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“Do you think this makes me sound like Josh Groban?”
Wilbur makes sure he has the rapt attention of all the cast and crew around his chromium diner table before tapping the side of his water glass three times with his knife, then proceeding to chug the remainder of its contents in one go. After the glass is sufficiently empty, he launches a winning rendition of My Friends directly into it, making sure he retains eye contact with at least one blushing castmate the entire time.
“Wilbur Soot, all the vibrato in a wind tunnel couldn’t make you sound like Josh Groban.”
Quackity’s remark gets more laughter than his entire sixteen bars had. Because of-fucking-course it does.
“Listen, listen.” Wilbur says sheepishly, trying to save the bit. “I thought I could improve my technique. Saw it in a slime tutorial somewhere.”
But it’s too late. Quackity’s moved on and so has the rest of the cast, turning to conversations with each other and steaming plates of diner nachos.
Wilbur buries his head in his arms. Not even the steaming aroma of mozzarella sticks can rouse him, This is so ridiculous. Did no one want to talk to him? Didn’t Quackity want to talk to him?
No. No, that’s even more ridiculous. Wilbur Soot, last-bower and Sweeney Todd extraordinaire, does not need the attention of Quackity Nevadas. His eyebrows furrow a bit, face still hidden by his elbows. That of all things is the least of his concerns, and he’s not going to let it ruin his cast party.
Okay, self pep talk over. Wilbur raises his face and is just about to make proper work on his diner pasta (has Quackity ever seen Lady and the Tramp? Wilbur’s got a great idea–) when–
“Nah mate, we’re with–the group of like, thirty?--Don’t give us that face, it’s just five more.”
What the fuck. That’s his dad. Why is–
Five more?
Wilbur whips his head around, suddenly very roused from his pouting by the sight of his father, and his brother, and oh come on his brother, who’s adamantly denying crayons but still asking for the menu you can fuckin’ scribble on, it’s boring as shit otherwise–and his entourage, Tubbo who’s blowing a raspberry in Ranboo’s direction.
This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.
“One minute,” Wilbur says to no one in particular because no one happens to be listening at this present moment, resisting the urge to pull his hood over his face and pretend to be invisible as he slinks over to his family. “Hi.”
“Wil!” Phil greets him with a hearty slap on the back. “I’d have brought flowers, but I know how much you hate ‘em.” He laughs, devoid of humor. “So I thought we’d send something special to the cast party instead.”
And with that, his father presents a rather lopsided cake, the writing on top (so cramped Wilbur has to squint to read it) reading Congrats on killing everyone, also this cake does not have anything suspicious in it.
“Wow. Thematic.”
“We all helped!” Tubbo shouts, as if Wilbur couldn’t tell by the frosting that he doesn’t want to ask how got in the Bench Trio (long story)’s hair.
“Okay.” He simply sighs. “Thanks for the delivery. I’ll bring this over, and…see you guys at home?”
It was a thin hope anyway, Wilbur laments as Techno just chuckles and pushes past him and towards the table.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Wilbur?” Quackity chimes in, standing from his booth and surveying the cake.
“It’s for you guys!” Ranboo says, chipper. “Great show, everyone. I liked the part where Wilbur died.”
Wilbur gives Ranboo’s shoulder a good thwack, making sure he doesn’t knock them over like the bundle of twigs they are. “Wow. Nothing even a little sus baked in here?” Quackity says, reaching out his finger to smear through the frosting.
“It’ll be your face if you keep that up.” Wilbur smacks his hand away. “Isn’t your food getting cold? I should really talk to these rascals.” He laughs weakly, and Quackity shrugs and goes to sit back down.
“None of you.” Wilbur emphasizes, pointing a finger from Techno, to Phil, to Tommy and Tubbo and Ranboo, “Fuck this up for me.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.” Techno says with an exaggerated salute.
“I’m serious.” Wilbur groans, putting his palms to his face and dragging them down slowly. “Guys, Quackity is sitting right next to me, and–”
“Ooooooh,” Tommy and Tubbo chime in, nudging each other with intense frequency.
“This is what I’m talking about!” Wilbur stomps, trying to keep it discreet. “If you guys embarrass me at my own cast party–”
“That’s my Mr. Todd alright, all grown up.” Wilbur can hear Phil saying, spotting him digging around in his wallet out of the corner of his eye. “In fact, if you all want to see something really fun, I’ve got these–hold on–photos from crazy hair day back in his first gra–”
“I think that’s enough, dad, thanks for the cake!” Wilbur puts the cake on the table and claps Phil on the back right back, trying to do so with enough force that he’s propelled at least somewhat towards the direction he came from. The rest of his cast has already dissolved into giggles, his director whispering something in the music director’s ear with a discreet chuckle.
This is it. The end of times. The big freeze. He’s never going to get a role again. He’ll have to drop out of school. Everyone who walks these halls will know of the disgraced Soot legacy.
“...Join us, Wilbur!” He hears Quackity say, the only thing that can distract him from his fantasy of a meteor wiping this entire diner to dust. “I think your brother was just about to tell us about the nickname, isn’t that right, Tommy?”
“It’s not a nickname, it’s a mark of excellence! That bench–”
“Do not tell the bench trio story.” Wilbur begs, sliding back down into his seat. His last desperate plea. “Please.”
“Aw, c’mon Wil, we wanna know.” The girl to Quackity’s right says. Wilbur surveys the cast, seeing no less than eight pairs of elbows on the table, rapt listeners to the mortifying ordeal of being known that Tommy is about to launch into.
“It’s all thanks to Wilbur, really. I’ve got the coolest brother in the world.” Tommy beams, jabbing his elbow into Wilbur’s side so hard it physically hurts. And, well–he knows the little bastard is doing it on purpose but it’s still enough to stop any further protest, waving him to continue.
“Chapter One: The Drug Van.”
“It wasn’t a–!”
But Tommy does not, as Wilbur well knows after sharing seventeen years on this Earth with him, take interruptions to stories well. And so, Wilbur listens to Tommy charming his table mates, and Wilbur listens to Technoblade discreetly asking the director if he could practice his not-at-all-made-up SAFD certification by being their fight choreographer next time, and he watches Philza provide supplemental photo evidence from his wallet, and he adamantly tries to ignore Quackity’s eyes on him, the entire time. Well, until–
“Your family’s pretty cool, Wilbur.” Quackity says. Wilbur just shakes his head, trying to ignore the blush growing on his cheeks.
“Um, gentlemen?” The waiter interrupts right as Tommy gets to Chapter Four: The Exile Arc. She points to the table vinyl, which Tubbo has taken to illustrating the story on since Tommy ran out of room on the back of the menu. “Are you intending to pay for that?”
“Aaaaand, that’s our cue.” Phil stands up, laughing nervously. “Let’s leave Wilbur to his cast and crew, yeah boys?”
“But we want you to stay.” Quackity says.
“Ehhhh, we should really get–”
“CHAPTER FOUR!” Tommy shoves his hand in front of Technoblade.
“I think it’s time for intermission actually, Tommy.”
“Okay, okay. We will continue this at my place. Period two or whatever it is you people say.”
“Act two!”
“Enjoy your cake, Wilbur.” Phil pats Wilbur on the shoulder, muttering something about how you got frosting in your hair in Tommy’s direction as his family departs.
“I’ve…I’ve heard the story.” Wilbur says weakly.
“Well, I’d be down to hear it sometime.” Quackity says, the most casual thing in the world. “Now let’s hope there really aren’t any people baked into this cake.”