Chapter Text
2021 COLLEGIATE BASEBALL STATE TOURNAMENT
NOVEMBER 6, 2021
Wilbur Soot
El Rapids Ocelots
Postgame Press Conference
THE MODERATOR: We’re joined by Wilbur Soot, the Ocelots’ starting Catcher.
WILBUR SOOT: Very honored to be a part of all of this. To be able to stand here, with my coach and teammates. It’s just incredible.
Q. It’s your first time getting this far at the State Series, as is the case for most of your fellow team members. How do you stay sharp and look past the astonishment?
WILBUR SOOT: I think we’re all very focused. The minute we step on the field, everything else kind of goes out the window. We have a policy to leave any kind of detrimental energy off the grass, and we always try our best to be as into the game as can be. Not saying it’s completely effective at all times but, you know. It’s a team effort.
Q. The battery formed by yourself and your team’s starting Pitcher, Quackity, has sparked a lot of conversation on game sense and synchrony. Many of your plays are inspirational for other units across the country. Do you think there’s anything out of the ordinary about your match-up, or does it simply boil down to practice and discipline?
WILBUR SOOT: Well, I could hardly say what we have is ordinary. It is not my intention to place my own battery on a pedestal, but believe me when I say some things are owed only to chance. I have played Catcher all throughout middle school and high school. Of course, practice and discipline are also in the equation but this, here with the Ocelots, is the only time I have felt at such ease, so completely connected to a team and a specific Pitcher. It’s like a symbiosis, of sorts. Me and Quackity, we bring the best out of each other.
Q. Today’s win was a tough one. The game dragged out longer than anyone thought it would. Were you nervous at all, when it came down to the very last inning?
WILBUR SOOT: A little bit, yes. Playing the bottom of the ninth is always a little scary, I think. It’s like, anything could happen. I— uhm. [Pause.] Well. I trusted my teammates, my Pitcher. That’s what it always comes down to.
—
The kid they call up to stand in for Wilbur on the batting order looks like he has his life flashing before his eyes. At all times. Although, Quackity does recognize his try-outs situation isn’t the most welcoming.
He steps on the home plate and faces Quackity, letting his nerves show in the way he grips the practice bat. Tubbo, squatting down right behind him, watches carefully, but not as carefully as their coach, whose dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and who squints like a hawk. From the sidelines, even Sam keeps a close eye on all of them.
“Play ball,” The coach yells out, doing the umpire call gesture at the same time.
The kid — Ranboo, Quackity remembers reading in his file. He’s a right-handed second-year and a fucking anthropology major. Where does the faculty even find these people? — stutter-steps, shuffling his feet on the plate. His grip loosens and then tightens again, knuckles turning pale. Quackity takes a couple of seconds longer, just to watch him sweat.
From the mound, Quackity catches Tubbo’s signal. Or, more like, his not signal. His hands say: It’s up to you. Quackity shrugs. He can work with that. He takes a deep breath and releases tension on his shoulders — as much as he can, anyway —, positioning his feet and preparing his stance.
He throws a fastball. It’s clean, simple. It rolls off him perfectly into the zone, slightly low, close to the bottom edge, and straight into Tubbo’s mitt. Ranboo swings, delayed by nearly two full seconds, and misses.
The whole field seems to pause. Ranboo goes to check if the ball is, in fact, tucked into Tubbo’s glove and then turns to the coach, mortified. His eyebrows pinch together and Quackity is not sure he isn’t about to start crying. Before she can say anything, Sam calls out.
“Hey—That’s okay. That’s alright,” says the Captain, tapping his cap. “Pretty fast, right? You get used to it,”
Upon hearing his words, the Coach snaps out of her silence and claps once. “Okay,” she perks up. Quackity thinks she sounds strained. “Let’s go again,”
Ranboo staggers to put his bat up again, glancing hesitantly to the people calling out to him. Quackity sighs, and catches the ball Tubbo throws back to him.
“Alright,” he says, lighthearted. He rubs the ball inside the glove with his throwing hand, more putting on a show than anything. “Try to hit it this time,”
Ranboo blinks then squints, the teasing settling in his ears, and Coach hides a smile. Tubbo positions his mitt and gives Quackity the go-ahead.
