“Your honour, if it pleases the court, I would like to say that my opponent is talking shit.”

Quackity could feel his actual eye twitch as the lanky, brunette motherfucker at the debate lectern in front of him waved his arms in a dramatic fashion and slammed a fist down onto the podium, argument alight in his eyes. He stood behind his own, grasping each side with a deep scowl to match Wilbur’s beaming grin, and their classmates sat cross-legged on the floor near them, watching intently.

The class president nominee tried to focus on anything other than his competitor’s snarky grin and aggravating words and instead directed his attention to the script in his hands and the cracked paint on the classroom walls. Beside them both, Eret’s fingers knocked her own sunglasses where they rubbed the bridge of their nose and groaned, directing both men’s attention to him.

“No, Wilbur, it doesn’t please the court, in fact the court is one more outburst away from making Tommy your party leader altogether.” A young blond boy cheered from his place in the crowd, giggling and elbowing his friends, and Wilbur balked. “That being said, Quackity, please refrain from personal insults within the debate. We’re trying to remain professional here.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Quackity kept his face purposefully blank as Wilbur raised his brows incredulously. “Oh, so when you said ‘Don’t worry about losing this election, Soot, there’re plenty more fish in the sea’ and then paused, said ‘oh wait’, and mimed me sucking a dick with your hand, that wouldn’t be considered talking shit?”

“I actually wasn’t miming a dick specifically, see, what I was doing was-”

“Gentlemen!”

Eret’s voice cut them both off again as she yelled, and even the ooh-ing and aah-ing of the greater student audience stopped as the room descended into silence.

Voice strained, he continued, “I need you two to keep some gods-damned iota of respect between you, and if you can't do that? Pretend. At least for the course of the debates.” They narrowed their eyes, only just visible behind the toned lenses, and both men stood up straighter. “Do I make myself very clear?”

“Yes, Eret,” they parroted.

“Good.” She gestured to Wilbur. “I believe you still have the floor?”

Ignoring Quackity’s muttered, “Oh, fuck no,” Wilbur launched right back into his speech with a jaunty turn towards his audience and a grin.

“You see, students of Esempii High, what you all need is an individual to lead the masses, to put action to your petty and frivolous wishes, and perhaps even the ones reminiscent of systemic change. You need a figurehead, a leader, and most of all you need a leader with charisma, style, and influence. What will help this community is somebody who actually has the capability to act, be it through sheer will or ingenuity.”

He took a step from his podium, pausing slightly to let his words sink in, and continued. “I will be that – your voice. The person to bring value to your ideas, to shine light onto them where others would see only darkness, to bring everybody together where they were once divided, to give you all the two things anybody can even want out of this life – power and freedom. Teachers giving you detentions for absolutely idiotic things? I’ll change that! Power! School being restrictive of other, for example, creative passions externally? I’ll fix that! Freedom! You get banned from going to the country’s leading political youth conference because you cussed out your platonic academic rival one too may times and apparently verbal assault, even if it goes both ways, is a direct violation of the enrichment policy? I’ll fucking change that! There’s nothing we can't do if you just vote for me, POG2020, as your student body president this year.”

Wilbur dipped his head in a slight bow, the pompous ass, and the crowd of students before him burst into a round of thunderous applause. With a pondering expression, his younger brother and running mate, Tommy, cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned over to Tubbo to not-so-quietly whisper, “I don’t think it’s as convincing as he thinks when he just says ‘platonic’.”

Returning to his podium, Wilbur fixed Quackity with a self-assured smirk, squaring his shoulders and straightening himself up. Honestly, Quackity swears, if there was the possibility to get even the physical higher ground here, Wilbur would’ve fucking taken it.

“Well, Big Q? You think you can follow that?” he jeered. Quackity leant over his podium as though whispering a secret, even with the several metres of space between them still.

“Of course. I’ve got to clean up the fuckin’ mess that speech was, after all.”

Wilbur couldn’t help the smile on his face.

Quackity couldn’t help but return it.

“Let me begin today by addressing the ways in which my esteemed, lovely opponent’s speech was a complete and utter nothingburger argument.”

“Wow, Quackity, descending into slang already, did watching my speech get you that frazzled?”

“Shut the fuck up Wilbur, it’s a technical term. Not that you’d know. Anyway, as I was saying, Wilbur Soot is incredibly at using a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing. Freedom and power are great concepts, that we can all agree, but when he just up-and-declares that he’s going to overthrow admin with nothing to back up his words, there surely can't be any trust there. He’s appealing to the image of him you all know, the honour roll student with a hundred electives and fifteen writing awards to his name and the second guy to say hi to you in the hallways. Do you know how I know?” He paused. “Because I'm the first. I'm actually here, instead of off in my own head, and I'm really listening, instead of boiling all of your problems down into projections of my own. And I never had sex with a fish. Amen.”

“A-what?!” Wilbur shrieked, eyes darting between Quackity and the group of students.

It had been a little over a month ago when Eret had announced this year’s student council elections, and of course, Wilbur and his freshman brother had jumped at the chance to have some stake in running the place. It didn’t mean much more than casual quality-of-life changes for students, a community garden here, freedom to leave the school for lunch rather than staying in the cafeteria there, but that hadn’t mattered to them – or, Quackity supposed, mattered to Wilbur. It was about the thrill of power, of competition, of somebody who could finally be the clashing sword to his massive ego. And so Quackity, who had been arguing with him over every little thing that could possibly by argued over and then some since the council’s instantiation, had given it to him, and started his own party to run against him. The SWAG2020 to his POG2020, and even looking back on it, it was so painfully, pettily adolescent.

