I Don’t Fuck With Feelings Anymore

by BugnetTV

Summary:

It wasn’t the smartest move for two petty criminals constantly on the run. They knew that. Quackity did, at least, yet he’d still let Schlatt convince him that entering the Glitter Bowl was a good idea. It’s a shot at more money than they’d ever seen before. Enough to buy their way out of debt, outrun their warrants, and maybe settle down somewhere decent. It’s a good offer with far too many risks to be worth it.

The Glitter Bowl, despite its name, was a ruthless competition. Schlatt had won almost all of his unofficial fights, but that didn’t guarantee he could hold his own against practiced fighters in a real arena. It didn’t guarantee them even making it to the half a mil, so why were they there? Why was Quackity humoring this gig that paid well but tried its very best to put their lives on blast?

The answer was simple, really. Quackity is an idiot. An idiot who would do anything for the people he loves and he may just find more on the way.

Chapter 1: Lunatic

“Fucking move! Prick.”

 

Schlatt lays heavy on the horn, making sure to make eye contact as he speeds past the slow Toyota they’d been stuck behind for the last hour. He’s still huffing and puffing when he looks over and catches Quackity’s eye, but the tone switches up real quick. The huffing continues, but in less of an angry way and more of a child that’s about to get scolded way. Which is a decent interpretation of the situation if you asked Quackity.

 

“He was slow,” Schlatt all but whines. “C’mon he’s been driving like a dick for miles. It’s not like I flipped him off.”

 

Quackity gives a hmph in response, smirking when Schlatt just squirms in his seat. He doesn’t have to keep looking over for Schlatt to feel his judgement so he doesn’t. Quackity stares down at his email until Schlatt finally caves.

 

“Fuckin’ fine. I’m sorry, I will stop behaving badly on the road.”

 

Quackity does look up, but only to cock a brow.

 

“God, you suck,” Schlatt groans. “I’m sorry and I will stop behaving like an underperforming steroid monkey on the road. Happy?”

 

“Very,” Quackity hums.

 

He’s not actually upset with Quackity, despite his near constant need to gripe about something. Schlatt’s just frustrated. They’re on the last leg of their seven hour drive to New York, so of course he is. Quackity was a bit sympathetic at the start, but not by much considering he’d done the ten hour drive the day before. He hadn’t complained about it either. Regardless, they were both more than ready to get the fuck out of this car and it showed. First of all, they’d stolen the hatchback way back in California, so someone was bound to be looking for it by now. Secondly, even Quackity, at his perfectly average height, was losing feeling in his legs from all the driving and forced confinement. He’d busied himself with responding to emails and reading hotel reviews for the last hour, but that was only so time consuming. Quackity was ready to get the fuck out of this car.

 

“Five minutes,” Schlatt mutters. “Fuckin’ finally.”

 

“Oh, thank fuck. I’ve had to piss for like six miles,” Quackity genuinely sighs in relief, stretching as far as he could from the confines of the passenger seat.

 

Schlatt snorts, otherwise ignoring him as the GPS spews directions at him. He takes the next exit prompting Quackity to do his duty as passenger princess and round up their shit. He’s got maps on the floor that get crumpled up and shoved in the glove compartment. Takeout bags from pretty much every food place imaginable get combined and set atop the dashboard so they don’t forget to take it out. Then it’s just the small stuff. Rolling up Schlatt’s headphones. Consul charger gets moved to the backpack. Empty coffee cup joins the dashboard trash. Quackity is forcing his shoes back on, then he turns, waving a hand to get Tubbo’s attention.

 

Tubbo perks up immediately. He slips his own headphones off and yawns. “Are we there?”

 

“Almost,” Quackity answers. “Can you give me the DVD player so I can put it away? You can finish your movie at the hotel, I promise.”

 

Tubbo is the most wonderful five year old in the world. He never puts up a fuss about anything, just gives a cute little nod and closes the DVD player up, headphones balanced on top. Quackity gives a wink, then into the backpack it goes with the rest of their lives.

 

“I’m hungry,” Tubbo comments. He’s also stretching in his booster seat, wiggling now that he’s been snapped out of movie trance.

 

“We’ll eat once we check in,” Schlatt tells him. “I think Q has some Cheetos left if you want those for now.”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Quackity tosses them back, smiling at the happy noise he receives in response. He takes Schlatt’s phone off its stand on the consul, zooming in until he finds the spot and then quietly reroutes them. Schlatt gives it only a glance. He usually trusts Quackity’s judgement on these things, so that’s not surprising. Pick up and drop off places were all on the list of things Quackity is in charge of. Right alongside where they sleep, what they eat, and who they speak to. Basically everything except for their income which fell almost exclusively on Schlatt. Though Quackity posed as his trainer, that was more a formality than anything else. Schlatt hadn’t been trained. Not properly. He’d learned to fight the street way and then he’d gone and shaped up all on his own when his fights started getting traction. Quackity still signed all their papers to compete, but at the end of the day, winning was all Schlatt.  Money was all Schlatt.

 

The qualifying tournament began tomorrow in a relatively rural area of New York hence the journey. They’d spent far too much on gas getting over here, all in the hopes that Schlatt would win and qualify, so they couldn’t afford getting caught in a stolen car before this thing even started. That’s why Schlatt follows the reroute to a parking lot within walking distance of their hotel rather than straight there. It a fishing outpost from what Quackity could tell. He’d been googling the area since yesterday to figure out the best course of action and this was it. It wasn’t used often according to the google reviews. If they were lucky, they’d be out of town by the time anyone even found the car. Definitely by the time they figured out it was stolen. It’s the farthest they can get without having to hitchhike to the hotel anyway, so it would have to fucking work.