He pitches another fastball. Four-seamed, standard. Just a bit higher than the previous one. His arm slingshots backwards then pulls forward and releases, the force of the throw building up on the juncture of his shoulder and tugging at his wrist.
Strike, he mouths, and it’s true. The ball sinks into the leather of Tubbo’s glove and Ranboo spins at nothing, once again. Tubbo whistles, praising the speed or maybe the movement itself and Coach claps again.
“One more,” she says quickly, and this time Quackity’s sure he isn’t making things up when he hears concern in her voice.
Tubbo rises, stretching his knees, then pops the ball back to the mound. Once he’s in position again, he side-steps and moves the glove slightly to his right. Quackity nods. Ranboo has barely reacted, looking a little resigned if anything but his grip on the bat doesn’t give.
Once they’re all ready, he pitches. The changeup feels heavy and charged with energy. It leaves his hand with a slight wobble and Quackity winces at the feeling. His right arm and feet go through the familiar motion, and then it’s all physics.
Ranboo swings big, and it connects. The ball touches the bat with a metallic explosion and flies off, slashing the air slightly over Quackity’s head. He can almost feel the heat on his temple. The hit travels far, flies right over second base and starts to dip towards right field. It hits the ground. None of the outfielders had been actually positioned to try and catch a ball, too busy waiting around and watching the practice pitches like a metaphorical car crash, but it’s impressive nonetheless. Bad whistles, mimicking the trajectory of the ball with his head and Quackity, who had also been looking at the sky, turns his gaze to the home plate.
Tubbo is already up on his feet, one hand covering his eyes and the other holding his face guard as he inspects the Sun like there could be something wrong with it. Ranboo, despite himself, seems to hold a surprised smile on his lips and Coach whistles twice, nodding to herself.
“Attaboy,” chirps Sam, offering the substitute hitter two thumbs up.
“Okay,” Quackity laughs awkwardly, trying to find Coach’s eyes for some kind of direction. Something about all of this feels off, and the feeling makes the back of his neck itch. “That’s one and two,”
A smaller, pettier part of Quackity wants to call out his own mistake. He wants to scream out that he’d let the damn ball go loose, that the hit was a fluke and that this kid could never, ever get a place in the lineup, not until he learns to connect to his fastballs. He wants to go up Ranboo and run him off the home plate. Tell him they don’t need a sub, don’t need his less-than confident stance or his sad little eyes. Quackity wants to go and call all of this off, because they already have the best third hitter they could ever ask for.
Except they don’t. Not anymore.
Quackity throws his glove on the ground and pretends to stretch his neck. Tubbo jerks his head up and half jogs to get closer to the mound, questioning, and Quackity just smiles at him.
“Gonna do some more stretches,” he explains easily, nodding at Ranboo and turning to shrug to Coach. “Something’s up with my wrist,”
“Oh,” Ranboo steps off the plate and his tone raises like a question, “Okay,”
Quackity has the presence of mind to reassure him with another smile before leaving the mound. He heads to the dugout and Sam trails right behind him. Tubbo watches curiously as he goes, but says nothing. Instead, he walks up to Coach and starts saying something that is too quiet to be heard properly. Quackity’s hands shake when he takes a water bottle from the icebox and Sam nudges him, not at all convinced.
“Talk,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows, “What is it?”
“He’s not Wilbur,” Quackity croaks out. Sam looks at him like he’s crazy, arms crossed and brows furrowed. It would be very intimidating, if he weren’t Sam — with the prawn allergy and the terrible sense of humor. Sturdy, reliable Sam.
“No, he’s not,” he shrugs, “That’s kind of the point,”
Quackity motions, unable to express his concerns in a way that feels right. “But— he’s taking third ? Really?” he nudges Sam back, appealing to some kind of comradeship. “I mean. Come on— Sam, you saw that,”
Sam just huffs, taking out a bottle for himself. “Yeah, well. He got a hit off of you,” He takes a swig, then adds pointedly: “That’s better than what Wilbur managed, when you two first started playing together,”
Quackity scowls at him, shocked he’d even evoke the memory. Talking about the team with Wilbur at all feels out of bounds, at this point. “He got lucky,” he says through gritted teeth.
