Archive of Our Own

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Years and years ago, when Matt’s parents were still together, when they still went on family vacations—when Matt had just gotten glasses, heavy and slipping down the end of his nose on a slick of sunscreen—when he was hitting his first growth spurt of many, and he was all gangly knees and overlarge ears—they visited a boardwalk on a wharf off the coast of New Jersey. Go-Go-Gary’s Rockin’ Funtown was not one of the nice boardwalks, or one of the big ones, but Matt is still thrilled, vibrating in the backseat of their low-slung wood-paneled station wagon all the way there.

“Don’t lose this,” Matt’s father says, depositing a wad of money into his palm with work-rough fingertips. He’s like Matt, perpetually scowling even if he’s happy. “Gotta last you all day, understand?”

“Yeah,” Matt says back, surly to surly, even though he’s also happy. “Got it.”

“Meet us back at the Tropical Times Café by eight.” His dad’s heavy hand claps his shoulder. “And if you meet a girl, bring her along too. Wouldn’t mind.”

Matt grimaces further, sweaty fingers reflexively wrapping around the money. That’s become a running comment, and he wonders if his dad knows. Does he think Matt’s just the awkward dork that he is, or does—is there more, lurking in the bottom of the swampy comment, like a crocodile waiting to come up and snap at the first sign of a limp wrist? Do parents always know? Can he tell? Or is this every father’s worry, that their son might be a—

“Love you, honey.” His mother’s arms wrap around him as she steps in between him and his father, sun-warm hair brushing against his cheek. She smells like Calvin Klein’s Obsession, always smells like Obsession, and always a little bit too strong, cinnamon sharp in his nose. She grasps his shoulders and looks at him, studies his face, but not in the way his father does, as if he’s looking for That. His mother smiles, with the same crooked teeth Matt has. They can’t afford braces. Matt knows that. He hasn’t asked. “Be careful, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Matt brushes her off. When he thinks about this later, he’ll wish he hadn’t, seeing the hurt crease in her brow appear. “I will. I’m not ten.”

“Okay, but—”

“Bye! I’ll see you at eight!”

***

This is the year Matt discovers The Joyful Joystick.

It is a shithole, even as far as arcades on a dilapidated boardwalk go. The carpet is peeling in the corners from all the saltwater and sand that got tracked in and never swept out, half the games are janky as hell, gummed up on the insides with collected grease and salt-air corrosion, and it is the best place Matt had ever been in his life. He would come to love it, love the cheap bottom-barrel snacks and even the owner himself, a man who by all appearances shouldn’t have been the kind figure he was.

Of course, since this is his first time here, Matt didn’t know how much he’d come to love and miss it. He didn’t know any of that, not yet. He had just wandered in, after perusing all the cheap food stands and various tchotchkes for sale, and nothing else on the boardwalk was quite so appealing as the idea of playing video games in an arcade for several hours, completely unbothered by his father’s grunts of disapproval from the sofa.

Behind the counter, a man lurks with the hunched posture of a former carny. A frizzy corona of sun-bleached blonde hair circles his sunspotted bald pate.

“Help you?” the man grunts, digging at an itchy spot behind his threadbare fanny pack. There’s a deeply faded tattoo on his arm of a dancing hula girl whose hips flex as the tendons in his stringy arm move, and Matt’s cheeks heat when he sees the girl is topless.

“Um. I—want—wanted to play some games,” Matt stutters, thrown off by the tattoo.

“Mmhm. Betcha do. S’what this place is for, after all,” the man says, revealing a shockingly pristine set of teeth that could only be dentures. “What’re you in for?”

“Uh. Your—the sign,” Matt says, looking back to where it was. “It said there’s a happy hour special, right?”

“Ayuh. Looks like you’re right on time.” The man tips his shiny head towards the sign. “Five tokens for a dollar instead of four, and if you spend five dollars, I’ll give you a free drink.”

Matt is already digging for his pocket and extracting one of his precious five dollar bills to slide across the counter.

The man grins at him again, fake teeth captured in a genuine smile. “Another dollar and you can have a commemorative cup. It’s bigger.”

Matt narrows his eyes, but...well. Hell. Why not.

Another dollar goes onto the counter, and the man laughs. “There we go!” He turns around and plucks a gigantic plastic cup off the top of a stack, emblazoned with—to Matt’s delight, which he tries to hide—an unlicensed scene of Optimus Prime and the rest of the Transformers team posing on the moon. “Have fun, kid. My name’s Willy, or you can call me Bill, just so long as you don’t try to send me one.”

Willy cackles like that was hilarious. Matt doesn’t really think it was that funny, but laughs anyway, relaxing a little bit. “Thanks.”

“Oh, yeah, one more thing.” Willy gestures to an Ali pinball machine in the corner. “Ali’s getting a little janky – he’s still worth playing, but every now and then he’ll eat a token and Techie ain’t quite figured out why, yet. If he eats an extra I’ll believe ya the first time, but not the fifth, y’know?”

“Sure,” Matt says. He’s scanning the room now, eyes lighting up, and he’s not that interested in the Ali machine anyway. There are way better games in here than that. “Thanks.”

The room isn’t very busy yet, given that it’s the dozy hammock slump of the afternoon, though later Matt will discover the Joyful Joystick is never the most hopping location on the boardwalk. There are four greasy little kids in swimsuits loudly flailing at the same Street Fighter game, and a big, burly guy methodically clicking away at an Elvira pinball machine, and then a stringy little guy around Matt’s age, fingers flying over the buttons of Ms. Pacman.

Matt paces around the room, bouncing his tokens in his hand, and finally settles at a Mappy machine, far away from the loud kids and near Ms. Pacman. He’s played it before, and it’s fun, and he figures it’ll be a good warm-up. He particularly likes the trampoline mechanism, though he does get frustrated when they break.

“Fuck!” Matt snaps, as he does just that, and Mappy plunges to his death through broken trampoline. He smacks the side of the machine, hard, teeth gritted in frustration. “Fuck!”

“Ah!”

The stringy guy jumps when he smacks the machine, fingers skittering on the buttons, and Matt hears the classic bloo-bloo-bloo as Ms. Pacmaneats it.

“Aw, man, I’m sorry,” Matt says, real guilt coloring his words and his ears. His fingertips are tingling from how hard he’d smacked the metal edge. “Were you—”

Very far along, is what he was going to say, but the words die in his mouth when he sees that flashing screen shows the stringy guy was on level 173. Matt darts over, eyes wide. “No way. No way! You were on 173! Fuck, fuck, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t think it even went that high, I’ve only ever gotten to like, 70 or something—”

Matt has never gotten close to level 70 on Ms. Pacman—he’s maybe gotten to somewhere around 40—but he can’t look like a total chump in front of this gaming god whose game he just ruined. The guy is blinking at him rapidly, behind a pair of glasses that are somehow even thicker than Matt’s are, which is impressive. His eyes are huge and rimmed in pink like a rabbit’s, and he’s breathing too fast and wheezy. The scrawny guy digs frantically at his ragged shorts pocket, whips out a massive inhaler, and takes a hazy drag.

“Are you okay, man?” Matt says regretfully. “Really didn’t mean to fuck you up.”

“Yeah—yeah!” The stringy guy nods rapidly, equally stringy hair bouncing. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—ah—you know. Sudden—sudden loud noises—g-get me, some—sometimes. It’s—it’s okay.”

It’s really not. Even Matt can tell. The guy looks as if he might quiver apart at the joints, like a poorly treated marionette.

“Well—”

“Everything okay, boys?” Willy has appeared behind Matt’s shoulder, with a curious brow raised and his arms crossed. His expression isn’t angry, but wary, and the way he looks at the stringy guy is affectionate, almost fatherly. “You okay, Techie?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Techie says, nodding the way he did the first time, weirdly too hard. “Just—just—um—startled, is all.”

“Yeah, I get it. Was that way myself—”

“A-after ‘Nam,” Techie finishes, with a little sigh, as though he’s heard the answer before and finds it comforting, though Matt has no idea how Vietnam would be a more comforting thought.

“After ‘Nam,” Willy agrees sagely. “And I still am jumpy, sometimes. But it gets better.”

“It—it does,” Techie says, halfway hopeful and halfway question.

“Sure does. Games like this’ll help calm your nerves. You know that.”

“Yes. Yes they do.”

“And we’ve got no misunderstandings, here?” Willy asks, eyes hardening as they skate over to land on Matt. “And you won’t be hitting my machines anymore, will you? Techie here works awfully hard to keep them running. Don’t need smartass punks beating on them and scaring him.”

“No,” Matt says, twisted with guilt. He’s always guilty after his flashes of temper, but he never seems to remember that before they happen. There’s a blast of bright red anger, and then he’s tossing his precious ColecoVision controller (thankfully, it only bounced on the carpet and didn’t break), yelling at his mom, kicking his door, punching his wall, or slamming a kid way too hard in gym class. The anger is always there, lurking invisibly behind a poorly latched door he can never find until it flies open and hits someone else. “I’m really sorry.”

“Bet you are,” Willy says, continuing to study him. “Known a lot of guys with tempers like that. Won’t do you any good, you know.”

“I—I know,” Matt says, dropping his gaze to the nauseous psychedelic pattern of the carpet. He can’t untangle a good answer, for the way his rage and his shame and his embarrassment all tangle up inside him, in a chorus of loser and not good enough and failure, until it all gets so loud it blows out of him in curled fists.

All Matt can say, again, is, “I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay,” Techie says, nodding a little less frantically now. “T-totally.”

“Here,” Matt says, digging in his pocket. For once, he’s had a good idea. “Take—take two of my tokens. For—for an apology.”