 

Schlatt cuts the engine and just shouts like an absolute lunatic. He grins when both Quackity and Tubbo pin him with mean looks, saying, “it’s over! No more driving.”

 

Quackity rolls his eyes. Gives a curt, “Yeah dumbass. We’re here. Are you getting the bags or Tubbo?”

 

“How far is the walk?”

 

“Three minutes.”

 

“Hm, bags,” Schlatt decides. “Tubbo’s all you.”

 

“Lovely.”

 

Then Schlatt groans dramatically and frees himself from the prison of the hatchback. Something incredibly fond swells in Quackity’s chest when his grumbling continues and Tubbo giggles from behind him.

 

“Your dad’s such a drama queen, isn’t he?”

 

They lock eyes in the rear view mirror as Tubbo giggles harder. It’s a cute moment until Schlatt abruptly turns and launches the keys into the canal ten feet ahead of them. Then Quackity heaves a sigh and gets out as well.

 

“Schlatt,” he barks, earning a chastised look from the older. “What if we needed those to open the trunk?”

 

“Do we?”

 

Disgruntled, Quackity admits, “No, but still. Think before do. Please.”

 

He’s brushed off with a hand wave as Schlatt rounds the car. Quackity’s known him too long to expect anything else and he sends an unseen middle finger back. He ducks back into the car long enough to climb across and pop the trunk, then backtracks out. It is really nice to be outside again. They don’t travel by car much, preferring to walk when they could. The weather is starting to cool off now too, in New York especially, and Quackity has always preferred the cold. It’s better for them in a lot of ways. The cold allows him to press a thick hat onto Tubbo’s head that pushes soft blonde bangs into his eyes. He’s already unbuckled himself, so Quackity is able to help him into his coat and button it up all the way to his lips. Tubbo doesn’t fight him on it. When he finally sets the five year old down on the sidewalk, he’s more fabric than face, as intended. Big brown eyes blink up at him with the unbridled joy only children possessed. At least Tubbo was having fun.

 

“You got everything you brought from the car?” Quackity asks, doing one last sweep of the backseat.

 

“Yup!”

 

It looks clean, so Quackity shuts the door and maneuvers Tubbo around the back to his dad. He leaves the kid just long enough to grab their take out bags and then ushers him to sit off to the side while he unscrews their license plate. It’s an old one from New Mexico which is where the last car they’d had came from. Finding tags with a decent expiry date that also wouldn’t get immediately reported stolen was hard to do, so they only got a new one every few cars. It goes in the back pack as everything does, then Quackity stands and hoists Tubbo onto his hip. He eyes Schlatt and offers a soft,  “Ready?”

 

Schlatt’s got his backpack on as well as a duffle slung across each shoulder. He looks stupid as hell, but he grins and slams the trunk closed. “All set.”

 

“Then let’s move.”

 

Unfortunately, the walk takes a little more than three minutes with the added baggage and the extra heat their winter clothes brought on. Schlatt’s properly sweating when they stumble into the hotel lobby and Quackity takes pity on the man. He sent them both to the elevators, up to the fifth floor like the email had told them while he handles check-in. He keeps one of the duffles with him as a trade-off for Tubbo, which works out because he can use its strap as a temporary stress ball now that he was doing business. This part was one of his least favorites no matter how many times they’d done it. Quackity could lie and charm all he wanted, but the fact was that this wasn’t like their low grade fights back home. This was the qualifier for the fucking Glitter Bowl. The prize of every fight going into it started at ten grand and the final fight? The pit? It was worth half a million. This was big level shit. As such, it was much better secured than anything they’d worked before. Publicized too. Quackity could see people everywhere and the threat of cameras became more real with every fighter that walked through those doors. It was risky, to say the least, so he was nervous approaching the desk.

 

“Hi, I’m checking in a fighter,” Quackity smiles even knowing the receptionist can’t tell behind the mask. “Would I see you for that?”

 

She’s a nice young girl. Peppy and easily susceptible to charm. He keeps up easy conversation throughout the process, practically melting when it’s a quick and painless. He’s in the elevator within ten minutes, typing the Wi-Fi password into his phone to once again refresh his email. What he’s looking for isn’t there yet. Schlatt and Tubbo are waiting for him by the vending machines though. When he steps onto floor five, Tubbo has his face pressed up against the glass and his hand jammed up the bottom just shy of a bag of skittles. Schlatt offers him encouragement from above, flashing Q a proud grin as he joins them and deposits one room card in Schlatt’s coat pocket. The other he keeps on hand, gently pulling Tubbo away and down the hall with the promise of dinner.

 

With this fight being government sanctioned, they’d expected a bit of poshness going into it. They knew, on some level, that this was going to be like nothing they’d ever experienced before. Their hotel room still managed to be shocking through that knowledge. Quackity shouldered the door open, raising the lights on what could easily be a two bedroom apartment back in California. He’s sufficiently stunned by what he can see, he’s almost afraid to walk in and actually look around the place. Tubbo, fortunately, is not. He darts past Quackity and plops onto the couch with all the grace of a baby deer. It’s cute enough to spark Quackity into moving. He drops the duffle by the door, finding Schlatt’s eyes and laughing when an identical bewilderment meets him.

 

“This is a little much, huh?”

 

Schlatt steps inside much more hesitantly than his son had, marveling at the weird art on the walls like it was going to jump out and bite him. “What kind of rich people shit is this?” He mutters. “We have a couch in our hotel room?”

 

“A lot of hotel rooms have couches,” Quackity points out, shutting and latching the door behind them. He wanders in after Schlatt and he has to admit, he can see why that sounds crazy now. TV. Dresser. King sized bed with two nightstands. Mini bar. Coffee table and arm chair. It’s ridiculously nice for the people occupying it and Quackity is impressed. “Guess the big leagues really mean the big leagues. Who would have thought?”

