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Cyanide says, “I can’t believe you don’t have a girlfriend.” He’s not really thinking properly, a few beers deep and ready to spend the night screaming the house down all alone shooting the shit with ZF when everyone else finally gets on. Or, if he’s thinking at all, he’s thinking of about thirty seconds of video of a stupid fucking guy with a stupid fucking haircut and nice brown eyes that Cyanide keeps thinking about—grey hairs and crow’s feet and that aggravating smile.
Womble laughs and all Cyanide can think about is how that would look on his face. It’s weird, he’d never really thought about what Womble would look like until he knew, and now he’s desperate to know what giggles do to that weirdly manly face. He looks like someone out of a James Bond film, not the kind of guy that can’t play a horror game without squealing like he’s six-with-pigtails. “Why do you sound so pissed off about that?” he asks.
His voice is really nice too, Cyanide thinks with a depth of despair he wasn’t previously aware he could reach. This would have been fine if the developers of The Forest (2014) had thought up a better storyline. “Just thinking about my own chances dwindling if you can’t find someone,” he mutters, very glad that Womble isn’t streaming but also wondering if he’s recording right this very moment. Maybe Womble thinks in edits, maybe he’s seeing the subtitles popping up over their Discord call right fucking now.
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Cyanide wishes Womble was in a ‘being a little shit’ mood and not an ‘earnest and kind sweetheart’ kind of mood. He’s using the same voice he uses when he talks to Lulu, saying honey and darling and Cyanide swears to fuck it never used to be a problem before he imagined it coming from those lips. (Which is frankly fucking ridiculous, he’s got pale and thin and unattractive lips that—that Cyanide refuses to find attractive, fuck that.) “You’re a—well, you’re not a great guy, you’re a cock actually.”
That’s more like it. “Dick.”
Womble giggles.
“Actually, I can believe you don’t have a girlfriend. You’re fucking annoying.”
“I didn’t even do anything,” says Womble.
“You giggled. It was annoying.”
“That’s not very nice, Cy,” he says, all high-pitched and over-exaggerated and Cyanide really can’t imagine it coming out of that face. “After everything my giggle has done for your career!”
“Shut up,” he groans. “After everything I’ve done for your career I should get compensation in giggleless nights.”
“You could go and bother someone else.”
“No,” says Cyanide instantly, not really thinking again. “Hey, Soviet, are you recording?”
“Hm? No? Why, do you want me to be? Do you have a funny bit planned, Cyanide?”
“I don’t need to plan my bits, I’m naturally funny.” He takes another drink from his beer, looks around his dark flat like there’s going to be something else to think about other than the man on the other end of the line.
“I’m sure,” says Womble, teasing now and no longer sincere. “So funny, that’s why you’ve got so many girlfriends—oh wait!”
Cyanide frowns at his screen, protesting loudly over Womble’s giggles even though he’s mostly just annoyed that they’re back on the stupid conversation that he brought up. “Yeah well, seeing as how I’ve got to compete with James Bond villain schmucks like you it’s going to be a fucking long time, isn’t it?”
Womble starts to say something, hesitates, says, “I wouldn’t say you’re competing.” His voice has that smooth, rehearsed quality it does when he’s recording a video essay, like it’s something he’s thought about saying for ages but never actually spat it out.
“Huh? What, you’re just—just giving up?” He feels his voice taking an incredulous high-pitch, almost hysterical. “Why? Dude, you’re handsome, shockingly handsome, it’s the only thing anyone’s talking about.”
“You’re an idiot,” says Womble, like he’s not entirely surprised but definitely exasperated. And then, “You think I’m handsome?” His voice has taken on a dangerously soft edge that has Cyanide pushing away from his desk a little so he can pull his legs up on his chair and bang his head quietly against his kneecaps. “You’re being nice what happened?”
