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oh god, potato go BOOM

Summary:

"You're not planning on blowing up our kitchen, are you?"

"The chances are slightly above average." Wilbur conceals a smirk.

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"Help me not let my potatoes burst in the oven.”

“Your potatoes do what in the oven!?” Techno’s eyes widen in bewilderment.

 

OR

 

Sleepovers, matching bracelets, baked potatoes, and sand. And maybe a bit of explosions here and there.

 

Technotober (Clem's Version) prompt #10: 'Baked Potatoes at 3AM'
Platonic Flufftober prompt #19: 'Best Friends Forever', Friendship Bracelets
with twinsduo!

Notes:

the potato was supposed to be sentient

 

TW:
there is but one singular potato and it goes BOOM, mentions of thieves and murderers (not serious)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:


 

If you were to ask Techno's very much asleep father, he and Wilbur aren't supposed to be awake right now. But you aren't meant to sleep through sleepovers, despite the irony in that statement. Going to bed is subjective, at least for him and his best friend.

 

Techno shakes Wilbur lightly. He's pretty sure he isn't asleep either. "You awake?"

 

"Wh... it's like, two in the morning," Wilbur yawns.

 

“Close. It's three."

 

"How could you tell?"

 

"I don't tell. I feel."

 

Wilbur snorts. "Fucking weirdo."

 

"You're playing like that? I was going to tell you about my secret recipe for baked potatoes, but nevermind,” Techno sighs dramatically

 

Wilbur’s expression immediately shifts. "What? Oh, come on, Tech, I called you a fucking weirdo because you are fucking weirdo. Now you simply have to tell me about your baked potato recipe.”

 

“Apologize.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Well that was quick.”

 

“I'm not the asshole you try to paint me out to be,” Wilbur, the biggest asshole ever, defends.

 

Whaterer," Techno rolls his eyes, rising from the bed. The brunette outstretches his limbs, burying his face into a pillow he may or may not have stuffed with sand. (Look, the sound it makes when Wil shifts even slightly is funny, alright? For some reason, his friend hasn't even noticed yet.)

 

 "Hurry up," the pinkette whisper-yells.

 

"Fine. Is your dad gonna know?"

 

"Nah he's a heavy-sleeper. You could start drilling holes through still sleep till noon when it's a weekend."

 

Wilbur giggles discreetly. " Good, good."

 

"You're not planning on blowing up our kitchen, are you?"

 

"The chances are slightly above average." Wilbur conceals a smirk.

 

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" 

 

"Help me not let my potatoes burst in the oven.”

 

“Your potatoes do what in the oven!?” Techno’s eyes widen in bewilderment.

 

“Shut up, just because you mastered the art of baked potatoes after reading those nerdy cookbooks of yours doesn't mean you get to judge my culinary skills.”

 

“Just because your culinary skills are bad and might set fire to my entire house doesn't mean that I'll voluntarily be teaching you step-by-step.”

 

“Can I bribe you with this?” Wilbur tugs something out of his hoodie’s pocket. Techno couldn't tell what it is. It's still dark outside, the only lights turned on are the street lamps and the glistening moon itself.

 

He focuses his eyes when a ray of moonshine flashes. He sees a short golden chain hanging from Wilbur’s fidgety fingers. There is but one pendant that's attached to it—a shiny charm of a pig tilting its head.

 

“We're matching,” Wilbur grins, pulling out another piece of jewellery. He wears it proudly on his wrist, a bracelet similar to the one he gave his best friend. Instead of a pig, there dangles a trinket of a grizzly bear.

 

“Alright, thanks for the gift, I'm going to bed-”

 

”No!” Wilbur yelps.

 

“Shhh,” Techno glares at him.

 

“No,” the brunette repeats, quieter this time. “You are not going to bed. Baked potatoes. Now.”

 

“Bruh,” Techno groans as he walks lazily to his door. He pokes his head out. It's dead quiet outside. “Coast is clear. I think.”

 

“Well, what do you see?”

 

“Nothing. It's dark.”

 

“Then how are we supposed to know that some murderer isn't going to jump out and immediately kill us!?”

 

“There aren't any murderers in the house, Wilbur,” Techno huffs. “And that's about to change if you don't hurry up.”

 

Wilbur narrows his eyes. “You go first.”