“Oh.” Techie’s big eyes go bigger, and thick shine of Techie’s glasses shifts to reveal to irises that are bluer than the flat spread of ocean from the docks. Matt’s mouth goes weirdly dry. “That’s—that’s okay, actually, I—I—I have plenty—”

---



---

“I think it’s a good apology,” Willy says. “And you ought to take it.”

Techie’s eyes dart to Willy, and crinkle up at the corners, like he wants to smile, but is still too fearful to make the rest of his face cooperate. “Oh-okay. Yes. Yes, I will.”

Matt passes the tokens over to Techie, who accepts them as though they were holy communion wafers being pressed into his palm, and promptly begins to fiddle with the tokens, turning them over and over, breathing a little too fast through his nose as he stares at the coins.

“Wouldyouliketoplayagamewithme?” Techie says, all in one wheezy breath.

“What?” Matt says, as confused at the pace of Techie’s speech as he is at what he thought Techie might’ve asked.

“Would you—” Techie pauses to whoop in a great breath of air, blinking upwards. “Would you—like to p-play a game with me?”

Matt is flummoxed. There’s a whole world of two-player games he’s never been able to play, because he’s never had a partner to play them with, but he’s perplexed by the idea that Techie would want to play with him after this poor start. He doesn’t have friends at school. He doesn’t even hang out with other kids in his neighborhood, not after the unfortunate Street Hockey Incident of 1981, as his mother calls it. He realizes he’s staring at Techie, and Techie is staring at him, returning to a more active tremble, and Willy is staring at both of them.

“Yeah! Yes. Yes,” Matt says, way too loud, and Techie flinches again, but also smiles at the same time, an odd reaction like a light flickering under a power overload. “Yes. What—what game do you want to play?”

“Um.” Techie’s eyes promptly drop to the floor. “Anything, re-really, I’ve played like, everything in here, so, if you want to pick, that would be—good.”

“All right, then,” Willy says, and claps a hand on Matt’s shoulder. Somehow, it isn’t the dire warning of his father’s hand, but an encouraging nudge, saying you can do it, huh, kid? Get this right?

Matt really, really wants to.

***

Techie leads him around the room, relaying the titles, play styles, and statistics of each of the games in quiet, stuttery bursts of facts, touching each game in turn as they pass it, as if he knows them personally. Matt supposes he does—the top score of nearly every game in the room reads TKY. Techie. Some of the scores are insane, numbers Matt has never even gotten close to hitting, and he becomes progressively more and more impressed as Techie leads him around. He must practically live here.

Finally, they settle on a console titled Old Religion. Matt’s never seen it before, but Techie keeps circling near it, like a puppy that wants to go for a walk but is too afraid to ask, and the game looks cool—art of a crumbling stone temple covered in strangling vines crawl up the sides, and collapsing, worn statues sit in repose around the temple’s columns. Lightning bolts strike down from above, and flickering lights set into the case illuminate the whole game when each zing of lightning of hits.

“This one’s supposed to be—pretty hard,” Techie says, eyes darting up at him, back to the game, then back up.

“We can do it,” Matt says confidently, though his palms are sweaty. He cannot embarrass himself in front of Techie, not after seeing all those crazy scores.

The character selection screen is more detailed than Matt is used to, in comparison to the classics like Mappy. There’s a decent roster of characters to pick from, and the game tells them they need to pick a fighter and either a long-distance shooter or a mage to proceed. Matt passes a red armored knight and settles on a big, bruising hulk of black pixels called Kylo Ren. After hesitating for a moment over a silver-helmeted warrior with a long rifle, Techie selects a slender fire witch clad in white — Armitage Hux.

Matt sets his commemorative cup between them on the lower shelf rest, a silent offer to share. Somehow, the idea of Techie’s mouth drinking out of the same straw is interesting, and he’s fascinated by the idea that Techie might.

“Re-ready?” Techie says. He takes a quick puff from his inhaler, as if to brace himself.

“Ready.”

***

They quickly discover that Old Religion is hard. Enemies pour into the screen from the right as they advance through the levels of the temple, and Matt has to fight off waves and waves of incoming monsters as Techie blasts them with big fireballs from Hux’s staff in the back. He has to be careful not to let any monsters get past him, as Hux doesn’t have nearly as much health as Kylo, and if one of them goes down…they both go down.

“Careful, Ren!” Hux’s character shouts, in a clipped British accent, as a werewolf slams into him, and Matt grits his teeth, trying to keep the wave of monsters back. Techie blasts the werewolf with a fireball, and it evaporates into a little pile of ashes.

“Thanks.”

“No-no problem,” Techie says, his fingers flying over the keys. Hux hits hard, but his most powerful attack takes a second to recharge, while Kylo can constantly whack away at the onslaught of enemies with his electric red sword. “We’re—we’re a pretty good team.”

Matt shouldn’t look away from the screen, but he does, and he’s glad he did—the soft, admiring way Techie is looking at him is a reward better than the next level would have been. But he’s looked away too long, and the violent augh! as Kylo gets overrun makes Matt grimace.

“Ah, fuck,” Matt says, frustration tensing his arms.

“It’s—it’s okay,” Techie says quickly. “We can keep trying! I have—I have a lot of tokens. I fi-fix up the machines, and Willy pays me some, in cash, and then—in tokens, too, because I like to play a lot.”

“Oh.” Matt relaxes. “That’s pretty cool.” Techie can’t be much older than him—could even be younger than him, but it’s hard to tell with the way his hair mostly covers his face and his glasses obscure his eyes.

“I—I guess it is,” Techie says. His shoulders relax. “I love it here. It’s my favorite place in the world.” He blinks up at Matt, a hopeful smile trying to stay on his face. “Do you want—want to keep playing?”

“Hell yes,” Matt says.

Techie’s smile sticks and stays as he feeds tokens into the machine.

***

“Damn—damn it,” Matt growls, watching as Hux crumples to the ground, white hood falling closed over his face. Kylo howls and collapses with him. “We were so close!”

“We’ll get it,” Techie says. “I think that—um—the Medusa thing, when she levitates, we’re going to have to try to go under her to the other side—”

“You’ll have to try it tomorrow, boys,” Willy interjects. “Almost nine. Gotta start cleaning up.”

“Almost nine?” Matt yelps. “Oh, shit.” He scrambles for his cup and nearly dumps the remaining ice in the process. “Oh, man, my dad’s going to kill me.”

“Oh,” Techie whispers, going very still.

“I gotta go!”

“Wait!” Techie squeaks—it’s the loudest noise he’s made all day, and Matt stops in his race for the door, startled. “Will—will I ever see you again? Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Um…” This had not occurred to Matt, in his panic. “We’re only here for three days. But I can probably come back tomorrow, if my dad doesn’t kill me for missing dinner.”

“He won’t really kill you, right?” Techie says. That tremble has started again, vibrating through him strong enough to make the edges of his frayed cargo pants sway like seaweed in the surf. “Right?”

“Oh, no,” Matt says, scoffing. “I might get smacked, but—”

“But I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Willy says, placing a hand on Techie’s shoulder. “And we’d better let him go, if we want to see him tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Techie says, unsure, eyes darting over Matt as if he’s imagining his imminent death. “Okay.”

“All right! I’ll—see you tomorrow!” Matt says, dashing for the door, and as the words leave his mouth, it repeats in his head, almost like a mantra. God, he’s got to be able to come back tomorrow—he has to see Techie again! They have to beat the game together!

Please, please, Matt prays, sneakers pounding on the beaten planks of the boardwalk as he runs for Tropical Times Café. Don’t let dad be too pissed!

***

Matt’s dad is pissed, but thankfully, he’s also four Long Island iced teas deep and on vacation, so Matt only gets an ear-ringing smack upside the head and a light scolding.

“Told you not to be late, boy,” his dad slurs, which is usually an indication of further smacks, but his posture is relaxed, and he’s already dropped his hand. “Been sitting here an hour. Your mother was worried sick.”

“Did you have fun, honey?” Matt’s mother says, jumping in quickly. An older woman at a nearby table is staring at them with a disapproving expression. His mom smooths his hair down over his ear where his dad’s hand had smacked him, and Matt winces as she brushes his stinging ear. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah! Yes,” Matt says. “I—I didn’t mean to be late, Mom, I was—there was a—I met—I made—a friend, at the—arcade.”

“You did?” She grins at him, her own cocktails spreading her smile even wider. “Well! Isn’t that something, Rich? A friend!”

His dad grunts. “Good, yeah.” He studies Matt a little closer. “Your new friend a girl?”

“Um. No,” Matt says, dropping his eyes to the table. “A…”

He doesn’t want to say boy, for some reason.

“A kid, about my age. He works there sometimes.”

“’Spose that’s something, if he knows how to work.”

“Can I go back tomorrow?” Matt asks. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Please? Please? I—I didn’t even spend all the money you gave me, I was really careful.” He doesn’t add that Techie had funded most of the afternoon after Matt’s tokens ran out, which means that he has a few more dollars he can contribute to the fund tomorrow.

“Well, we were planning on going to the beach,” his mom says slowly. “Are you sure you want to spend the whole time inside some—some seedy old arcade?”

“Yes!” Matt says, knee banging the table.

“Let him go.” His dad waves an imperious hand and takes another drink of his Long Island, looking intently at his mom. “Won’t be so bad to spend the whole day on the beach without kids, huh? He’s finally old enough we don’t have to watch him all the time.”

“Oh, well.” His mom’s cheeks color, and she chews at her lip, then takes a big drink of her bright yellow cocktail, delicately pushing the umbrella aside. “Yes, of course. If your father says so, then that’ll be okay, Matty.”

