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The sound of the rage room—only slightly muffled by the heavy rubber walls—reaches another crescendo of yells, Isaac can hear Yumi and Larry shrieking and a bottle breaks against the wall he’s leaning against. He wishes he could go out and get some air, the corridors of the rage room place are a tight, dark warren of humidity and they smell like a bowling alley, and even with his mask hanging from one ear it feels stuffy.
Nick is leaning against the wall beside him, poking at his camera with a little scowl, rough material of his overalls rubbing against Isaac’s shin. “Should be good now,” he says, unzipping his overalls to put the dead battery in the pocket of his shorts.
“You go ahead,” says Isaac, “I still need a breather.”
Nick looks him up and down, eyes lingering on his bare arms like he’s expecting to see shards of glass sticking out of him or something. “Dude, I wish you’d cover up.”
“Why?” says Isaac. “You don’t wanna see my arms?” He flexes a little, feels the phantom weight of Nick sitting on his hips to ‘spot him’, and looks away.
“Shut up, man,” says Nick, but he doesn’t go back in, his shoulder warm even through the overalls and knocking into Isaac’s. “What? Is it because I’m vlogging? You want everyone to replay the parts where you look good? Baseball video all over again, bro.” He scoffs. “You’re so fucking vain.”
“No I’m not dude.” He knocks his shoulder into Nick’s hard enough that he sways away before he comes back to rest against Isaac’s arm again. “I’m really not.”
“Do you search for TikTok edits of yourself?”
“Oh my god, no.” He doesn’t.
Nick is grinning, cradling his camera against his chest like it’s going to stop Isaac from tackling him to the floor.
“You’re so annoying,” Isaac says.
“You’re annoying, walking around with your arms out around broken glass.” He narrows his eyes. “I triple dog dare you to go and put overalls on.”
Isaac snorts. “No.”
“Isaac,” he whines.
“No, baby.” He flexes his arms again. “Suns out, guns out!”
Nick laughs, pinches his bicep. “Vain asshole.”
Isaac decides to be mature and sticks his tongue out at Nick.
“You alright, though?” says Nick, switching so suddenly to serious and concerned that Isaac jumps when what sounds like the remains of the printer hits the wall.
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. You’re losing footage in there, you know?” He feels weird and caught, not that he isn’t alright—he is fine—but the rubber walls are rough on his shoulders and the guys are being so loud.
Nick just rolls his eyes. “Why do you need a breather? You’re not having a panic attack or something, right?”
“Do I look like I’m hyperventilating?”
“You can have silent ones,” Nick presses. “It’s fine if you want to sit the rest out, dude.”
He sighs, grabs Nick’s hand and looks him straight in the eyes to say, “Dude, I’m seriously fine, thank you though. It’s just hard to breathe in there with my mask on and shit.”
“I can stop filming,” says Nick immediately, “we can do the rest with no camera, you can go and lose an eye without your mask on.”
Isaac drops his hand and looks down at the floor. “Don’t be stupid, you can vlog. I’ll follow you in in a bit.”
“I’ll wait with you,” says Nick.
“You’re missing content.”
“I don’t care.”
“Fine.” He crosses his arms and stares at the graffiti on the wall, he’s not exactly annoyed at Nick but he kind of wishes he didn’t have someone who knew him well enough to notice when he’s in a weird mood. He doesn’t know what’s causing the mood, or had even really noticed it until Nick started being concerned—which means Nick noticed he wasn’t feeling great before he did. It’s weird. Or, not weird, but too real.
“What’s the point anyway if I don’t have my star hottie there,” says Nick, “with your arms out and everything. The watcher retention and replay will be through the roof.”
Isaac snorts despite himself. “Shut up, bro.”
“Is something up?”
“No, not really,” he says. “I think I’m just tired.”
“Okay,” says Nick, warm and steady.
“Thanks for—I don’t know. Being—being here.”
“Of course,” he says, “dude, where else would I be?”
