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The glowing "Live" icon in the corner of his monitor was a tiny, mocking red sun. Jimmy squinted at it, his vision doubling, his body slumped so far into his gaming chair that he was nearly sliding under the desk. He looked exactly like a man who had been thoroughly bested by a round of birthday shots—his collar was askew, his hair was a bird's nest, and his grin was far too wide to be sober.
"The thing about Grian," Jimmy began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that was still far too loud for the gain settings on his mic. "Is that he’s... he’s a menace. A professional ruiner of lives. My life, specifically."
The chat was a frantic, vertical blur.
gradenofeden: jim are you ok dear god
puppyboyk : hiiiiiiii !!!!
okamibambi: happy birthday jimmy!
bumbobagginsfan: HE IS WASTED LMAO
He laughed, a sudden, bright sound fueled entirely by vodka. "Thirty!" Jimmy shouted, lunging forward to point a shaky, accusing finger at the camera lens. "Thirty years of... of absolute nonsense. And you know who’s at the center of the web? The—the nucleus of the nonsense?"
He leaned in until his nose nearly brushed the pop filter, his eyes wide and glassy with a mix of intoxication and terrifying honesty.
"Grian."
The chat erupted into a waterfall of 'LMAO's and 'HE’S GONE's, but Jimmy didn't notice. He was too busy waving a dismissive hand at the air, fighting an imaginary argument.
"My name is not Timmy, I’ll have you know, Mr. Char-les! He’s so... he’s so mean to me. And it’s unfair! Because he’s good at everything. He’s good at building, he’s good at pranks, he’s even good at being annoying. I hate him. I hate him so much."
Jimmy paused, his head lolling back against the headrest. The "hatred" he was trying to project flickered and died, replaced by a soft, lopsided grin that betrayed him completely.
"He’s just so... persistent," he whispered, the volume dropping into something dangerously sincere. "He doesn't leave me alone. Even when I’m being a massive blummin' fail, he’s there. To laugh at me, sure. To put a pufferfish in my bed, yeah. But... he’s there."
He leaned back toward the webcam, his forehead nearly drifting out of frame. The room was dark, lit only by the neon clinical glow of his monitors and the chaotic scrolling of the strangers watching him fall apart.
"It’s psychological warfare," Jimmy insisted, his voice cracking with dramatic gravity. He waved a hand and narrowly missed knocking his empty glass onto the floor. "The 'Timmy' thing? It’s a tactic. He’s breaking me down. But then..."
Jimmy groaned, burying his face in his palms, his voice muffled and small.
"Then he does that stupid Grian thing. He leans in close to the mic—you know the voice—and he says something just to get a reaction. And I... I can’t even speak. I’m a grown adult! I shouldn't be getting... flustered? Is that the word? My face gets hot and I forget how to play the game. I’m just standing there like a lemon while he laughs at me."
He looked back at the lens, his expression turning piteously honest, the walls of his "Solidarity" persona crumbling in real-time.
"I hate that I wait for him to log on. I’ll be sitting there, minding my own business, and the second I see Grian joined the game, my heart does this stupid... little... thump." He mimicked a heartbeat by thumping a shaky fist against his chest. "He’s a walking health hazard."
The chat was moving at lightspeed now: JIMMY STOP, HE’S GONNA SEE THIS, and AWWWW flooding the screen.
"People ask me who my favorite person is," Jimmy continued, his voice dropping to a low, sleepy mumble as he started spinning slowly in his chair. "And I tell them... I tell them it’s Kirsty, or Joel because he’s tall—well, not taller than me, obviously—but... but it’s him. It’s always been him. Isn't that tragic? My favorite person in the world is a gremlin who lives to make me miserable."
The heavy silence of the room was punctured by the sharp, rhythmic buzzing of Jimmy’s phone. He squinted at the desk, his vision swimming until he managed to focus on the caller ID: Grian (Don't Answer).
A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jimmy’s face. He fumbled for the phone, nearly knocking his keyboard off the desk before successfully swiping the screen.
"Speak of the devil!" Jimmy announced to the camera, holding the phone up like a trophy. "He’s calling me. He’s obsessed! See? He can’t even let me have a birthday stream without checking in on his favorite toy." He jabbed the speakerphone button. "Hi, G-man! You’re live! Say hello to forty thousand people!"
"Jimmy, turn the stream off."
Grian’s voice was sharp, but there was an underlying tremor there—a frantic, breathless quality. In the background, the unmistakable clack-clack of car keys and a heavy door slamming echoed through the line.
"No way," Jimmy giggled, spinning his chair in a slow, dizzying circle. "We’re having a moment, Grian. I’m telling them the truth about you. About the... the psychological warfare."
"Jimmy, I mean it," Grian said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding closer to the receiver. "You’re wasted, you’re rambling, and you’re—you're being incredibly loud. Just hit 'End Stream' before you say something you can't take back."
"Why do you care?" Jimmy leaned into the mic, his eyes half-lidded and playful. "Worried I’m gonna tell them your secrets? Or is it because you like it better when it’s just us? When you have me all to yourself?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by the sound of an engine roaring to life.