“Yes!” Matt shouts, too loud, pumping a fist in the air, and his father rolls his eyes, but Matt doesn’t even care.

***

Their motel isn’t very far away from the boardwalk, and Matt is up early, running out the door as soon as his mom will let him leave, sneakered feet pounding the boards. His feet skid to a disappointed stop when he gets there— of course the arcade isn’t open at eight in the morning. It doesn’t open until ten, and so Matt spends an hour pacing back and forth in front of the door like a tiger that wants back in its cage, chewing at his stubby fingernails and willing the next hour to pass faster.

“Matt!”

He’s startled when someone plows into his side, all elbows and bare ribs, and almost tips them both over the splintered railing of the boardwalk he was leaning on. Thin arms squeeze him around the middle, and Techie’s head is pressed under his jaw, and touching him is like touching the side of one of the arcade games, subliminal electric vibrations rumbling through every panel even when it’s not being played.

“Matt,” Techie says again, like a little sigh, just under his throat, and a full rush of heat sweeps over Matt, all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. “You came back! You did—I wasn’t sure! I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again, thank you, thank you—I’m so glad you came back!”

“He—hey!” Matt squeaks. He can’t seem to make his arms do anything he wants them to do, like wrap around Techie and squeeze him closer. Or shove him off, like he should do.

“Oh! Oh, um! Fuck, uh, s—sorry, sorry!” Techie leaps back, his face brilliantly red, as if he had been suddenly and ferociously sunburnt, which wouldn’t be hard, given how pale he is. “I—I’m really sorry. I was—I was—s-so excited to s-see you! I didn’t mean to—um—hug you.”

“It’s okay,” Matt says. His head feels like it might have floated off somewhere above the creaky Ferris wheel, an errant balloon let go by a careless child. “I’m—um. Glad to—to see you...you. Too?”

“You—yeah? It was? You are?” Techie grins at him, and for a second they’re both standing there like idiots, grinning at each other.

“Yeah,” Matt says.

“Do you….do you...um. Want to help me unlock and set up...the arcade?” Techie says, dropping his eyes away, his whole body tilting into itself. It’s fascinating, like watching a crab curl up as it dies, and Matt hates seeing him do it, like he’s afraid Matt might hit him. Or maybe not even him—like he’s afraid the world might hit him, not Matt. “It’s—it’s no big deal if you—don’t want to.”

“Set up the arcade?” Matt asks.

“Yeah...I have keys, and—”

“You have keys. To the arcade,” Matt says, his mouth dropping open.

“Um. Y-yes?” Techie says. “But, um—”

“That’s the coolest fucking thing in the whole world,” Matt breathes.

“Re-really? Well—hah—yeah, it is—it’s pretty cool,” Techie says, going pink again. “Willy—Willy trusts me, he knows I wouldn’t—steal or anything, I never would—”

“No, me either,” Matt says, though he’s stolen plenty of things, little shit here and there, packs of gum and once a kite, just to see if he could fit it under his shirt. He won’t steal here, and not ever again, not if Techie wouldn’t like it. “I wouldn’t do that—to—the arcade.”

“Yeah! Ex-exactly,” Techie says, as if he’s found a fellow member of a rare religious sect in a strange place. “So. So, we need to sweep up, and do a couple things to get the place going—check the machines and stuff, and then—”

“I could—I’ll help you,” Matt says. “Any—anything you need.”

“Oh! Okay,” Techie says, and then they’re grinning at each other again. In the morning sun, Techie’s eyes are so bright blue they almost seem lit from within, and Matt’s heart can’t seem to decide which direction it wants to pump blood in. “Let’s go.”

***

“Well! I see you boys got an early start.”

Matt jerks to a stop, hands frozen on the handle of the old vacuum he’d been pushing across the carpet, so loud that he can barely hear anything else, but he relaxes when he sees it’s Willy. He doesn’t look mad; if anything, he looks intensely amused. In this light, Matt realizes Willy isn’t as old as he’d thought at first—just rawhided with sun damage and early balding. Plus the dentures, on top of that. Willy might be younger than his dad, not that he’s really certain of how old that is, either.

Willy bounces his own keys in his palm, considering. “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour, I think.”

“Place looks pretty good,” Willy says. “You boys have been busy!”

“Is—is it okay that I let Matt in with me?” Techie says, rushing up to the front to join them, preemptively trembling. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“’Course it is,” Willy says, and Techie breathes a sigh of relief. “Especially if you’ve got him working.”

“Oh! Should I not have—”

“If he wants to volunteer, that’s up to him,” Willy says. He eyes Matt. “Though I probably ought to pay you, make sure you don’t report me for labor fraud, huh?”

“Uh—well, I wasn’t—” Matt starts, and Willy rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, kid. Don’t say no when someone’s trying to pay you, especially for labor. And don’t act like I’m gonna give you a million bucks, either. Here.”

Willy digs around behind the counter, considering—looks at the clock, then at Techie, then at Matt—and then pushes a slumping pile of tokens across the counter to Matt.

“Here. That ought to square us up.”

“Um—yeah, totally,” Matt says, astounded. It’s more tokens than he’d bought with money yesterday—fuck, it might even be enough for him and Techie to play all day. “Are you sure?”

Willy rolls his eyes. “Now what did I just say about trying to talk people out of paying you?”

“Um. Not to do it,” Matt says, grinning. “Thank you.”

“Sure enough.” Willy grins back. “But you gotta finish vacuuming before you use ‘em. I think that’s plenty fair.”

“Yeah.”

“Me—me too,” Techie says, so happy it almost sounds like a little sing-song chirp. “I’ll finish wiping off the glass on the cases, and—and then—we’ll play, huh?”

“Yeah,” Matt says.

This is the best vacation of my entire life, Matt thinks.

***

They get a lot further today—past the Medusa, past a giant stomping Cyclops statue that throws rocks over Kylo to try and crush Hux (the Cyclops is successful several times, and the tiny augh! that Hux makes when he dies always sends a thrill of dread through Matt, as if Techie himself had been crushed by the boulder), and all the way to the peak of the temple. There, a dark, swirling presence waits, curling shadows that cackle and challenge them to reach it on the highest level of the temple before sending wave upon wave of animated skeletons at them...and they’re stuck.

“Shit, this is hard,” Techie sighs, and then whoops in a big gust of dust from his inhaler. “You want to t-take a break and—and maybe get lunch to—together? If you’re not busy, that is, I mean—if you—”

“Yeah, yes. Of course,” Matt says, before Techie can keep torturing himself. His fingers and wrists hurt, and now that Techie brought it up, he’s starving. “Where do you want to eat?”

“There’s a hot dog stand that’s pretty good two doors down, and it’s not very expensive,” Techie says.

“That’s good with me.” He honestly wouldn’t have cared if Techie suggested they scrounge up kelp from off the beach if it made him happy.

The hot dog stand, creatively named HOT DOGS, in messily painted capital black letters, is “pretty good” as promised, and when Matt digs out some of his cash and buys Techie’s food, Techie turns the most delightful shade of pink. If Matt had more money, he would continue buying Techie hot dogs all day, just to see how pink he could get. Which is probably...weird.

“Th-thank you,” Techie breathes.

“You bought most of our games yesterday,” Matt says gruffly, as he passes Techie a can of Coke. “It’s only fair.”

“Maybe.” Techie blinks at him. “It’s—almost like this is a—uh. Well. Nevermind.”

“Like a what?”

“Um. Nothing,” Techie says, going pinker. “It’s just...really nice hanging out with you, Matty.”

“Sure,” Matt says, his mouth dry.

Matty. Only his mom has ever called him that. But when Techie says it, it feels... different.

Matty.

Matt takes a huge drink of his Coke, too big and too cold, and the carbonation makes him sputter and cough until Techie has to whack him between the shoulders.

***

They finish wolfing down their lunch, and after they agree they’ll play better if they let their hands rest, they wander around for an hour. Techie shows Matt his other favorite spots on the boardwalk—a good view off the southern dock, where you can see the fancy yachts sailing out, and a gigantic pelican statue speckled with gull shit (Matt begrudgingly rubs the beak because Techie says it’s good luck), and finally, a little hidden alcove behind a surf shop, with a cluster of sea oats that have grown to their full height, shaggy golden heads tipped over.

“They look like you,” Techie says, laughing. “With—with all your hair.”

“I’m not a sea oat,” Matt grumbles.

“No. No, you’re a lot better,” Techie says, and then goes very quiet. “This—this is where I usually eat lunch. In this corner. It’s quiet.” Techie fidgets with the edge of his pocket, his inhaler, the edge of his sleeve, worrying at himself like a dog with a chew toy. “Lunch to-together was better. And I’ll—now this spot will remind me of you.”

“That’s...good,” Matt says. The wind blows his hair, and the oats sway with it.

“Yeah,” Techie sighs. “It is.”

***

They don’t beat Old Religion that day, and Matt is starting to think, despairingly, that they won’t. They don’t have the time. This is by far the best Matt’s ever played, at anything, and Techie is better than him (a lot better than him). Matt is slicing through rows and rows of foes as Kylo, defending Hux as Techie blasts out volley after volley of red fire streaks and bigger fireballs, but the penultimate wave of skeletons before getting to the highest level of the temple is simply unending. They haven’t been able to get past it, no matter what they do.

“There’s got to be a trick to get past this level,” Techie wheezes. “But I don’t know what!”

Matt looks despairingly at the clock. It’s almost nine again. “I have to go back to the motel.”

“Oh.” Techie wilts. “Can we—try again tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the last day I’m here,” Matt says, each word rolling off his tongue as dry a tumbleweed. “We’re supposed to check out of the motel at like...I think my mom said noon.”