“You heard me. I can make actual, measurable change around here, in a way that Soot never could, with his self-absorbed, narcissistic attitude and his plays on your heart and his reputation to win. He thinks he’s high-and-mighty because you all act like he is, and he’ll shake your hand from up on high but do it all for himself. I’ll do it for us. A better school experience for everybody here.”

“Oh, will you? Truly, could you, Big Q? Because when I look at you, I’ll tell you exactly what I see. I see an outsider, a kinsman, but a kinsman who won't survive under all of this. Power isn’t gained through diplomacy; it’s gained through conflict. Swords.”

“Gods, just say you want to fistfight me in the teacher’s parking lot after this, it’ll be easier than the shit you're spewing.”

Quackity was new this year to Esempii, not as close as the rest of the student council body had been, and it had been difficult for him to really integrate. He had managed rather well, if he did say so himself, though there was one thing that struck him before any friend had been made. Something, some bond, that was formed when he stepped into his first classroom – English, of course, he remembered it well – the only thing that would be buzzing at the back of his mind for the next year.

Wilbur Soot-Craft was a fucking asshole.

He hadn’t even gotten a few words out before Wilbur had shot him down with but a scoff, and then launched into an analysis of his own, of some bullshit meta-reading that “reframed how the entire story was viewed” and “recontextualised the characterisation of its figureheads”. Quackity was half sure he was just making up phrases to make him look stupid. To this day, he still kind of believed it.

It had launched, though, what many of their friends called their “academic rivalry” and Tommy called “one step away from a gay make-out session”. Every subject was a fight between the two, every grade back was another point to the winner, every quip they could utter out in an argument was another notch on the invisible scoreboard in their minds.

“Your mind would jump straight to physical fighting, wouldn’t it, Big Q? Not the kind of guy to be reliant on your mental prowess, are you?”

Case in fucking point.

“Spoken like a guy whose only fist to the face resulted in him bawling, sprawled out on the pavement.”

Wilbur flushed a fiery red as he flinched back. “S’not my fault you put your whole body behind it.”

A giggle escaped Quackity’s mouth and, as though not expecting his own reaction, Wilbur bit back his own smile in response. Behind them, Tommy and Tubbo made obnoxious kissing noises while Ranboo chuckled, and Eret sighed, long and hard.

“Thank you everybody! Party leaders, speakers, our audience for today, that brings the first of the 2020 Esempii student council debates to a close! We welcome you all to check out our newsletter at the end of this week, with information about the next debate, which will be a themed one, including your very own suggestions, so make sure to send those in.”

“Thank you, Eret!” the audience droned in unison.

“Thanks, man,” Quackity and Wilbur parroted sheepishly, no longer lost in their own argument.

“Yeah,” she huffed out, amused, “You two really can't get through anything without taking jabs at each other, hm?”

They immediately turned back to each other.

“Well, if he hadn’t deliberately provoked me-”

“Well, if you weren’t such a conniving asshole-”

“Ladies, ladies! Please!” Eret huffed, moving in between the two before they could get too close. “Just… I’m going to get student suggestions by the end of this week. Things to improve in the school, qualities of a president, all that jazz. I’ll get them to you at the same time, and you can prepare a debate speech with your running mate. We’ll figure out the time once everything else is sorted.”

“You got it, Eret,” Quackity said, and Wilbur nodded beside him. “See you at the meeting on Monday.”

“See you, Q. Wilbur.”

Wilbur tried to elbow Quackity out of the way on the way out of the door. In return, Quackity stood on his foot.

“Asshole.”

“You're going down.”

Trudging wearily out of the debate room, Quackity felt a hand slap his shoulder and a heavy weight leaning on him. A harsh, barked laugh sounded from above his head, and he sighed with relief.

“Fuckin’ hell, Schlatt, I thought you were trying to kill me or something.”

His gaze drifted sharply to the man on his right, dressed in a dishevelled mockery of a suit and tie that looked to have seen better days, and felt another, slower presence drift up to his left. This one, he had been expecting.

“George,” he huffed, turning his head. “C’mon, where were you today? Thank the gods Tommy can't debate formally for shit, or I would’ve had to go up against both of them alone.”

“Ah, sorry. Slept in again and missed my alarm, you know how it is, Q.”

“Ugh, did you really? And here I had faith in you,” Quackity groaned, handing a tenner to the man on his right, who cheered.

Walking basically shoulder-to-shoulder with the two, they heard a muttered, “Excuse me,” and all of a sudden there was a yellow motion by his side and Wilbur was pushing his way between and past them. Screwing up his face, Quackity stepped on the back of his shoe as he walked past, and Wilbur yelped.

“Hey, the hell was that, asshole? You didn’t need to push through us.”

Wilbur scoffed. “Maybe don’t take up the whole hallway next time. Some of us are trying to get to class.”

“Oh, I’ll bet, fuckin’ sweat. Stop talking to me, then, go kiss up to your teachers instead.”

“They’d be more riveting conversation than you!”

“Oh, you seem real riveted by our conversations, Soot,” he growled. Neither of them had noticed how close they were getting, nor the way George and Schlatt had moved out of their way, snickering.

Wilbur rolled his eyes and spat, “It’s just because it’s so amusing to see you flounder over every second word. It would be admirable if it wasn’t so overwhelmingly pathetic, Big Q. You’re pathetic.”

“And if I'm just so much like you, then what does that make you, Soot? Desperate?”

“Oh, you’ll be fucking sorry you said that, you’ll-”

“Are you two meant to be in the halls? Class started several minutes ago.”