 

“This is wild.”

 

It’s a gross reminder of the situation they’d gotten themselves into. He’d been distracting himself from reality since they’d signed up. Trying to, at least, and there was certainly no ignoring the truth now that they were standing in it. Quackity can’t help but worry, processing for maybe the first time that they were in the real game now. They weren’t showing up at underground fights anymore, they were on the roster to play country championships. Schlatt was a registered fighter in the Glitter Bowl. A long, ruthless competition to get to the final fight and win the title of champion for a year. It was the event of the winter season. Played in every household across the country as any and every fighter trained in exercere magicae tried their hand at infamy. It was the definition of making it for someone like Schlatt. The dream. It was also, quite possibly, the stupidest thing they’d done to date, and that was saying something.

 

“There’s a bible on my side.”

 

Schlatt brandishes a red bible at him, neither of them worried over the claim. They’d been sharing a bed since, God, since forever it seemed like. Eight years maybe. Quackity was the type who could sleep anywhere anyway if it meant that he could keep himself on his feet the next day. Schlatt was a little more particular. It didn’t matter what they were sleeping on or where, Schlatt always slept on the left. It was a superstition of his, or something, and Schlatt had a lot of those so Quackity didn’t whine over it. He’d be an asshole too anyway because Schlatt really doesn’t ask for much. Little things like sleeping on the left or covering mirrors at night that Quackity did his best to remember. The only real tough thing Schlatt had ever asked him for was this. The competition, and that hasn’t gotten them caught yet, so Quackity wasn’t going to complain. Yet.

 

He shrugs off the backpack and wanders back down the hall where the light switch triggers a giant LED mirror instead of a normal light. It reminds him that he’s bundled up and sweating though. His own muddled features staring back in judgment. He looks away quickly. Quackity’s mask, a black balaclava type thing, and his beanie are folded neatly by the sink soon. He takes a much needed piss before shedding his jacket as well and making use of the provided hotel hangers. Tubbo has long since discarded his, moving on from the couch to every openable thing in the room like it’s his mission in life. Quackity lets him be. He snatches up Tubbo’s coat and then Schlatt’s to hang. Their shoes are lined neatly by the door and the bags lined similarly down the hall before Quackity finally drops down beside Schlatt on the bed. He earns a teasing look for that. A joking, “Done tidying up?”

 

“I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

 

Schlatt snickers, but doesn’t push. They both know why Quackity’s OCD is flaring up these days. He hadn’t been properly medicated in years considering they are actual criminals and he hadn’t seen a therapist since he was a minor. It was manageable though. Things always got a little worse when they made risky moves like this one, but it’s fine. Still manageable.  Schlatt only ever pokes at it in good nature. Never anything actually malignant, but that doesn’t stop Quackity from feeling shame over it. Schlatt knows that so it’s one of their unspoken lines in what’s usually a bullying relationship. They try to avoid the topic and that helps. Tubbo helps too. It’s hard for Quackity to keep all his habits and rituals in order with a toddler around. Exposure therapy had nothing on parenting, this Quackity stood by. He hadn’t scrubbed his skin raw in a good five years, so he owed Tubbo one. A million, really.

 

“We don’t need to be anywhere tonight right?” Schlatt wonders. He lays back against the bed frame, watching Tubbo run around with a soft smile on his face. Quackity’s glad to see him relax. He’d been tense the whole week, ever since they got his acceptance into the Glitter Bowl. Quackity had been pretty shit at comforting the guy when he was also freaking out, so relaxed Schlatt was nice. Relaxed Schlatt made him feel a bit less like everything was going to fall apart.

 

“No,” Quackity sighs, falling back into the pillows as well. “There’s a fighter welcome banquet tonight but it’s optional. You wanna go?”

 

“Fuck no.”

 

“Thought so,” he hums. “Then no. We’re free to rest and recuperate.”

 

Schlatt flips that soft look onto him then, asking, “Dinner then? Kids gonna get cranky soon.”

 

“I’ll google delivery in the area.”

 

“Beautiful. Tubbs! C’mere so we can order dinner!”

 

It’s a nice night. Despite the odd circumstances that led them here, Quackity wouldn’t change a thing. He would always be grateful for their little family. For his best friend and the kid that they co-parent in what has to be the worst way possible. They’re struggling. Sinking most of the time, but at least they’re happy. At least they have nights in posh hotels with decent, if cold, Chinese takeout and Tubbo’s half finished movie about claymation dogs. He can’t help but wonder if these nights would make up for the shoot outs and the homeless shelters they’d dragged Tubbo through over the years. He was a happy kid. Certainly well adjusted, but for how long? At what age was this kid going to look at them and stop smiling? When would he be old enough to understand that hide and seek hard mode had actual, deadly consequences? Quackity could drown in the wondering, so he shuts it down there. He grounds himself in the heat of Tubbo curled into his side, content and full of love for people who probably didn’t deserve it. 

It’s hard to enjoy things sometimes. Quackity wants to, but there’s so much to be worried about all the time. He shoulders most of the responsibility for their little family. He thinks and stresses and plans so that they don’t have to. He wouldn’t have it any other way, but it takes its toll. Instead of enjoying a nice night, Quackity’s mind is all contingency plans and future probabilities. He refreshes his email every ten minutes to the point that Schlatt actually takes the phone away from him for an hour. He only gives it back when Quackity begs, not pleased, but generally uncomfortable with any kind of strong emotions coming from the brain of the group. The email he’s waiting for still doesn’t appear until ten-thirty. He’s stopped refreshing it to get Tubbo changed and tucked into bed. Schlatt’s in the bathroom when it finally comes through and Quackity doesn’t even wait for him. He opens it and scrolls until the name appears. The first fighter Schlatt would be up against tomorrow. 