Sam just snickers, not taking him seriously at all. “Don’t be angry at me,” he places the bottle back inside the box. “Be mad at your guy. I never left,”
“ My guy?” Quackity quips, brows joined together half in amusement and half in frustration. “You’re the Captain,”
Sam rolls his eyes, “We both know he listened more to you than he ever did me,”
Quackity grumbles and drinks from the bottle. His hand has gone slightly numb with the cold and how long he’s been holding on to it. Sam clamps a hand down on his shoulder and squeezes, not unkindly. “Cheer up,” he says, “We’ll probably move Ranboo down for the time being. He won’t get third this early. Maybe we move George up, or something. How’s that?”
“We won’t win,” Quackity replies too quickly, fully aware of how mean and overly pessimistic it sounds. Sam starts shaking his head and Quackity hurries to keep talking. He concedes a twinge of honesty to make up for all of it: “I’m not— good. I’m not playing my best,”
“Listen—“ Sam tries and gets cut off.
“I’m not doing great— I don’t know if I can play like this,”
The end of the sentence goes unsaid. I don’t know if I can play without him. Sam takes a steadying breath and looks up at the ceiling like he’s reciting a prayer.
“Okay,” he starts, slowly. “Okay. Listen. Don’t—you can’t think like that. You can’t. You’ve played before him, and you’ll play again.” Sam pauses to take another breath. “Tubbo’s working hard, and you’re good. You’re good . You’re our best. Quackity, it doesn’t matter if half your battery is gone. You’re still you.”
“But—“
“No,” the Captain shakes his head vehemently, like he won’t hear it, then adds with a chuckle: “No, no. You know— that’s probably what Wil wants you to think. He’s gonna watch us struggle then waltz back in here like it’s all a big joke, just to make sure we need him,”
Quackity freezes, “What?” He holds Sam’s gaze, who blinks like he’s not sure where this is going. “Who— did Wilbur tell you that?” It’s like a hole opens up inside his stomach, leaving behind only cold dread.
“Huh? No!— no, I haven’t seen him,” Sam quickly backtracks, stepping backwards and offering his palms as if to call for a truce. “He didn’t say anything. I don’t know why I said that,”
Quackity swallows, Sam’s words weighing him down. “Sam,” he urges. “It can’t be. I thought we were past all that— He wouldn’t.”
“He didn’t, Q. Seriously. I don’t know any more than you do,” Sam meets his eyes, very earnestly. He looks like he means it, but somehow Quackity doesn’t feel any better.
“Okay,” Quackity lets out a breath that deflates him. “But if it’s true—“
“It’s not!”
“ If it’s true— don’t let him back in,” Quackity drops his stare to the ground, licking the back of his teeth to give himself time. “Sam, it’s not fair. Say no. He can’t just walk out and come back whenever he wants. It’s not fair to us,” It’s not fair to me.
Sam remains silent until Quackity raises his head to look him in the face again. The Captain sighs and nods at his Pitcher like he understands, and like he’s sorry. He levels: “You’re right. It’s not fair.”
“Swear on it,” Quackity sticks a hand out in a hurry and he’s sure he looks pathetic. If only Tubbo could see him now. This kind of franticness could only belong in widowhood. “Swear you’ll say no, or— or at least, you’ll talk to me first,”
Sam closes his eyes for a second like he’s resorted to praying again. There’s a pause, then another. Ultimately, he shrugs and takes Quackity’s handshake. “Fine— okay, fine,”
The Captain throws him one last glance and walks back out into the field, calling out to the rest of the team. Quackity sits down on a bench and can only blame something cosmic, karmic, when he realizes his wrist does actually hurt a little bit.
—
[Jan 29, 2022 12:03:38] coach: Are you okay?
[Jan 29, 2022 12:03:55] coach: Do we need to talk?