Stunned out of their stupor, Quackity and Wilbur glanced up to see a teacher glaring down at them, peering down at them through tortoiseshell glasses perched on her noise. They wilted.

“No miss, sorry miss.”

As they tramped to class, Wilbur whispered, “’Til the next debate, my rival.”

“I'm not your fucking anything, Wilbur.”

He just smiled.

Quackity winced as he pulled Schlatt out of the glass double-doors, into the grassy courtyard. The senior seating area in the cafeteria was so loud that they wouldn’t get anything done, and this was important.

“So, what’d you call me out here for? This better be fuckin’ important, this is the first time in months I have seen something actually edible as the cafeteria special and I will kill a freshman if I see any one of them with my beef fucking rissole. And then you.”

“You’ll kill me?” Quackity chuckled, shaking his head. “Over a beef rissole?”

“Have you seen the protein content of the burgers – or, god forbid, the pizza? I go to the gym four times a week, Quackity, not everyone can life with a flatty patty like you.”

Quackity threw his head back in laughter, bumping the man with his shoulder. “Man, fuck you, don’t know why I bother. I hope a freshman takes the last rissole from right under your nose.”

“What?!” Schlatt’s eyes filled with terror. “You take that back!”

“Never!”

“Then hurry up!” Schlatt didn’t bother with the mock animosity anymore, grinning as he yelled. “What did you want to talk about.”

Steeling himself, Quackity sighed. “I think we should pool our votes for the student council election.”

Schlatt raised a mock eyebrow, and his gaze flitted between Quackity’s face and the door to the cafeteria. “You pulled me out here to talk about that stupid thing? Isn’t Wilbur just going to win that anyway?”

“That’s the thing!” Quackity exclaimed, “He doesn’t have to win. Against one of us, sure, he’s got too many fans to bring down, but both of us? He doesn’t stand a chance!”

At Schlatt’s sceptical glare, he remedied, “Okay, he stands less of a chance. But still, don’t you want to see him go down for once? See the look of horror and desperation in his eyes as everything he’s hoping for comes crumbling down around him.”

Just to let him ruminate in it for a bit, Schlatt stayed completely quiet, keeping his face purposefully neutral. Quackity scowled.

“What. What is it.”

“Nothin’, I just want you to know that taking down Wilbur is your kink, not mine.”

Quackity gasped in loud and aggressive scandal, if only to hide the actual blush that was forming on his face. “You can’t talk to a minor like that!” he gasped. Schlatt just rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re seventeen for, like, two more months. Give it a rest.”

“You don’t understand, I only have two more months to milk this, I need to fit it in everywhere.”

“Yeah, yeah.” As several younger kids trailed out of the glass doors with plastic containers of food, Schlatt swore, kicking a rock on the ground so hard it flew and hit one of them in the leg. “Shit. Q, let’s go.”

“So… is that a yes?”

“Yes, yeah, it’s fucking whatever, I’ll do your little political party, just let’s get out of here!”

Schlatt had already started speed-walking away from the scene of the “crime” (see: a very confused thirteen-year-old) and back into the building, Quackity right behind him. When they were inside with the door shut behind them, Schlatt stood impatiently in the queue, glaring daggers at every student in front of him.

Funnily enough, when he got to the front of the line, a kid half his height walked off with the last of the beef rissoles. Slowly, surely, he turned his head to Quackity, who cowered behind him, giggling.

“Quackity. Big Q. On everything I own. There better not be a freshman walking out of those doors with the last beef rissole in his hand.”

It was possibly the most serious Quackity had ever heard him.

With a strained voice as he tried not to laugh, Quackity shakily said, “Dude I think that freshman walked out with the last beef rissole in his hand.”

“I'm going to kill you- no. Actually, let’s be civil about this. Because you cost me my dear protein-packed special, we’re going to cut a deal.”

“I'm listening.”

“We’re going to pool out votes together, and if we win, I’m going to lead the student body, not you.”

Quackity shrugged, gesturing with a nod of his head to the lady working at the food station. As Schlatt turned around and sheepishly started ordering something else, he replied, “Yeah, sure. I don’t really care about the whole thing, I just need to see Wilbur go down. He’s held his little reign of terror on this school for too long, and I need it to end.”

“Oh, you need him alright- thank you, yeah, I’ll pay with card please.” Schlatt took what looked to be the world’s least appetising sandwich and a small cardboard cup of soggy chips, and with a tap of his card, walked out, Quackity by his side.

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” he asked as Schlatt grinned, looking off into the sky like he had no clue.

As the two walked past where they had been talking before, they found Wilbur and Tommy both standing there, deep in conversation. Wilbur’s hands were firmly on Tommy’s shoulders and he talked with an urgency, low and quick. When the two passed them, Wilbur turned his head to shoot daggers into Quackity’s eyes, not breaking the eye contact until they were well past.

“Ah, fuck,” Quackity mumbled. “He’s not gonna be too happy about that one. I didn’t think he overheard.”

“What, you thought he’d roll over and accept it? He was going to find out eventually.”

“Yeah, I know.” The shorter grinned, all teeth. “I just wanted to be the one to watch his face fall.”

───⋆｡°✩ ☼ ✩°｡⋆───

After the final bell had rang and students began to stream out of the school, Quackity made his way around the back, near the teacher carpark. Shoulders straight and proud, he practically bounced through the halls, cheery grin on his face as he said goodbye to his friends.

“See you, Tommy!” he yelled as the young blond took books out of his cramped locker, but Tommy just grimaced and shook his head, turning to Quackity.

