifting his mug in a way that suggested he’d done this exact maneuver a thousand times. “Inside voice.”
“This is my inside voice,” Tommy protested instantly. “You should hear my outside one.”
“Sit down,” Wilbur hissed, reaching out to tug lightly at the back of Tommy’s shirt. “You’re going to fall, and I don’t feel like explaining to the ER why my brother impaled himself with cutlery.”
Tommy ignored him completely. “—besides, Greek gods are fictional characters. If people can headcanon Hades as some rich CEO, then I can do whatever the hell I please.”
Wilbur sighed and leaned back in his chair, elbow hooked casually on the edge of the table, watching the familiar banter unfold like a well-rehearsed play. The overhead light cast everything in warm yellow. The scuffed wooden table, the mismatched chairs, the faint steam curling up from plates that were already half-empty. The house smelled like roasted chicken and garlic and something faintly sweet Phil had insisted on adding ‘for balance.’
Philza took a sip of his drink with the long-suffering patience of a man who had raised three boys and somehow survived. “Tommy,” he said gently, “please stop slamming the table.”
“I’m not!” Tommy protested, immediately slamming the table again. “I’m expressing myself.”
“You’re expressing yourself directly into my personal space,” Wilbur muttered, nudging Tommy’s elbow away from his plate. “And if you knock over my water, I will make it a thing.”
“Oh, like you don’t love drama,” Tommy shot back. “You live for it.”
Wilbur scoffed. “You’re literally in the drama club.”
Techno snorted quietly into his food.
Tommy finally dropped back into his chair, arms crossed.. “Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred, “the drama club is corrupt. I’m being silenced. This is censorship.”
“Mate,” Phil said, lips twitching into a fond smile despite himself, “it’s a high school play. Not a dictatorship.”
“Same thing.”
Phil hummed noncommittally, then turned slightly in his chair. “Techno,” he said, casual. “How was your day?”
Techno shrugged, the motion barely there. “Fine.”
Phil nodded, unsurprised. “Chess club?”
“Won.”
“Of course you did,” Wilbur said absently, reaching for the salt. “Was there ever a doubt?”
Techno’s mouth twitched. Just barely. “No.”
Tommy squinted at him, then leaned forward. “You know,” he said, pointing with his fork, “it’s still weird that you look like that and are good at chess.”
Wilbur snorted. “What, the hair?”
Techno lifted a hand and tugged idly at one of the long pink strands that had fallen over his shoulder. It had grown out to his mid-back now, pink tied loosely into a braid that Tommy did earlier, a color that had started as a joke in elementary school and never quite left. “What about it?”
“You look like a video game character,” Tommy said. “Or like… a yogurt mascot.”
Phil smiled into his mug. “People used to mix you and Wilbur up all the time when you were younger.”
Wilbur grimaced. “Only because you insisted on cutting our hair the same.”
“And then Techno decided to grow his out,” Tommy added, gesturing wildly at Techno. “So now everyone thinks he’s Wilbur’s evil twin.”
“I am the evil twin,” Techno said mildly.
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “You play chess and brood in silence. That’s not evil, that’s just annoying.”
Techno glanced sideways at him. “You argue competitively and write sad indie rock songs. Pot, meet kettle.”
Phil laughed softly, the sound warm and easy, and for a moment the table settled into something like peace. Phil turned slightly, eyes landing on Wilbur.
“So,” he said. “How was your day?”
Wilbur opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then shrugged, because that was always a safe opener. “Fine.”
Tommy squinted. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Wilbur replied. “It’s a concise one.”
“You’re never concise.” Tommy said, which, fair point.
Phil hummed, unconvinced, but let it slide. “Debate go alright?”
Wilbur nodded. “Yeah. I mean—” He paused, fork hovering over his plate. “Well. Define alright.”
Techno looked up. “Here we go.”
Tommy leaned forward instantly, sensing blood in the water. “Did you argue with Quackity again?”
Wilbur scoffed. “Well, no, but—”
Phil hummed, already smiling into his mug. “Go on.”
Wilbur sighed, leaning back in his chair, fork abandoned. “It’s just— he doesn’t listen. He interrupts, he grandstands, he treats debate like it’s improv theatre—”
“You’re describing yourself,” Tommy said helpfully.