[Jan 29, 2022 12:05:40] quackity: its fine
[Jan 29, 2022 12:05:40] quackity: really
[Jan 29, 2022 12:05:56] coach: If you say so
[Jan 29, 2022 12:06:13] coach: Come see me tomorrow if you’re still not sure about the new order
[Jan 29, 2022 12:08:20] quackity: hey coach?
[Jan 29, 2022 12:08:38] quackity: what did he tell you?
[Jan 29, 2022 12:08:42] quackity: when he quit
[Jan 29, 2022 12:09:39] coach: …
[Jan 29, 2022 12:09:45] coach: It’s not really my place to tell you
[Jan 29, 2022 12:10:18] coach: Give him some time
[Jan 29, 2022 12:10:27] quackity: ive given him loads of time
[Jan 29, 2022 12:10:31] quackity: still dead silent
[Jan 29, 2022 12:11:02] coach: Well
[Jan 29, 2022 12:11:23] coach: You know what he’s like
—
Quackity is mid-class when his phone goes off. It’s on silent, because he hasn’t completely lost his mind yet, but the buzzing on his thigh is insistent. His lecture on Cyber Politics had been dragging on anyways, so he only feels half bad to slip out of the classroom without so much as a nod to the professor. Sue him, Quackity gets a little anxious once he catches sight of the ID caller.
It reads: TOMMY
As in, Wilbur’s younger brother. Who lives in the next state over, and doesn’t call Quackity all that often — though this isn’t the first time. And now, with Wilbur out of the team, he figures Tommy would have even less reasons to call, but alas.
By the time he makes it inside the men’s room, the call has already gone through and Quackity has to call back, hands sweating and fingertips sliding greasily on his screen. Tommy picks up on the second or third ring, like he had been waiting for it or maybe considering calling again.
“Big Q?” he says, as soon as the line clears.
“Hey,” Quackity half smiles at the nickname, “Hey, Tommy. What’s up?”
“Is Wil with you? He’s not answering his phone,”
Quackity squints, raising an eyebrow at his own reflection on the mirror. “No?” he hums, inflection raising, “He hasn’t talked to me since he quit, dude,”
“Since he what?” Tommy shrills, and it makes Quackity widen his eyes to the point they hurt. From the other end of the line, the younger boy sputters: “That— that bitch dropped out? Oh, Phil is going to—”
“No! Wha—What?” Quackity cuts him off, even more confused, “He quit the team, I mean. Did he not tell you guys over the break?”
“What do you mean, dude? He didn’t come home. He— he said he wanted to stay on campus,”
Quackity pauses. What?
His silence drags on, astonishment stealing the words from his mouth. He thinks back to the one time during the break when he had knocked on Wilbur’s door for a long time, after thinking he’d heard noise from the inside. No one came to open the door, and he eventually brushed it off and walked away, guessing he’d probably imagined the sound. Wilbur’s car hadn’t even been parked anywhere near the building. Quackity would know, because he made sure to check. Is it possible Wilbur could have parked fuck-knows where, surely a long walking distance away, just to hide from him? What the fuck?
“Quackity?” Tommy calls from the other end of the line.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” Quackity shakes his head, placing a hand on the sinktop and leaning his weight on it. “You’re saying, he’s been here this whole time?”
“What? You haven’t seen him either?”
“He’s avoiding me!” He can’t get himself to feel self-conscious at the way his voice shrills.
Tommy sighs, then grunts very loudly to alleviate some of his confusion. Quackity understands the sentiment. “He’s being a fucking idiot,”
“That too,”
“So,” Tommy sniffles, ordering his thoughts, “Wilbur won State, then just fucking dipped? Without— without saying anything, to anyone. Not even you. He just, fucked off?”
