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Gen called your name twice from the living room.
“Did you see that?!”
“Sure did,” you said absently.
“A headshot! How cool am I?!”
“Very cool.”
“I can platinum in no time!”
“No time at all.”
“Next, I’m gonna–” A scandalized gasp. “Wait, you never saw anything! You’re washing the dishes!”
“They won’t wash themselves,” you said, transferring another plate from rinse water to a drying rack.
“Yes, they will if you use the dishwasher!”
You assumed Gen had paused his game in order to have whatever this was (certainly not an argument) with you, and you bet if you turned around, you’d see him pointing to the aforementioned dishwasher. To Gen’s horror, though, you actually preferred hand washing over that machine.
Washing the dishes was a chore, yes, but a calming one. You didn’t blame anyone for hating it or being grossed out, but you saw it as an opportunity to daydream or look out the window at the backyard–the freshly cut grass, trimmed trees, your small vegetable garden.
You loved living here, in the house Gen’s job provided. It was home, no matter how you looked at it. If you and Gen had to, you’d move, otherwise you didn’t want to live anywhere else.
He called your name a third time, and you realized you were tuning him out by… well, not by accident. Whenever Gen got like this, you never listened to him too closely. Or closely at all. The headache wasn’t worth it.
“Yeah, honey?” you asked with an innocent backward glance.
“You’re supposed to be watching me!”
“I will just as soon as I’m done with these dishes.”
Gen seemed to give up waiting for you, grumbling about the dishwasher and how you liked doing the dishes more than doing him (you wondered if he even realized his word choice there). But you weren’t hearing any buttons being mashed or anyone being shot in-game. Only the soft music of the pause screen playing behind you.
You smiled to yourself as you transferred the last plate to the drying rack. Gen really wanted you to watch him, huh? You slipped off your dishwashing gloves and left them out to dry before finally turning around to the living room where Gen was.
He wasn’t looking your way, instead glaring at the TV with his arms folded across his chest. He was being pettish, facing forward even as you sat next to him, the sofa dipping slightly underneath you.
“So where’s the headshot?” you asked wryly.
You knew you shouldn’t tease Gen about it, but sometimes he could be such a handful it was hard not to be amused at his expense.
“I’m sorting my inventory,” he said, punctuating his grudging claim by moving some items around.
Given your past experiences watching him play this game, it sure didn’t look like “sorting” to you, but you didn’t call him out on it.
Instead, you did the next best thing.
“Oh? Then I’ll just leave you to it.” You tried to get up, but Gen was lightning quick, removing one of his hands from his controller to reach for yours.
“Like I’d let you leave after you just sat down,” he retorted. “You should’ve been here from the beginning!”
“And watch you play for five hours straight?”
“Yes!”
Gen’s hand left yours, returning to his controller, and the inventory screen disappeared, his character reappearing and running around a battlefield with a rifle. Several enemies surrounded him, but he took them all out, looking almost bored the whole time. He brightened as another enemy approached, and if you blinked, you would’ve missed the headshot he landed.
Gen looked at you with a smug expression on his face and pointed at the TV. “How about that?”
You shrugged. “I’ve seen better.”
“Where? And where are you going?”
“To do the laundry.”
“Stop doing chores, and tell me!”
Honestly, you thought as you headed to the laundry room.
Gen was so easy to rile up.