The sky was blanketed in thick, grey clouds, but Wilbur barely noticed as he circled around you, his sword clutched awkwardly in his hand. The clanging of metal rang out with each clash, but it was clear he wasn’t exactly built for this. His strikes were clumsy, his footwork uneven, yet there was a wide grin stretched across his face.

“This… this is embarrassing,” Wilbur huffed, dodging your blade by what felt like sheer luck. “How am I supposed to be the president of a nation if I can’t even hold my own in a simple spar?”

He spun in place, narrowly avoiding a swing, his breath coming out in quick bursts, more from laughing than from any real effort. You’d always been better with a sword—better at just about anything physical, if he was being honest. He, on the other hand, was all awkward limbs and quick quips. But he wasn’t here to win. He was here to forget.

He watched you, the playful glint in his eyes never fading. There was something about being around you that made the heavy weight on his shoulders feel lighter. It was easy to lose himself in these moments, sparring and trading banter, instead of worrying about… well, everything else. The fate of L’Manburg, the endless responsibilities—those thoughts disappeared when he was here with you.

“You know,” he said, lowering his sword for a moment, leaning on it like a walking stick as he tried to catch his breath, “maybe my true talent isn’t leading or fighting. Maybe it’s just looking like I know what I’m doing.” He flashed you a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “It’s worked so far.”

He lunged forward again, more for the fun of it than anything else. His movements were still clumsy, his form all wrong, but the laughter bubbling up from him made it clear he didn’t care.

“I’ll let you win this one,” he added, ducking another swipe from you, barely managing to keep his balance. “But just remember, I’m doing this for your ego. Not mine.”