“Don’t compare me to him.” Wilbur shot him a look. “And today, he had the nerve to say policy cases shouldn’t allow extended theoretical framing. That policy debates should be more grounded in law and precedent. As if theory is some optional garnish instead of the backbone of the law that he holds so dear to him.” His hand clenched around the fork.
Techno didn’t even look up from his plate. “Didn't the coach have to stop you from a 15 minute monologue last semester?”
“It was apt,” Wilbur snapped
Phil tilted his head. “Wilbur.”
Wilbur waved a hand, momentum already carrying him forward. “And the way he sits there, all smug, like he’s already won before the round’s even started. He doesn’t even prep properly and then everyone just lets him get away with it because he’s charismatic and loud and—” He stopped for breath, then kept going. “—and he always takes the window seat like he owns the sun or something, which is frankly unbearable because the glare ruins the entire look of the room—”
Tommy stared at him. “Why do you care where he sits?”
“I don’t,” Wilbur said immediately. Too quickly. “It’s just annoying.”
Techno finally looked up. “You sound obsessed.”
Wilbur choked. “I am not.”
Phil set his mug down with deliberate calm. “You’ve been ‘not obsessed’ with that boy since last year.”
“He’s somehow worse now,” Wilbur muttered
Techno snorted. “He was the first person to see through your bullshit and not be impressed, and you declared war.”
Wilbur pointed his fork at him. “You weren’t there.”
“I was,” Techno said evenly. “You came home and said — quote — ‘He’s irritatingly competent and I refuse to acknowledge it.’”
Phil laughed quietly. “That does sound like you.”
Wilbur slumped back, jaw tight. “The point is, he’s infuriating. Everyone acts like he reinvented debate just by walking into the room.” His voice dropped, sharper now. “Before him, I was the standard. If you won against me, it meant something. And now he waltzes in, breaks every rule of form, and suddenly I’m the one getting looks when I speak too long.”
Tommy’s grin softened into something more knowing. “Aw. He stole your crown.”
“Shut up.”
“Wilbur,” Phil interrupted gently.
Wilbur frowned. “What.”
The table went quiet. Tommy watched him with open amusement. Techno with that unreadable stare that meant filed away for later. Phil with something softer, knowing.
Phil smiled, not unkindly. “You said your day was fine.”
Wilbur opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He looked down at his plate instead, pushing a piece of chicken around with his fork like it had personally offended him. He realised, somewhere between his first complaint and his fifteenth, the rant had stopped being about debate altogether.
Wilbur exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like that settled it. “It was fine,” he said again, firmer this time, like repetition could make it true. “He just—” A pause. “Needs to learn his place.”
Tommy grinned. “Sounds like you lost.”
Techno went back to his food. Phil just shook his head, fond and resigned, like this was a story he already knew the ending to.
Wilbur scowled, but he didn’t argue, eyes drifting toward the darkened window, where the last smear of sunset had faded into something dull and indistinct.
He hated that Quackity could do that: walk into a room and shift the scales without even trying. Hated that he noticed. Hated that it mattered.
Mostly, he hated that tomorrow, he already knew exactly where his eyes would go first.
────────
The hallway buzzed with fluorescent lights and half-conscious bodies, lockers slammed in uneven rhythm down the hall, a percussive backdrop to the slow churn of sleepy students drifting toward first period.
Wilbur walked through it with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, bag hanging off one shoulder like an afterthought. He hadn’t slept properly — again — and his brain felt stuffed with unfinished arguments and conversations. The kind that replayed themselves against the ceiling long after the lights were off.
“So,” Jack said, far too brightly. “About yesterday.”
Wilbur made a low sound in his throat that could generously be interpreted as a warning. “It was nothing. You walked in on the literal worst possible second and now you’ve decided to build a conspiracy theory around it.”
“You were this close to kissing him,” Jack said, holding his fingers barely an inch apart, delighted. “I could’ve zoomed in and gotten a Pulitzer.”
Niki laughed, soft but unrestrained. “You two were standing awfully close.”
Ranboo blinked from a half-step behind them, clutching his schedule in both hands like it might attack. The stark black-and-white mask hid his expression, but the tilt of his head was pure confusion. “Isn’t debate club usually… sitting?”