“Oh, hell no, Big Q. I know you aren’t going out back with that massive grin on your face, Wilbur’s gonna kill you.”

Quackity chuckled. “With fuckin’ what? Those twig arms? I'm surprised he doesn’t fall over every time he tries to walk like a baby deer.”

Tommy snorted, and when Tubbo ran over to his side, gave Quackity a short wave. “Yeah, see you, Big Q. Don’t die out there.”

When Quackity’s smile didn’t drop and he just nodded, Tommy sighed. “And don’t fuckin’ make out with my brother, I don’t want to have to go home and see all that. If he looks even moderately happy when he steps in the front door tonight I will have your head on a platter.”

Quackity huffed out a laugh. “Nothing like that, Tommy, don’t you worry. We’re just going for a smoke.”

Tommy wrinkled his nose like he smelled smoke. “Fuckin’ ew. Whatever you say, Big Q.”

“Bye, Tommy.”

The small concrete ledge out back by the teacher’s carpark was dingy and smelled like week-old smoke, and Quackity had to step over a broken beer bottle to even make it out the door, but he kept his shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he saw Wilbur, hunched over a railing in his ash-stained yellow sweater and with a plume of smoke wafting from a lit cigarette, and sauntered on over. He stood with a shoulder touching the other’s, which was when he finally noticed him, and let out an indignant noise, face reddening.

“You fuckin’ make it a habit of sneaking up on people?” Wilbur bit out.

“Only dickheads I want to scare.” Quackity flashed that grin and watched Wilbur scowl. “Did it work?”

“Never.”

Wilbur handed the younger the still-lit cigarette, eyes trailing on where it dropped ash to the floor.

“Speaking of being fucking sneaky,” Wilbur hissed, “What on earth was that stunt with Schlatt? You can't be serious here.”

“Oh, I'm dead serious,” Quackity laughed, and when Wilbur tried to reach for his cig back, Quackity just ducked out of his reach. He took a long drag, blowing it in the other’s face in a large puff, payback for tens of times before. “We’re going to pool votes together, present a united front. I think it’ll be good – let the great people of this school know that we’re taking a stand against you.”

“Taking a stand against me?” Wilbur laughed incredulously, “Are you for real?”

“Always, Soot.”

“You little- and give that back!” Wilbur lunged for the cigarette in Quackity’s lax hand, but the shorter just stepped back with a cackle and watched his lanky ass fall over against the railing with a groan.

“How do you have joint issues already? You don’t even do any sport?”

Quackity’s next words were cut off before they could even leave his mouth as Wilbur jumped full megaknight style at him – or, rather, the hand holding his cig. It was Quackity’s turn to shriek as, instead of just snatching it from him like a normal person, Wilbur had the bright idea to launch his full body weight at him and send them both toppling to the floor. The very dirty concrete floor.

They both landed sprawled between one another, both scrambling to get up and failing miserably.

“’S what you get for taking my fuckin’ cig,” Wilbur grumbled, pushing himself up so that he was propped up above Quackity. The latter scrunched his face up to make some bitter remark, but, ah- they- they were actually kind of close, now, and Wilbur’s face was still dangerously close to his.

“You literally gave it to me, dickhead,” Quackity muttered as he felt his face grow warm, and he watched Wilbur’s gaze drawn to him, confusion or maybe intrigue lining his expression.

The cigarette fell to the side near them both, forgotten.

As neither of them spoke – rare, for them – the remnants of the smoke on both of their breath mingled in the air between them, like seeing your own exhale on a cold winter’s day. Quackity could feel Wilbur’s (painfully weak, really) arms tremble on either side of his head with the struggle to keep his body there.

“Uh.” Wilbur said eloquently.

Despite it all, or maybe just to break from it all, Quackity hissed out a laugh.

“Real eloquent, Wilbur, I see why the masses envy your ability to debate. Truly no wonder you’re part of the national team. Uh.”

Bright, fire-engine red, Wilbur pushed himself up and off of Quackity, and reluctantly offered him a hand up. Quackity didn’t take it, instead opting to steady himself on the railing with a pained grimace. The floors really were that uncomfortable.

“Do you ever shut up?” Wilbur growled, and the noise Quackity let out could hardly be considered a laugh, really, more a bark of animosity.

“Coming from fucking you! Oh my god, I know Mr. Silver Tongue over here isn’t going on about somebody else taking up his precious talking time, good fucking lord.”

“Oh, Mr. Silver Tongue?” Wilbur teased, and venom lined his words but in a way that maybe, possibly, was more intriguing than it was hostile. Or at least, more balanced. “Tell me more about my prowess for speech. Does it leave you stunned?” He made a mock crying face, mimicking tears falling with his hands. “Does it leave you so, so aware that you’re second place to me?”

“Second fucking place? I’ll show you second place when I win this election and get voted head of student council.”

“Only with the help of Schlatt!” Wilbur cried with a laugh. “You really can't do anything alone, you need all your little friends to come and help you with whatever you need. They give you everything, and I'm sick of it.”

“Ha!” Quackity pinched the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, and against his better judgement found himself taking a step towards Wilbur. “Jealous much, Soot?”

Wilbur… Wilbur tensed. That was odd.

Made even odder by the way his gaze darted everywhere but Quackity’s face and he bit the inside of his cheek, that blush rising again.

“Jealous- jealous of them? You- you’ve got it all wrong, Big Q, hah! Showering you with adoration is a lackey’s fucking game, I can't believe you’d think of me so lowly.” His words tapered off with a weak chuckle, and Quackity was starting to put the pieces together. Maybe. Perhaps. He probably fucking thought he was but would then go on to misconstrue every situation for the next, like, month. Who knows, though.

