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The Summit is a summer camp for “troubled” kids — the name’s supposed to be really clever. All the promotional material has a cool pair of anthropomorphic sunglasses giving two thumbs up and saying “the SUMMer IT place to B COOL!”
It’s Bruno’s first year at the Summit; it’s Bruno’s first year after “the accident” as everyone likes to call it. He’s not so sure that they need to dance around it like that. It’s not something he likes talking about either, but the less people call it what it is, the more it unsettles him. It’s not like he doesn’t remember it — leaning over his latest project and plunging his hand down in between the gears and pistons. It was going to be awesome, a machine that lifted a hundred pounds but was compact and easy to maneuver around small spaces. But his hand had gotten caught, and he’d been home alone that weekend and there had been so much blood and by the time he called the ambulance it had been too late to save his hand.
That’s why he’d gotten a one-way pass to the Summit, this year. His home life wasn’t even bad and he wasn’t troubled, it had just been a bit of a silly mistake. Bruno was, self-admittingly, a bit of an airhead at times. Which wasn’t to say that every time he looked at himself in the mirror, or reached out with that missing hand, or felt a deep aching throb at the end of his arm, didn’t mess him up a bit.
But, look for the future and you’ll find hope — that was the sort of message the Summit had plastered all over its walls, and he could buy into that.
“Welcome aboard, Bruno!” The senior counselor greets him with a big smile and an open-armed hug. Bruno returns it — sort of — already feeling more awkward about everything than he had been, thirty-five seconds ago. “Since this is your first summer, you’ll be paired with a buddy! Everyone loves buddies, don’t they?”
“Ahaha… it would be great for someone to show me around,” Bruno laughs, trying to shove his unease down. So far not a single person had treated him like the young adult he was — at age seventeen — but rather like he was a small child of maybe three or four.
“Oh good! We have just the best bud for you,” the senior counselor gives him a thumbs-up. It was vaguely similar to the one that the Summit sunglasses mascot had. “Yuusei, this is our newest camper! Bruno!”
‘Yuusei’ is shorter than Bruno, a stern expression and big blue eyes. There’s grease on his cheek, and all along the hem of his shirt — clearly he keeps wiping his hands there. One brown glove is half-stuffed into his pocket, and the other on his hand. But really the more important thing is that in that ungloved hand is what has to be three small motors. They’re small DC motors, perfect for a robotics or RC projects.
“Oh! What are you working on? Are all three for the same project, or are you working on different things? Can I guess? — minute robots?” Bruno can’t help himself. The words spill out in an excited jumble before Yuusei even has a chance to introduce himself.
Yuusei smiles, just barely, and says, “Miniature vehicles.” It’s the most beautiful thing Bruno has seen his entire life.
—
Turns out, Yuusei’s a genius. Which, it’s good that Bruno’s also a bit of a genius when it comes to tinkering. They don’t talk theory very often — which is just as well, since Bruno finds it a bit boring outside of application, and Yuusei seems to at least share the sentiment.
Instead, they speak in doing. Bruno finds it’s easy to work around Yuusei — even though he’s a lot slower than he used to be, before the accident — Yuusei just seems to make room for him at any given moment. Yuusei always knows when Bruno needs an extra hand to hold down a plate before soldering, to pull wire taut for cutting or stripping and he also knows when Bruno would rather slowly work through it on his own. Bruno’s not so sure if he can read Yuusei’s atmosphere nearly as well, but the other doesn’t complain when he leans over to take a look, makes suggestions or adjustments to Yuusei’s projects.
Not that they’re completely silent, in the four hours of free time they get every afternoon — which, they always spend together, always at the crafts and hobbies cabin that for some reason is outfitted with enough mini-motors to have its own small Indy 500. Bruno talks more than Yuusei, but when they’re working his excited and energetic speech drops to a low thrum, just a murmur of background noise.
“Sorry, is that annoying?” He asks, one afternoon, after catching Yuusei frowning at a circuit board with a more-annoyed-than-usual way.
“No, I like to be reminded that you’re here.” Yuusei sets the circuit board down, it’s the rare sign that he needs a break. Normally, neither of them move for a break and work the entire four hour block before dinner check-in. It’s their only real free-time of the day, and both would rather fill it with working together than regret missing out, later. “It’s easy to get lost.” In his own head, he means, Bruno knows.
“We still didn’t do that newbie tour,” Bruno grins. Yuusei was supposed to take Bruno around the Summit’s campus, but instead he took him to his favorite spots — a quiet gazebo in the woods, the highest point in the camp and the arts & hobbies cabin.