“It was a debate disagreement,” Wilbur said through his teeth. “In the debate room. Where debates happen.”
Jack grinned, wholly unrepentant. “You were nose-to-nose, Wilbur.”
“I have a big nose,” Wilbur snapped. “It exaggerates proximity.”
Niki bumped his shoulder. “You could always just not react,” she suggested, voice maddeningly reasonable.
Wilbur made a noise of deep, spiritual frustration. “That is not the point.”
They rounded the corner by the stairwell, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows in a blinding sheet. Wilbur instinctively veered closer to the lockers, skirting the light like it was something personal.
Niki checked her phone as they walked. “Council meeting after school, by the way,” she said. “We’re finalizing our January and February programs.”
Wilbur raised a brow. “February too? Already? I thought we still had time.”
“We don’t,” Niki said cheerfully. “We never do.”
Ranboo perked up. “Oh, yeah! Tubbo told me about that. He said it was a lot of work. I was gonna wait for him after.”
“And you?” Jack asked, glancing back. “Why aren’t you suffering alongside him?”
Ranboo shook his head quickly. “No, no— I just— Tubbo likes it. I’m more of a… moral support person.” He paused. “Also someone has to walk him home when he forgets to eat.”
Wilbur made a face like he’d just bitten into something unexpectedly sweet. “Disgusting.”
Niki shot him a look. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t love that too, Wilbur.”
Wilbur looked away.
“Anyway,” Jack said, sing-song, “are you going to the meeting later, or are you skipping to avoid someone?”
Wilbur shot him a glare. “I’m a responsible member of the council.”
“So is Quackity,” Jack said.
“That’s unfortunate, not relevant.”
They didn’t make it much farther before Wilbur caught sight of a familiar flash of orange up ahead, unmistakable even in a hallway packed shoulder-to-shoulder with students.
“Fundy!” he called automatically, the edge in his voice shifting into something warmer before he could stop it.
Fundy turned at the sound of his name, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie sleeves tugged halfway over his hands like he was perpetually bracing for cold or impact. He was taller than last year (sophomore growth spurt finally kicking in) but he still carried that same permanently alert expression, like the world might lurch sideways without warning.
“Oh no,” Fundy said, immediately suspicious. “Why do you sound like that?”
Wilbur closed the distance in three long strides and, without asking, reached out to straighten the crooked strap of Fundy’s bag. “Your backpack’s going to wreck your shoulder..”
“It’s fine,” Fundy protested, batting his hand away. “You sound like Phil.”
“That’s because Phil is right,” Wilbur replied, unfazed. He looked Fundy over with a frown that bordered on clinical. “Did you eat this morning?”
“Yes,” Fundy said flatly.
Jack grinned to himself. “Ah. The prodigal cousin.”
“Why does he look like he’s about to commit a crime?” Fundy asked, nodding at Wilbur.
“Debate club,” Niki said gently.
Fundy winced on instinct. “Say no more.”
Wilbur groaned. “Don’t start. I was just thinking the meeting would’ve been infinitely better if you were still in the club.”
Fundy laughed, sharp and immediate. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” Wilbur pressed, walking alongside him. “You were good! You have potential. You actually listened. You didn’t treat every round like a personal vendetta—”
“That is because,” Fundy said, smiling, “I value my peace.”
Jack snorted.
“You quit this semester,” Wilbur continued, ignoring them, “for what? Robotics club?”
Fundy stopped walking and looked at him, flat and unamused. “I quit because watching you and Quackity argue genuinely demolished my will to live.”
Wilbur scoffed. “That’s dramatic.”
“You once argued for thirty minutes about whether or not chickens were a threat to safety,” Fundy said. “I aged five years.”
Niki laughed. “He’s not wrong.”
They paused outside the stairwell, the bell ringing overhead in a shrill, unforgiving shriek. Students scattered like startled birds.
“Okay, but,” Wilbur said, “you have to admit; it was fun. Right? Don’t you miss it? Don’t you want to spend time with me in debate again?”
Fundy’s expression softened just a fraction. “No way, man,” he said, fond but firm. “I love you. I refuse to be in the same room when you’re like that.”
Wilbur huffed, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite in it. He reached out and ruffled Fundy’s hair anyway, ignoring the immediate squawk of protest.