“Why am I an idiot?” says Cyanide. “What else would not competing—Oh.” Oh. And now he’s thinking about—well he’s thinking about those eyes and he’s also thinking about a lot of the stupid shit he’s said over the years which he didn’t think was hurting Womble but— “Soviet, I—”
“It’s fine, you don’t have to—I don’t know, you don’t have to do the whole ‘I support you but also I’m about to reinvent the wheel explaining my heterosexuality to you’ thing.”
“I wasn’t going to do that. I was just—I was going to say sorry,” he mutters. “For like—like all the shit I’ve said, you know?”
“I would’ve told you to stop if it was—if it was you know, hurting me, or whatever.” He sounds curious, like Cyanide has done something unexpected. “You don’t need to apologise. It’s fine. You can continue, even, I don’t care.”
“Right,” he says weakly. This feels all wrong. He feels like he should be—be—well, not shouting slurs at his friend, or whatever, but at least making a joke out of all this. It’s just—Cyanide doesn’t know, it shouldn’t be anything. This should be normal, he should be normal about this. “That’s fine.”
“Cy, seriously,” says Womble, nervously giggling like he’s facing down a killer in Dead By Daylight, “are you alright?”
“Of course it’s—of course it’s fine,” he says, feeling hysterical again. “Have you told anyone else? Am I fucking this up for your first coming out experience? Oh no, can we start over?”
Womble snorts. “You’re the first in ZF to know, yeah. People I actually know have known for years.”
“You actually know me!”
“Not like—in real life. I think it’s easier to tell in real life anyway, I’ve been told,” he muses.
“It’s easy to tell from here too,” Cyanide says, scrambling for something normal to say, “you sound gay as fuck.”
Womble giggles. “You’ve only been telling me that the entire time I’ve known you.”
“I’m a dick.”
“I know you are.” He snorts. “Anyway, have I satisfied you now that we’re not competing?”
Cyanide pauses, staring at Womble’s Discord icon like it might tell him what to do next. It’s not very forthcoming. “Well—”
“Yes? What, are you going to ask how gay sex works?”
Why is his voice so smooth sometimes? And why did he have to ask that? Because now the only question Cyanide can think is: top or bottom? Which is just stupid . “No!”
“What, then?”
Cyanide swallows, realises he isn’t really thinking any more, and whatever comes out of his mouth next is completely out of his control. “Unless you’re planning to switch to asexuality we’re still competing, Soviet.”
He’s pretty sure he hears Womble choke on the other end of the call. “What, really? God, my gaydar is so shit. Really? God.”
“Yeah,” says Cyanide, not entirely sure he remembers how to breathe.
“And you think I’m handsome,” says Womble and Cyanide can tell he’s smiling. God, that smile. “I’m flattered, Cy.”
“Shut up.” He chews the inside of his cheek. “It’s so aggravating now I can tell what you look like when you’re smiling.”
“Really?” He sounds so fucking delighted.
“I’m killing you if you mention this to anyone.”
“I’m not telling anyone.” He giggles.
“Soviet.”
“I won’t! Seriously, I’m not going to out you, even if you do have a massive fucking crush on me.”
Cyanide knocks his head back against his chair, squeezing his knees against his chest and groaning. “Shut the fuck up. I don’t.”
“You think I’m handsome. You think about me smiling.” He can tell he’s smiling right fucking as he says it.
“Shut up.” And your eyes, don’t forget about your eyes. “I don’t. It’s just what everyone else is saying.”
“You don’t have to lie,” he says, high-pitched with what sounds like excitement, the fucking weirdo. “You think I’m pretty.”
“I did not say pretty.”
“You think I look like a James Bond villain. Mads Mikkelsen, are we thinking?” Womble laughs. “It’s alright, Cy, I think you’re very pretty too.”
“Honestly, I hate you. I can see why you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Yes but you don’t hate me,” he says and he sounds so happy about it Cyanide can’t even dispute it, he’s thinking about the crow’s feet when he smiles and imagining them as he says it. It’s fubar, in all actuality, Cyanide is gone over some giggly middle-aged guy with grey hair who calls himself SovietWomble. Fuck.