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Lyney is tasked this semester’s coming end to find a venue for their acting club’s conclusory party to acknowledge all graduating seniors and conclude a year of performances well-done. Lyney is acting chair of the club -- these are his responsibilities, after all.
Arlecchino, their program director, chastises him for using up the majority of their events budget earlier on in the year for so called “trivial things” like group ice cream runs after practice and Sunday brunches or individualized birthday parties around the urban portion of their campus’s downtown. Lyney only sheepishly rubs the back of his neck as she blames him in front of the rest of their improv troupe, yet no one truly seems to mind.
The meager hundred or so dollars left in their budget has him hunting for the cheapest spots available. No more Korean BBQ, hot pot, tea houses, or even Outback Steakhouse (though that’s hardly a luxury). Lynette finds them a place snug in the lower portion of the city, a vintage arcade still with the clunky cabinets and blinking colored lights. Their website is hardly a website, just a one-page outdated link that reads General Mahamatra’s and a subheader equally as disinteresting: My life was ruined by my obsession with video games. Fortunately, I had another two lives, which he fiercely grimaces upon reading. Below that is the address. He goes with Lynette one muggy Sunday afternoon to inspect the place.
There’s trash kicked into the gutter as he and Lynette enter General Mahamatra’s. A foreboding sense overcomes Lyney; as club chair, proven by their frequent outings, he cares a large deal about the sort of experience he puts his members through. He wants every moment they spend together to be worthwhile, and more importantly, perfect, just as he does their performances.
An exuberant worker in uniform -- a purple vest and name tag reading Sethos -- waves them in when the small, jingling bell signals their appearance. He practically throws himself over the glass counter to beckon them inside, green eyes twinkling. Behind him a dark-skinned boy about their age also dons a purple vest as well as a purple bandana. His eyes don’t flit up from his comic book, but Lyney can see his name is Kinich.
“Hello, hello! Welcome to General Mahamatra’s!” Sethos calls.
Lyney gives him a tight smile but does not approach. From the flickering overhead bulb and the squeaking arcade cabinets around them, Lyney is… unimpressed, and more than put-off. He puffs up his chest and wraps his coat tighter around himself, waiting for the indoor heat to catch up from the outdoor cold.
“It’s quaint,” he murmurs to Lynette.
“It’s better than Olive Garden, like last year,” Lynette answers softly, looking around inquisitively.
She leads them down a row of cabinets, stopping at the Pac-Man to twiddle the joystick around. There’s an ATM in the front and each cabinet is only about a quarter per game, which isn’t bad at all. But Lyney’s never been too interested in games, be it videogames or any of the sort. There’s a vending machine in the back and a small concession stand manned by a worker equally as exuberant looking as the one by the door, name tag this time reading Ga Ming (who Lyney also pointedly avoids), a bathroom, and a staff room marked strictly off-limits, but otherwise, that’s it. The arcade cabinets take up most of the floor.
Lyney sighs as they round the corner to a private-seeming corner, away from the staff and odd arcade-goers who flit around time-to-time in peaceful quiet. “I don’t know,” he whines to Lynette, “It’s not cute enough, I’m not getting the vibe. It just doesn’t have that…”
He looks around at the drab carpet, the sprinkle-pattern navy blue carpet. It looks decades old. It probably hasn’t been washed in that long, either.
“...Pizzazz.”
Lynette looks at him, unimpressed. “Pizzazz?”
He shrugs wordlessly, unable to articulate his feeling. “Yes, you know what I mean. I don’t even like arcade games anyway.”
“Fine,” Lynette huffs, “No pizzazz, then. Let’s try the internet cafe down the street next. Do you mind if I run to the bathroom first?”
He takes her bag and leans against a cabinet with a disappointed sigh as she takes off down the aisle towards the bathroom in the back. He’s weighing the pros and cons of the internet cafe down the road when a sharp voice barks at him from behind:
“Hey.”
Lyney turns. A boy with indigo hair choppily cut and dark eyes, smudged eyeliner, stares back at him. Lyney swallows thickly, bobs his mouth open, and tries to swallow again. “Hi,” he chokes out with a smile, flattered by the approach. Excitement blooms in his chest. Maybe this wasn’t all for nothing. The boy is cute, exactly Lyney’s type. Dark, short, mysterious, cute--
“If you’re not going to play, then don’t waste my time and get the hell out.”
Lyney’s gaze flicks down to the nametag on his purple vest; it reads Scaramouche. Oh. Oh, he works here. That’s a uniform.
Lyney deflates.
“Are you listening to me?”