“I was talking about me, Wilbur, how you were jealous of me,” Quackity drawled after a long pause. “But, damn, way to put your own feelings out there. Thinking of me that bad?”

“Thinking of you shutting the fuck up, actually.” Wilbur’s words were clipped as he eyed the crushed and lonely cigarette on the ground, almost wistfully. His eyes were narrowed when they flicked back to Quackity, who now stood with his back leaning against the railing, shoulders dropped. “You’d look so much better without the noise.”

“Ooh, look better? Careful, here I’ll think you’re coming on to me.” Quackity’s bitter smirk dropped as soon as it same. “Prick.”

And maybe, maybe he was imagining it, but Quackity could swear that something in Wilbur’s eyes wasn’t all too opposed to the idea of coming onto him. The dickhead loved to make a fool of Quackity, so it wouldn’t be all too surprising. He noticed it to be similar to the same fire in his eyes that Quackity would see when the two were debating, always so focused on tearing the other down.

Eyes alight, Wilbur scoffed, “Yeah, right. Like I’d even consider spending a minute more than I have to with you. You’re going down in the polls and then I'm going to never spend another sorry second worrying about your stupid face. You’ll be nothing but a smudge in the corner of my vision.”

He had gotten real close at some point, basically backing Quackity up to press harder against the railing. The other man couldn’t help but notice it.

“But I’ll be there, right?” Quackity laughed, “And there’s the difference between you and I.”

He leaned in, maybe completely subconsciously. “You’re nothing the second I'm done. You’re over, and then I don’t give a fuck what happens with you.”

Wilbur leaned in to mirror him, maybe they were both very aware of it all, after all. He grabbed the collar of Quackity’s well-worn band shirt to pull him closer and huff at him.

“Do you make it your personal mission to infuriate me or is it just your natural antithesis of charm?”

“Yeah, good one, did it feel as good as when you practised it in the mirror this morning?”

The door swung open before they had time to break apart. Light from inside the school building flooded both of their eyes, causing them to hiss, and Wilbur’s face dropped into pure shock as a very distinctive voice began to call to him.

“Wil? You still out here? Dad has to stay late, he can't drop me back home ‘til, like, eight, and I have a Stardew session with the boys that I can't miss.”

Footfalls tapped dully on the concrete as the young blond poked his head around the corner, expression inquisitive. “Tubbo and Ranboo seem set on romancing the farmer that looks like each other, which, ew, but unfortunately someone’s gotta bring some women loving to the- oh, hell no.”

His previously neutral expression slid to one of absolute dismay when he saw the two, and Quackity quickly gathered how it must look. The two of them, one pressed up against the railing, close enough to whisper to each other and with Wilbur’s hands in his shirt fabric. It didn’t exactly help that they were both – if Wilbur’s face and his own feeling were any gauge – very, very red.

“What did I say? What did I fucking say, Big Q? I gave you, like, one or two jobs, and here I thought they were easy jobs, too! No! Apparently not!”

“Tommy, it’s not what it looks like-”

“‘No, Tommy, I don’t have any feelings for my academic rival, I'm not about to go make out with him behind the school,’ oh my fucking god. I think I'm gonna be sick. And probably hit one of you. To take you down. Ew. Oh my god.”

“Toms, we were just smoking,” Wilbur tried to chime in, but his younger brother shook his head adamantly.

“With your cigarette on the ground and your hands in his shirt?”

“That-” Wilbur cut himself off. “…We had finished smoking.”

Tommy muttered something that sounded like un-fucking-believable before addressing Wilbur again.

“You’re driving me home. And we will be talking about this.”

Wilbur groaned, throwing his head back, and Quackity hated that the flush still running up his neck made it all very attractive. Issue for another day, he supposed.

“Q,” he muttered as he passed, on his way over to Tommy, “You’re still going the fuck down. This changes nothing.”

“Oh, I know it changes nothing, alright,” Quackity bit back, “This debate will be your grave.”

“Okay, chat!” Eret called into the debating room, doing little to silence the barely-murmurs of excited teens. She groaned, tapping the microphone to life and watching everybody wince at the feedback that followed. They were quiet, then. “There we go- okay! Welcome, everybody, to the highlight debate of the process, I know it’s the one you’ve all been waiting for – the student suggestions debate! This one’s by far our most anticipated one, I know people who have been here a few years can tell you a few stories about the last ones.”

That queued back up the whispering, with one eager freshman exclaiming, “I heard one of them promised an adventure playground before Principal Craft got him.”

Eret chuckled as she heard the girl next to her whisper, “What the fuck could ‘got him’ possibly mean?”

“And, without further ado, let us bring to the lecterns the candidates to be debating for this week’s debate. Parties COCONUT2020 and SCHLATT2020 will be going head-to-head in tomorrow’s debate, which leaves today’s as the big old headliner – Wilbur Soot-Craft of POG2020 versus Alex Quackity of SWAG2020!”

Wilbur and Quackity stood up from where they had been sitting next to Tommy and Schlatt respectively, both looking rather annoyed to be brought out of their aggressive whispering to their companion. Tommy and Schlatt, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief when the two stood up, and looked at each other as though to say, ‘Get a load of these guys.’

Students clapped and whooped far more than necessary as Wilbur and Quackity approached their lecterns, and neither could suppress their laugh as they did. They locked eyes as they giggled across from each other, and both tapered off with a reddening face and a glare.

“You’re going down, Big Q. You know full well this is my domain.”