He’s not sure how he feels when Schlatt resurfaces, catching onto the atmosphere surprisingly quickly.

 

“What?” He asks. Eyes flit down to his phone and Schlatt seems to get it. “Oh, shit. Okay. Lay it on me then. Just get it out there.” 

It’s so very Schlatt to rip the bandaid off. To dive headfirst, impulsively into things. Quackity both loves and detests the way no worry seems to penetrate Schlatt’s thick skin. Still, such a pure Schlatt response is a comfort of its own. It’s enough, at least, for him to decide how he feels about the name. He looks up, offers Schlatt a small smile and says, “Skeppy. You’re fighting Skeppy first.” 

Schlatt, the idiot that he is, retorts, “Sweet. Piece of cake.” 

And Quackity can’t believe he’s given his everything to such an utter buffoon. What’s worse, he was going to continue doing it forever. However long that would be for them.

“Shut up and come to bed, Schlatt. You need to be up at six.”

Chapter 2: Sloppy

Notes:

I hate carrots. This has been a PSA.

“Soot!”

 

Wilbur found Dream’s hand waving a few tables over and an easy grin broke out across his face. He nudged Tommy’s shoulder with his knee, nodding in their direction and following when the blonde goes storming that way. At freshly five, Tommy had a big personality and by that, Wilbur meant he threw himself at everything full force and loud mouthed. Dream was no exception.

 

“Oi!” Tommy greeted Dream by slamming into his thigh. “Where’s your mask, ugly?”

 

“Tommy, shut up,” Wilbur said, grabbing him lightly by the head and guiding him to an empty seat across the table. Not for the first time, Wilbur wishes they’d brought a nanny. Tommy’s just lucky Dream has known him his entire life because most people wouldn’t get away with talking to him like that. Even five year olds. Fortunately for Tommy, son of infamous fighter Phil Craft and his trainer/wife, Kristen Craft, he’d been raised in the arenas. The fighters- Dream included- were like family to the kid and they were fond enough of the little shit to let him get away with small grievances.

 

Hence why Dream just chuckles and says, “Getting touch ups for tomorrow, little man. Where’s yours?”

 

Tommy’s face scrunches up something mean as he says, “Dad took it away. He said my teachers were getting worried.”

 

“They were,” Wilbur huffs. “You were wearing it non-stop, Tom. I was concerned.”

 

“Whatever. It was cool,” Tommy mumbles as he sits. He lets Wilbur put both their plates down this time before digging in. A lesson hard learned between the pair. Wilbur’s own dinner was a lot less colorful than Tommy’s, mostly just chicken and potatoes. He’d been sick the week leading up to qualifiers and the last thing Wilbur needed was to puke in the training hall tomorrow. So potatoes. It seemed like the least offensive thing on the banquet table anyway. They never had any normal food at these things. It was always gaudy, over the top dishes that no one in their right mind wanted to eat. Except Tommy, of course, but he’s five. He doesn’t really count as people yet.

 

“Where’s your entourage?” Wilbur asks Dream, nodding to the seats he’d obviously claimed for thing one and thing two on either side of him.

 

“Sapnap had to get his physical done before dinner. George just wanted to prove that Sapnap was shorter than him, so he went too. Should be here in a few.”

 

Sounded about right. Wilbur had known them for years now, and he knew that Sapnap waited until the absolute last minute to get his physicals done. Every year he tried to bulk up and get into a heavy-weight class and every year he failed. Wilbur would’ve given up by now, personally. He had been perfectly happy in the mid-weight section anyway.

 

“Where’s yours?” Dream pokes back. “Intimidating some poor newbies?”

 

Dream mostly means Technoblade by that. Wilbur knows, but he still says, “Phil got roped into press shit outside. Kristen stayed with him to play defense, you know how it is. Tech is God knows where doing God knows what. He’ll probably come down once the press dissipates, but don’t worry. We have Tommy!”

 

The faux enthusiasm is lost on the five year old who smirks up at them confidently. Dream shakes his head, but he’s smiling too.

 

“Great. Just want I always wanted. A gremlin.”

 

“Oi!”

 

They’re annoying together and Wilbur lets them be for now. He knows how much Tommy loves Dream despite the constant aggression he drags around. He’d been Dream’s biggest fan since he was old enough to think it and Dream, though he’d deny it if asked, was just as taken with Tommy as Tommy was with him. Wilbur often thought he’d make a good dad, Dream. He’d told George once earning himself a glare and the promise of death if he ever put that idea in Dream’s head. Wilbur never did. Not because he’s scared of George, to be clear, just because no amount of good parenting from Dream would cancel out the negative parenting energy George brought to the table. They’d be left with one terribly confused child, who’d probably follow in their dads’ footsteps in an attempt to earn favor only to tragically injure themselves and lose the fight forever. Not that Wilbur was projecting or anything. Just predicting. Wilbur was retired on purpose.

 

“See any promising newbies on the lineup?” Dream wonders after a beat.

 

Being the adopted son of Phil and Kristen Craft as well as a retired fighter, Wilbur had a pretty good relationship with most of the long term fighters. He also had a better idea of stat analysis than other trainers did. Because of this, most of the qualifiers consisted of fighters asking Wilbur’s opinions on the new names and usually, Wilbur kept his thoughts to himself. Fortunately, this was Dream, and Dream was basically family at this point.

 

“A couple,” Wilbur admits. “There’s some promise in this new generation.”

 

“Names?”