He perks up again. “Sorry, I was just--”
The boy takes a step closer. Lyney holds his breath. “You’ve been trotting around for the past thirty minutes and you haven’t spent a single dime. This isn’t a halfway house for people to stay out of the cold. If you’re going to stay, at least buy a damn soda.” He stabs his finger towards the old vending machine in the back.
Lyney can’t help himself -- he feels his face flush as his eyes wander along the boy’s delicate features; his soft lips, clear skin, broodingly cold yet deeply lavish blue eyes. His breath catches.
“Yes,” he says quickly, almost too quickly, “Yes, right, sorry. We, um-- we’re just--”
“Lyney?” Lynette’s voice interrupts them. Scaramouche turns to look at her with narrowed eyes.
“If you’re not going to play,” he relays to her, “Get out.”
Lynette looks tiredly back at Lyney. “Right,” she says, “Sorry about that.” She comes forward to grab Lyney’s arm and pull him towards the door. “Let’s go, then--”
“No!” Lyney blurts, yanking his arm from Lynette’s grip. She looks at him incredulously. “I mean-- We should stay! Definitely!”
“But you don’t like it here. You just said you, and I quote, don’t even like video games--”
“I lied!” He laughs loudly, the sound a trill bark in the air as he nervously interrupts her. “I was just testing you. Haha! Obviously I love games, Lynette, are you crazy?”
She looks at him alienly. “Okay…”
He whirls back towards Scaramouche. “Actually, I’m chair for Teyvat’s acting club, the Opera Epiclese.”
Scaramouche’s gaze flickers with recognition. “Oh, joy. Theater kids.”
Lyney sticks out his hand. “I’m organizing our end-of-semester farewell party. I think this, ahem, lovely domain in which you work would just be magnificent as a venue, don’t you think, Lynette?”
Lynette blinks. “Um. Right.”
Scaramouche regards them both, ignoring his handshake. Lyney keeps it extended stubbornly nonetheless, refusing to be embarrassed. “Alright. You’ll have to talk to the owner, then. His name is Cyno. I can give you his contact information along with a venue application form, if that’s something you want.”
Lyney’s face lights up with a hopeful grin. “Yes! Yes, that’d be wonderful,” he makes a point of looking down at Scaramouche’s name tag, “ Scaramouche.”
“Cool.” His emotionless expression makes Lyney think it’s anything but cool. “Follow me.” He turns wordlessly and makes his way back to the counter by where they’d come in. Lyney follows him eagerly, so quickly he has to lurch backwards and grab Lynette along with him to make her keep up.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” she whispers fervently.
“It’s not what’s gotten into me,” he whispers back, “But rather, what I’m trying to get into…”
Scaramouche lifts the counter gate and lets it clack behind him as he crosses behind into staff territory. Sethos grins widely and sticks out his hand over the counter towards Lyney, who now accepts it. The tanner man laughs heartily.
“Welcome, welcome! Is this your first time at General Mahamatra’s!”
“Yes!” Lyney answers good-naturedly, a complete 180 from the way he’d entered. He grins tightly and hopes no one will say anything about it. “And what a lovely place it is!”
“Thank you for your kindness! This is my uncle’s store, actually. He bought it when he graduated college, which was like, soooo long ago.” He jerks his thumb back at Scaramouche, who’s flicking through a stack of files he’d pulled from underneath the counter. “He’s my cousin. Well, step-cousin, I guess? Hey, Mouchie. What are we?”
“Enemies,” Scaramouche says heatlessly, without looking up.
Sethos laughs. “He’s kidding. He’s always like that.”
“Always?” Lyney asks, a bit of teasing question in his voice. Scaramouche’s gaze flicks to him for a brief moment. No one else seems to pick up on it.
“But yeah. He’s my uncle’s son, so I guess that makes us cousins, adoptive or not. I’ll let you in on a family secret,” he leans across the counter towards Lyney and stage-whispers, “Scaramouche is Cyno’s kid, but I think I’m going to inherit the place~”
Scaramouche tosses a pencil at the back of his head without turning around. Sethos yelps.
“It’s the truth!” he scrambles to pick the pencil off the floor and holds it up at Scaramouche indignantly. “I’m more personable! Uncle Cyno said it himself! How can you run a store if you can’t even be nice to customers?”
“How can you run a store if you’re dead?” Scaramouche bites back. He finds the paper he’s looking for and pulls it from the folder.
Sethos gasps. Lyney startles as another boy, the one from the concession stand, slides over the glass counter and into the employee space. He looks around excitedly. “Are we arguing?”