“I'm sure it is, Wilbur Soot,” Quackity retorted, butchering his last name horribly, “But this’ll be the first year I'm here.”

Their attentive crowd gaped at their bickering, many elbowing their friends and waggling their eyebrows at each other, and Eret sighed. They spoke directly into the microphone this time, and they all fell silent as her voice boomed out around the room.

“For those who don’t know how this is going to work, I'm going to draw paper from this box and read out the student suggestion on it. Then, the two candidates will have to spontaneously come up with either a way to implement the solution, or, if none can be found, an alternative that meets the demand in a similar way. After one party has made a suggestion, the other will be free to rebut with critiques. Due to seniority, the candidate from POG2020 will start.”

“Fuck you mean, seniority, dickhead?” Quackity jested, “And here I thought we were friends.”

“Friends mean nothing if I cannot uphold the debate process, Quackity, you know this,” Eret replied, tone deadly serious but with the slightest of smiles. “Anyway! Onto the first topic.”

He rifled around in the cardboard box on the table in front of him, pulling out a single, neatly-folded piece of white paper. When unfolded, Quackity caught the briefest glance of equally neat writing, each letter written with precision.

Eret sighed.

“Petition to rename ‘Rate My Professor’ to ‘Dream Blunt Rotation’ and have all of the stats be on how much you want to share a- there are kids in here, whoever wrote this!”

“So can they debate it or not?” a voice called from up the back. Quackity’s gaze was drawn to Karl, sitting next to his boyfriend in the world’s largest pastel-coloured jumper. Eret took a very, very long inhale in, and an even longer exhale, rubbing her eyes under her sunglasses.

“…Sure. Yeah, I guess. Why the fuck not. Dream Blunt Rotation professor ratings. Go.”

Wilbur cleared his throat, just having recovered from a bought of laughter brought about by whatever the hell that debate topic was, and began.

“Now, we all know the phrase “dream blunt rotation”. Some of us-” and he looked pointedly at Karl, who cackled, “-even use it to describe a measure of character far beyond what we can achieve in mere ‘class averages’ and ‘ease’ statistics. It suggests a relatability, nay, a spiritual connection far beyond all other measured characteristics. We all know this, younger generation that we are. We also know that the phrase might have some contention with it’s direct meaning. However, I believe that the solution of implementing a website solely for Esempii High student and teacher use, with rankings on which teachers make that special list, is feasible- wait! Only because, and hear me out here, Principal Craft has no idea what the phrase means. Getting him to sign off on it would be just like my convincing you now – a measure of spirituality, subjective interpretation, and just like that the site is up.”

“Point of information!”

“Quackity I don’t think this works like an actual debate, you have to wait your turn-”

“I do not believe that Principal Phil “Philza” Craft has no clue what a blunt is, hasn’t he had like a hundred years to try everything on this green earth? I'm sure he’s tried drugs we’ve never even heard of.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s my father-”

“Yeah, and?”

They moved onto the next topic very shortly after that, with a fair amount of joke arguments but really nothing sustaining the “new and improved teacher rating system” to be legitimate. The next was actually a little similar in the way that it talked about teachers and would definitely be less than school appropriate – someone that “definitely wasn’t Tubbo” suggesting a student-teacher fighting ring. Annoyingly, Wilbur’s suggestion of termly student-teacher debates was a pretty brilliant solution, and something that Quackity (though he wouldn’t admit it) would love to see.

Shockingly, Quackity had – for lack of a better word – won the third suggestion, with some random freshman asking for better food from the cafeteria. Rather than just telling them to go to the various fast food places around the school (which would be referencing one of Wilbur’s good ideas and thus admitting to the fact that he actually had those), he suggested a weekly class potluck, where homeroom would have a party of sorts with mains and desserts. All simple things, like garlic bread, pizza, brownies, but stuff to bring the vibe up.

Quackity didn’t feel all too bad about that debate, actually – definitely a lot better than the first one. Wilbur was still Wilbur, of course, but there seemed to be something… different, perhaps, in the way that he debated Quackity now, something less than hatred but not quite friendship. Respect, maybe. Or maybe Quackity was just noticing it now.

His slight high from the at least partial win was made all the more sweet when Tommy and Niki bounced up to him, giant grins on their faces and snickering behind their hands.

“Hi, Quackity!” Niki cheered, Tommy snorting behind his hand. Quackity narrowed his eyes.

“…What’s going on here?”

“No, nothing, nothing! We were just wondering if you wanted to come for lunch with us – all the parties are having a get-together at the diner down the street – uh, The White Hydrangea, I think it is. Apparently they do a mean strawberry milkshake, put it in a tall glass and add whipped cream and everything.”

“What’s the catch?” Quackity asked, still sceptical, but the two rushed to correct him.

“No, no catch! We were just, uh, laughing at something else really funny! Tommy was telling me a joke on the way over.”

“Damn right I was, and it was the best joke she’s ever heard!” Tommy boasted.

“Yeah, that. So, are you in?”

“Hmm…” In truth, Quackity only pretended to think about it, and the growing smile on his face gave his answer away long before he started speaking. “Yeah, sure. On one condition.”

“What is it?”

He turned to Tommy. “What joke did you tell her?”

Evidently extremely caught, Tommy’s eyes went wide and he froze in place. Niki smothered a laugh with her fist, and he looked to her for guidance, but she just shook her head quickly. “Uh… um… just when you thought vegetables couldn’t call you…”

He paused dramatically, looking to Quackity, who shut his eyes in anticipation and sighed.

“Tommy, I swear to fucking god, if onion rin-”

“Onion fucking rings, Quackity!”