It’s Bruno who made the offer, but it’s Yuusei who packs away their projects and then takes Bruno by the hand. He just grabs his hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and stars leading him around the campus. Bruno flusters and blushes from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, but Yuusei doesn’t say anything about it.
—
The Summit is a mix of scheduling and dead time — time for meditation! And contemplation! But it also meant that in the morning wake-up was at 6am, breakfast at 6.30, group talk from 7.00 to 9.00, then contemplation time from 9.00 to noon.
An entire three hours of sitting around doing nothing. The idea was to let people work through their issues and decompress from group talk. Bruno found, mostly, he just thought about Yuusei. He never had anything particularly personal to share at group talk, just that he miscalculated and lost a hand and everyone would go silent and then he’d laugh awkwardly and that was that. It would be better, honestly, if he could just stop thinking about it.
It’s a lot nicer to think about Yuusei. Every day he looks forward to their free period, Yuusei’s project is five small motorized vehicles — like motorcycles, but a little different in shape. He’d explained, that the challenge of a more narrow two-wheeled vehicle appealed to him, but the balance was still pretty tricky to maintain. And, with an entirely serious face, Yuusei had said — It would be easier if they had tiny drivers. — which is true, but it had made Bruno laugh and completely forget the weird phantom ache in his missing hand.
He thinks about the small satisfied smiles Yuusei has when something works out — it’s a private look, it’s not really meant for other people to see, and Bruno is sure no one else gets to see it but him. He also thinks about how they’re just the right heights that Yuusei can sit at the work bench and Bruno can lean over him and it’s comfortable and close but doesn’t interfere with the work. He thinks about how, he can work on something halfway through and pass it to Yuusei and Yuusei will finish it, no questions asked, Bruno doesn’t have to explain anything. They both speak the same language.
What he doesn’t think about, though, is how short the summer camp session is.
—
It took Bruno all morning to find Yuusei, on the last day of the Summit. Bruno’s parents weren’t coming to pick him up until near the end of the day, but there were no activities scheduled — he had assumed Yuusei would be at the hobby hut, but he wasn’t. Instead, he finds him in the small wood gazebo Yuusei showed him on his first day there, just sitting on the floor. A bunch of circuits and welded pieces of scrap metal are on the floor before him — but even disassembled, Bruno can tell what it’s supposed to be.
“Yuusei,” Bruno greets.
Yuusei leans forward, trying to cover his project and Bruno sees a rare blush — it’s just only faintly there, on his cheeks and the back of his neck. “Bruno — “
“It’s the last day.” Bruno sits down next to him. “I didn’t want to miss a chance to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry,” Yuusei says, immediately. Bruno can read his body language, though, embarrassment and reluctance. He’s sure that his own has something similar — hesitance. “I thought I’d be able to finish it.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like this is going to change any time soon,” Bruno waves his one hand, makes the bad joke. “Besides… spending time with you is a lot better, than that, I think. I’ve had the best summer — I really don’t want it to end.”
“Me neither — Bruno — “ Yuusei still hasn’t sat back, he’s still bent over the jumbled mess that had been his attempt at piecing together a prosthetic hand. “Thanks.”
They sit together through lunch and the late afternoon. Bruno’s parents come across them in the latest part of the afternoon. They smile twin brittles miles and beckon for Bruno to go.
“Bye, Yuusei.” Bruno squeezes Yuusei’s hand, hauls himself up and moves to join his parents.
“Goodbye, Bruno.” Yuusei waves, but stays seated.
Z — as he’s introduced himself and apparently likes to be called — isn’t anything like Yuusei, Bruno realizes. They both have dark hair, a nice smile and blue eyes. But Z’s louder than Yuusei, he likes to make conversation in the garage when they work. He’s more outgoing than Yuusei too — it’s always Z who greets customers, who makes smalltalk and the terrible Welcome to the Auto Z-one joke.
But he gave Bruno a job right out of the gate, is always impressed with Bruno’s skills, and loves having a ‘left-hand man’ around the garage. He makes Bruno feel special, treats him well and brings donuts in for the crew every Thursday.
The problem, really, is that four years after a single summer at the Summit and Bruno still thinks about Yuusei. When Z is intense in his work, like, really intense, he looks like Yuusei. They have the same kind of scowl, the same immense focus. Bruno would be lying if he said he hadn’t accepted the job offer at least, in part, because he felt at ease with Z — because he reminded him of Yuusei. It was more than a little embarrassing. It made him feel like a kid, still.
