A/N: So back in April when everyone else was shipping Wilbur/Lewis, I totally built my own bandwagon. I wrote this story and put it on LJ and for some reason (go figure fangirls?) I got a lot of attention for it. I don't know guys, when it comes to shipping Meet the Robinsons, my OTP is Wilbur/Wilbur. Like, forever and always.

Rated PG-13 for mild clumy teenage gropings and what could amount to extremely complicated masturbation. Don't think about it too hard, your brain might break.

It is a little known fact that Wilbur Robinson cannot get a date to save his life

This is through no fault of his own, of course. It is certainly not his lack of charisma or personality, for he is well liked among his peers and wildly popular; nor is he not suitably attractive, because he is, on one of his good days, ridiculously so. When he enters a room, teenage girls swallow their tongues and teenage boys go green with envy and, in a few unsurprising cases, vice versa.

The trouble begins when Wilbur approaches one of these voiceless girls (and on one occasion, he is not too proud to admit, one of the voiceless boys) they remain voiceless. It's very difficult to carry on a conversation with a person who has simultaneously lost their nerve and ability to form coherent speech, and while Wilbur Robinson is many things, he is not the type to spend a significant amount of time with someone who cannot, at the very least, laugh at his jokes.

It should also be noted that he does not have many friends to speak of, if one doesn't count Carl, the family robot, and a boy from the past who will one day be his father. There was a time when children would have traded their own parents to spend a day with Wilbur Robinson, but that time seems to have passed, for while Billie's life sized trains and Gaston's live artillery were great fun in the eyes of a child, it cannot be ignored that Wilbur and his peers are now teenagers, and as anyone who has ever been a teenager can attest, teenagers often have vastly different ideas of "fun."

(Wilbur of course, does not agree with his peers in this department. Wilbur is not quite the genius his parents might have expected, but he has the foresight enough to realize that teenagers have an unfortunate tendency to want to conform, as if it were some curious side affect of puberty, akin to acne and bad taste in clothes. But at his very core, Wilbur is a Robinson, and anyone who has spent any amount of time with a Robinson knows that the Robinsons don't conform.)

So through no fault of his own is Wilbur dateless, friendless and endlessly frustrated. He is loathe to admit it, but he wouldn't know what to do with a girl (or boy, for that matter (well, this is not entirely true. He has a vague idea, being of the male persuasion himself)) even if he could get one to talk to him. He routinely inspects himself critically in a mirror and likes what he sees: sleek, perfect hair; dark, expressive eyes; good, clear skin. He likes the quirk of his smile and the line of his jaw. He has a good nose. Puberty has been kind to him; other boys his height and build have gone all lanky, all sharp knees and elbows, but Wilbur's slimness translates to a smooth, fluid, graceful line, and he admires it.

You, my friend, he thinks smugly at the mirror, preening his hair and oozing the exact sort of confidence he is famous (and infamous) for, are one good-looking kid. Who wouldn't want a piece of this?

It is at this precise moment that Wilbur Robinson gets the worst or possibly best idea of his young life.

The idea comes slowly, in stages, because he cannot believe he has thought what he thinks he just thought, and the really amazing thing is that he can see it happening, in his own eyes, in the mirror, and it makes the worst or possibly best idea of his young life just that much more real, because just as he is thinking "I am brilliant," another part of him is thinking "Oh, man, brilliance is hot." He is suddenly so taken with his own cleverness that the worst or probably best idea of his young life seems more feasible with every passing second. He gives himself one last, fierce stare in the mirror, ignoring the little part of him that insists the definitely best idea of his young life might actually be bad, but since Wilbur has an incredible amount of experience ignoring that little part of himself, it is no surprise that he can turn away from the mirror and march to the garage with the very confidence he is so famous (and infamous) for.

By the time he has locked himself securely in the garage, the idea has become a plan. An utterly foolproof, brilliant plan that requires no actual effort on Wilbur's part. At least not yet. At precisely 2 p.m. in the afternoon, Wilbur stands before the time machine – the blue one, with the nice back seat – and makes a decision that will effortlessly put the unarguably best plan of his young life into action.

"At five o' clock," he says aloud to no one, enjoying the smooth sound of his own voice, "I will take the time machine back to two o'clock."

And it's as easy as that, because before the words have left his tongue, there is flash of light and the familiar sound of soap bubbles popping and an extra time machine in the garage, and Wilbur Robinson is staring quite dumbly up at himself, behind the controls. The Wilbur in the time machine is looking very sly and proud of himself.

"It worked," he announces, reclining to sling one slim arm over the back of his seat and prop his feet up on the dashboard. Wilbur-on-the-ground can't help but notice he looks very cocky like this, and he is very slightly irritated, but not so much so that he can't also admit he is one smooth operator. Wilbur-in-the-time-machine is still giving him a sort of half-lidded leer and a quirky smirk. "We've only got a few hours," he says, checking the little clock in the dash. "Are we gonna do this or not? That's a rhetorical question, actually. I'm from the future." He thumbs his chest and grins a truly dashing grin. "I already know the answer."

