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The glow of two different laptop screens bridges a gap of over four thousand miles, slicing through the late-August dusk in Luleå and the bright afternoon light in Winnipeg. It is Mark’s thirty-fourth birthday—and the digital expanse between Sweden and Canada feels just a little less daunting than usual. On one side of the Zoom grid, Mark sits wrapped in his usual comfortable charisma, the ambient light of his Swedish apartment catching the edges of his styled hair and the sharp lines of his jaw. On the other side, OT’s video box remains momentarily empty, a vacant gaming chair facing the camera while muffled, clumsy thuds echo through his microphone.
Mark leans closer to his microphone, a familiar, teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are you there, Topiccy Woppicy?"
The ridiculous nickname bounces off the walls of Mark’s room, delivered with the absolute, unearned confidence he specializes in. From across the Atlantic, a heavy grunt resounds through the speakers, followed by the distinct, terrifying scrape of glass shifting against wood. OT’s face finally appears in frame, slightly flushed, his expression a mix of hyper-focus and mild physical exhaustion. He adjusts his signature sunglasses with a quick flick of his index finger.
"I'm... here," OT pants lightly, carefully lowering a massive, clear enclosure onto the desk right beside his keyboard.
Mark watches the screen with raised eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. "Are you lifting weights?"
"No," OT says, adjusting his headset as he gently slides the glass terrarium into the perfect angle for the webcam. Inside, a beautiful, furry, and exceptionally calm Mexican Redknee tarantula sits on a piece of cork bark. "I brought Spooky's terrarium over so he can watch the movie with us."
Mark lets out a rich, bright sound of pure amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The sheer fondness in his gaze is palpable, melting through the pixels. He looks at his boyfriend of five years, then at the eight-legged "furbaby" currently claiming prime real estate on the desk.
"So, what movie have you chosen?" Mark asks, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hand, his voice dripping with playful anticipation. "Paddington 2? The Cat in the Hat? Something to feed your wholesome soul?"
OT scoffs, a defiant but incredibly soft smile breaking across his face. He settles into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of immense sacrifice. "Nope! Because it's your birthday, I've decided to suffer through absolute nonsense with you. Check your PV screen!"
Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. He shifts his gaze away from the Zoom window and glances into the corners of his monitor. While he is entirely in his element when it comes to long-distance gaming, navigating the specific, finicky interface of a Prime Video Watch Party isn't quite second nature yet. His fingers dance across his trackpad, maneuvering through the pop-up windows. Before he initializes the sync, he goes through a highly practiced, long-distance routine: he checks that the master volume on his laptop is low so the movie doesn't drown out everything else, and bumps the audio on the Zoom video chat all the way up.
He needs to hear every single gasp, groan, and laugh from Winnipeg. Simultaneously, he reaches down and wakes up his phone, ensuring the separate, private chat connection between them is active. They always keep a text thread open during their movie dates—a sacred space for rapid-fire typing during the "serious" plot points when talking out loud feels like interrupting the art. Finally, Mark clicks the notification link, the Watch Party lobby loads, and he finds the movie selection OT has locked in.
Mark stops dead. He stares at the title card, a massive, breathless sound of pure incredulity escaping his throat. "Sharknado!?" he asks, his voice hitting a comedic crescendo of disbelief.
OT bursts into a joyful, crinkling grin, nodding emphatically. "A total meme movie and very you. I figured if we’re celebrating you turning thirty-four, we might as well do it with cinematic masterpieces."
Mark’s expression softens instantly, his chest warming despite the ridiculousness of the premise. He looks back at the Zoom window, his eyes locked onto OT's. "Ah, thank you, Sötnos."
The Swedish term of endearment hits OT right in the chest. Even after five years of hearing it, the casual, intimate weight of Mark’s native tongue always catches him off guard. A bright, unmistakable blush creeps up OT’s neck, coloring his cheeks a deep pink. To hide his sudden bashfulness, OT reaches up and needlessly adjusts his sunglasses again, ducking his head slightly. He quickly grabs his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen to check the solidness of their secondary text connection, sending a quick reply to mask his flustered energy.
A split second later, Mark’s phone buzzes on his desk. He picks it up, looking at the lock screen.