“So you know, customer is king,” Z says, as they put away the tools for the night. Then it’s to check the cars in the lot, lock up the paperwork and then the garage and office. “If they feel good, then you feel good. We can all help each other out by being nicer to everyone.”
“Pay it forward?” Bruno asks.
“Exactly! Pay it forward! If I help you and you help someone else, then we’re all helping each other.” Z claps him on the back. “It’s the little things that matter.”
Z’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder, he steers Bruno out into the parking lot. Bruno thinks, really, that four years is a long time to think about a summer camp he went to when he was a teenager. It’s far too long to think about a nice kid he only spent a few months with.
“Want to catch a few beers?” Z asks, grins, “I promise, no weird boss-employee things. Off the record and all.”
“Yeah — yeah, sure.” Bruno answers.
—
Turns out, Z’s the most charismatic person that Bruno has ever met. It’s because of Z that they all make funny team t-shirts. It’s because of Z that they spend a Friday night, drinking, in the garage and each sketch out an ideal motorcycle design (while drunk) and get them printed on their team t-shirts.
Three weeks later when the custom tees arrive it’s pretty clear that their drunk designs were not the best idea in the least. And that’s how all of Bruno’s coworkers (and Bruno himself) ended up with odd nicknames and matching work tees.
“Antimony, huh?” Z asks — his own tee has his own stupid joke on it Z-one and a motorcycle that doesn’t even have wheels. While Bruno’s only has one wheel, he thinks he’s still made off with the better end of the drunken designing here. “That’s pretty deep.”
“Shouldn’t you be talking to Aporia if you’re talking about deep?” Bruno laughs. In the year he’s worked at the garage, he’s lost a lot of his nervousness. The guys have all rubbed off on him, in the best possible ways, he thinks.
It’s hard to think about the person he used to be — too excitable, too eager to please, too fixated on weird things in the past. He’s decided, this is what growing up is all about. Now he’s become one of the guys. They fix cars and hang out and drink beer and give each other stupid nicknames.
“Aporia’s a sensitive guy,” Z shrugs, “But you seem like the kind of person who always has to have some hidden meaning. Hidden depth.”
“Watch out, Titanic,” Bruno laughs.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Z adds, moments later. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
It’s not that they changed their names, but what started as a joke became common use. Drunken weekends meant making fun of Aporia’s melodrama and making up different (bad) jingles for Z-one, asking Antimony what were the two hardest decisions of his life — father’s day last year, and which college to go to, respectively. The drunk jokes for Paradox wrote themselves, but that didn’t stop them from trying to one-up themselves every weekend.
—
Antimony didn’t spend much time alone, anymore. It’s odd, going from being alone a lot as a kid, to school, to a single apartment to sharing a house with three other guys and living, working and hanging out with them. The constant company doesn’t grate on him — thought it was sometimes exasperating.
And, even if the other guys were out, Z’s always there. It’s a bit awkward for them both, since Z still drags out the boss-employee thing, says he doesn’t want it to get awkward, but that really hasn’t stopped anything. Plus, Antimony made the first move. He caught Z after a short day — just eight cars, instead of fifteen — and used all of that newfound confidence to kiss him. A kiss became a (sloppy) handjob and then two laters it turned into fucking on the garage floor — to which they both decided they were never doing again.
The joke is that they’re on-again and off-again, but the truth is that Antimony’s never really felt like they were ever off. Sex is irregular, but on their busiest days the four of them see seventeen cars and it takes all their energy to close up shop and then collapse into bed (together). The better joke is that they make up for lost time on Sundays, the only day the garage is closed.
Antimony likes to sleep in, wake up slow and roll over and bury Z in pillows and blankets and hugs until he wakes up. Z could probably sleep through a tornado, but with enough coaxing he’ll eventually open his eyes. (Just once, Anitmony wondered if Yuusei’s also a heavy sleeper — but the thought was an early morning dream, and he never thought of it again).
They skip breakfast, usually, in favor of slow sleepy sex. Except on rainy days — because if the rain is light, Z likes to take jogs in the rain. It’s a habit that Antimony doesn’t really understand.
Every time, when Z comes back from a run in the rain, he’ll lay in bed, in his wet clothes and give Antimony the weirdest smile and say, “It’s like the world’s new again, in the rain.”
“What, isn’t the old world enough for you?” Antimony, will always, ask in return.
“Not quite,” is the constant reply.
Sometimes, people grow apart. It’s the kind of lesson that they all have to learn.
