Текст книги "How to Repair a Mechanical Heart "

Автор книги: J. Lillis

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“Yes, Brandon.”

“Father Mike was right.”

She lifts her head. “Huh?”

“God works in very, very mysterious ways.”

“Oh boy.”

“Every world, even this one, has its unexpected mercies.”

“Easter sermon?”

“Episode 1-16.”

“Okay, weirdo.” She kisses me on the forehead. “Clearly you’re hopeless tonight.”

She swings herself off the merry-go-round and gives it a shove before she scuffs away. I always forget how strong she is. The platform spins and rattles and the stars whirl into streaks and if hey_mamacita were writing this she’d say it was like the crash of the starship in the Castaway Planet pilot, the last thing they saw before they all clasped hands and said their brave goodbyes, and then woke up bloody and alive on a whole new planet.

I picture hey_mamacita crosslegged on the platform beside me, the red heart on her ragged t-shirt flickering like a hundred tiny votives. Her dreadlocks are streaked with gray and she smells like clean dirt and salt water and her knife halo glints, ready to defend me. She rests her rough hands on mine like a different kind of mother, the kind who roller-derbies and lives in an electric blue cottage and writes campy redemptive porn about you, and she leans close and whispers in my ear: Don’t worry, she says. Even God ships Abandon.

I wait for Father Mike, for a random earthquake to hit or an airplane part to fall from the sky and crush me but nothing happens, nothing nothing nothing and I feel pure liquid freedom shoot through all my veins at once.

It’s set.

Six days. First kiss. A fake kiss, but whatever. It’s a start.

SWEET BABY MOSES ON A MOTORBIKE, says hey_mamacita.

And I’m like, What have I done?

hey_mamacita:

THE CASTAWAY BALL CREED. a communal prayer by the church of abandon.

sorcha doo:

omg lol

hey_mamacita:

O MY FELLOW DISCIPLES

i call on you now, as our blessed boys

tango straight to the edge of their incandescent fate

FOR THE LOVE OF ST. IGNATIUS LET US GIVE DESTINY A RUTHLESS FREAKING TURBOCHARGE

sorcha doo:

let us hold nightly abandon prayer circles lol

a_rose_knows:

Let us create a new Abandon playlist: 1. “Strange Powers” ~ Magnetic Fields 2. “Heartbeat Song” ~ Futureheads ‌…‌

retro robot:

Let us assail the universe all week long with the hottest dancefic our giant intellects can produce.

whispering!sage:

we shall make them make out on the dance floor like whoa

amity crashful:

omg to “such great heights.” that song is everything they choose to be.

hey_mamacita:

YEA, VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, they shall dress up like sim and cadmus and give each other overpowering hotpants as they do each other’s makeup and sensuously button each other’s buttons.

sorcha doo:

**dead**

retro robot:

May our words take wing and lead them ever closer to each other as their wheels roll closer and closer to Long Beach. May they lock eyes over Ramen noodles in the RV and waltz in a Laundromat as their clothes entangle in the dryer.

hey_mamacita:

we ask this in the name of the Captain, the Android, and the Holy Spirit of One True Love.

amity crashful:

amen!!!

retro robot:

Amen.

hey_mamacita:

AMEN.

CastieCon #4

Long Beach, California

Chapter Sixteen

“Fellow fans and devoted followers,” Abel says to the camera, “welcome to Room 809 of the Long Beach Monarch Inn. Where right now, right in front of your very eyes, Brandon and I will perform an act of unprecedented intimacy.”

“I found the mascara,” I say.

“Perfect. Sit down, love. So tonight, obviously: the Castaway Ball. Which will change our lives forever, since the ballroom stage eight floors below us is now prepped and ready for two very very special guests‌—‌Sim and Cadmus themselves, David Darras and Ed Ransome. Bran‌…‌you okay?”

I’m fanning myself. “Whew. Just feeling faint.”

“You and every Cadsim shipper in this freakin’-damn hotel. So anyway, a sad and little-known fact about me and my friend here is that both of us missed our respective proms: Brandon tells me he was huddled miserably in his room, listening to Season 2 commentary tracks and nursing a pint of Cherry Garcia, while I on the other side of town was swearing oaths of eternal devotion in the blacklit basement of my ex-boyfriend, who in retrospect was so not worth it. So tonight we both get a do-over. And to make our evening an extra-large slice of teen-geek heaven, we’ve decided to give each other a little gift.”