“Scaramouche is sending me death threats again,” Sethos whines.
“Oh,” the boy, Ga Ming, laughs. “So nothing new, then?”
Sethos collapses against the cash register, laying his face on the buttons with an over-exaggerated huff.
Scaramouche turns, paper in hand. “There isn’t enough room back here for the four of us. Ga Ming, go back to concessions.”
“But I’m boooored over there,” Ga Ming complains. Scaramouche tries to shuffle around him but Ga Ming steps further into his space. “Why don’t you go work concessions?”
Scaramouche’s brow ticks with irritation. “Ga Ming--”
Ga Ming in a burst of energy grabs Scaramouche around the waist and hoists him up. Scaramouche’s eyes widen and he grips the paper in his hand so hard it crumples as his feet come off the floor. He folds over Ga Ming’s shoulder. “Ga Ming!” he shouts. “Put me--”
Lyney has to clap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Scaramouche claws at Ga Ming’s back as he’s spun around; Lyney can’t help it. A laugh breaks free from his lips as he watches them go around and around, a pure, big smile cracking his face. Ga Ming releases him eventually with an equally wide grin which almost entirely evaporates as soon as Scaramouche, hair mussed, meets his eye.
His gaze is sharp and dangerous, his voice even more so when he speaks quietly: “Ga Ming.” Ga Ming gulps thickly. “You go back to concessions now. Before something terrible, terrible happens to you.”
Ga Ming’s eyes widen. He takes a step back so far he bumps into the opposite counter. “Yessir,” he says quickly, and, with a sharp salute, vaults back over the countertop and bounds back towards concessions.
Scaramouche tugs at his vest to straighten the newly formed crinkles and takes a deep, calming breath. He clears his throat and turns back towards Lyney.
“I apologize,” he says primly. “That was… very unprofessional.”
Lyney smirks, leaning across the counter at him. “Don’t apologize. I quite enjoyed it.”
Scaramouche slams the paper he’d been after down onto the counter. In the upper-right corner a number is scribbled in red ink.
“There,” he huffs. “Mr. Cyno’s contact number is at the top. It’d better be worth the trouble.”
“Ohh,” Sethos perks up, rising from the cash register, “You’re here to rent the place, are you?”
“Yes,” Lyney grins. “I’m with the Opera Epiclese.”
Sethos’s jaw drops. “Like-- Like the acting club? We--” he gestures around to the three of them, presumably Ga Ming included, “go to Teyvat too. That’s-- you’re awesome! Wait, Mouchie, then you know who this is, don’t you?” He turns back to Lyney. “Oh, he totally begged us all to come see you when you performed on--”
Scaramouche clamps a hand over Sethos’s mouth. “And this is why you’ll never inherit anything,” he hisses, “You ignorant loudmouth.”
“Don’t be so embarrassed,” the brooding boy in the corner finally comments, eyes not lifting from his comics. “The man clearly doesn’t appreciate the value of arcade games, nor General Mahamatra’s itself, for that matter. He wants to fuck you, Scaramouche.”
Lynette makes a choked noise behind him and Scaramouche’s face flames beet-red. He turns, grasps for another pen on the counter and chucks it right at Kinich though Kinich catches it easily, even without looking. He tsks’s.
“Only doing you a favor.” He tosses the pen to the side and it lands perfectly in the pencil holder.
Lyney smiles sheepishly. “Cat’s out of the bag, I guess?”
Scaramouche clenches his hands into fists at his sides and breathes deeply, and though he’s turned half away from Lyney he can see the reddened tips of the other boy’s ears.
Lyney pushes down his smile and takes the paper from the countertop gently. “Thank you for your time,” he says, looking between the smug Kinich, bemused Sethos, and humiliated Scaramouche. “I’ll be sure to contact Mr. Cyno about the event. I’ll see you all again, yes?”
Sethos grins and sticks out a thumb. “You betcha!”
Lyney meets his smile. He shifts his gaze back towards Scaramouche and, just before he goes, calls out: “Next time you want to come see me at a show, sweetheart, I can get you front-row tickets.”
He turns but not before he can catch Scaramouche in his peripheral cover his face with his hands and sink below the counter. Sethos erupts into loud laughter and the bell jingles shut as the door closes behind them, sending them back out into the winter breeze.
He and Lynette stand there in silence.
“So…” she says after a moment.
Lyney can’t stop grinning. “I think we ought to tell Director Arlecchino we’ve found a venue for the farewell party, and every party henceforth.”
Lynette sighs and flicks him on the cheek. “You’re hopeless, brother.”
He keeps grinning.