Isaac doesn’t know what to say next so something stupid comes spilling out. “Do you ever miss when we lived in normal places and we were normal people?”
“Plenty of normal people live in Texas,” says Nick, grinning.
“Shut up. I mean—I don’t know what I mean. You know, when you’d have to drive up to see me and we’d spend a week being complete idiots and then go right back to hanging out 24/7 on Discord and we were just—normal? It was just—yeah, normal.”
Nick’s nodding, like he maybe understood some of that which is great because Isaac didn’t, really. “Yeah, man. It was fun.” He chews the inside of his cheek. “We didn’t have to overthink things.”
“Exactly,” says Isaac, breathing out slowly as muffled shouting echoes from the rage room, Yumi yelling, I told you not to do that, dumbass, “it was easy.”
Nick hums, shoots Isaac a look that he catches out of the corner of his eye, knocks his head back against the rough wall. “Yeah.”
Isaac wonders if they’re both thinking about the same things, some of which followed them down to Texas but the rest of which have been abandoned between road-trip visits, sprinkled out between old homes and old beds. “I miss it, sometimes.”
A foot taps his. “You don’t have to miss it,” says Nick.
“I kind of think I do,” he whispers.
Nick doesn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes on Isaac’s face, Isaac can’t bare to meet them. “I mean from my end,” says Nick finally, “from my end, you don’t have to miss it. If you ever change your mind, you know?”
“Nick,” says Isaac, “you can’t do that, it’s not very kind. It’s not very kind to yourself.”
He’s chewing his lip. “You still call me baby,” he says, “and you always can. That’s what I mean. It’s always there for you.”
Isaac closes his eyes. “What’s always there for me?”
“You know,” says Nick. “You know how I feel, Isaac. Don’t make me say it.”
“We never—” he starts. “We never were—”
“No,” says Nick, and Isaac knows they’re both thinking about the thousand almosts that litter the east coast. “We never, but we might as well have. It feels the same, I think.”
Isaac squeezes his eyes so tight shut he sees amorphous shapes like jellyfish. He opens them. Nick is still looking at him, he doesn’t even seem angry. “I know,” says Isaac. “I know it feels the same.” The almosts that have followed them—the touching and the grabbing and the stupid jokes and baby— feel like a string tied too taut between them. “I feel the same way you do,” he confides, quiet even though there’s no way anyone can hear them out here. “It’s just—it’s scary.”
He grins, sort of like he might start crying but isn’t going to. “Yeah, I know.”
“You don’t have to miss it,” Isaac repeats. “Not from me either. I just—I just don’t know what to do with it, how to feel it. It’s—it’s like I have a great apartment and I buy a really nice piece of furniture but I’m just so scared that it isn’t going to look good in my great apartment that I put it in the garage and try not to think about it. I don’t know where to put you.”
Nick is smiling still, soft like he can maybe somehow understand. “And I’m the furniture, I guess?”
“Yeah,” says Isaac. “Not in a bad way. People need furniture. People love furniture. People want furniture. People keep furniture for a really, really long time.”
“And you’re people,” says Nick, not a question.
“Yeah.”
Nick doesn’t sound mad when he says, “And eventually you’re going to work out where this awesome piece of furniture is going to go?”
“Yeah,” says Isaac. “I mean—I mean, it’s almost time for a spring clean, right?”
“Like I said: it’s always there, whenever you’re ready.” He sways forward, presses what might be a kiss to the top of Isaac’s bicep. “You want to see if the guys have left anything for us to smash?”
“Yeah,” says Isaac, breathing out shakily, goes to follow Nick and then grabs his shoulder to stop him before they can push in through the door back to the rage room. “I do love you, Nick.”
Nick’s back relaxes under his overalls, Isaac can feel it through his hand. “I love you too.”
Isaac will be ready, soon—really soon. He can feel it. “Sorry I have to make you wait.”
“It’s okay,” says Nick, pushing open the door, “I can wait.”