“Yep. So stay tuned, to this space‌…‌”

“‌…‌because in less than a half-hour we’ll post again, and you’ll see exactly what happens when two ordinary queer boys from central PA become each other’s‌…‌” He swoops close to the camera. “‌…‌ultimate fantasy.”

I say, “You first, Tin Man.”

He says, “It will be my honor. Captain.”

***

This is how you turn a boy into an android.

First, on the long road from San Antonio to Long Beach, you read a half-dozen fics about this exact moment: when you’re in your hotel room and the Castaway Ball is a half-hour away and you’re standing in front of his black leather swivel chair, a confusion of dollar-store makeup pots and brushes spread out on the table. You act out details from the best stories. The way you dip the largest brush in the silvery powder and smooth it across his cheeks, and then lean in just a little to blow stray flecks off his nose. The way you gloss the comb with Amp-U Electric Blue gel, just enough to streak his white hair Sim-blue. You’re so gentle with the comb, it makes him think of when he was five and his mom would detangle his wet head while she told him his favorite bedtime story.

Then it’s your turn.

He’s faster with the hairspray and makeup brushes, just like the fics predicted. He makes your face a screenshot of Cadmus from the season finale’s last scene: bloodied and triumphant, right before he collapses from the crystal spider bite. Red lipstick blends with brown mascara for authentic blood spatters; he tousles and soft-spikes your hair to perfection and mists it with a spray that smells like apples. Then he swoops in close to draw the spider bite on your neck with an eyebrow pencil, like he does in this week’s installment of “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart,” except in the fic he’s also shirtless and his pecs are like a love poem engraved on his torso. Your heart whirs faster anyway.

Time to get dressed.

You both turn your backs, though you’ve spent the whole week fine-tuning these details together while you drove and cleaned the RV water tank and cooked franks and beans over an Arizona campfire. How many strategic rips to make in your tight black Cadmus t-shirt (four), how to make a Sim collar for his shirt (a strip from a white plastic butter tub and two silver buttons), how to flip his six-dollar Goodwill wingtips from black to white (five coats of spray paint and a Hail Mary). You draw a breath and put on Cadmus. You shrug on Abel’s snakeskin jacket and buckle on the big fake-leather replica boots he bought at the Cleveland con, hoping he can’t hear the rustle of the newspaper you had to stuff in the toes. You listen to him curse his floppy collar and hum a Goldfrapp song while he yanks on his pants, and you think there’s no way he’ll transform his huge undeniable self into the trim elegant machine who makes your blood buzz in your veins.

Then he turns you around, and wow.

It’s perfect. The slicked blue hair. The shiny shoes. The fitted white pants and slim jacket he paid too much for at that fancy mall in Tucson. All of it = perfect.

He. Is. Sim.

And I’m in trouble.

Abel looks at my boots‌—‌his boots‌—‌and scratches the back of his neck. “You, uh, look great,” he murmurs.

“You too.”

“Nah.”

“No, I mean, the costume is‌—‌” Flawless. Revelatory. “Actually not too bad.”

“Just put on my corsage,” he says. “Okay?”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small pod of white frosted plastic. He flips a tiny switch on the side, and a cool blue light glows off and on inside it.

I brush my fingers across the plastic. “You bought a mechanical heart?”

“At the Cleveland con. I was going to give it to you, but‌…‌”

This is better.

He hesitates a second, and then he quickly undoes a few of his shirt buttons. Now he’s staring past me, at the framed ocean painting on the wall behind us.

“Just hook it to the undershirt.” He blinks fast. “Actually, it’s tricky. If you can’t get it I can‌…‌”

“I got it.” I catch the little metal hooks into Abel’s shirt and button him back up, which is the exact opposite of what I want to do with those buttons right now and oh God why did I suggest this?

Stupid Augie Manners and his stupid Spaceman Straws.

We can’t go through with this. We can’t fake-kiss on the dance floor tonight like we planned all week. He’ll feel me melt into his embrace and hungrily devour his lips like in fic, and when we break apart under the swirls of disco starlight he’ll know it’s not fic for me, not anymore. And everything will be ruined. He’ll tilt his Sim head with lighthearted pity and I’ll get one of those sweet and mortifying speeches about how someday, I’ll find a guy who really appreciates me and how I’m such a great friend, let’s just keep it that way‌…‌

He’s already gearing up for it. I can tell. He can’t even look me in the eye.