“Traitor,” he muttered, a fond smile on his face.
────────
The entire school exhaled by the time the final bell rang.
Hallways that had been packed an hour ago were now thinning into pockets as students spilled out of the building. The sun hung lower through the tall windows, slanting gold across tiled floors and bulletin boards peeling at the corners. Wilbur barely noticed any of it. He’d spent the last five minutes sprinting across campus, bag thumping against his back, coat half-unzipped, mentally cursing every single red light of fate that had slowed him down.
He skidded to a stop outside the council room, breath uneven. He can already hear several overlapping voices inside.
Great.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder.
The council room was already alive in that specific way it always was: chairs pulled into a loose, imperfect circle. Puffy sat cross-legged in her chair with a notebook balanced on her knee, Fundy perched sideways and whispered something to Tubbo that made him snort, Tommy half-sprawled across his seat. Niki sat neatly near the end, pen tapping softly against her planner.
And there — angled comfortably in his chair, sunlight still finding him through the high windows like it was loyal — was Quackity.
Of course.
His gaze flicked up the second Wilbur entered.
“Wow,” Quackity said immediately, leaning back and crossing his arms, already settled, already smug. He was seated near the window, sunlight pooling across his shoulders like it had chosen him on purpose. “We’re starting a new initiative where council members show up on time.”
Wilbur didn’t break stride as he crossed the room, dropping into his chair with a thud. “Sorry,” he said flatly. “I was busy.”
“With what?” Quackity asked lightly, eyes sharp despite it. “Rewriting another rulebook?”
A few people groaned on instinct.
Wilbur felt that stupid, reactive heat under his skin. He leaned back, mirroring Quackity’s posture without even realizing it.
“Believe it or not,” he said, voice even, “some of us have lives outside micromanaging council agendas. I was with my band.”
Quackity’s smile sharpened. “Funny. I thought you lived for micromanagement.”
“Wow,” Nike muttered. “We’re starting early today…?”
Before Wilbur could respond — and he absolutely could — Eret clapped their hands once, sharp and loud enough to cut through the tension like a blade.
“Okay!” they said brightly, already standing. “Before this turns into whatever that is, we are taking attendance.”
Wilbur closed his mouth with a click, jaw tight.
Quackity leaned back, satisfied at getting the last word in.
Puffy leaned back in her chair, amused. “I was hoping for bloodshed.”
“Later,” Eret said dryly. “Maybe.” He sighed, glancing down at their clipboard. “Puffy?”
“Here.”
“Dream?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Schlatt?”
“I’m right here.” Schlatt said lazily, lifting a hand without looking up.
“Wilbur?”
“Present,” he said shortly. Which received a side eye from Quackity.
“Tommy?”
“I resent being called out.”
“That’s a yes,” Eret replied without missing a beat..
“Tubbo?”
“Here!” Tubbo said, already scribbling something into the margins of his notebook.
“Fundy?”
“Here.”
“Quackity?”
“Here.”
Eret nodded, satisfied. “Right. Then we can start.” They took a breath, bracing themselves.
“January and February programs are on the agenda which means,” Eret was saying, tapping the clipboard with the end of their pen, “we need to finalize allocations before this Sunday if we want anything approved in time.”
Wilbur straightened automatically, his habit of being secretary snapping into place. He reached for his notebook, flipping it open to a page already cluttered with cramped handwriting. He lived here, in margins and minutes and precise phrasing.
Eret cleared their throat and flipped the clipboard around. “Okay. First things first; budget review.”
A collective, instinctive groan rippled around the circle.
“I know. I know. But we can’t plan anything until we know what we’re working with.”
Quackity straightened a little in his chair, sun still caught on his shoulders like an accessory. Treasurer mode, then. Wilbur recognized the shift immediately.
“Current balance is just under six-hundred,” Quackity said, already flipping open his laptop. “That’s after winter formal expenses and club reimbursements.”
At the sound of Quackity’s voice, he felt irritation spark low in his gut before he could even stop it, glanced down at his own notebook, fingers automatically aligning the page, pen sliding into the margin.
“We’ve got expected income from concessions by next week,” Quackity continued, scrolling. “Between that and Bad’s baking club sale later this month, we’re not exactly hurting.”