“Oh.” Techie’s head sinks lower. “Then—could you—could you show up early? Really—really early, maybe—I could let us in, and we could play as long as we could—”

“I’ll try,” Matt says. “I’ll ask.”

“What about like—six?” Techie says. “I’ll get up, I don’t mind, I—I’m not doing anything else—and I don’t—I can’t beat this without you.”

Six am is wickedly early, as early as Matt gets up for school, which he hates doing—but he’s already nodding. Getting up early for Techie is in a different universe than school.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll do it if I can convince my parents.”

“I’ll—I’ll be here,” Techie says. He’s looking up at Matt now, through his hair and through the heavy glare of his glasses, blinking so fast that his transparent little eyelashes almost look like butterfly wings. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can…” Techie continues to blink at him, and swallows several times in quick succession. “Could I walk you back to your motel?”

Matt tenses. “Um. I—”

I don’t want you to meet my dad, Matt thinks. He cannot imagine what his dad would say—no, worse, he knows exactly what he’d say, and how Techie would tremble, and—

“Oh. Yeah. St-stupid,” Techie says, curling up into himself. “Just—thought. Yeah.”

“No, I—yes. You can. Just. Don’t come...all the way to the door,” Matt says, and hates the way it sounds, like he’s ashamed of Techie instead of himself. Of his father.

“Oh.” Techie brightens at the yes and then wilts at the rest. He looks down at himself, at his tattered yellow t-shirt over even more threadbare cargo shorts, and his head hangs lower. “That—that makes—sense, yeah.”

“It’s just…” Matt trails off, and that old familiar anger boils up along the column of his spine. “It’s complicated, okay?”

“Sure,” Techie says softly, from behind the protection of his hair. “I get it.”

Techie trails slightly behind him on the way to the motel, like a little shadow, not up by his side where he’d been earlier, and Matt hates that. Hates everything, for a bright, clear moment. Matt hates this stupid boardwalk with its splintery boards that keep tripping him and his hair in his face and his fucking dad with—everything—and—

“Matty.” Techie has stopped. “I guess. I shouldn’t—go any further, huh.”

“Oh.” Matt looks up, and hates himself most of all. He’s sulked all the way here, and didn’t even enjoy that little bit of extra time with Techie. He’s so stupid. “I guess not.”

“Well.” Techie steps a little closer, studying him intently. “I—I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah,” Matt grunts. “Night.”

“Um. Matty—um.”

“What?”

“Do you—” Techie’s shaking again, and this time it’s making Matt mad, to see him do that, shaking like a little leaf in the harsh light of the moon, washing him out into a frightened ghost. “Could we—if you wanted to, it’s fine if you don’t, I mean—could we—be pen pals?”

“What?” Matt says again. The question knocks him for such a loop that his anger disintegrates. “You—you want to be pen pals?”

“Yeah, I know it’s—really stupid but—I…” Techie curls in, shriveling. “I just really—want to—to stay friends with you, and I don’t have a phone at home my—uh—my aunt Madeline, she—she—” — Techie freezes for a second, almost as though he might choke on his words completely, then vomits out a huge chunk of words all at once, in one whooping breath — “—she says the government spies through the phone lines, like, the CIA and the FBI and the Russians and stuff, and we don’t have a mailbox either, but I thought maybe you could send me letters to the Joystick instead—but it’s dumb, I’ll go—”

“No! No,” Matt says, and runs up, catches Techie’s little frail shoulder in his hand as he turns. Techie jumps, then stills. “I want—that. Yes. To be pen pals.”

“Really?” Techie breathes. “It’s not—you don’t have to, if you just, like, feel bad for me, you know—”

“No. No, you’re my—you’re my best friend,” Matt blurts. “Uh. The best friend ever.”

“I—I am?” Techie squeaks. He takes a sudden step closer. “Matty. Um.”

“Yeah?” Matt whispers. His blood is doing that thing again, where it’s exploding in every direction all over his body, making his skin itch like static.

“Thank you,” Techie says, and hugs him, so tight Matt is surprised that there’s even that much strength in Techie’s thin little frame, and then he’s stepping back, fast, before Matt can even so much as move his arms. Again. “Thank you, thank you—so, so much.”

“Um. Yeah,” Matt creaks. “Any—anytime.”

“I’ll see—see you tomorrow,” Techie says, and races off, fast, before Matt can say anything else. “Night!”

Matt’s never seen anyone scamper before, but that’s what Techie’s doing, keeping close to the shadowed wall of the motel, head hunched and his arms closed in tight.

“Night,” Matt whispers. His ribs are still tingling where Techie had squeezed him.

***

“You—you want to get up at six am?” Matt’s mother says, her surprise evident.

Matt’s dad is heavily sunburnt, reclining on the bed, remote perched on his bare, burnt stomach and a can of Busch close at hand. “You bitch about getting up for school every single day, and now you wanna get up at six in the morning to go play games?”

“Yes,” Matt grits. “Techie—”

Oh, how Matt wishes he hadn’t said Techie’s name, but he pushes forward.

“He can’t beat the game without me and we—we leave tomorrow,” Matt says. “It’s a two player game.”

“The fuck kinda name is Techie?”

“It’s—I don’t know,” Matt says desperately. He knew his dad would pick at it, as soon as Techie had left his mouth. He hates the way his dad said it, like an insult. “It’s a nickname.”

“Christ. You’re not playing baseball, or something else worth doing! It’s a video game, Matthew!” Matt’s dad grumps. He rubs the condensation of the cold beer can across his burnt face and neck, wincing. “Can’t he finish the fuckin’ game with someone else?”

Low horror fills Matt’s stomach at the idea. Someone else picking Kylo Ren, and someone else standing shoulder to shoulder with Techie at Old Religion—someone else fighting through wave after wave of skeletons and figuring out the trick they’re missing—someone else standing there to see Techie’s face when they finally make it to the top level and see whatever the shadows peel back to reveal—someone else seeing Techie’s victorious smile—someone else putting their initials in to mix with Techie’s TKY—

“No!” Matt shouts. “No, it’s not—it’s our game, Dad! I have to finish it with—”

“Don’t you cop an attitude with me, boy.” His dad sets aside his beer and sits up further, brow lowered, foot dropping off the bed. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ do that! Fuckin’—kids these days, you don’t even know what life is really like! It’s a goddamn video game, and—!”

“And we’re on vacation!” Matt’s mom butts in, her voice keyed past cheery, into gruesome chipperness. “Richard! We’re on vacation. What does it matter if Matty wants to get up early and go play? Isn’t it good he wants to get up early? We’ll still leave at the same time. And—and you and I could go back to that—that breakfast place from this morning.”

His father’s eyes slide off him, to glare at his mother and study her wringing hands. His foot goes back on the bed, and the beer reclaims his hand.

“Fine. Fine, whatever.” His dad picks up the remote and turns up Cheers until the volume hurts, and his mom winces, shifts in her sandals. “Fuckin’ whatever. Better be grateful.”

“Thanks,” Matt says, bitter on his tongue, but the sourness lessens when he looks at his mom, her slumping, tense smile. “Thanks. Mom.”

“Sure, honey.” She ruffles his hair, and leans in to hug him, the smell of the sea and coconutty sunscreen overpowering the ghost of Obsession as she whispers in his ear. “Just don’t be late getting back to the car, huh? Please. Promise. We have to leave by twelve-thirty at the latest to drive back on time. Your father has to work tomorrow.”

“Okay. I promise.”

***

Bright and early, Matt creeps out of the motel room, careful not to wake his sleeping father, as if he were a storytale boy creeping around a vengeful ogre, and dashes down to The Joyful Joystick, his shoes flying over the boards. Pale fingers of sunlight skate over the furthest horizon of the ocean, grasping fingers on the edge of a dark blanket. He’s a little early, even, but so is Techie, dozing against the front door in a slumped little pile, with a dingy yellow hoodie pulled all the way over himself, down over his legs.

“Hey,” Matt says, crouching, and very gently, runs his fingers through Techie’s hair to wake him, the way his mom does for him, to save him the stress of an alarm.

“Hmm.” Techie’s head tips into his hand, and Matt’s breath stops in his lungs. There is something precious about Techie’s unconscious trust, as if he had convinced a skittish deer to press its velvety nose into his palm. Techie’s hair is very soft as it slips through Matt’s fingers—a little greasy, maybe, but so fine that the strands tickle when they move across his wrist. He looks so young when he’s asleep. So…unburdened.

“Techie,” Matt whispers.

Techie jerks awake and his head thumps against the door, his eyes so wide it looks painful. “Oh! Matt! I—I must’ve—fallen asleep.”

“Did…” Matt looks around. “Did you sleep out here? All night?”

“Yeah, um…yes.”

“Why didn’t you sleep inside? Weren’t you cold?” Sure, he’s been camping before, but Matt can’t imagine sleeping outside like that. “You have keys!”

“Well. Um.” Techie pushes his glasses back up. “I thought you might not see me if I was inside—and I-I didn’t want to miss you. And my aunt…” His lips twist up. “It’s okay if I don’t go home. S-sometimes it’s—it’s better if I don’t.”

“Techie.” Matt isn’t sure what to say, what words might fix the tangle of emotions in his chest. He wants to protect Techie, the same as he does in Old Religion, save him from—he’s not even sure what. Everything. The world.

“It’s—it’s okay,” Techie says, smiling up at him, his cheek twitching. “R-really. I—I don’t mind. It’s warm this time of year. And—and no one bothered me.”

But you deserve so much better, Matt wants to say, and he is crushed, suddenly, by how painfully teenaged he is, and how Techie’s problems are so much bigger than he can solve. What can he do, at fifteen, with no money, to save Techie from—from whatever it is that makes Vietnam sound better and makes him so terrified, and so willing to sleep outside instead of go home?