“Brandon?”

Bec’s voice, muffled behind our door. Her room is down the hall. I lunge for the doorknob, relieved for something neutral to do. Abel retreats to the bathroom and turns the water on, full blast.

Bec is dressed in a way my parents would fully approve of (on this trip, anyway): hair twisted up, siren-seductive in the slinky black ‘70s number she picked up on Wednesday at a vintage shop in Phoenix. “This says I dance with gay boys, and possibly try to convert them,” Abel had grinned, holding the dress up to her chest as I admired his profile in the shop’s dim Tiffany lamplight. He picked great: I’ve never seen her look so comfortable in a dress. It’s nothing like that night at my house, when she stopped by post-prom in that stiff pink thing her mom had bought her and we ate Ben & Jerry’s and bitched about boys until two a.m.

“Wow.” She appraises my Cadmus transformation. The wow sounds complex.

“Look, I don’t need a lecture because nothing’s going to‌—‌”

“I don’t lecture. Since when do I lecture?”

“Never. But I know you think‌—‌”

“I’m the sidekick.” She fiddles with a pin in her hair. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s okay. I just came to give you something.” She pulls me out in the hall with her and digs in her black sequined bag. Her eyelids are brushed with silvery shadow. I’m thinking a mini Sim bobblehead from the souvenir stand, or a funny haiku like the ones we used to make up together during study hall.

Instead, she pulls out a little foil packet.

“What’s this?” I back up.

“It’s a lubricated, extra-large, glow-in-the-dark‌—‌”

“I know what it is.”

“Just in case.”

“No. There’s no way.”

She slips the condom in my jacket pocket and gives it a pat.

“If your heart gets broken tonight,” she says, “I’m just down the hall.”

“Won’t you be‌…‌busy?”

“Oh no. As I found out today in the autograph line for the Henchmen, Dave is saving himself for marriage.”

“Really?”

She points a gun-finger at her head and blams. “I’m finally hundreds of miles from Mom and it’s like she picked him out.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s still adorable. Ugh!”

Our talk is all wry and surfacey and I kind of want to grab her by the shoulders, dare her to tell me what she thinks will happen tonight if I go through with the plan and kiss Abel on the dance floor.

But I don’t want her answer. Not really.

Dave comes loping around the corner. He’s got on a fashionably small brown suit and a Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt, and he’s crunching on cheddar popcorn. Bec elbows him playfully and grabs a handful. They look good together, friendly and fun and equal. Not like her parents; they’d make you tense, like a grizzly bear glowering at a crow that won’t stop cawing. I like Dave better now that I know he won’t be having sex with Bec tonight while I brood alone in the hotel room we splurged on, Abel snoring obliviously one bed over.

“Great costume, man,” Dave says. “You look intense.”

“Wait till you see Abel,” Bec tells him. She lands a soft punch on my shoulder. “Go get him.”

Chapter Seventeen

As soon as the four of us hit the lobby, we hear the Castaway Ball: thudding electro-pop, the din of half-drunk fans. I swallow hard, adjust my Cadmus shades. It’s like in the movies when someone’s about to be hanged in the square, and he hears the drums and the bloodthirsty crowd in the distance.

Forward march.

Abel jabs me with an elbow. “Ready for muchas smooches?” he snarks.

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“We’re going to make it a quick kiss, right? Leave the fans wanting more?”

“Sure.” I nod fast. “Right.” What does that mean?

“How many Abandon spies here tonight?”

“Um, three. At least.” A couple girls in Henchman robes giggle past us. “whispering!sage, amity crashful‌…‌hey_mamacita.”

“Aw. Your favorite.”

She could be in there already. She could be right on the other side of the ballroom door. I try to message her telepathically. Please please send me good vibes. Help tonight not be a total spacewreck.

My phone goes off. HOME CALLING. Not now. I wait till it stops and then I text back: ALLS WELL WILL CALL 2MORROW LOVE U.

Abel slips our silver tickets to a girl in a red-and-black striped suit and red Henchman contacts. She geeks out over our costumes, winds on our glow-in-the-dark wristbands, and passes us the question paddle Abel prepaid for and our VIP goodie bags.

Then the double doors swing open.