Quackity leaned back in his chair. “We should probably acknowledge that January doesn’t need half the attention February does.”
“That’s a vague statement at best.” Wilbur said without looking up.
It didn’t matter that this was a budget meeting or that Quackity wasn’t even wrong; something in Wilbur bristled every time Quackity sounded confident, like the room tilted toward him and Wilbur had to shove it to level it again.
Quackity squinted at him. “How is that vague? February has events. January is just… school.”
“January has multiple club competitions,” Wilbur said, finally lifting his head. “Which means transportation costs, printing, entry fees—”
“Which are already accounted for,” Quackity cut in. “We’ve been over this. The numbers are stable.”
“They’re stable because nothing’s been approved yet,” Wilbur replied, tone flat. “You can’t just assume expenses won’t fluctuate.”
Quackity scoffed. “You’re catastrophizing.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Wilbur’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Your point makes zero sense.”
“Oh?” Quackity tilted his head, smiling in that way that never meant anything good. “Neither does your personality, but somehow we’re all forced to endure it.”
Wilbur huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Bold words from someone whose entire strategy is talking louder until people give up.”
“At least I talk about things people actually care about,” Quackity shot back. “You just nitpick and go off until everyone’s too tired to argue with you.”
“It’s called critical thinking, sunshine, ever heard of it?” Wilbur finally closed his notebook with a soft thud. “God forbid we apply more than two seconds of thought to anything. Wouldn’t want to strain you.”
“Don’t call me that — And no, what you do is overthinking. There’s a difference,” Quackity gave him a pointed look. “At least I don’t need a thesaurus and a superiority complex to say it.”
“I don’t use a thesaurus,” Wilbur replied. “I just read.”
Quackity rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “See, that. You’re so pretentious.”
“Oh my god, you are impossible.”
“And you’re insufferable.”
Eret rubbed their temples. “Can we please—”
“No,” Quackity and Wilbur said in unison, both turning toward them for half a second before snapping back to each other.
And neither of them noticed how the rest of the room had gone quiet.
Pens paused mid-scratch, phones lowered, conversations died off one by one until the only sound left was the two of them, locked in a pointless orbit, arguing with the kind of focus usually reserved for things that actually mattered.
Everyone else just watched.
────────
The moment the council room door swung open, people spilled into the hallway in loose, uneven clumps. Shoulders sagging with the collective relief of a meeting survived rather than enjoyed.
The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows at the end of the corridor, everything washed in that dull gold that meant the day was technically still going but no one was pretending to care anymore.
Schlatt groaned loudly as he stepped out, stretching his arms over his head like he’d just been freed from captivity. “This meeting could’ve been an email.”
Fundy raised a brow. “As if you’d actually read it.”
Behind them, the council room hadn’t fully emptied yet. Eret was still inside, slumped back into their chair, head tipped forward until their forehead rested against the edge of the table. Niki hovered nearby, poking at their shoulder with the end of her pen, murmuring something that looked suspiciously like are you alive. Dream and Puffy were nowhere to be seen: they’d vanished sometime midway through the argument, slipping out with the subtlety of people who knew better than to stick around once Wilbur and Quackity started circling each other.
Wilbur didn’t notice any of that. He was already halfway down the hall, bag slung over one shoulder, stride sharp and purposeful, like momentum alone might burn off the residual heat still crawling under his skin. His jaw was set so tight it ached, molars pressing together as if that might keep the words from replaying themselves.
Tommy and Tubbo had to jog to catch up.
“Mate,” Tommy said, jogging to keep pace. “You good?”
“No,” Wilbur snapped immediately. “He’s infuriating.”
Tubbo blinked. “Who?”
Wilbur shot him a look. “Who do you think?”
“Ohhh,” Tommy said, delighted. “Sunshine.”
“Don’t,” Wilbur warned, not breaking stride.
Tommy grinned wider. “What? I didn’t even say his name.”
“That’s worse.”
He laughed at something Schlatt said, bright and unrestrained, the sound carrying down the hallway and cutting clean through the low, tired hum of after-school noise. The light from the windows caught him full-on, reflecting off polished floors and glossy lockers until it felt like the corridor had tilted toward him without asking permission. He gestured as he spoke, animated, effortless, like he belonged exactly where he was standing.