Antimony — he keeps the nickname, because remembering who he used to be is a little embarrassing, Bruno wasn’t the kind of guy who would pack up everything and move just because he wanted to, who rode motorcycles and went hiking at midnight because why not, or really, that interesting — has never really liked that lesson, though. It’s hard to say goodbye to the garage, to his friends and to Z. They didn’t even have a falling out, but three years and slow progress to nowhere seemed to drag them all down. Instead of hanging out, sharing a case of beer, having fun together, they ended up fighting or stalking off alone. There wasn’t anything to talk about, just a drifting apart.
If he let himself think about it, Antimony would admit, that none of them tried very hard to stay together, either. They were all, really, kind of self-absorbed. But that did mean that he was back to a studio apartment — this one bigger than his last, higher up, in a different city, but just as empty. It’s only after he left the garage that Antimony ended up buying a prosthetic hand — the way that other people noticed, asked questions, or really, worse, just stared had gotten him into way too many bar fights. It’s awkward and heavy and the fingers aren’t mobile, but it’s enough to pass.
On Sunday, he always walked down to the bakery on the corner to pick up fresh bread and order a cortado. Even when it rains, he’ll walk down the block — often without an umbrella, as if it would give him a little insight into that new world that Z was always saying he saw. Really, he just saw how cold he got in the winter rain and how gross vaguely warm summer rain was.
But it’s on a Sunday, when he’s still spitefully looking for something new in the rain, that he meets Yuusei again. It’s been a long time, closer to a decade than five years, but everything notable about Yuusei remains — dark hair, blue eyes, even a smudge of grease on his face. He’s running in the rain, a blue jacket bundled around something in his arms that Antimony would guess — still guess, after all these years — has to be electronics parts.
And Yuusei runs right past him.
Antimony just stands in the rain, throws back his head and laughs.
It takes him a week, but Antimony tracks down Yuusei easily. The baker knows him, the grocer knows him, the postman knows him and even the dogwalker seems to know Yuusei but none of them can give Antimony his address. Through process of elimination though, he concludes that Yuusei has to live in the set of apartments that were next to the burn out old lot. They were unremarkable, boring and a little rundown. It made Antimony feel a bit awkward to be staking them out to see if Yuusei came home there, but he was rewarded when eventually, Yuusei walks right up the steps, pulls out a key and heads inside.
Apartment 113. Without hesitation, Antimony knocks on the door. There’s a muted crash, the sound of something round and metal rolling across the floor and then Yuusei opens the door. His face shifts from stoic to shocked.
“Hey, it’s been a while,” Antimony says.
—
Yuusei’s mostly the same. They meet a few times — for brunch, for dinner one time, and again on the weekend. Each time, Antimony finds that none of their previous easy companionship fits anymore. Of course, they were both kids — young, stuck in a place that had been more of an annoyance than a help — and, he had no idea Yuusei was such a frustrating person.
He’s more than a quiet guy, Yuusei’s almost aggressively noncommunicative. Antimony finds that his conversation seems to roll right off of Yuusei and the only responses he gets are corrections or well-placed statements that deflate the whole dialogue.
“Can’t believe some people, we used to get whack jobs all the time.” Antimony waves a hand, as if to demonstrate. “Bring in their car, act like it’s haunted and then throw a fit when we couldn’t fix it.”
“Hope you gave them a discount,” and Yuusei doesn’t have to add for being an asshole but Antimony knows he’s thinking it. It reminds him of Z’s customer is king mantra and it puts him in a sour mood for the rest of the day.
The fourth time they hang out, just casual drinks at the bar — though, Yuusei doesn’t get alcohol, just milk, and Antimony can’t help but find it hilarious. He tries to joke with Yuusei about it, rib him a little, the way the guys used to at the garage.
“Milk? At a bar? Just asking for trouble, Yuusei.”
Yuusei response is so painfully honest that it kills the joke. “I like milk.”
So, Antimony had to ask, he ground it out even, “Do you even like going out with me? I can’t tell, there’s nothing easy or fun about it at all, is there?”
That seems to shock Yuusei. He was reaching for his milk but he stops and turns on the barstool — turns, so he’s fully facing Antimony. In the same overly honest tone of voice, he answers, “I’m having a lot of fun. I’ve missed hanging out with you.”
There’s really no arguing with him. Antimony laughs, it’s a little forced, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks — yeah, they both missed each other, didn’t they?
—
Yuusei invites Antimony over to his workshop — they’ve been meeting up for months, and while it hasn’t gotten any easier on Antimony, something always tells him not to let the opportunity slip past again. Besides, if he remembers correctly, Yuusei’s a genius, so whatever he’s working on must be interesting.