It was so absurdly unfunny he couldn’t help but laugh, Tommy clapping him on the back with a self-assured grin. “See, that was her reaction! It was hilarious.”

“Oh my fucking gods, fine, I’ll come to lunch. I just need to get some stuff from my locker, though – I’ll meet you guys there in twenty?”

“You got it, Big Q. We have a table reserved, number 20. Don’t miss it!” Niki told him while Tommy punched the air behind her.

“Why would you reserve a table at a diner-”

“I said don’t miss it okay bye!”

And with that, the two were off, and Quackity was left to put his books from the day back in his locker – law and English, which there was no way he was putting in study time for, not this early in the term. This was the point where you still thought you had creative passions and time in your life, not the time for studying. He grabbed his bag, a navy backpack with ironed-on patches from his favourite bands (and nothing like Wilbur’s nerdy-ass leather book satchel), and slammed his locker shut, making his way out of the school and down the street.

The White Hydrangea was just on the formal side of a diner, the type of place made entirely for high schoolers trying to impress their dates by taking them somewhere semi-fancy or adults who had given up on expensive restaurants but still wanted that elegant feel. For his bickering, Quackity could understand why they had to book a table here specifically; even during lunch, the place was often packed. They had good food, too, though he couldn’t exactly say it was restaurant-worthy. Thank every god the prices weren’t, either, or he’d be broke off of this lunch alone.

After a short walk, Quackity found himself in front of it, the currently unlit neon flower sign out its front marking the entrance. He pushed the doors open, punctuated by the small ring of a bell, and his eyes fell on table 20.

Where a very confused and tense Wilbur Soot sat. And, distinctly, only fitting two chairs.

Before he could consider just turning on his heel and walking out of the restaurant, Wilbur’s eyes found his, and the taller (after quickly breaking eye contact), gave him an awkward wave. Almost against his will, Quackity returned it, and with a huff walked as confidently as he could over to the table. He pulled out the chair and sat, rolling his shoulders back and crossing his arms.

“I'm guessing we shouldn’t expect the rest of them to show up,” he grumbled as he slung his bag on the floor, and Wilbur nodded.

“Ah, so they did tell you, too. I was a bit confused when I got here and there were only two chairs at the table. Thought Tommy’d be giving me an intervention or something.”

“Why would Tommy be giving you an intervention?”

“Because he thinks that I- never mind, it doesn’t matter.” Wilbur cleared his throat, gesturing to the two menus in front of him, and Quackity watched the palest of red tinge his cheeks. “Are you- I mean. We’re ordering? You’re hungry?”

“Has your silver tongue all but fuckin’ run out for the day, Wilbur?” Quackity laughed, “Yeah, I'm ordering. You looked at the menu yet?”

“Yeah, I have, I reckon I’ll just get the, uh – hm.” He paused. “The beef burger, I think.”

“Don’t you literally work at a burger place? What was it – Ranvan or McPuffy’s? I can never remember.”

“Ranvan right now, McPuffy’s got my ass when I started dropping shifts to do interstate debating.” Wilbur shrugged. “The burgers here are much better quality, though, so I can actually eat them without gagging.”

“True shit, king,” Quackity replied rather awkwardly, and then promptly realised that he didn’t remember the last time he had had a full, civil conversation with Wilbur. “What, uh, what music do you like?”

“What.”

“I'm curious!” Quackity tapped his chin, mulling over the menu. “And I think I’ll get the roasted chicken and chips. Can't go wrong.”

Wilbur was still looking at him like he sprouted a third head, mouth slightly agape, when the waiter came around to take their order. After they had ordered and the waiter had left, he finally answered.

“You’re serious? You’re not going to, I don’t know, use this against me in a later debate?”

“How the fuck would I possibly use this against you in a later debate? I- ugh. I just wanted to have a conversation with you. While we’re stuck in this restaurant together.”

“Huh.” Wilbur relaxed his shoulders a bit, smile worming its way onto his face. “Yeah, I guess you're right. I like… I don’t know, a lot of stuff. Crywank if I'm sad, some, like, pop punk stuff if I'm happy- oh!” He cut himself off, leaning over the table with wide eyes and a grin. “I have to introduce you to SELF-iSH, it’s actually so heat- uh.” He seemed to realise how close he had been getting, because he leaned back into his chair with a swallow. Quackity fought the urge to tell him it didn’t matter, he didn’t mind.

“That’s… really cool. You’ll have to play them for me sometime. When we’re smoking.”

Wilbur laughed curtly. “I don’t know if SELF-iSH is really smoking material. More like screaming the words along in the car.”

“You got a license, though? You can drive me home after this.”

The words were out before Quackity could really think about them, but he was sure glad he said them, if only for the way the blush on Wilbur’s face grew tenfold and he bit back a smile.

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

The waiter came back with their food, holding a plate in either hand, and the two dug in hungrily. Quackity could admit, the food was pretty good for a place that advertised itself as a diner, and the company for once wasn’t all that bad either. They finished their meals in a silence, but it was comfortable, rather than charged with an electric air of hostility.

Wilbur was last to finish, wiping the corner of his mouth on a napkin and looking away. Quackity wasn’t looking away, though, he was looking directly at him, and past all of this rivals and hatred bullshit, he could admit that Wilbur was pretty cute.

Fine. Fine, he was handsome, and the botched dye job from a month ago that hadn’t faded and left a permanent white streak in his hair was a little attractive, too, and he had a spark in his eyes whenever he was arguing with debating talking to Quackity that was truly a wonder to look into.