Wilbur felt it like a pressure change. His presence was insistent in a way that had nothing to do with authority.
It was annoying.
Wilbur clicked his tongue. “I don’t understand how someone can talk for that long and say absolutely nothing,”
Tubbo hummed noncommittally on Wilbur’s other side, fingers worrying at the frayed strap of his bag as they walked. Lockers slammed intermittently, sharp sounds ricocheting down the corridor like punctuation marks at the end of a long, exhausting sentence.
“It did get pretty loud,” Tubbo said eventually. “Even Sam couldn’t stop you two.”
Wilbur winced despite himself. The image of Sam — tall, broad-shouldered, and deeply unimpressed — materialized unhelpfully in his mind, the way he’d appeared in the doorway mid-argument, arms crossed, voice cutting clean through the noise as he scolded the entire council like a group of unruly children.
“That’s because he refuses to listen,” Wilbur said immediately, the words tumbling out with practiced ease. “Every time I make a point, he just—” He gestured vaguely with his free hand, irritation crackling through the movement. “—talks around it. It’s infuriating.”
Tommy snorted, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Oh my god,” he said. “You’re like a dog.”
Wilbur stiffened mid-step. “What.”
“You lose your mind like a dog hearing the word walk when Quackity opens his mouth.”
Wilbur stopped short, the sudden halt nearly sending Tommy into his back. Heat crept up his neck, sharp and unwelcome. “That’s because he’s wrong,” Wilbur said simply, turning back around and resuming his pace with renewed purpose. “Constantly. Someone has to correct him.”
“Sure,” Tommy said, tone light and entirely unconvinced.
Tubbo glanced between them, considering this with the earnest focus he applied to most things. Then he tilts his head. “How did this whole rivalry thing start anyway?”
Wilbur ignored him, quiet as a lake, taking the steps two at a time, sneakers scuffing against the worn concrete. The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and old paint, the kind of place sound bounced around too much, amplifying every word whether you wanted it to or not.
“He just showed up,” Wilbur said flatly, “and decided to be a problem.”
Tubbo blinked, missing a step before catching himself. “That’s not really an explanation.”
Wilbur groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The noise carried the same exhaustion as breaking the surface after you’d already let yourself sink, lungs burning over a story he’d boxed up and labeled totally resolved.
He’d been good. Everyone knew that. Even now, the certainty of it sat heavy and familiar in his chest.
Freshman year, he’d been their ace. The novelty, the prodigy. Coach had learned his name within the first week, had called on him first during drills, had penciled him into tournament rosters before anyone else had even finished trying out. People leaned in when he spoke. They deferred. It wasn’t arrogance if it was true.
Sophomore year had stretched out in front of him like a straight road. Predictable, orderly, inevitable. Debate club president wasn’t even a goal so much as an assumption, something people joked about in passing as if it had already happened.
“When I say before Quackity,” Wilbur said slowly, choosing his words with the same care he applied to arguments, “I mean things were… fine. Debate was fine. I was fine.” He gestured vaguely at nothing in particular. “Coach picked me for most tournaments. I ran drills. People listened. It was understood that I was next in line for president.”
Wilbur sighed. “Then next year’s tryouts rolled around, and Quackity showed up.”
The words dragged something loose in his chest, pulling him backward whether he wanted to go or not.
He could still see it with uncomfortable clarity: the debate classroom washed in harsh fluorescent light, too bright for early afternoon, desks shoved into a loose, uneven circle. At the time, the debate room didn’t feel like a boiling pot. It felt safe, comfortable, with the AC churning in the background.
Freshmen clustered together, jittery and overeager, papers clutched too tightly in their hands. Wilbur had been leaning back in his chair then, one ankle propped casually over his knee, the posture of someone who belonged there.
Coach had asked him to help run drills that day, to spar with the new kids so they could “get a feel for how debate worked.” His friends had watched from the sidelines, amused and unsurprised, because this was what Wilbur did. He was the golden standard.
Another freshman, first. They were nervous, eager, and talking too fast, stumbling over their own points. Wilbur had dismantled the argument methodically, correcting phrasing here, pointing out a logical gap there, the kind of teardown that left no doubt about the outcome but still earned a nod of approval from Coach.
He had smiled and shook their sweaty hands. It was easy. Familiar. Exactly as expected.