 

Wilbur shrugs, devious grin threatening to surface at the obvious annoyance on Dream’s face.

 

“Oh come on, Soot. We’re friends aren’t we? You can tell me who to watch out for.”

 

Wilbur is robbed of a snarky reply by a monotone, “I’m the only thing you gotta watch out for,” from behind.

 

Wilbur spins to face the man with a glare. One that Techno doesn’t even acknowledge. He never does. Technoblade’s face doesn’t really move much in general. This is something that intimidates pretty much everyone except the Crafts and, most of the time, Dream. Pretty much everything about Technoblade is intimidating though. While not as tall as Wilbur or as obviously muscled as Dream, Technoblade looks like exactly what he is. A fierce fighter. He moves near silently even out of the games and he takes no shit from anyone. He’s the only fighter who had ever beat Dream- who’d held the champion title for six years mind you- in the Glitter Bowl before his abrupt and highly-speculated retirement. He’s also Wilbur’s twin brother, but that was a little less impressive than the other things.

 

“Press is gone,” Techno grunts, taking the seat on Wilbur’s left. He acknowledges Tommy with a rough head rub that starts up the toddler screeching and then he grabs a fork and starts picking at the food on Wilbur’s plate. Technoblade pointedly ignores the rude gestures tossed his way for that one, saying, “Will’s right though. Got some talent coming through this year. Don’t think it’s anything you need to worry about, but maybe Sapnap.”

 

Dream’s eyes widen a bit. He leans forward, hands under his chin as he presses, “Like who? How worried should he be?”

 

It’s funny, the pair of them. Wilbur likes to watch Dream and Techno interact, especially when Dream wasn’t hiding behind his mask. Where Techno is impossible to read, Dream is impossible not to. It’s monotone versus over expression. A friendship that really shouldn’t work but somehow does. Wilbur’s honestly just glad Technoblade made friends. He’s never been very good at that, choosing to latch onto Will and whoever he befriended instead. Dream was the first person Wilbur had ever met through Techno and he didn’t even know how special he was. Well maybe he did. Dream had a bit of an ego. 

 

“What do you think, Will?”

 

He meets Techno’s eyes, the same deep, dark brown of his own. Wilbur just shrugs. “There’s a new heavy-weight I’d worry about after qualifiers, but before, Sapnap should be fine in his weight class as long as he doesn’t get cocky.”

 

“A new heavy-weight that you think will make it through qualifiers?” Dream asks, shock evident. “You’re kidding. Where is he?”

 

As Dream searches the room with an incredible lack of subtlety, Wilbur does too. He had looked for a few of the newbies when he came in. The ones whose stats had made an impression on him. He’d found a couple, missed a couple, and the heavy-weight was still nowhere to be seen.

 

“Not here?” Techno asks.

 

Wilbur shakes his head, Dream all but pouting at the news.

 

“Nah, but I expected that. Guy’s really secretive apparently. Trainer too. Got the whole Dream kinnie thing going.”

 

“What?”

 

“Seriously?” Wilbur knows that Dream actually isn’t joking by his face. “You know how you didn’t take the mask off around strangers for years?”

 

“Oh.” He frowns. “Heavy-weight does that too?”

 

“Trainer does too,” Wilbur nods. “Stage name is the Ram. Just refers to his trainer as Q.”

 

“Oh shit. I’ve seen him.”

 

Dream doesn’t get a chance to elaborate because thing one and thing two have finally arrived, and as always, they do so loudly and with no regard for their surroundings. Sapnap drapes himself across Dream to complain about whatever George had done this time. George, to his credit, complains less, but only because he can’t get in a word edgewise with Sapnap going on and on as he was. The first thing either of them says to Wilbur is not a hello or anything polite, rather, it’s George frustratedly saying, “Wilbur, please. You have a brain. Tell him that’s not how weight works.”

 

“Hi, Gogy. Nice evening isn’t it,” Wilbur responds sarcastically, to which George scowls.

 

“It’s a shit evening. Sapnap made me get on the scale and I got demoted a class.”

 

Dream laughs then, which only makes Sapnap brighten up further.

 

“George got moved to lightweight because all he eats is spinach!” He shouts, sticking his tongue out at the brunette like a child.

 

“Oh, Sap,” Wilbur winces. “He is right about that. That’s not how weight works, but George? What about the meal plan I have you on? How’d you lose that much mass?”

 

George looks pissed, but also a twinge embarrassed, so Wilbur changes his mind.

 

“Never mind. That’s training talk for later, not for the banquet. You guys should get food before it’s gone.”

 

Thankfully, they both heed his advice and Dream even goes with them at George’s request (demand). They’re talked about as soon as they’re out of ear shot, of course. Wilbur snorts when Techno says, “Your fighter is a force of nature but in the wrong way.”

 

“Yeah, well, yours share a brain,” Wilbur retorts. “At least mine has intelligence going for him.”

 

Wilbur had taken on George six months after he retired. He’d been twenty three, George twenty one, and the pair of them made no sense at that point in time. Wilbur had just called it quits on his career. A lifetime in the arena, really, so he wasn’t in the best place mentally. He may or may not have made a particularly rash decision two nights before George appeared on his doorstep and it wasn’t much of a leap to say that George had saved his life. He’d shown up at the gym Wilbur worked for, mean faced and entirely unapproachable and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. His logic was that Wilbur and he were the same type of fighter. Slimmer, but smarter, and underestimated in the arena. He had dragged Wilbur from the bad place and given him purpose again, so no matter how much of an asshole George was, he’d always have Wilbur in his corner.