___


___

“Matt. R-really,” Techie says, and takes his hand off his knee. “Let’s just—play, okay? I don’t want to—um. I don’t want to waste our last day together.”

“Okay,” Matt says roughly.

He pulls Techie up by their joined hands, and doesn’t let go—he can’t make himself do it, and there’s no one else here, and Matt—he doesn’t give a fuck, he doesn’t—if anyone sees them. Techie, for his part, also does not let go of Matt’s hand, as if he hadn’t noticed it at all, though Matt knows he did, because fumbling to get his keys out one-handed is awkward.

Whatever. They’ll both pretend everything is all right, and they’ll both pretend they didn’t notice they’re still holding hands.

***

They set about conquering Old Religion like veteran soldiers returning to a blood-crusted battlefield. The Medusa, the looming Cyclops; they’re no threat to the combined might of Matt and Techie via Kylo and Hux, but then they must go back, again and again, token after token, to drown under a wave of skeletons just before they reach the top of the temple.

“Fuck,” Matt hisses, frustrated. He’s down to one life, and skeletons won’t stop pouring out of the flickery right side of the screen, little white pixel bones disintegrating under the swing of his sword and then rematerializing right back. “Goddamn—”

“Wait!” Techie cries. “Wait. Go back—go back one step—right there, do you see that? The—the cobblestone that’s flickering at the edges, it’s got a different frame rate?”

Matt squints. Maybe, maybe. He positions Kylo right on top of the stone.

“And then—there’s another one—back here!” Techie says. “See it! There!”

Techie arrows back and forth, double-jumps Hux and lands right on the other cobblestone, and the whole game case lights up. The skeletons cry out in tinny electronic pain and collapse to the ground. Matt is so locked in on the screen he can’t hear anything else in the room—not the other games, not the crying toddler whacking at a game without any tokens in it, not the distant crash of the waves. There’s nothing else, just him and Techie at the top of the temple.

“So, heroes,” a deep bass voice intones. “You’ve made it to the top of my temple, and you’re here to conquer me? Come in...if you dare….”

“Matty!” Techie squeaks. “That’s it, that’s the trick! Oh, fuck, we did it, we did it—get ready!”

Matt’s wrists hurt, and his fingertips are sore from button-smashing, but he braces himself. The silhouette of a door rises on the black screen, white light pouring through it, and then Old Religion rises in blood dripping letters in the center of the empty door.

“Centuries ago,” the voice says, developing a cackle as the title letters drip and fade, “I was once a young hero like you. But I sought greater power than you could ever hope to hold in your frail flesh hands! All you have passed through was the great empire of my making, preserved through the ages! See me, Emperor Snoke, mortals, and weep!”

A great, tall figure, dressed in gold robes that sparkle with glittering pixels, rises from a gory black throne, and looms over them on the screen. Its hands flash, once, twice, again—

“Lightning!” Techie shouts. “D-double jump, Matty—now!”

The battle is brutal. Matt can’t get Kylo in range before Snoke strikes him down, and their first attempt is over in seconds. The metal mouth of the machine swallows token after token, but they can make it past the skeletons now that they know the trick. The door opens, and Snoke looms, cackling, his hands spreading wide. Hux collapses, tiny flames crackling on his robes. Back again, and the craggy planes of Snoke’s face sneer at them as their little bodies cower beneath him on the screen. Lightning flashes, over and over. Kylo’s helmet blows off, and his skeleton flashes in electric cartoon agony before he collapses.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Sweat rolls down Matt’s neck, into the hollow of his collarbone. He shifts in place, feet aching, eyes dry.

Again.

“Okay, okay,” Techie mumbles repetitively. “When—when he does the third lightning burst—you—you have to rush in close and leave me in the back. We have to make sure I have three lives when we get there. I’ll take the shot, and when he’s getting me—you’ll get him.”

“No!” Matt says, horrified. “I’m—I’m supposed to defend you, Techie, it’s the whole point—”

“That’s—that’s why I think that’s the solution, okay? It’s—it’s different than the rest of the game, right? It’s sneaky.” Techie blinks up at him, eyes all blue, and smiles. “I trust you, Matty. You won’t leave me behind unless I say. And I s-say. It’ll be okay.”

Matt grimaces. “Okay.”

The door opens again, and Snoke looms.

See me, Emperor Snoke, mortals, and weep!

Matt tanks the first two lightning bolts—one half heart, then a whole one gone—and then he does as Techie says, crouches, letting the third blast of lightning blast past him and hit Hux. The tiny augh! makes him grit his teeth, but—there, Techie’s right, that’s it! Matt zips in, getting Kylo close, and hacks madly at the screen, tongue bitten into the side of his cheek.

“No!” Snoke yowls. “You cannot defeat me! I am immortal! Unending!”

“Eat—eat fire,” Techie whispers, his fingers flying across the buttons. His hair is pushed back behind his ears, and the little pink tip of his tongue is stuck out in the corner of his mouth. The pupils of his eyes are ablaze with Hux’s flames as they swim in the lenses of his glasses, and he’s the most beautiful thing Matt has ever seen.

Techie’s eyes slide right. “Matty! Now! Do it!”

Matt double-jumps, leaping up, and he can see it—for a moment he is Kylo, the weight of the heavy crossguard digging into the soft meat at the juncture of his thumb and palm, fire of his sword blowing back at him, the sweat running down his spine and breath pluming hot out of the front of his mask, heart pounding, grit of the cobblestones grinding under his boots as he spins.

Kylo leaps, and the blade of his sword cleaves Snoke through the middle.

“Nooo!” Snoke shouts, and the whole arcade machine rattles. “No! I shall—not be defeated!”

“Jump!” Techie shouts. “The platform!”

Matt does. The floor melts into lava as Snoke melts into it, and they double-jump, together, landing on the platform above the burning room.

VICTORY!

“Matty,” Techie breathes. “We did it.”

“Techie—”

Little sweaty fingers seize both sides of his face, and Techie is kissing him, frantic and breathless, in between little gasps for air and Matty, we won! over and over. Techie’s fingers catch his earlobe on one side, trap his pulse against the damp warmth of his palm on the other, and Techie is kissing him, soft lips on his, painting his mouth with the vague aftertaste of albuterol. Matt’s arms have figured out how to move, this time, how to pull Techie close and squeeze him as tight as he wanted to squeeze back when Techie had hugged him, compress him in until the thin rail of Techie’s sternum is blazing against his through the threadbare fabric of his shirt.

Techie steps back first, wheezing for air, fumbling for his inhaler, his face wildly pink. His hair is everywhere, and his glasses are askew. His grin is an impossible thing—a miracle as far as Matt’s concerned—and he isn’t shaking.

“Matty,” Techie whispers. “We did it! I knew we could, I really did! You were so good, just—just the best, I knew you could do it, you’re just so—”

Techie’s eyes go wide, for a second, and Matt grins at him. He’s so drunk on the win that he doesn’t get it until the collar of his shirt yanks back so hard against his throat that he gags. Matt stumbles backward, flailing, his hands whirlwinding madly. He’s off balance, and he’s being dragged, rough fingers halfway buried in the hair at the nape of his neck and yanking it out.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Matt’s dad’s bellows. “Did you think—think you could get away with this shit? I had to track you down, and I fucking SAW you through the WINDOW, Matt! Out here in public—full fucking goddamn view— kissing! You and your fucking little faggot boyfriend!”

No, no, no!

“Dad, stop it!” Matt shrieks. “Let me go, get off me, let me go!”

He reaches back, trying to get the hand off the back of his neck, but his dad is so strong. Fingers twist tighter in his collar, hauling him towards the door and cutting off his air supply. He can’t breathe. Blood pounds in his ears, and tiny black dots float across his vision. Matt fishtails up with all his weight, both feet kicking off the floor, frantic, and the collar of his shirt rips completely off, dangling severed around his throat like the ragged noose of an escaping hanged man.

Matt whirls, barely dancing out of snatching range, whooping for breath. His dad’s sunburn is underlined with rage so fervent his face has gone purple. Explosions of veins stand out at his temples, and his lip is curled in disgust.

“You don’t understand,” Matt wheezes, “it’s not—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me it’s not what I think!” his dad bellows. “I saw you, Matthew!”

“Gonna need you to calm right the hell down,” Willy says. “Can’t have you scaring the patrons, sir.”

“Get—get the fuck away from me,” his dad snarls, whirling towards Willy. “My fuckin’ son, and we’re fucking leaving, right now,” he finishes, directing last two bullets at Matt.

“Dad—!”

“Go get in the goddamn car, Matthew! Right now!”

“No,” Matt says. He’s crying, snot clogging his nose. “No! I’m not—fuck you! Fuck you, I’m not going with you! I hate you!”

His dad snarls, and advances towards him, hand cranking back. “You little—”

Willy punches him.

Techie shrieks, high and clear.

“You hit my dad,” Matt says. He can’t believe it.

“Yeah, I did,” Willy says, wincing, shaking out his fist, and Matt’s dad is spinning on the ground, blood running from his smashed nose, but he’s getting a hand under himself, far from done. “And I’ll do it again if he doesn’t get the hell out of my arcade.”

Blood seeps from his father’s nose, pouring over his lip to fill in the lines between his teeth. “I’ll—”

“Funtown has strict rules ‘bout public intoxication,” Willy says, stepping around, getting his footing. “And you’re in my business, assaulting a minor, and you reek like a brewery. Don’t give a shit if it’s your kid, this is my arcade. And you can get the hell out, or I’ll drag you out myself.”