I’m like‌…‌swept away. It sounds like fluttery fanfic but there’s no other way to describe it. Entering the ball is like crashing on a planet where no one cares how you dress or how you dance or who you love. Everywhere you look there’s a beautiful weirdo: the guy gyrating on stilts in a homemade Xaarg cape, the chubby tattooed girl twirling in a skirt made of glow-sticks, the pale androgynous couple in matching Lagarde black leather. Beyond a cluster of small tables with glowing centerpieces shaped like Xaarg’s hat, there are even two girls dressed like Cadmus and Sim, holding hands on the edge of the dance floor.

Bec and Dave run off together, disappear into the churn of dancers. I just stand there in the doorway with Abel and grin like an idiot, the disco ball scattering stars on my face and the music pounding me a new heartbeat. I scan the crowd for hey_mamacita, for the sunflower she said she’d pin in her dreadlocks.

“The night that changed everything‌…‌” Abel says.

I look over at him, hopefully, but then I see he’s ripped his goodie bag open and is holding an oversized trading card, reading the caption under a picture of the smashed-up Starsetter.

“What’s in your bag?” he says.

I tear it open, not caring, still glancing around for dreads and a sunflower. A sheet of Castaway Planet logo stickers, a few jumbo trading cards, a silver favor bag of cinnamon jellybeans, and a reminder to purchase our pre-autographed Darras/Ransome photos from the booth to our immediate left.

“Thirty bucks? What a rook.” He’s already fishing in his wallet. “One David Darras,” he yells to the booth guy.

“Really?” I poke him.

“It’s for you, dimwit.”

“You don’t have to‌—‌”

He waves me off, grabs his change and the rolled-up photo. “Here, babe. Your hero.”

“What about your hero?”

“Eh. Got him in my head.”

I slide off the rubber band and unroll the photo. Darras is in his Sim costume, perfect as always, but the smile is stiff and cheesy and the signature’s so sloppy I can only read the Ds. It’s weird; a few weeks ago I would’ve held the photo up to the light to trace the whorls of his fingerprints, would’ve nearly passed out just knowing that David Darras was backstage and I was going to lay eyes on him in person within five minutes.

I blink at the photo. I don’t feel too much, just a little twinge. It’s only special now because Abel bought it for me.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He looks away. “S’okay.”

Brandon gathered all his courage like dry tinder sticks and, with a sharp hopeful intake of breath, boldly lit the match.

“You‌…‌want to dance?”

“Umm.” He fiddles with the collar on his Sim shirt. “Maybe we should wait.”

I droop inside. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe‌—‌”

“THE MOMENT HAS ARRIVED.”

The music cuts off. The blue and purple lights stop pulsing. On the ballroom stage, a single spotlight pops on, and a slick-haired announcer in a tux jacket and logo t-shirt steps into place. Everyone flips into cutthroat mode, squeezing and elbowing toward the stage for prime Q&A real estate.

“Wanna get close?” Abel nudges me.

Yes. Yes.

I shrug carefully. “Let’s stay here.”

“Really?”

“We’ve got a question paddle. They’ll see us.”

“Don’t you want to see them?”

I’d rather see you. God, I need a better line. hey_mamacita, where are you?

“And NOW, Castie boys and girls,” the announcer’s saying, “it’s my honor and pleasure to introduce the men of the hour‌—‌the best of friends and the oddest of couples‌—‌” He winks, and then waits for the shipper squees to die down. “Let’s give a huuuuuuuuge Castie welcome to the Captain and the Android, ED Ransome and DA-vid DAR-rasssssss!”

Ransome and Darras trot out from behind the black curtain. Matching tuxes. Holding hands. When they hear how loud everyone’s cheering they play it up, raise their clasped hands high like a wishbone and stand there smiling while the whistles and hoots wash over them.

Abel tilts his head. “Ed Ransome’s shorter than I thought.”

I nod. And Darras is an alien without his pale Sim makeup. Tanned and blond and floppy-haired, with a soap-star smile and a loose, preening walk.

Maybe too loose.

“Your boy’s had a few,” whispers Abel.

“Okay, ohhhhhhh-kay, settle down,” Darras grins, waving his arms like a Muppet. “We know. We’re awesome.”

“Well, you’re awesome,” Ransome pouts. “I only aspire to awesomeness.”

“He sells himself short, guys. All the time. Kinda tragic, don’t you think?”

They pingpong some more. I am in the presence of David Darras, I remind myself, but it doesn’t take. I bump my hand against Abel’s a couple times, accidentally-on-purpose, hoping he’ll get all lust-crazed from gazing at Ed Ransome’s rugged face and spiky hair and slide his warm fingers through mine. He just stares straight ahead at the stage, this weird unreadable look on his face.