 

That had been four years ago though. Techno retired two years later. The same year he’d taken the title of champion from Dream and made national headlines. Once news of his retirement hit, Dream was there, calling and texting and emailing every day, demanding to know why. They’d been talking again at that point, Wilbur and Technoblade. Wilbur had encouraged him to respond. Told his brother that if anyone could understand it was Dream. Dream, whose trainer was borderline abusive and pissed after his loss. Needless to say, they’d talked, and within a few days, Dream was under new management. Sapnap had been ecstatic about it. He and Dream had grown up together and he’d always wanted to get into exercere magicae, but Dream’s trainer scared them both. Under Techno, Sapnap was flourishing. Only two years in and he was a force to be reckoned with. Wilbur thought Sapnap may be the most impressive rookie they’d ever worked with or against. Not that he’d tell Sapnap that. He was cocky enough.

 

“Wilbur, I hate carrots.”

 

Tommy is scowling up at him, fork stabbed into a couple baby carrots with far too much force. “That’s nice,” Wilbur says. “Guess you don’t wanna have good eyes for the arena.”

 

“Carrots don’t make you see,” Tommy grumbled, but he wasn’t sure of himself and it showed. He leaned around Wilbur to yell at Techno. “Oi! Carrots don’t make you see, right big man?”

 

“They do.”

 

“Shit,” he mumbles.

 

Wilbur bites back a laugh, warning look pasted on as he asks, “What was that?”

 

“Nothing!”

 

“Mhm. Eat your carrots.”

 

Tommy isn’t pleased, but now that his eye sight has been threatened, he was at least contemplating eating his vegetables.

 

“Where are its parents?”

 

Wilbur turns his disapproving look on Techno then. His brother just stares back for a moment, before sighing.

 

“Fine. Where are his parents?”

 

Wilbur decides to let it slide this time and shrugs.  “Press cool down, probably. Phil was looking for you earlier though. Something about protein powder you stole.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like me,” Techno mutters, but the large sip of Dream’s water and refusal to meet Wilbur’s eyes says otherwise.

 

He doesn’t press the issue because it’s not his problem. Wilbur is content to let Phil and Techno work out their own weird relationship considering the last time he’d gotten involved, his brother had ghosted him for nearly a full year. The very same year he retired, though Wilbur swears up and down that those facts aren’t related. Regardless, Technoblade being a thief is none of his business. Wilbur’s having a great night. A great day, really. He loved Glitter Bowl season. The sheer rush of being near an arena just filled Wilbur with life. George makes it pretty far every year. His stats have gone up steadily over the last four and Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if George called himself a champion one day. It was true that people underestimated him the same way they had underestimated Wilbur when he’d started. Unfortunately for those people, being underestimated and smart was a deadly combination. George used it well.

 

Wilbur eyes the fighter’s plate as they reseat themselves, not entirely satisfied with the lack of protein George seemed to consume. It’s likely that that got him moved to the light-weight class. The weight groupings weren’t necessarily easier or harder than one another so it wasn’t that that Wilbur was worried about, it was the new playing field. George had been training using the common tactics of his mid-weight opponents. He was used to fighting them after so long and he knew what to look for and what to use against them. Being moved to a new caliber meant that they were going to have to rework tomorrow’s entire session around observing the competition and strategy planning. Luckily George didn’t have his first fight until day two. It gave Wilbur some time to think.

 

That was a tomorrow problem though. Tonight, Wilbur’s only concern was catching up with old friends and making sure Tommy kept his head attached to his body. He was doing a great job if he did say so himself. Kristen and Phil would be down soon enough to relieve him of gremlin duty and then they could really have fun. The adult drinks usually started at nine. Then there’s probably be an after party in somebody’s room that Wilbur would be invited to by proxy. God, the first night of qualifiers was always the best. The start of the season, when everyone has hope and energy, and they’re all excited to be together again. Wilbur loved the welcome banquet and he planned to take full advantage of it. As soon as Phil was there, of course. Tommy did just stab himself with a butter knife after all.

Chapter 3: Young Volcanoes

Notes:

Not sure I like this fic but it is here. Bon apetit.

There was very little about this plan that Quackity liked, but there was also a part that was very distinctly his least favorite. Schlatt had gotten up with little prompting this morning and, surprisingly, so had Tubbo. Their routines were relatively easy and their breakfast was the kind of shit they served kings. After a chaotic session of dressing the five year old, Schlatt was kissing them both on the forehead and jogging to catch the first shuttle out to the arena. He would scope the place out for them. Find a nice, secluded warm up spot in the training rooms, and then he’d do as he always does on fight days. For Quackity, the morning was a little less familiar than that. He’d shouldered Tubbo’s “diaper bag” and led them both down to the lobby where a sign marked off the worst thing Quackity’d had to face yet.

 

“What’s that?” Tubbo asked, voice muffled by yet another coat wrapped around him.

 

Wide, sleepy eyes stared up with so much blind trust that Quackity contemplated turning around and locking them both in the room for the day. He couldn’t do that though. He knew he couldn’t, so he took a deep breath and willed his voice to be steady when he said, “Daycare, Tubs. You’re going to daycare today.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

Hell, Quackity didn’t say. The worst thing about this whole stupid game. The quickest way to lose the one good thing they had.

 

What he did say was, “Like when Uncle Charlie stays with you while Daddy and I are busy. Remember?”

 

The five year old nods, but that pinched look of confusion doesn’t leave his face. Quackity can see an uncharacteristic nervousness on Tubbo as he catches sight of some other children running around the room. It yanks hard on Quackity’s already straining heart strings, and it’s instinctual to drop to one knee and squeeze the kid’s shoulders.

 

“Hey, listen. You’re gonna have a great day Tubbo. I know new people are scary, but I want you to try and have fun, okay? If anything happens and you need me, all you have to do is tell the lady to call. They have my number and I’ll come as fast as I possibly can, alright? Fast as I can.”