The arcade has been robbed of air, of all human noise, and the machines trill cheerily in the background, unaware. A boy of about seven is gaping at them, open-mouthed, a long string of blue, slushie-tinted drool descending from his lower lip. Techie is wheezing—gasping, really, sucking for breath through a violent death rattle—and when Matt darts a look over his shoulder, Techie is crammed all the way against Old Religion and halfway under it, his eyes bright, flat silver circles of terror through his glasses. His lips are faintly blue.

“Willy,” Matt says, trying to speak through his snotty tears. “I think—think Techie’s having—having an asthma attack.”

Willy’s eyes skate over. “Yeah, he is. Breathe, son. In and out. I’ll be there soon as I can.” He snaps his fingers, and the whole room jumps, and he points at a gaggle of teenage girls clustered around the claw machine. “You! Girls. Two of you go get the paramedic from the kiosk halfway down, and the other two go get security. By the south pier. I’ll give you the bear you’re trying to get out of there for free.”

“Okay,” one of the girls says, the bravest, braces giving her a lisp. “Okay!”

Matt’s dad has made it to his feet. “You son of a bitch. You’re letting—”

“Shut up,” Willy hisses. “Shut the hell up. And get out of here before those girls get back with the cops, or I’ll press charges.”

“Willy,” Matt starts to say.

“Matthew!”

“I have to go,” Matt sobs.

“I know, son.”

“Will Techie—”

“Matthew! Right now!”

“He’ll be okay, son. Seen his lungs seize up before. Just go. It’ll be okay,” Willy says, attention following the trajectory of his father. “You better hurry.”

“I’m s-sorry.” Matt digs in his pockets, frantic, and scrapes out all the tokens he can find, dumping them into Willy’s palms. “Give—give these to Techie, please—I’m sorry—”

Willy presses one token back into Matt’s palm. “I know you are. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. Didn’t do anything wrong.” His hand finds Matt’s shoulder for the briefest of seconds, and squeezes, very lightly, before pushing him towards the door. “Go.”

***

Matt doesn’t write Techie.

He’s looked up the address for The Joyful Joystick a hundred times, a thousand times, past memorization and into compulsiveness, and he...he can’t make himself do it. Every time he gets a piece of paper and an envelope, and thinks of writing, The Joyful Joystick, for TECHIE, 5597 Sunny Sands Drive, Ocean Point, New Jersey, 08226, he can’t make his fingers even write the address, let alone anything else.

What could he say?

So he says nothing.

***

Less than six months after they drove away from the boardwalk with Matt sobbing in the backseat of the station wagon, Matt’s parents get divorced. His mom says it’s not about him, that it’s not his fault, that it has nothing to do with him.

“Marriage is hard, okay, honey?” she says, with the corners of her mouth pulled down and the corners of her eyes unsuccessfully trying to pull her mouth back up into a fake smile. “We got married so young. People change, and your father…” She makes an odd expression, something bitter, as if she’d scraped her teeth along the pith of a lemon peel. “We didn’t agree on everything, and some things you can’t keep going around without splitting. So sometimes—it just doesn’t work out. We’ll be okay, just you and me, won’t we?”

His dad doesn’t call, and doesn’t write, and Matt doesn’t believe her.

***

With his dad gone, Matt has to get a job.

Matt can tell his mom is ashamed to have to ask him to pitch in, and that’s somehow worse than her needing the help. She’s been a secretary for a long time, and now, she’s still a secretary, and also a waitress, and it isn’t enough. He is aware, in the way kids always are, that they are poor, but he doesn’t have a strong concept of the worth of money, and paying a water bill, and clipping coupons out of the weekly circular to buy enough food to feed a teenage boy who doesn’t ever seem to stop getting bigger.

His mom brings it up, rife with embarrassment, and says that she knows he’d like to go back to Go-Go-Gary’s to visit his (she searches for a long time, for the right word) his friend, but they can’t afford it. Not only that, they can’t afford a lot, and it would...really help, if he got job, enough to cover maybe the water bill and the electric.

Matt’s pissed and he’s lonely and he’s furious at his dad for leaving and it’s his fault his dad left and he’s angry at himself, for being so broken and weird and wrong, too big and too awkward and too young and too much. The way that his mom is looking at him, hopeful and sad and embarrassed, that makes him mad too, and he wants to yell at her, the way his dad did, scream all his anger out at her until his guts boil over and his throat hurts, just to see if it makes him feel any better.

She puts her hand, on top of his, and pats it. “You really don’t have to—to get a summer job, Matty. I can figure it out, okay? Maybe I can pick up some extra shifts at the steakhouse.”

Matty. Only his mom and Techie have ever called him that, and abruptly he can—see her, in a way he hasn’t before. The thin bones of her wrists seem more prominent, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She’s not just his mom, she’s alone, and stressed. She doesn’t want to ask him to do this, but they could do it together, and Matt could stand at her side and help defend her the way he’d defended Techie as Kylo.

He could help her, the way he helped Techie.

She’s his mom, and she knows about Techie, and she loves him.

“N-no,” Matt says. “No, I will, Mom. I—I want to help.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, and hugs him, crying again, and when she hugs him, the smell of Obsession is gone, replaced by the smell of cheap Alberto VO5 shampoo.

***

It isn’t terribly difficult for Matt to find a summer job—just after the end of school, he starts working at Greener Pastures, a landscaping company that needs strong teenagers to burn through all the summer landscaping jobs and mowing work. The company is owned by a charmless man named Woodrow Wilson, who had clearly never learned to appreciate his parent’s sense of historical humor. He never smiles, and he never says anything louder than 30 decibels, but Mr. Wilson pays well, and he’s fair. His mom says that’s pretty good for a first job.

The work is so physically taxing that Matt spends the first month feeling like his muscles might fall straight off his bones. He reeks of body odor and he’s constantly itchy with grass clippings, but, he sticks it out. It’s worth it, to see the relief on his mom’s face when he passes her his first week’s wages, paid out in cash, and it was worth it, after two months of sunburns and bugbites and backaches, to smell Obession when he hugs his mom again.

He was hired along with five other boys, and by the end of the summer, only Matt and Chet are left. They aren’t friends—Chet is no Techie, Matt often finds himself thinking, halfway derisive and halfway heartsick—but he’s quiet, and works in cooperation alongside Matt with the same persistence as a fellow oxen pulling in a yoke.

Woodrow asks them if they want to keep on working through the rest of the school year, and they both agree. They both need the money, though neither of them say it, and summer mowing will turn into fall raking and then hanging Christmas lights. After the summer, Matt and Chet have enough experience now that they can go out on lawn jobs just the two of them. Chet is a little older and can drive the truck.

Sometimes, Matt’s stomach twists up with shame, when he realizes he’s mowing the lawn of someone he knows—that lanky cheerleader, she knows him, and she’s perched high and mighty on her lounge chair by the pool with a glass of lemonade, looking down her nose at him through her sunglasses as he mows careful diagonal stripes into her rich daddy’s huge lawn. And Matt hates her, for what she doesn’t know, about the blisters that ripped through the palms of his hands until they turned to calluses, and the way his back had ached and ached under the weight of bags of mulch, and how he’d passed out, once, in the heat of August.

Then he thinks about his mom, and how she’s smiling again, and how maybe, it’s better that his dad is gone. Maybe she was right.

“Matty.” His mom is at the stove, stirring through a box of Hamburger Helper, and that perks him up; he loves that stuff, could eat a whole box on his own. “There’s a letter for you on the table.”

“For me?” Matt stops in the doorway, shaking off his grass-plastered boots and kicking them out to the back porch. “Is it—um. From—Dad?”

His mom turns, giving him a careful look as she measures his mood before replying. “No, honey. Handwriting doesn’t look like his—I’m not sure who it’s from.”

Matt frowns, and squeaks sock-footed across the linoleum to the table. Sure enough, there’s a letter for him, in a standard white envelope, scratchy handwriting on the front that’s barely legible. He opens it as though it might contain shards of glass—the only letters he’s ever gotten were from his grandmothers on his birthdays, Christmas, and Easter—and he’s skeptical.

A Polaroid drops to the table as the envelope rips, and when Matt picks it up, his mouth goes sand-dry. It’s a picture of Old Religion, the second screen behind the title, where all the best scores are displayed, and right at the top with the highest score is TKM.

TKM. Not TKY.

Matt scrambles to pick up the letter, pulse ringing in his ears.

Dear Matty, the letter starts, written in cheap blue ballpoint pen on a sheet of notebook paper, and he nearly rips the paper with his sweaty fingers.

I really shouldn’t do this and I’m sorry I did, you’re going to think I’m a creepy stalker, but I looked for you. You were wearing a Philadelphia Phillies shirt that first day we met, and you said your family drove to Funtown, so I know it’s insane but I was hoping you lived in Philadelphia instead of just being a fan of the Phillies because Philadelphia isn’t that far of a drive. So because I’m crazy I called around all the high schools in Philadelphia and did you know how many Matthew Smiths there are going in to their junior year of high school in Philadelphia? Twenty-eight.

So then I said that you had left your wallet at the Joyful Joystick and I wanted to mail it back to you but it only had a library card and not your address, and it had a lot of money in it, and I guess that sounded really nice to all these secretaries because I got twenty-eight addresses. I hate lying and I broke out in hives for a week after but I had to try to find you.

So this is really stupid but I hope you’re my Matthew Smith, Matt reads, through shaking fingers, and if you’re not please throw my crazy letter away and don’t read the rest. I don’t really have your wallet, like I said I was lying and I know that’s bad.

If you are my Matty, then please please please write me back, I miss you so much.