OT: Youre welcome Minou
Mark blinks at the final word. *Minou.* He knows a decent amount of French, but the specific slang isn't instantly clicking in his brain. He opens a quick browser tab, his fingers tapping out a rapid search for the Québécois pet name. When the search result pops up, Mark’s own cheeks flush a light pink. *Kitty cat.* He stares at the screen, a quiet, completely helpless smile spreading across his face. He looks back up at the webcam, catching OT watching him with a smug, knowing little smirk. Mark just shakes his head, utterly defeated by his boyfriend's sweetness.
"Alright, alright," Mark says, clearing his throat playfully to get them back on track. "Let’s see the damage. Show me the goods."
What follows is the traditional opening ceremony of any long-distance date: the snack reveal. Mark hoists up his bounty to the webcam—a bag of classic Swedish salty liquorice, a bowl of crispy potato chips, and a massive energy drink. OT counters by lifting a bowl of heavily buttered popcorn, a bag of sour candies, and a massive jug of iced water. They hold their respective treats up to their lenses like offers to a digital deity, nodding in mutual approval.
"Excellent curation," Mark approves, setting his chips down. "Now, let’s fire up this terrible CGI."
However, because technology is inherently committed to disrupting romance, the actual initiation of the Prime Video Watch Party instantly hits a snag. The sync button on the platform decides to glitch, leaving their screens mismatched.
"Wait, what timestamp are you at?" OT asks, leaning in so close to his screen his sunglasses reflect the Amazon logo. "Mine says zero-zero-zero, but the studio logo is already spinning."
"Mine is totally black," Mark says, clicking frantically. "The UI is lying to us. Okay, let's do this old school. Refresh the page. I'll count us down."
"Ready when you are," OT says, his hand hovering over his mouse.
"Okay, press play on three," Mark commands, his voice taking on his dramatic narrator tone. "One... two... three!"
Both of them click simultaneously. A tense second of silence passes across the Atlantic before the exact same brassy, low-budget disaster-movie music blasts through both of their audio feeds.
"We are synced!" OT cheers, throwing his hands up before immediately settling back to grab a handful of popcorn.
The movie begins, and with it, the chaos unfolds. Within the first ten minutes, the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of Sharknado completely takes over the call.
Cliccy 🦈: Hold on hold on
OT glances at the screen as Mark jabs his finger at a poorly rendered digital shark slying through a ship's window. They turn down the volume but don't try pausing.
"The physics of that trajectory make absolutely zero sense. That shark had to have been launched from a underwater trampoline, Topic!"
"Mark, look at the weather!" OT fires back, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. "It's literally sunny in the background of that shot! There is a hurricane happening, and the extras in the back are just walking their dogs in polo shirts!"
"They're just living their best lives, honestly," Mark says, tossing a piece of liquorice into his mouth. "If a sharknado hits Luleå, I am also going to casually walk down to the grocery store. It's a vibe."
Every ridiculous line of dialogue is met with a cheeky observation; every single instance of atrocious green-screen acting prompts an exaggerated, face-palming reaction from Mark, who throws his hands up in theatrical despair. OT’s commentary is a steady stream of bewildered giggles and soft, affectionate roars of laughter at Mark’s increasingly unhinged rants about cinema continuity. Beside the laptop, Spooky sits completely still in his terrarium, his many eyes reflecting the flashing blue and gray lights of a digital storm.
"Look at him," Mark says softly during a brief lull in the onscreen action, his eyes drifting to the corner of OT's video feed. "Spooky is absolutely riveted. He’s a film critic now."
"He really is," OT agrees, looking sideways at his pet with immense pride. "He hasn't moved a millimeter. He’s processing the cinematic depth of a shark hitting a helicopter."
Mark looks back at OT, the laughter fading into a warm, lingering expression of pure contentment. The distance between Sweden and Canada is measured in thousands of miles, but right now, listening to the synchronized, terrible movie audio and watching the way OT's eyes crinkle behind his sunglasses, it feels like they are sitting on the exact same couch.
"Best birthday ever," Mark murmurs, his voice dropping to a softer, gentler register.
OT looks up from his popcorn, his smile turning incredibly tender. "Happy birthday, Mark."