 

“Oh alright, I sure hope there aren't any thieves in the kitchen waiting to stab someone,” Techno says, voice drenched in sarcasm.

 

“Ugh, fine. Out of the way, you,” Wilbur pushes him aside. “I'll go first.”

 

He tiptoes out of the room, fists clenched at his sides.

 

“Boo,” Techno scares him in a deadpan voice with no effort at all.

 

Wilbur jumps and whirls around, face contorting into a scowl. “I dislike you right now, Technoblade.”

 

“I'm surprised that even worked.”

 

They scurry into the kitchen, Wilbur occasionally side-eyeing the pinkette out of paranoia. Secretly, he holds the grizzly bear charm of his bracelet in between his fingers. I'm not a scaredy-cat. I'm a grizzly bear. I'm a grizzly bear. I'm a grizzly bear, he repeats to himself internally.

 

“I'm a grizzly bear..I'm a grizzly bear..” he mutters.

 

Techno takes one gaze at him. “There’s no saving you.”

 

“But I'm a grizzly bear, Techno,” Wilbur pouts. “Baked potatoes are grizzly bears’ favourite food.”

 

“..No?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Wilbur sets a raw potato onto a tray. It rolls to the side, unclean and unsliced.

 

“That's not how you do it,” Techno shakes his head. “Poke holes into your potato before you-”

 

He watches in horror as Wilbur slides the tray into the oven, and sets the timer with the unmodified, sad, and lonely single potato sitting awkwardly underneath the glow of the appliance’s heat.

 

“Wil!”

 

The brunette cups his mouth, shushing him. Techno bats his arm away. “That potato is going to detonate.”

 

“And that would be your fault for not guiding me.”

 

“I didn't even get the chance to tell you the ingredients! I look away for one second and suddenly, you've created a makeshift bomb out of a tuber. Good job.”

 

“Pleasure to be the one to make you homeless,” Wilbur enacts a tiny curtsy.

 

Behind them, something begins to sizzle. The sizzling turns into popping, like stomping on bubble wrap, like bursting of bubblegum. And then..

 

Techno covers his ears as a peculiar (and disgusting) blast erupts from the oven. His beloved oven..he has always used for his baking hobby ever since he was young. “Wilbur.” He frowns.

 

“I'm sorry,” his friend apologised sheepishly. “I'll save up my allowance to buy you a new oven, I swear.”

 

“Yeah yeah, all I hear are lies.”

 

“No no no, I pinky pinky pinky pinky promise,” Wilbur assures.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Okay..who's gonna eat that blown-up baked potato that's hardly a potato anymore?”

 

Wilbur raises both palms up. “Not me.”

 

“Do you not feel guilty for destroying my oven? Very, very mean. Maybe I won't have another sleepover with you anymore,” Techno crosses his arms.

 

“What!? No! I'll eat it. I'll steal the oven from my house and buy you another with my savings. Don't two ovens sound nice?”

 

Techno eyes him in contemplation. “I suppose so..”

 

“Then a deal's a deal,” Wilbur smiles. He extends his hand for Techno to shake.

 

Perhaps 3AM really does alter the way the brain is wired, because Wilbur is acting the strangest, wildest, and borderline craziest he ever has since they became friends seven years ago. They were amongst the other four year olds at the playground. Techno still distinctly remembers seeing a certain brown-haired boy throwing sand at everyone's eyes. Everyone except him, because since then, he's been Wilbur’s official and professional sand-thrower right hand man.

 

It's amusing when Wilbur's being a jerk to him, even more so when he's being a jerk for him. Yet it's always the times he gets to be the asshole to his best friend that never fails to amuse Techno.

 

“You know what, Wilbur? Go check the pillow you've been laying on a while ago before you eat the exploded baked potato bits.”

 

“Very fishy. Did you plant an actual bomb there? Cause that wouldn't be very cool of you to do somethi-”

 

A door creaks open. Wilbur and Techno both look at each other in panic, feet frozen flat on the ground. Realisation dawns upon them. Uh oh. They're going to get caught red-handed. In the middle of the night, in the kitchen, with a busted oven and splattered potato mush all over the tiles.

 

Wilbur elbows the pinkette on the rib. “You said he's a heavy sleeper!” he says beneath his breath.

 

“This..” Techno gestures at the mess the kitchen has become. “..is all on you. I've got nothing to do with this.”