A lot has changed since I saw you. Willy helped me move out of my aunt’s, and I have an apartment all my own next to his! I still work at the Joystick and I want to go to college in the fall. College sounds terrifying but Willy says I would be good with computers and that they’re going to be important. Maybe I could go to the University of Pennsylvania but that’s probably crazy, too. I don’t think I could say all this if I was looking at you but Willy says it will be good for me to write these letters even if I never get a response. He also said maybe I should just throw them into bottles in the sea but I think one chance out of twenty-eight is better than no chance at all. You are the best friend I have ever had and I miss you.

I’m really really sorry about what I did when we won the game and I’ll never do it again, but I still want to be your friend if you’ll forgive me.

Please,

Techie.

Matt sits down hard in the chair at the kitchen table, as sweaty and light-headed as he’d been after getting heatstroke. The letter swims in his vision, chicken-scratch handwriting turning into a kaleidoscope of blue pen.

“Matty? Good Lord, Matty, what is it?” his mom asks, alarmed. “You’re as white as a sheet!”

“It’s from Techie,” Matt says, and bursts into tears.

***

He’s too scared to write Techie back. He couldn’t do it before—didn’t even try, because why would Techie ever want to talk to him again after what happened?—and it’s no easier after getting a letter first. His cowardice rankles at him, itches like a rash at the back of his neck.

Techie had the courage to do it. Techie looked for him.

And Matt is terrified of what sending a letter back will mean.

Every time he tries, Matt can’t make his pen etch the words he wants to say into the paper, permanent and irrevocable. If he writes what he wants to say to Techie down, forms liquid ink into letters that dry and stay, then it’s real. He won’t be able to take it back, to say he was joking or that it was an accident. That he didn’t mean what he said. If he writes everything out, and puts a letter in the mail, a stranger’s hand will carry a secret part of him across miles and miles that he is not sure he’s even ready to let out of his chest.

You and your fucking little faggot boyfriend, the postman might think, if they knew what was written in the letter they carried, and how, how, could all the things that he feels for Techie be summed up into something so nasty and base? How could the way Techie’s hair felt in his fingers or the way that Techie smiled, shaky and unsure, ever be tied to something so filthy? How can he lay away in his bed and night, and think of Techie, of the way Techie’s palms had gripped his cheeks so firmly, shaking with excitement and fright, and then summon no courage of his own?

And would it not be better, to let this go? To quit pretending like it might all be okay, and that their future could be anything but having to wear this secret on his sleeve for all the world to see, and know, behind their terse lips, that you and your fucking little faggot boyfriend is lurking, waiting to strike out and cut him down? Cut Techie down, when there’s so little left of him to keep cutting?

No! he’d said to Techie. I’m—I’m supposed to defend you, Techie, it’s the whole point—

I trust you, Matty. You won’t leave me behind unless I say. And I s-say. It’ll be okay.

But would it?

Wouldn’t it be better, if he left Techie alone, to find someone who wasn’t—him? So awkward and so ungainly, so quick to anger and so easily frustrated by the world? There will be someone else for Techie, someone else to stand next to him at the arcade machine, someone else who might select the silver warrior queen instead of Kylo Ren, and someone else who could defend Hux as Snoke’s lightning crackled through the air. Someone else who would be there to walk piers and pretend they’re not holding hands. Maybe someone who would be brave enough to really hold Techie’s hand, instead of pretending he didn’t know he was.

“But I don’t want it to be someone else,” Matt mumbles in the dark, tears seeping into his pillow. “I want it to be me.”

***

a month after the letter

“You know,” his mom says, over porkchops, “we ought to go back to Go-Go Gary’s, before school starts. Labor Day weekend is coming up.”

Matt had tried not to choke on his mashed potatoes. “Um. I—I thought we couldn’t—you know. Afford that.”

“Well.” His mom takes a careful sip of water. “I might’ve scraped up a little something, and it’s not very far. It was a nice place, wasn’t it? You had fun?”

“I—I guess so,” Matt says carefully.

“Does your friend still work at that arcade?” his mom asks, the question as carefully crafted as an ice sculpture.

Matt drops his gaze to the table. “I dunno.”

“You never wrote back?”

“No,” Matt grumbles, pushing his mashed potatoes into an aggressive volcano with gravy lava. His shoulders pull up around his ears. “I didn’t.”

“Well. Maybe we could find out.” She takes another bite of dinner, letting the TV fill the silence with Dan Rather’s news bulletin. “If you wanted.”

Matt peeks up, and she’s studying the motions of his fork. Studying him. “Mom. Um.”

“Yes?”

“Did dad...did he tell you…what happened?”

He’s never asked what exactly his father had relayed to her, and what he’d said. What she knows. In the car ride back, he’d been sobbing, and his dad had been dangerously quiet, and she hadn’t asked. Hadn’t dared to ask, maybe. And Matt is afraid to find out that she doesn’t really know, that maybe what he is and what he’d done was so horrible that even his dad hadn’t been able to say it, and that the rest of his life will fall apart. What if she hates him? What if she kicks him out, and what if her lip curls in disgust, because she doesn’t know, didn’t know, and now he’s blown it all—

She leans back in her chair, and sighs. “Your father said a lot of things about you and your friend, and none of them were very nice.”

“Oh,” Matt says, very small.

“I haven’t—I haven’t met your friend,” she says stiffly, “but the things he said aren’t the kind of things I would ever say about my son,” she continues. “Do you understand?”

“Um. Maybe,” Matt croaks, curling in on himself. His dad had said, he’d said—maybe he’d told—everything, to her, and he can see in her face that she does know. “I—I’m sorry, Mom, I—”

“I don’t need—” Her color is high and embarrassed in her cheeks. “I don’t need an apology. And I don’t need to know anymore.”

“Oh.” Matt blinks at her tearily.

“Is—is what happened—is that why you didn’t write back to your friend?”

Matt’s throat is too thick to say anything, so he shrugs, hair flopped down over his face.

“I…” She sighs, from the bottom of her chest. “You’re a good boy, Matty. And a good son, and you’ve worked hard, all summer. I thought you might like to go back there and see your—your friend. That’s all.”

He pushes his plate away; he certainly doesn’t want to eat anymore. “I...I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?” He can hear her frowning. “I don’t know when we’ll have another chance to go, Matty. Not for a long time.”

“I just…” He peeks through the shaggy front of his hair at her, fearing what he might see, but she doesn’t look angry; more pensive, and maybe worried. “I don’t want to be—um. Wrong. And. Maybe I shouldn’t. Go. Because what if—what if—” The words tangle up in his throat. “What if I make everything worse?”

“I don’t know if that’s what will happen or not,” his mom says, after a long pause. She leans across their little table and pats his hand. “Matty. You’re growing up, faster and faster every day, and a lot of those—those choices, you’ll make in your life, won’t be up to me. They shouldn’t be. My mother wanted me to be an actress, and I would have been terrible at it. I can’t act at all.” She smiles at him, very gently, as if testing to see if she might get a smile back. “And if I had tried to live the life she’d wanted for me, I wouldn’t have you.”

“Okay,” Matt says slowly. “So you think—I should…”

“I think you should tell me what you want to do, and not what you think I want.” She grips his hand for a second. “You can’t live your life for anyone else, honey. Not even me.”

For a second, Matt is afraid he might cry, right into his abandoned dinner, and manages to swallow down his tears. “Thanks, Mom.”

She squeezes his hand a little harder. “I love you, Matty.”

“I love you, too.”

***

On Labor Day weekend, right before the start of his junior year, Matt and his mom go back to Go-Go-Gary’s Funtown.

Matt is trembling as he walks towards the arcade, sweaty hands tormenting his hair and the bottom of the bouquet. He must look ridiculous. On the way here, it had seemed smart to dress up, to try and put his best foot forward for an apology he doesn’t know how to make, and now the polo he’d picked out with his mom at Sears is too tight, pulling at the nape of his neck and under his arms.

“This is stupid,” Matt says, stopping in the middle of the boardwalk. He can vividly imagine the future where he walks back to the bar where his mom is parked with a margarita and gives the bouquet to her instead, and maybe she smiles at him, kind of sad, and orders him a drink of his own. And they spend an afternoon together, wandering the boardwalk before they drive back home, and they don’t talk about how he was a coward. She wouldn’t make him say it, and he wouldn’t bring it up. Maybe he’d never bring it up again.

And the flowers would rot, in a vase on the table, and he wouldn’t look at them.

Matt’s fist tightens around the base of the bouquet until the stems creak and sap stains his palm. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He forces his feet to move, one after the other, and he probably looks ridiculous, in a polo where everyone else is in beach clothes, and Matt is plagued with the idea that they’re all looking at him, and so he doesn’t look up, tracing the boards with his eyes until he’s forced to look up and confront the cheerful signage of the Joyful Joystick. His heart is thrashing in his chest like a fish on a line, and he has to try the door twice before he can get it open.

Willy is behind the counter, sitting on a stool and reading a comic book—Judge Dredd #34, Matt thinks, from the scowling face on the cover—with his feet propped up on a shelf. He looks up, disinterested at first, and then drops his feet.

“Matt. I’ll be damned. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” He eyes Matt with a little skepticism. “I see Techie didn’t throw those letters in the ocean after all.”

“Hey—hey,” Matt says, grimacing when his voice cracks. “Um. No. He—I got one.”

“Didn’t write him back?”

“I—” Matt takes a mighty swallow. How does he summarize all his fears into one neat little sentence? “I didn’t know what to say. After. Um. You know. What happened.”

Willy relaxes, stool creaking in agreement. “I do.”

“Is—Techie here?”

Willy shakes his head. “No. Just missed him.”

Matt wilts. “Oh.”