So Wilbur hefts himself easily into the time machine and sits beside himself. "Backseat," his future self instructs as he closes the hood and initiates the cloaking devices. Wilbur obliges and climbs gracelessly into the backseat, absently wondering why his father felt the need to build a full size time machine if they had never once taken it on a family vacation and oh man, if he only knew how it were being used now, they never will. It makes his cheeks flush pink, thinking about it.

"You're cute when you blush," his future self teases as he slides into the backseat beside him.

"This is so messed up," Wilbur blurts, feeling that little part of himself he is so used to ignoring reasserting itself. "There is probably something very wrong with me for even thinking about doing this." He is blushing even harder.

"Everybody does it," Future Wilbur says silkily as he scoots a little closer, casually draping an arm over Present Wilbur's shoulders. "Most kids just aren't lucky enough to have the means to do it so well." His fingers slide down Wilbur's upper arm and back up again, slipping under his sleeve. It's a simple motion, hardly indecent at all, but it feels strangely intimate and erotic and Wilbur can't figure out why, because it's just his arm, and his hand to boot, right? He touches his own arm experimentally, but it doesn't illicit quite the same feeling as when the other Wilbur does it.

Just as he is about to experiment further, he feels a sudden warmth on the side of his face because Future Wilbur has taken advantage of this moment of analytical distraction to lean over and press his lips gently against the curiously sensitive place just below his ear and Present Wilbur's brain responds by reeling and splintering, and he suddenly very seriously does not care about the psychological mechanics of auto-erotica as much as he cares about feeling this way as long and as powerfully as humanly possible. He turns to his future self with wide, astonished brown eyes and a slack jaw and manages maybe two shaky breaths before the two of them are a clumsy tangle of one hungry boy on the back seat of his father's time machine.

My first kiss, Wilbur has only just enough brainpower to think, is with myself. This is so wrong. But he doesn't waste any more energy on the idea, because his t-shirt is being pulled roughly from the waist of his jeans and unpracticed hands are moving over his skin, finding exciting places on his body he had never even considered exploring on his own. He isn't quite sure how he got on his back so quickly and he doesn't particularly care, because he finds the weight and warmth of his own slim frame really very comforting. Later, he might be disturbed by the memory of reaching up pull his own sleek, black hair or of engaging in a positively bruising, breathless kiss with his own mouth, but at this moment, when his future self straddles his thigh with such intimate force that it makes him gasp in stereo, Wilbur Robinson knows this is the best idea he will ever have in his life, young or otherwise.

Unfortunately, it is at the precise moment that his clumsy idiot fingers manage (after many frustratingly long minutes) to comprehend the complexities of the modern belt buckle, that the boys are rudely interrupted by, of all horrors, the harsh metallic clang of the garage door. Two pairs of identical eyes meet in panic.

"It's three o'clock," Future Wilbur says, without looking at the dash.

"What?"

"We're about to get busted."

"WHAT?" Wilbur struggles out from under himself, but as he sits up, he can see it's too late. Cornelius Robinson has just walked straight into the invisible wing of the time machine, and doom is imminent. He has enough sense to buckle up his pants and shove Future Wilbur's t-shirt at him, but he's still struggling to pull it over his head when his father's sharp blue eyes find him in the most compromising position of his young life.

And it even takes Cornelius Robinson, certified genius, a great many agonizingly slow minutes to comprehend what he is seeing, because he cannot believe he has seen what he thinks he just saw.

When he finally speaks, it is with a slow and very controlled voice. "Which one of you belongs here?" he demands.

Wilbur's eyes dart to his future self, flush-faced and disheveled. It's a kind of irrational agony he suffers, seeing his hair so imperfect, and the compulsion to reach out and fix it is only just barely quelled by his father's icy stare.

"M...me," he admits in a voice far too small to be his own. Cornelius reaches out to grab him forcefully by the arm, but seems to think better of it at the last moment.

"Get out of there. You are grounded. Forever." He turns to Future Wilbur. "You, go back to whenever you came from so I can ground you again."

As he is climbing out of the time machine, Future Wilbur grabs his arm and holds him back for a moment. He quirks one slick black eyebrow at him and grins. "It was totally worth it," he whispers. "Regret nothing."

"NOW," Cornelius bellows, scaring Wilbur to the garage floor. He runs halfway to his room, but not before he catches a glimpse of his future self behind the wheel of the time machine.

Five o'clock, he mouths with a diabolical smirk.

Five o'clock. Wilbur has two hours to devise the second best idea of his young life, get back to the garage and back to two o'clock in the afternoon. Because he's right, it was totally worth it.