And Quackity thought that maybe that was a little too obvious in his facial expression because Wilbur looked up at him and coughed, before slowly, like he wasn’t sure of himself (which, sure, made Quackity’s heart flutter a bit, because when wasn’t he sure of himself?), he reached over to weave his fingers through where Quackity’s hand rested on the table.

Quackity’s jaw dropped as he started running his thumb over his, whether anxiously or affectionately would remain to be seen.

“The fuck are you doing?”

He hadn’t meant it to be accusing, but from the way Wilbur’s face dropped and the speed at which he retracted his hand, Quackity’s surprise obviously manifested in that way.

“Wait, fuck, I- oh, my gods.” Quackity sighed, raking his fingers through his hair with trembling fingers, and laid his hands down on the table again. “Show me your hands.”

“Huh?”

“Just- you- ugh! Show me your fucking hands.” He truly had no idea how he was going to play this, but any effort was better than no effort, he supposed.

Wilbur obliged, handing over his, well, hand with a furrowed brow and a million words that all died on his tongue the second Quackity interlocked their fingers again, brushing over the taller’s knuckles.

“You’ve got fuckin’ guitar player’s hands,” Quackity explained, looking determinedly at the floor with a red face, “They’re calloused as shit. You obviously don’t take good enough care of them, idiot that you are, hence why mine are so lovely and amazing to hold.”

He had regained enough of his confidence to look Wilbur in the eye, it seemed, who grinned and reflected the very same glimmer of challenge back at him.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, and Quackity nodded. “I've been told my lips are pretty chapped, too. You gonna scold me for that as well?”

God, he was a self-serving bastard, and Quackity couldn’t help but be a little endeared by it.

“Mm, I’ll make fun of you for it, of course, if you can't think of a more effective method.” He tilted his head. “Can you, Wilbur?”

Pupils dilated, Wilbur whispered, “I reckon I could.”

“Could you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quackity spotted the beginning of a devious idea. The waiter hovered in the outskirts of his vision, and he attempted to signal to them as subtly as possible. They seemed to get the memo, whizzing over to their table with lightning speed, and Quackity laughed as Wilbur’s expression turned to one of wide-eyed dismay.

“Well, you’ll have to show me another time, then,” he teased, taking his hand from Wilbur’s and lightly kicking him under the table. Before Wilbur could suggest paying, he handed over the total the waiter told him and stood up out of his chair, turning back on his way out.

“Oh, and I’ll see you at the announcement of the votes next week.”

SLIME HELP ME		☆
	A. Quackity <\[email protected]> October 1, 2020, 5:38AM to me ▾	➦ ···

SLIME THIS IS IMPORTANT THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY IMPORTANT

okay so hypothetically if there was this guy that you absolutely hated and every single thing in your gut told you to just completely punch his face in every time he opened his mouth. but now when he opens his mouth you, hypothetically of course, want to just kiss the self serving smile off of it instead and also maybe still punch him jury's still out on that one but more kiss him now. just to wipe the smile off his face naturally. and maybe to see if he sighs into it. hypothetically if that happened to you how would you approach that situation.

Kind regards,
Alex Quackity
Esempii High

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The room they had been using to host the debates would also be the one they were announcing the final winner in, and, coincidentally, was the one that Quackity and Wilbur were currently holed up in, the lights dimmed and the doors shut tight. They had been instructed by a (very tired, very unamused) Eret to set up the room for presentations before everything went down, and so all of the desks were lined against the walls and the chairs were stacked. But the room now laid bare of its desks, and the two were fucking bored. Well. Mostly bored.

They kept stealing glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, which resulted in many a cough to cover it up and a very unsubtle glance at the ceiling.

At some point, Wilbur broke the silence.

“You won't be able to do it, not even with your little help. You think you’ll be able to do anything on your own? You’re doomed to be second fucking place, Big Q. To me.”

Quackity growled out something annoyed as he moved closer to where Wilbur was standing to point a finger in his face. “Yeah fucking right. You take that bullshit narcissistic attitude and shove it up your fucking ass, because I won't have it.”

“Oh, you won't? You won't? Well, let’s all just bow down and accept your grace, then, Big Q.”

“You wouldn’t. You’d just talk big shit until the day I surpassed you, and even then you wouldn’t bear to admit it. You’re so fucking stuck-up, I despise it, and when I win I’ll be sure to rub it in your face.”

“Hah! When you win? When I win, Big Q, I'm going to revel in the smile sliding off of your face.”

“When I win, I’ll wipe it off yours.”

They had gotten awfully close, now, under the room’s dim lights and cool atmosphere. Wilbur opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out. Quackity followed his every movement, and he noted that he maybe wanted to put his hand over Wilbur’s again. Like a social experiment. To see what he would do. Because it wasn’t like he would-

He pressed his lips to Quackity’s.

He pressed his lips to Quackity’s and the shorter threaded a hand through his hair in retaliation, drawing in a stuttering breath when Wilbur sighed. It wasn’t heaven, or hell, but Quackity decided that he couldn’t get enough of this.

“You’re- oh my god, you’re so shit at kissing,” was all Quackity was able to bite out before Wilbur rolled his eyes and dove in again, pressing a myriad of chaste kisses to his lips.

“You seem like you’re hating yourself,” Wilbur hissed back, and Quackity just grumbled into his lips and into the hand now resting in the small of his back.

And then bright, abrasive light hit their faces as, one by one, all of the members of the political parties filed into the room. Eret, Niki, Fundy, Schlatt, Tommy all looked directly at them, practically on top of each other on a spare desk, and their jaws dropped.

Tommy was the first to break the silence.

“Holy shit, you all owe me ten bucks.”