Quackity shakes his head tiredly and switches his phone from one ear to the other to give his arm a break. “Yeah,” he grumbles, starting to pace in front of the mirror. “Yeah— that’s pretty much it,”
Tommy goes very quiet for what feels like a whole minute. When he speaks again, his words are slow and methodical. “I’m really sorry, Big Q,” he breathes, “I don’t know what’s going on with him, but this really sucks. I know how seriously you take your game,”
Quackity frowns. “Wilbur does, too,”
“Yeah, well,” Tommy brushes off, like he knows something Quackity doesn’t. “Just— get him to call me? If you can,”
“I told you,” Quackity bites his lip, resigned. “He won’t talk to me,”
Tommy huffs: “Just try,” he sniffles again, “I know this is probably just him being stupid, but on the offchance that it isn’t— please. Just— y’know, try. Just check-in,”
Quackity looks up at the tiled ceiling and pulls in a long breath. “Okay,” he promises, though a twinge of annoyance pulls at his lips. He won’t get over this turn of events so soon. “Okay, I will,”
—
the eru whisper @ERUconfessions_ 13m
“i hid under the bleachers to watch the ocelots practice and tbh i think were fucked the new guy sucks and our pitcher looks one bad day away from knocking himself out”
boomer!!! @forestsp1rit 39s
reply to @ERUconfessions_
have some FAITH goddamnit
—
Quackity’s running on five hours of sleep, an energy drink and half a snack-sized bag of croutons when he winds up in front of Wilbur’s door. Not only that, but also immeasurable amounts of exasperation, anger and despair. Though maybe not in that order of importance. What it comes down to is the fact that he’s been overlooked, ignored and lied to, so now he’s out for blood. It’s nearing seven, the sky turning duller and darker by the minute, and it seems it is the perfect time for confrontation. The hallways packed with stragglers part like the sea as Quackity approaches. Something must show on his face, because no one tells him shit even as he shoves people out of his way.
It’s been approximately seventeen hours since his phone call with Tommy, and thirty-six hours since the first practice session with Ranboo. The build-up of difficult feelings has turned Quackity into an implacable ball of resentful energy.
He knocks on the door with much more force than it’s actually necessary and counts to five, then knocks again, harder. He bangs on the painted wood until the door opens and he’s face to face with a boy. Wilbur’s roommate is a ginger Philosophy major who tends to spend his days stoned out of his mind, and today is no different. His gaze wanders around Quackity’s face lazily before recognition hits, and then his eyes widen.
“Where,” Quackity deadpans, not giving enough of a shit to explain himself properly.
Wilbur’s roommate sucks his teeth, seemingly considering his options. Glancing to the side, he stammers: “Oh…Yeah, actually— actually, he’s not here right now,”
Quackity only shakes his head. This guy isn’t even trying to be convincing and every second he’s not facing Wilbur is another second to fuel his blistering rage. “Okay, sure he isn’t. Move,”
The boy takes half a second to make up his mind. He shrugs, and calls out to the inside of the room: “You’re on your own, buddy,” Then, he opens the door properly and speed walks away. Quackity has a half a mind to laugh at the lack of loyalty, but he’s a little preoccupied.
When he steps into the room, Wilbur is standing right by the open window, expression unreadable. Quackity feels as if they’re meeting for the first time in years.
Wilbur shifts, running a hand through his hair and Quackity notices there’s an ashtray on the windowsill. He must’ve been smoking, he realizes, and the thought makes Quackity’s eye twitch. So much for making Tommy worried, he thinks. His bitch of a brother seems to be doing just fine, thrashing his athlete lungs just for kicks.
Wilbur takes a step back, away from the window and closer to the bed on his side of the room. “Can you close the door?” he says, very calmly. He still hasn’t given Quackity the grace of looking at his face.
Quackity’s mouth falls open with a laugh that is really more of a snarl, and from there it’s all feeling. He strides forward, Wilbur’s head snapping up at the sudden approach and, on a different day, Quackity could blame it all on a convenient pull of gravity. Not today, though. Today he means it. The way his arm swings back and propels his fist to connect with the corner of Wilbur’s mouth, the way Wilbur himself stumbles, neck bent awkwardly, and slaps a hand on his mattress so he doesn’t completely lose balance. The way that is the first time they lock eyes that evening. Wilbur, half-kneeled. Quackity, livid.
“Quackity!” he gasps, brows furrowed, smearing the blood that’s starting to trail from the lower lip Quackity split open.
“Fuck off,” Quackity huffs, still unbelievably aggravated. He rotates his wrist, pressing down on his knuckles that are already starting to throb. Then, he remembers himself and actually turns back to close the damn door. From the hallway, he counts at least five heads peeking out of their respective doorways and rolls his eyes when they sigh at him, shutting all of the curious eyes out.