“‌…‌soooo we know you guys have your questions ready,” says Darras. “But how’s about we start with the big question that’s been on evvvveryone’s mind since the finale.”

Ed Ransome nods. “Right. ‘Is Cadmus dead?’”

“No no no, dear. Did we do it in the cave?”

Shrieks and catcalls from the Cadsim shippers peppering the crowd. A few boos sneak in, but barely; everyone’s too drunk and giddy for ship wars.

“Ohhh, trust me, superfans and slashers,” Darras says, eyeing up Ransome head to foot. “Ed and I discuss this nonstop.”

“It’s true. We do,” Ransome deadpans.

“He calls me at three in the morning, people, and asks if I want to ‘practice some kissing scenes’‌…‌you know, just in case.”

“He can’t get enough of me.”

“For realsies.”

“David.”

“Yes, Ed?”

“Don’t say for realsies.”

Darras shrugs. “So, anyway. Regarding Sim and Cadmus. Here’s what I think: there was plenty of buildup this season, their friendship’s been unfolding in a distinctly ambiguous direction since Day 1, and when two actors bring such undeniable personal chemistry to the table, it’d be a crime against nature to waste it.”

My head throbs. Yes. Yes. Say more.

“Sooo, as a hopeless romantic and the former treasurer of my high school GSA, I’m gonna say yes! Cave love: it totally happened!”

Two Cadsim girls in front of us lose their minds. Darras and Ransome lean closer and mouth some smiley mystery words to each other. Ransome puts a hand up, waits for the crowd to quiet.

“Welllllll, I happen to be a realist,” says Ransome, twisting the gold band on his thick tanned hand. “So since there’s no hard canon evidence yet, I’m going to poop everyone’s party and say no‌—‌”

Booing. Darras waves them quiet.

“HOWEVER, however,” Darras says. “Let’s clarify. You would not have been able to resist me, my dear.”

Ransome claps a hand to his chest. “Oh, well, that’s a given. Who could?”

A girl in the audience shouts something out. Darras cups his ear.

“What’s that? Yeah, you. Girl in the lovely dress with‌—‌ohh. Ed, is that an iron-on of us?”

“I believe it is.”

I crane my neck to see where he’s pointing. A stick-figure redhead twirls, shows off a blue t-shirt dress with a Cadsim-kiss manip on it.

“That is‌…‌oh, that is really quite special,” Darras says.

Abel mutters, “Miss Maxima minion.”

“Sweetie, you had a question?”

“Yes! Yes.” The girl scootches over to one of the mikes in the audience. “So would you guys‌—‌maybe show us what the kiss would’ve looked like? If it actually happened?”

A low expectant oooooooohhh travels the room. Abel freezes. He goes vacant, like Sim does when he’s plugged into his charging dock.

Darras puts on this innocent look and starts pacing the stage, swerving a little. “That’s‌…‌something you guys would be interested in, huh? I don’t know‌…‌”

Someone whips out the kind of whistle you use to hail a cab three lanes over. That sets the other girls off. More whistles, rowdy YEAHHHs. Darras and Ransome side-eye each other.

“Hmm.” Darras strokes his chin. “A real live Cadsim kiss‌—‌that’s what you guys call it, right? Cadsim?”

The girls in front of us are getting frantic now. I feel it. What they want is so close they’re afraid to trust it, afraid it’s a tease or a joke. Abel’s pale Sim face is three shades paler.

“Okay, but we want to know you realllllllly want it, right, Ed?”

“Nah, they don’t look like they want it.”

“They really don’t.”

“Maybe they should show us.”

I don’t know who starts the chant. But it picks up fast:

“Cad-sim, Cad-sim‌…‌”

“Eh, I don’t know, Ed. What do you think?”

“They’re pretty quiet, actually.”

They layer on claps and stomps, rattle the fake-wood squares of the dance floor. There can’t be this many Cadsim shippers here; it’s drunk girls up for anything, fans who want a good story to tell, people who think it’s just fun to shout: “CAD-sim! CAD-sim!”

“Uh-oh,” says Darras. “They’re getting hot and bothered.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Better break out your Chap-Stick, buddy.”

“CAD-SIM! CAD-SIM! CADDD-SIMMM!”

Darras scans the room, taking it all in: the women in costumes and shimmery prom gowns, ignoring their dates to plead with him.