"I’m in the car," Grian said, his voice Tight. "I’m coming over there. And... and don't be ridiculous. I just don't want you making a fool of yourself, James."
Jimmy froze mid-spin, his heart giving that traitorous thump again. "James? You only call me James when you’re being serious. Or when you’re... you know."
"When I’m what?" Grian snapped, though he sounded flustered, the bravado slipping. "I'm just—it's your name! It’s what's on your birth certificate! Look, just stay on the phone with me. Don't look at the chat. Just focus on my voice, okay?"
"You sound so bossy when you're worried," Jimmy hummed, resting his head on his hand and staring dreamily at the phone on the desk. "It’s kind of hot, Grian. Is that allowed? Can I say that? It’s my birthday, I think I’m allowed to say it."
"Jimmy—James—be quiet," Grian stammered. The sound of a blinker echoed rhythmically. "You’re... you’re just drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re going to wake up tomorrow and want to jump into a ravine."
"I know exactly what I'm saying," Jimmy insisted, his voice dropping to a low, sleepy mumble. He forgot the camera was there. He forgot the thousands of people hanging on his every words. "I’m saying I wait for you. I’m saying the highlight of my day is you being mean to me. Because even when you're mean, you're mine."
The silence on the other end was heavy, charged with something electric. Jimmy could almost picture Grian’s face—flushed red, knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"I’m five minutes away," Grian whispered, his voice losing all its edge, sounding strangely vulnerable. "James, please. Just... turn it off. For me?"
"Anything for you," Jimmy breathed.
With a clumsy, sweeping motion, he reached out and slammed his hand down on the 'End Stream' button. The glowing red sun vanished, leaving the room in a sudden, heavy darkness, lit only by the static glow of his desktop wallpaper.
The line remained open, a soft hum of road noise and heavy breathing filling the space between them until a pair of headlights swept across Jimmy’s curtains, momentarily washing the dark room in white.
"I’m here," Grian’s voice crackled through the phone, followed by the kill of the engine. "Stay put. Don't... don't fall off the chair or something."
"I'm a master of balance," Jimmy slurred to the empty room, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He heard the front door click open—Grian still had the spare key from the time he’d ‘pranked’ Jimmy by filling his kitchen with chickens—and then the heavy, hurried footsteps on the stairs.
When the office door swung open, Grian looked a mess. His hair was windswept, his cheeks were a high, frantic pink, and he was still pulling his jumper down as if he’d thrown it on while running out the door.
"You came," Jimmy said, a slow, dazed smile breaking across his face. He reached out, his hands trembling as he grabbed the hem of Grian’s sweater. "You’re here. My favorite person is in my room."
Grian looked down at Jimmy’s hands, then back up at his flushed, teary face. The anger seemed to drain out of him all at once. He sighed, stepping into the space between Jimmy’s knees and resting his hands on the arms of the gaming chair, effectively boxing him in.
"You almost said it," Grian whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "On stream. In front of everyone."
"Said what?" Jimmy asked, his voice barely a breath. "That I love you? Because I do. I think. I’m pretty sure it’s love. Either that or the vodka is very, very confusing."
Grian froze. He stared at Jimmy for a long beat, his eyes searching Jimmy’s face for any sign of a joke. Finding none, he let out a shaky laugh and leaned his forehead against Jimmy’s.
"You're going to be so embarrassed tomorrow," Grian murmured.
"Don't care about tomorrow," Jimmy hummed, emboldened by the proximity. He let his hands slide from Grian’s hem to his waist, tugging him a fraction closer. "You look really pretty when you’re worried about me, G-man. Your eyes get all... sparkly. Are you gonna kiss me? Is that the birthday surprise?"
Grian let out a sharp, choked noise—half-laugh, half-gasp—and immediately stood up straight, breaking the spell. He gently but firmly pried Jimmy’s hands off his waist.
"No," Grian said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to regain his composure. "No kissing. Absolutely not. You are three-quarters vodka and you think I’m pretty.' You’re going to bed, James."
"But I’m not tired!" Jimmy protested, though his eyes were already drooping as Grian hauled him up from the chair. Jimmy leaned his entire weight against Grian’s side, tucking his face into Grian’s neck. "You smell like... like rain. And expensive wool. I like it."
"You’re a menace," Grian muttered, his face turning an even deeper shade of crimson as he maneuvered the taller man toward the bedroom. "A literal health hazard. Just—feet up. There we go."
Grian practically poured him into the bed, shoving a pillow under his head and tugging the duvet up to his chin. Jimmy reached out, catching Grian’s wrist before he could pull away.
"Stay?" Jimmy whispered, his voice finally losing the edge of drunken humor, replaced by a raw, quiet hope.
Grian looked down at him, his expression softening into something so tender it would have made Jimmy’s heart stop if he were sober enough to process it. Grian sat on the edge of the mattress, running a hand through Jimmy’s messy blonde hair, pushing it off his forehead.
"I'll stay until you fall asleep," Grian promised, his thumb grazing Jimmy’s temple. "Go to sleep, James. We’ll talk about how much you 'hate' me in the morning."
Jimmy sighed, his eyes fluttering shut at the touch. "I really do hate you," he mumbled into the pillow, already drifting off. "My favorite... horrible... man..."