When he turns back, Wilbur is sitting on his bed. He motions at the dirtied collar of his shirt, which he has apparently used to wipe his mouth. “What the hell?”
“Shut up,” Quackity says sharply, then immediately backtracks: “Actually, no. Talk. Tell me,” he urges, shortening the distance between them, “Talk to me,”
Wilbur is quiet for a second, averting his gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to say,”
“Are you fucking serious?” Quackity thinks he’s about to lose his mind.
Wilbur just shrugs and it makes Quackity scoff so forcefully he feels it in his ribs.
“You lied to me,” he says, frantically. “And you quit,”
“Yeah,” Wilbur replies loosely. He’s looking at Quackity now but he’s not really looking. His eyes are shallow. Opaque. Quackity realizes he can’t read him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, you prick,”
“Then what the fuck?”
Wilbur squints. “I wanted to quit. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes!” Quackity throws his hands in the air for what feels like the millionth time this week.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he sniffles, vexed, and moves as if to turn his back. Quackity sees the implication, still well-versed in his body language despite everything, and surges forward to grab Wilbur by the front of his shirt.
“Oh, you owe me a lot, actually,” Quackity braces himself. At that, Wilbur looks like he might want to take a swing of his own.
“Ha. Fuck you. Go away,” He yanks Quackity’s hand off of his clothes but doesn’t let go, holding him by the wrist.
“Not until you talk to me,” Quackity shakes his head and steers his feet, wildly determined.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he spits, breaking into a sour smile. “I walked, you stayed. Doesn’t matter. I’m sure they’ve got other Catchers lining up for you out there,”
Quackity’s head hurts. He shakes his hand in Wilbur’s grip, just to jostle him, and gets even closer. “Are you stupid?” he asks, very earnestly and barely registers the scowl Wilbur offers in return. “ Why? Why, Wil? Yeah— there’s other Catchers. None of them are you,”
Wilbur freezes, then laughs. This close, Quackity can see the way blood is still smudged on his nostrils. “Funny you say that,” he licks his lips. “You really hurt my feelings, back then”
“I—what?” Quackity scoffs, “I hurt your feelings, so you left the team?”
“No!” Wilbur widens his eyes, squeezing Quackity’s hand in his frenzy. “You hurt me, so I tried to tell you and you didn’t listen,”
Quackity scoffs, pulling his hand away for good. He steps away slowly, putting distance between them. “None of that justifies quitting,”
“ Justify? Do I even need a reason to quit? Do I need your approval?”
And suddenly, it’s a screaming match. “You better have a damn good reason to leave me behind—”
“You left me first!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I was right there with you—”
The door opens with a slam.
The dorm’s Resident Advisor stands in the hallway with a quirked brow and a grimace. “Guys, guys! Care to tone it down?”
Quackity and Wilbur stare each other down like alley cats, unwilling to drop it or separate. Both of their breaths are labored, sweating out the consequences of a heated discussion. The RA sighs and speaks up again. “Quackity, this isn’t your dorm, and it’s almost past curfew. I need to escort you out, but, if you must, you two can keep talking outside.”
Quackity blinks, looking at them and then back at Wilbur. He huffs, and slowly makes his way to the exit of the room, sending a last dirty look to the ashtray on the windowsill.
“Come on,” Quackity has a hand out for Wilbur, expecting.
Wilbur glances at him, then back at the window. He has his head down, like he’s not one hundred percent on board with whatever leaves his mouth. “No,” the word is quiet.
“No?” Quackity can’t believe his goddamn ears. The RA lightly shoves his back and Quackity needs a conscious effort not to rip their hands off of him.
“No. No, I’m not going,” Wilbur repeats himself with some newfound certainty. “I’ll see you around, Q,”
Quackity stalls by the doorframe, smiling in disbelief and committing his ex-partner’s expression to memory. He wets his lips, dumbfounded, and adds as a spiteful afterthought: “Call your fucking brother. He’s worried about you,”
Wilbur winces, but doesn’t meet his eyes.