Chapter Text
The next day, the rain had cleared, but the exhaustion lingered. Harold shuffled through the halls of Jerome Horwitz Elementary, his backpack heavy on his shoulders. George was at home, sick in bed after last night’s chaos with Captain Underpants. It had been one of their toughest nights yet, chasing down a villain through rain-soaked streets, dodging lightning, and trying to keep up with the ever-energetic Captain Underpants.
Harold hadn’t slept much after that. His thoughts were tangled, and without George by his side, everything felt off. George always had the ideas, the spark. He was the one who could turn their crazy nights into something fun. But today, it was just Harold, dragging his feet through the school day, barely keeping his eyes open.
By lunchtime, Harold couldn’t handle it anymore. The idea of sitting through another class, trying to focus while his eyelids grew heavier, was unbearable. He slipped away from the cafeteria, making sure no one noticed, and made his way toward the abandoned art room at the end of the hall.
The art room had been left unused for years, ever since the school’s budget cuts. It was dusty, with cracked windows and faded murals on the walls. But to Harold, it was a quiet refuge. He and George had snuck in here before, using it as a secret hideout to draw their comics when they needed peace. Now, Harold needed that peace more than ever.
He pulled out his sketchbook and a pencil, sitting at an old wooden desk by the window. With George home sick, Harold felt like he had to do something—create something. Maybe another issue of *Captain Underpants* would make things feel normal again.
But as he started sketching, his hands felt clumsy. Every stroke of the pencil felt wrong, every line jagged and out of place. He ripped the first page out and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it onto the floor. Then another. And another.
His mind was too foggy, his body too tired. No matter how hard he tried, nothing came out right. It wasn’t just the drawing—it was everything. The lack of sleep, the constant battles, the thoughts like “what if we don’t beat the next villain?”. Harold felt a knot tighten in his chest. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was exhausted—mentally, physically, everything.
He slumped forward, his forehead resting on his arms. He stared at the half-drawn figure of Captain Underpants on the page in front of him, but it just made him feel worse. It was sloppy, rushed, nothing like what he and George would normally come up with together. Without George, the magic was gone.
Before he knew it, Harold’s eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. His pencil slipped from his fingers, and his breathing slowed. The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, and the weight of trying to keep up with everything finally caught up with him. He drifted off, slumped over his sketchbook, surrounded by crumpled papers and half-finished drawings.
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Meanwhile, in the principal’s office, Mr. Krupp was in his usual grumpy state. His morning had been filled with paperwork, detention slips, and dealing with unruly students. But when one of Harold’s teachers called the office to report that Harold hadn’t shown up to class, something in the back of Mr. Krupp’s mind stirred.
It wasn’t like Harold to skip class. Well— not when George wasn’t around, they never felt the need to do any of there crazy plans without one another.
Mr. Krupp sighed and stood up from his desk, grumbling to himself as he made his way through the halls. His first thought was to check the playground, but after a quick look, there was no sign of Harold. Next, he headed toward the library, but it was empty too.
As he walked past the abandoned art room, a flicker of movement caught his eye through the cracked glass window in the door. Mr. Krupp frowned and peered inside. There, slumped over a desk, was Harold Hutchins, sound asleep, surrounded by crumpled papers.
Mr. Krupp’s immediate instinct was to burst in, demand an explanation, and give Harold detention for skipping class. But something made him stop. He stood there for a moment, watching Harold, who was clearly exhausted. His head rested on his sketchbook, and his face looked pale, his brow creased even in sleep.
Mr. Krupp slowly opened the door and stepped inside, careful not to wake Harold. He glanced down at the drawings scattered across the floor, frowning at the half-finished sketches of Captain Underpants. There were mistakes in every drawing—smudges, crossed-out lines, signs of frustration.
For some reason, instead of anger, Mr. Krupp felt a strange sense of... understanding. He could see how tired Harold was, and not just from lack of sleep. The kid looked worn out, like he was carrying something too heavy for him to handle on his own.
Mr. Krupp’s eyes fell on the open sketchbook in front of Harold. The drawing of Captain Underpants was rough, incomplete, but it was obvious what it was supposed to be. Mr. Krupp stood there for a long moment, staring at the messy drawing and the crumpled papers scattered around.
He felt that familiar tug in his chest—the same one he’d felt when he read Harold’s Father’s Day card.
With a sigh, Mr. Krupp gently placed his hand on the back of Harold’s chair. “Hutchins,” he muttered gruffly, shaking the chair lightly.
Harold stirred, his eyes blinking open slowly. For a moment, he looked confused, disoriented, until he realized where he was. He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes, his heart racing as he saw Mr. Krupp standing over him.
“I—uh—” Harold stammered, trying to come up with an excuse for being in the art room, for skipping class. But Mr. Krupp just held up a hand, silencing him.
“Save it,” Mr. Krupp muttered. “You’re supposed to be in class.”
Harold looked down, his face turning red. “I’m sorry. I just- are you gonna call my mom? I seriously won’t do it again!”
Mr. Krupp looked at him for a long moment, his usual scowl softening ever so slightly. “You’re not the only one who needs a break sometimes,” he said quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself.
Harold glanced up, surprised by the tone in Mr. Krupp’s voice. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t threatening detention. He just seemed... tired, like he understood in a way Harold hadn’t expected.
Mr. Krupp glanced down at the crumpled drawings on the floor. “You’re never going to get anywhere if you keep throwing away every mistake.”
Harold blinked, unsure of how to respond. Mr. Krupp’s words didn’t have their usual bite. They almost sounded... kind. In his own gruff way.
With another grumble, Mr. Krupp turned toward the door. “Get back to class when you’re ready, Hutchins. And clean up this mess before someone else finds it.”
As he left the room, Harold sat there for a moment, still processing what had just happened. Mr. Krupp had found him, scolded him—sort of—but had also... understood him? It didn’t make sense.
Harold looked down at the messy drawing in front of him. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem so terrible after all.
Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth something.