"Yes."
"Of course you do." I close the drawer. I open the fridge.
The fridge is stocked with the efficiency of someone who treats eating well as a logistics problem he has already solved. Vegetables with actual intent behind them, not the aspirational kind that rot in the crisper because you bought them to prove something to yourself on a Sunday. Three kinds of mustard, which is a personality.
And there, on the second shelf, next to the water: two cans of Mango Tango Celsius.
I look at them.
Mango Tango Celsius. Which I mentioned on stream once, exactly once, six weeks ago, for approximately four seconds, as part of a longer conversation about energy drinks that my chat immediately turned into a poll. I said the mango one was the only one that didn't taste like a mistake and then I moved on because we were mid-game and I forgot about it before the stream ended.
Theyr’re for me.
I take one. I close the fridge. I hop up onto the counter and crack it open and drink it and look at him where he's appeared in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed, watching me find it.
He knew I'd look. He put them there knowing I'd look and he's watching me look and he is the least apologetic person I have ever met about anything and he is being spectacularly unapologetic about this right now.
That's either the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me or the beginning of a true-crime documentary and I'm choosing the first option because the Celsius is cold and it's the right flavor.
"Good?" he says.
"Great," I say, draining the can.
The living room has a photo I've walked past before without stopping. Him and my dad in their mid-thirties, somewherewith bad overhead lighting, the kind of venue that doesn't exist anymore. Both of them laughing at something off-frame.
I pick it up.
They look genuinely happy. Whatever was funny was apparently very funny. My dad's hand is on Declan's shoulder. Easy. Thirty years of friendship in one gesture.
His bedroom is large and spare and has a huge bed. It puts my Ikea furniture to shame. Everything in this house costs more than it looks like it does because Declan Maguire buys things once and buys them right.
I sit on the edge of it. He leans in the doorway.
Here's what I've established over the past week through what I'm choosing to call research: Declan has a threshold. There's a version of him that's controlled and deliberate and takes his time, and then there's the version underneath. The version underneath is accessible via means I've been collecting data on.
Up to now I've been reactive. Receiving information rather than generating it. I've been the player running the tutorial level, learning the controls, getting oriented.
Tonight I'm going to play the actual game.
He's got his mouth on my throat and his hands on my waist and I reach up with full intention and put my mouth to his temple. The silver there. Right there. A simple kiss.
His whole body stops.
Not pauses.Stops.Every muscle. One single arrested moment, and I feel it move through him like I've tripped a wire nobody told him was there.
Oh,says my brain.Oh, that's extremely useful.
I have found the exact exploit in the boss fight that everyone said was impossible. I know where it is. I intend to use it so regularly he's going to start flinching when I lean in and I am completely fine with that.
He pulls back and looks at me.
"Do that again," he says, and his voice is lower than usual and I am adding that to the data set with considerable satisfaction.
I do it again. Slower this time. My lips against the silver at his temple, his name whispered right against his ear.
"Turn over," he says against my skin.
"Ask nicely," I say, because I have some dignity.