 

Tubbo nods, but the apprehension is still clear in the shy glances he stole towards the daycare room.

 

“When will you be back?” He mumbles. Small hands burry into the fabric of Quackity’s sweater and he very nearly caves to the thought of running.

 

“Daddy has a fight at noon,” he soothes. “We’ll come pick you up right after lunch. Sound good?”

 

Another nod.

 

“Good,” Quackity gives the kid another squeeze before standing once more. “You ready, kid?”

 

“No.”

 

Anyone passing by would’ve seen matching looks of sick nervousness on the pair. Despite sharing no blood, Quackity’s traits shined through Tubbo in a million tiny ways. He only really saw it when they were miserable though. Unfortunate.

 

“Me neither,” Quackity sighs, but sets his resolve anyway.

 

He’s about to take a step forward when thudding footsteps ring off the hall in rapid approach. Tubbo clutches even tighter to his hand as a child goes barreling past them all blonde hair and wicked smiles. Excited giggles stream by as the boy stays full speed ahead. He slams his whole body into the door instead of slowing at all, one that doesn’t even budge, and then collapses to the floor with a huff. It’s all in all an odd scene. Quackity, startled, waits for the inevitable waterworks, but they never come. In fact, blondie starts laughing even louder, higher, so much so that Quackity nearly misses the exhasperated yell of, “Tommy Innit Watson! If you break another hotel door, you’re sleeping outside!” From behind them.

 

Quackity is still startled frozen when the little blonde thing picks himself up off the floor and picks up on their presence. Those blue eyes glow with curiosity, one that slides pretty quickly over Quackity to end up on Tubbo. Said five year old is hiding as best he can in Quackity’s legs, but it’s no use now that the kid, Tommy Innit Watson as it were, has caught sight of him. Quick as lightning, the Tommy is in front of them excitedly babbling, “Hi, I’m Tommy! You’re new, are you coming inside? I’m gonna show Ranboo how to do a flip today. I can show you too!”

 

Tubbo peeks up at Quackity, only tucking himself further behind the older when he receives a nudge of encouragement. “I can do a flip,” Tubbo mumbles back. “Backflip.”

 

Tommy’s eyes go impossibly wide and he lunges forward. “You can do a backflip? C’mon, you have to show me. Ranboo!” Blue eyes focus past them, screaming to the entourage that have finally caught up.

 

It’s a short brunette woman with a spindly child at her side. The ends of her hair are dyed a vibrant purple that immediately identifies her- in Quackity’s mind at least- as Kristen Craft, world renowned trainer and wife of three-time Glitter Bowl champion Phil Craft. Quackity is on the offensive in an instant despite the kind smile she offers. To Tommy, she just gives a stern look, saying, “Stop throwing yourself around hallways mister. I’m serious. If you want brain damage that badly, we can get you into football.”

 

Tommy’s face scrunches up at that. Not do much the scolding as the word football, but it’s a reaction nonetheless. He offers a very grumpy, “Sorry mum,” before taking a step away from Tubbo and smoothing out his shorts.

 

Quackity can’t help but place a protective hand on his kid’s head as attention turns to them. They’re both overwhelmed by these interactions so early in the morning and, fortunately, Quackity doesn’t have to figure out how to proceed. Kristen- Mrs. Craft? Lady Death? What did one call someone like Kristen Craft?- sticks out one neatly manicured hand accompanied by the almost practiced words, “I’m so sorry about Tommy. I hope he didn’t run you over in his hurry.”

 

Handshakes are awful but one simply doesn’t turn down Lady Death herself.

 

“No worries,” Quackity says, giving a firm shake. Was it firm enough? Too firm? Fuck. “Little boys have a lot of energy, I get it.”

 

“Oh you’re telling me,” she chuckles. “I’m convinced his brother’s slipping him monster with all his energy.”

 

His brother. Wilbur Soot, aka, the Zombie. Quackity had had the privilege of watching him fight in person once, way back when he was a kid. Soot had still been in the junior bowl at that point, but everyone knew he’d make it to Glitter one day. Him and the twin. That one Quackity could do without ever seeing in person, not that any of that mattered right now. What mattered right now was that Kristen was brushing Tommy’s knees off and nudging the twiggy one forward. She turned that soft smile onto Tubbo then, saying, “Hi honey. You coming to daycare today?”

 

Tubbo nods shyly, not stepping forward but also not cringing further behind Quackity. Quackity takes this as an opportunity to stop standing there like an idiot and take care of his kid.

 

“Tubbo’s never been before,” he says in his child friendly voice, “but I think Tommy offered to show him around, right?”

 

It works too because Tommy’s little eyes blow wide and he practically vibrates where he stands.

 

“Mom! He can do a backflip and we have to go inside now!”

 

Kristen laughs, gently tugging him to her and planting a- loudly opposed- kiss on his cheek. “Fine, I get it. You’re ready to leave me.” She pulls the other one close too for a squeeze and a kiss before saying, “Okay. I’m going. Have a good day boys. Ranboo, try not to scare the nice lady in charge. Tommy, try to not be, well, never mind. That’s a waste of breath. Just don’t hurt anybody and look out for your new friend. Tubbo, right?”

 

At her questioning look, Quackity nods.

 

“Tubbo,” he affirms. Then Quackity turns his attention to the little blonde and says, “Tubbo Smith. You’ll keep him company for me, right Tommy?”