“He’s on lunch,” Willy adds. “Might be back in a while, if you want to wait.” His eyes drop to the bouquet. “Those for him?”

Matt’s ears are so hot they hurt. “Um. I just. I have them.”

“Well.” Willy’s feet go back up. “He’s allergic. But they’re awful pretty. He’ll like ‘em.”

“He’s allergic?” Matt says. Of course Techie is, he’s so stupid—why didn’t he think of that?

“To about everything,” Willy says. His eyes settle on Matt, crinkling at the corners. “But not you, somehow. Go on and find a place to wait. He’ll be back.”

“I—I know where he eats lunch,” Matt says, stricken with inspiration. “I’ll. Go. Go there, and um. Find him.”

Willy’s grin splits out. “All right then. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Bye! And.” Matt stops, fidgeting. “Thanks, for—for. You know. The—”

“Don’t mention it.” Willy’s grin goes crooked until it’s an odd kind of frown. “Known a lot of guys like a your dad, and a couple—a couple guys like you, and Techie. I know what kind I’d rather have around. Capische?”

“I—yeah,” Matt says, finding his mouth has gone all watery at the corners. “Thanks.”

Willy holds up a big flat palm. “Like I said, don’t mention it, kid.”

“Thanks."

“Go on.”

Matt rushes out the door before Willy can say anything else that will rattle him. The stores of his fortitude are already dangerously low as he runs around the corner, heading for the hidden spot behind the surf shop that Techie had shown him.

In his haste, when Matt rounds the corner, he almost steps on Techie. He’s curled up at the base of the clump of sea oats, halfway hidden under the droop of their leaves. His head is down, drooping like one of the oats, and his knees are up in a protective wall that saves his lunch from the wave of sand that blasts up from Matt’s feet as he struggles to stop. He has to jump over Techie, a last-minute pole vault, and ends up losing his balance on the landing, bouncing off the salt worn boards of the wall.

“Oh my god!” Techie exclaims, first in shock and then in recognition. A Coke fizzes busily into the sand where Matt had knocked it over. “Matty?”

“Yeah—yeah,” Matt wheezes, winded and propped against the wall. He straightens up, trying to regain some of his composure. “So. Hey.”

“Hey?!” Techie struggles to his feet, hand sinking in the sand, then a foot, then the other hand, and finally he makes it upright. “Hey is what you have to—to say—after—after?!”

“Um. Yes.” Matt drops his eyes to the side, away from Techie’s ire. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you write me?” Techie cries. “I thought—I thought you might be dead!”

“Dead?”

“Yes!” Techie shrieks. “The—the last I s-saw of you, you were getting—hauled out of here, by that huge yelling guy that Willy said was your dad, and he—he said that—those things, and I thought!” Techie sniffles. “I thought he—hurt you! Or killed you!”

“Oh,” Matt whispers. He hadn’t really thought about what this might be like from Techie’s end. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Did you—did you think about me at all?” Techie demands. “I—”

“Yes,” Matt says, taking a step forward. “Every—every day, I promise, I just—I didn’t know what to say to you, and—I was afraid you hated me—”

“I was afraid you hated me!”

“I could never hate you!”

“Well, I could never hate you!” Techie shouts back. “But I thought about it!”

A dart stabs into Matt’s chest. “You—you thought about it?!”

“Yes!” Techie shoves him, just a little, bony palms to his chest. “I—I thought it might be—easier, if—I hated you, because then I wouldn’t…” Techie is close enough that Matt can see him frowning even through the cover of his bangs. “Are you—did you get bigger?”

Matt chews at his lip. He’s at the tail end of another growth spurt, and he’s beginning to worry he might not stop growing, both up and out. “I guess so.”

Techie mumbles something under his breath, then sneezes violently. “Do you—are those chrysanthemums?”

“Yeah,” Matt says miserably, lifting the limp bouquet away from Techie. “Sorry. Willy said—that—”

Techie sneezes again, harder than the first time. “Y-yeah. But—you brought those for—for me?”

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.” He wonders if the sea oats are tall enough for him to hide in. Probably not now, after he’s grown. “If you want them.”

“I—I don’t know,” Techie says. He sniffles. “What are they—what are they for?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—I mean, what do the flowers mean?” Techie says softly. “Why do you want to give them to me? If—they—even are for me.”

Techie’s shoes scoot closer, until the dirty toes of his sneakers are in Matt’s sightline. Sweat courses down his sides, and he can’t make himself look up.

“I thought…” Techie whispers. “I thought you hated me because of—of what I did. When we won the game. I thought you were—were as mad as your d-dad was—because I n-never heard from you.”

I wasn’t, Matt wants to say, but he can’t seem to get the words out. It’s not any easier than writing them in a letter would’ve been; his heart is pounding so hard it’s making him dizzy, and his mind has forgotten every elegant turn of phrase he had carefully planned over the last several months. Everything churning inside him is so painful, and he can’t spit it out, and so he’s getting mad, the way he always does, and he’s not actually mad at Techie, he’s mad at himself, and his dad, and the world, for being so fucking difficult—

“Matty?”

He’s crushing the bouquet again. Matt makes himself breathe in through his nose, salt-fried food-rotting wood-trash, and out, anger-shame-embarassed-afraid.

Matt looks around, making sure they’re out of view back here and that no one might be close by, and then very carefully, Matt steps closer, edging his toes closer to Techie’s, until their sneakers are touching. He drops the bouquet at their feet, and Techie makes a funny little squeak of dismay until Matt reaches forward and takes both of his hands.

Techie goes very still.

Be brave, come on, Matt thinks, yelling at himself in his head. Techie did it, c’mon, you can—you HAVE to—he’s going to think you’re a total chicken—

As if Techie might be made of glass, Matt pulls him in closer, bit by bit, finally raising his head up enough to see Techie’s face. His glasses are all smeary with grease, and his hair is no better, whipped into a tangle around his ears, but his eyes are wide and so so blue, so pretty, little fragments of darker blue around the perimeter of his irises, and Matt’s never gotten to see that before. Techie has little freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose, and he’s squeezing Matt’s fingers so hard it hurts, and he is so, so beautiful.

Last time (first time, only time) was sudden and excited, but this time Matt kisses Techie and it is deliberate. There is no way for him to play this off as a joke, no way for him to lie to himself and say maybe he’d fallen forward and their lips touched while they were wrestling and ha-ha-ha nobody really meant it but maybe we should do that again sometime, practice for when we kiss girls. Techie’s lips are salty from the soft pretzel he was eating, and he leans in with a little sigh when Matt presses their lips together, opens his mouth just a little, and that’s shocking, the way the inside of Techie’s mouth is softer, wetter than his lip, and a frenetic thrill of heat rushes through Matt’s body.

He leans in further, but Techie redirects him, breaking the kiss and hugging him instead, pressing the side of his narrow cheek to Matt’s chest, against his heart.

“So you weren’t mad,” Techie whispers, breath ghosting against his shirt. “Right?”

“Right,” Matt sighs.

“Why didn’t you write me?”

“I...I didn’t know how to say—that,” Matt mutters.

“I think you said it pretty well,” Techie says.

Matt huffs a laugh. “Thanks.”

Techie inches back just enough to look up at him. “Are you—how long do we have?”

“The rest of today and tomorrow,” Matt says, his mouth souring.

“I would have been happy with just today,” Techie says, smiling up at him.

Matt hugs him closer, as tight as he can, until Techie is standing on his toes, and frees a hand just enough to dig in his pocket. He extracts the token he’s worried at for months, back and forth, riding in his pocket, rubbed by his thumb whenever he thought of Techie, which was constantly. The color of the metal is faded by friction and sweat, and he presses it into Techie’s hand.

“First game’s on me.”

***

In July of 1985, Matt and Techie play their first game together.

At the end of August in 1986, they play their second.

In early 1989, Matt moves out of his mom’s house and into Techie’s apartment, near the University of Philadelphia, where Techie is taking computer science classes. Matt enrolls in electrical engineering, and drops out after two years; the professors are assholes, and the students are pretentious jerks, and he doesn’t fit in. He doesn’t fit in at all, not among all the kids with money and trust funds and smooth paths to their dad’s engineering firms. Matt drifts aimlessly for several months, until finally Techie drags him to Willy.

“Matty’s as good at fixing things as I am,” Techie asserts.

“I’m not,” Matt protests. “You’re a lot smarter.”

“Kid,” Willy says. He’s developed a new layer of sunspots. “What did I tell you about trying not to get paid? You’re hired.”

And so Matt has a long commute, back and forth, working as a repairman for first Willy, then Go-Go-Gary’s as a whole, staying with Willy during the week and racing back home to his apartment with Techie on the weekends.

But he’s happy. They’re happy.

In 1991, Matt’s mom remarries a man named Greg, who works at the Radio Shack corporate office. Matt likes him; he’s got a Magnum P.I. moustache, and flies remote-controlled planes as a hobby. He laughs a lot, and makes Matt’s mom laugh, too, but what really matters is that Techie likes him. Matt walks his mom down the aisle at her wedding to give her away, and his stomach twists funny, when he looks back at Techie, grinning at him from the first row.

“I’d marry you—if I could,” Matt says later, drunk and all of 21. “Marry you tonight.”

Techie laughs, and kisses him when they’re out of sight of the rest of the guests, halfway hidden against the side of the building, where smokers might go to hide their habit. “I know you would, Matty. But I don’t need you to. We—we don’t—we don’t have to do that, to—to have what we have.”

But Techie’s eyes are a little too wet as he says it.

***

In June of 2015, Obergefell v. Hodges is decided at the Supreme Court.

And in August of 2015, when Matt is 46, they get married.