Then Quackity raised his hand, and he was up.
Wilbur had been halfway through his opening when it happened. He hadn’t even finished laying out the main argument before Quackity interrupted with a calm certainty that cut straight through the room.
A flaw. Identified cleanly.
Then another, stacked neatly on top of the first.
Then another.
Wilbur’s fingers tightened around the stairwell railing in the present, knuckles whitening.
“First minute,” he said now, voice taut. “He rebutted me in the first minute.”
Tommy whistled low. “Ballsy.”
Wilbur remembered glancing sideways then, everyone’s eyes — freshmen, his friends, coach — were on Quackity.
“And coach loved it,” Wilbur continued, bitterness threading through despite himself. “Just— immediately. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Suddenly there was a new ‘best.’ And there was only ever room for one.”
Coach started pairing them deliberately after that, like it was an experiment. He only ever sent one of them: it was either Quackity or Wilbur. Comparing styles out loud. Weighing them like variables. The other debate members suddenly started phrasing things differently: ‘you and Quackity’, ‘have you talked to Quackity about this?’, ‘Quackity made a good point earlier’.
Wilbur found himself arguing harder. Louder. Pushing points past where they needed to go, desperate to reclaim the gravity he’d once held without effort.
And Quackity just kept being… correct.
“And then,” Wilbur added, because he’d already dragged it this far out into the open and there was no point stopping now, “he helped Schlatt campaign for debate club president.”
Tommy winced immediately. “Oh. Yeah. That sucked.”
Tubbo blinked, processing. “Wait— that’s why Schlatt won?”
Wilbur shot him a look. “Among other crimes.”
The images came back whether he wanted them to or not. Flyers taped crookedly to lockers, curling at the edges where the adhesive failed. Handwritten slogans in marker that looked like jokes but somehow stuck. Schlatt’s voice echoing down the hallways, loud and irreverent.
And always — infuriatingly — Quackity nearby.
Nodding along. Backing Schlatt with an easy confidence that made people feel included rather than convinced. Quackity didn’t argue his case like Wilbur did; he didn’t need to. He talked to people. Remembered names. Made eye contact. Made it feel like you were already on his side before you’d even realized a choice had been made.
Wilbur had run too, of course.
Because that was what you did when things had always gone a certain way. When merit was supposed to matter. When logic and experience and seniority felt like they should speak for themselves. He’d trusted that, trusted the system, trusted the unspoken rules he’d been playing by for years.
Schlatt had won by a narrow margin. Wilbur still remembered the grin — wide, unapologetic — and the way Quackity had stood at his side afterward like it was his victory too, like the outcome had been inevitable all along.
“So,” Tubbo said slowly, “he kind of… took your spot.”
Wilbur bristled, the reaction immediate and sharp. “He didn’t take anything. Debate isn’t about spots.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Mate.”
Wilbur sighed, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe the conversation away. “Fine,” he said. “He made everything harder.”
They slowed near the bottom of the stairwell, footsteps echoing dully against concrete.
“He debates like it’s about being right,” Wilbur continued, frustration creeping back into his voice. “Like there’s one correct answer and everything else is irrelevant. No room for interpretation. No room for the people in the room.”
“And you don’t?” Tubbo asked, perplexed.
Wilbur hesitated.
“I debate people,” he said finally. “I debate ideas. I care about how arguments land. How they feel. Whether they convince someone — which, by the way, is the whole point of competitive debate — not just whether they’re airtight.” He shook his head. “He just wants to win.”
Tommy hummed, unconvinced. “Sounds like you both want to win.”
Wilbur shot him a look. “That’s not the point.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, the exit doors looming ahead of them. Late afternoon light poured through the glass in wide, slanting bands, turning the floor into a series of glowing stripes that looked almost solid, like something you could trip over if you weren’t paying attention.
“He changed things,” Wilbur said, simply. As if that answered everything.
He pushed the door open and stepped forward without thinking.
The light hit him full in the face — sudden, blinding — and he flinched, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as the world washed briefly into white.
For a second, all he could see were shadows burned into the back of his vision, the echo of brightness lingering longer than it should have.
Like a turned tide, he stepped forward anyway, pulled along by something steady and inevitable, caught in its pull whether he liked it or not.