 

Tommy nods resolutely. He surges forward and wraps a small hand around Tubbo’s wrist to pull him forward. After a frantic look up at Quackity, Tubbo allows it, toddling to the door where Kristen and Ranboo await. It’s a bittersweet moment for the adult left in the hallway. On the one hand, Tubbo really desperately needed some human interaction. With children and regular people, not just his parents and their crazy fucking friends. It was promising to see him make something near a friend already, even if the friend was Tommy fucking Craft. Quackity could appreciate that and still remember that the other hand was full of so much potential shit, being anything but pessimistic was the wrong way to go. There was way too much about daycare that sent Quackity’s nerves spinning and ultimately, not a thing he could do to ease them.

 

As one does when faced with these odds, Quackity carries on with the day like nothing is wrong. He’s on the next shuttle to the arena with a gut full of dread and instant coffee. It would be a cool experience really if he wasn’t so god damn nervous. Generally, Quackity didn’t attend Schlatt’s fights. He’d gone only a handful of times when Charlie was around to babysit. Otherwise Quackity stayed home with Tubbo and trusted Schlatt to make good decisions for himself. He’d never actually had to be there or do anything while posing as Schlatt’s trainer, but that ended today. The Glitter Bowl is full of rules and regulations that included the constant presence of a trainer at each event. That meant that Quackity had to go be something he definitely wasn’t around people who would absolutely know he’s a fraud the second he opens his mouth. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?

 

That’s why he can’t appreciate the giant arena as it comes up over the hill. All glass and white steel giving them a good view of the people bustling about inside. It stretches far bigger than any building Quackity had ever been in and he understands now why they built it in the middle of nowhere. It’s objectively beautiful, but also incredibly terrifying when Quackity’s dropped off at the front doors and immediately caught up in the crowd. Now, despite being the manager of social affairs for their little family, Quackity is decidedly not a fan of people. He doesn’t like crowds, nor a sea of chatter, and he certainly doesn’t like being somewhere unfamiliar alone. Fortunately, Schlatt knows that. He answers Quackity’s frantic texts almost immediately with a location pin and, for once, Quackity is pleased.

 

He follows the little gps as best he can through the waves of people. Every time he sees a camera or a reporter, Quackity’s heart beats a little harder in his chest and he’s endlessly grateful for the baclava around his face. It’s not just for the Glitter Bowl either, Quackity wears the cover always. Always. He’s far too recognizable, what with a jagged scar running through his face and the one red, glass eye Schlatt had acquired in ways he refused to explain. Quackity is their biggest liability and he knows it. Fortunately, it’s not too odd to see in a place like this. Masks were a part of every fighter’s costume. For that reason he fades into the background with all the less shiny disguises. No one tries to talk to him or points a lens his way. Quackity makes it fully intact to training room three, immediately greeted by the dull thud of Schlatt’s body weight onto blue practice mats.

 

It’s empty here. Definitely one of the less desirable rooms with its lack of sunlight and more hardwood than cushioning. In other words, it’s perfect for them. Quackity shakes off his nerves, walking over to drop beside Schlatt’s gym bag and watch. He really does enjoy watching too. Schlatt, despite having no formal training, wields exercere magicae like it’s a second skin. It flows through every move he makes no matter how choppy or stunted they may seem. Every stomp of Schlatt’s feet or clap of his hands echoes like drum beats off the wall and even Quackity can feel the energy. They’re not supposed to call it magic. Not really because magic hints at something uncontrollable. This is something else. A form of fighting that takes on the strength of your ancestors and funnels it through you. Something like that, at least. Quackity had never been all that interested, he’d always had other things to deal with, so to him it was just magic.

 

Still it was incredible to watch Schlatt in his element like this. When he finally slowed down, gulping down air and sweating like he’d showered, Quackity gives him the applause he’d worked so hard for. It’s impossible not to smile when Schlatt peeks up at him and grins. Quackity knows that this is everything to him. Any anxiety he’d felt before now seems much more manageable as Schlatt laughs and slams down next to him.

 

“Practice going well?” Quackity asks, passing Schlatt his water and waiting as the man downs half of it in one go.

 

He nods after, gesturing towards the room and saying, “Like the digs? Apparently someone died in this room so no one wants to use it.”

 

“Oh good,” Quackity frowns. “Bad luck room. Why not?”

 

“It’s not bad luck. I’d argue it’s pretty good luck because now you don’t have to learn anything about training a fighter.”

 

“God, true. I’m gonna be so shit at pretending I know what’s going on. The other trainers will have a field day with it and- oh! You know who I met this morning?”

 

“Who?”

 

Quackity only hesitates a moment. Only briefly does he consider how Schlatt may react to his son getting near a Craft. He reconsiders, then decides that Schlatt would get over it and blurts out, “Kristen fucking Craft.”

 

“No shit,” Schlatt chokes. “Lady Death herself? How’d you manage that?”

 

“They’ve got a kid remember?”

 

Schlatt doesn’t. He won’t pretend that he does either, just says, “Cool. Tubbo better befriend the kid. Get us in with the rich folks.”

 

Quackity laughs, shouldering Schlatt and adding, “Better yet, get us into their hotel room. Bet we can find some money in there.”

 

“Oh for sure.”

 

Silence falls after that, but only for a moment and not in any sort of awkwardness. Schlatt has always been the picture of dedication. He’s on his feet and back on the mat without another word and Quackity settles in to watch. He still doesn’t feel good about the whole thing, but it’s hard to feel anything but proud watching his platonic life partner make his dreams come true. It’s only day one anyway. There’s nothing Quackity really needs to worry about yet and hopefully it would stay that way. He’d have to read up on exercere magicae and he’d definitely have to be quicker about getting to the arena, but that was all later stuff. For now, all Quackity needed to do was watch and wait. Schlatt had this part handled. At least, Quackity really hoped he did.