The ‘workshop’ is actually just a small cramped room at the local community college that Yuusei’s renting out. It’s cluttered and dimly lit and Antimony would trade it for a garage any day of the week but the table is full of small minute motors, microprocessors and strips of silicone.
“It’s been a long term project,” Yuusei says, seats himself on the tiny stool in the corner and offers the other narrow seat to Antimony. “I think I’ve almost got it, the gloving is still far from perfect, but once I finish tweaking the auto-grip programming, it’ll be close to finished.”
A long term project of probably seven or eight years in the making, Antimony realizes. It’s not that there aren’t prosthetic hands that do what Yuusei’s suggesting — grip, have folding fingers that have natural movement, or even grip patterns. But the small prototype on the workshop table was slim, lightweight, had more joints than anything Antimony had ever bought.
“I don’t — know a lot about it, though,” Yuusei continues, “It’s not my life and I haven’t done as much — . . . I got caught up in the technical aspects.” Meaning, it was more about the making and building than the practical application. Meaning, it isn’t a continuation of the gift Yuusei had tried to make, years ago, but a personal project for Yuusei. Antimony can’t decide if he’s offended or not. The silence hangs between them.
“You won’t get very far, that way,” Antimony says, finally. “It’s pretty limiting to work alone.”
“Join me?” Yuusei asks.
Antimony doesn’t answer, but he scoots the chair he’s on closer to the bench and starts examining the spread. For a moment, everything is foreign, even the wires and motors that he should know what they do seem to be incomprehensible.
“Wait, here — “ Yuusei moves over to join him, sits right next to him and carefully opens up the bionic hand, exposing its inner workings. Then Antimony sees it. He sees how Yuusei put it together and he can immediately see some shortcomings.
They sit, side by side, mostly in silence and for the first time since their reunion, Antimony feels like they’re speaking the same language.
—
Monday mornings are always difficult to face. It’s Yuusei’s day off, but he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of sleeping in and gets up early — even if he went to bed late. Antimony, who works late on Sundays, finds this to be one of Yuusei’s worst traits. Especially since he knows if he sleeps in too long then Tuesday will happen and Yuusei will be pretty much nonexistent until Thursday rolls around.
So, it’s on Monday, when he hears the coffee machine click on — it’s on a timer, a pretty ugly timer that was cleverly wired into the coffee machine, but honestly, Yuusei had no finesse with design sometimes — that Antimony forces himself out of bed. He also forces himself to pull on a pair of pajama pants. It’s a difficult fight, being awake in the morning. Yuusei’s already down in the kitchen rummaging around in the fridge for food.
“Leftover pizza?” Yuusei asks, without looking.
“Pancakes,” Antimony mutters and tries to will the coffee maker to brew faster just by staring at it. Yuusei makes a noncommittal noise and pulls out milk and eggs and one of those jugs of dry-batter — just add liquid and shake and pour!
It’s only after coffee and pancakes and they’ve migrated from the kitchen to the couch where Yuusei fans out whatever plans he’s decided to work on onto the coffee table that Antimony realizes Yuusei is wearing his shirt. It should have been more obvious, since Yuusei changes his outfits like once every three weeks, if that, but the black tee is fairly similar to Yuusei’s typical black tank.
The big ugly one-wheeled drunken motorcycle design stares at Antimony from Yuusei’s back. Along with the big block letters ANTIMONY and C’MON, LET’S GO. With a groan, Antimony flops all of his weight against Yuusei, causing him to lean forward, almost hitting the coffee table.
“Woah — are you okay?” Yuusei asks.
“Are you trying to tell me something,” Antimony mutters, “Shirt.”
“I thought it was nice,” Yuusei’s reply is, as always, far too honest. But, Antimony’s realized that sometimes Yuusei’s far too honest was actually a joke. His sense of humor was just really, really awful. “I bet I could build one.”
“It’s too big for you anyway, you’re tiny and drowning,” Antimony continues, and plucks at the sleeve without removing himself from draping all over Yuusei’s back.
“I wanted to say, too,” Yuusei pauses. Antimony pushes himself up — even if it means digging his elbows into Yuusei’s back a little — so he can lean around him more fully and catch sight of his face. Yuusei’s expression is partially nostalgic, but mostly too fond for his own good. “I’m really happy that we’re together again, Bruno.”
Antimony doesn’t even bother saying anything about his name, just pulls Yuusei tighter against him. He leans back though, because the expression he’s making is, surely, way too uncool for the moment.
“Yeah, me too."