Then he grabs Ed Ransome, dips him to one side, and gives the fandom the first and only official Cadsim kiss.

People must be screaming, because my eardrums hurt. And the flashing lights, I guess those are two hundred cameras catching history, snatching proof. This is how they did it. This is how they made it look real, even though the kiss was in shadow and no one actually saw their lips lock together. How Ransome’s arms flailed around at first, and then settled around Darras’s shoulders. How they gasped and flushed when they came up for air; made a big show of smoothing their shirts, fixing their matching bowties.

“I gotta call my wife,” says Ransome.

“I’ll explain everything,” says Darras.

They crack up, high-five. I lean my head back, let the disco ball paint me with spatters of light like Dad’s St. Christopher medal spinning from the Sunseeker rearview. I have to go through with this now. They made it look easy. For five seconds I’ll get to see how it feels, a perfect easy kiss with someone you trust completely. And afterwards I can smooth my shirt and clear my throat, pretend it was all a big joke. I can even borrow his words: I gotta call my wife.

I pop a Tic-Tac. Darras and Ransome are plugging ahead with the Q&A, but I don’t hear a word. My head’s ballooning with possibilities. Which way to tilt my head, where to put my hands.

Abel pokes me in the back.

“I gotta go,” he says. “Sorry.”

***

I keep pace beside him. Back through the ballroom doors, into the sallow chlorine-smelling hall, through the too-bright lobby with its throngs of late rumpled travelers.

If I keep up with him, I can tell myself he’s not walking away from me.

“You can stay,” he mutters. “Stay at the ball, Bran. Have fun.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“Since when?”

“I dunno.” We squeeze through a herd of businesspeople who gape at our costumes. “It just hit me. I guess maybe the sashimi‌…‌”

“Abel.”

“My dad says never to eat in hotel restaurants‌—‌this one time he had a bad shrimp cocktail at this medical conference in Florida and he‌—‌”

“Stop.” We’re at the elevators. Abel jabs the up button. “What’s going on?”

He looks at the floor. I wait for it: I can’t kiss you, even as a joke. You’re too neurotic. Too short. Too not-my-type-so-what-were-you-thinking-you-idiot.

“I don’t want to do that,” Abel says. “What they just did in there.”

“Okay.” I nod fast. “It’s okay.”

He holds the elevator door open. We step in.

“I know I said I would,” he says, “but‌—‌I mean, it’s just gross.”

I flinch. “It’s fine, okay? I get it.”

“Yeah. Right.”

He punches the button.

Three floors ping by.

“It’s so fucking easy for you,” Abel blurts. “This whole thing‌…‌”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He turns his back on me. “Forget it.”

In bad elevator fics, Cadmus is always hitting the EMERGENCY STOP to pick a fight with Sim, which of course always turns into their heated bodies hungering in unison two paragraphs later.

I spot the red button. My hand shoots out.

We grind to a stop.

“What are you doing?” Abel’s voice spikes up an octave.

Crap. I didn’t think it would work.

“You seriously stopped the elevator?”

Brandon drew in a deep, calming breath. I can do this, he assured himself.

“I want to know what you mean,” I tell him. “Why is this easy for me?”

“Brandon‌—‌!”

I step in front of the button. “We’re not going until you tell me.”

“Fine.” He backs into a corner, as far from me as possible. “You went from one fake relationship to another, and it’s not fun anymore, and now we need to stop. Okay?”

“I thought you liked this.”

“I do. I did,” he says to his white Sim shoes. “But like, you get to play Cute Plastic Boyfriends with me for the camera, and it’s sweet and fun and safe for you and then you get to turn it off and walk away.” I open my mouth but he holds up a hand. “And I mean, look: it’s my fault. Okay? I was the idiot. Because I said yes to this fake-flirting thing like it was a game and I shouldn’t have said yes because I knew this would happen, I knew I was getting this diabolical crush at just the wrong time and I’d be in over my head but I couldn’t say no to you and now it’s gotten too weird and too dangerous and I have to end it because one thing I really really cannot do is have you break my heart, because then we probably couldn’t be friends. And I want to stay friends. No matter what. Don’t you?”

I blink at him. My Abel-to-English decoder spits out the results.

Holy Saint Peter on a hoverboard.

Hot chills wash over me. I take a step closer.

“What do you mean,” I say, “break your heart?”

He closes his eyes. The mechanical heart blinks slow and steady.

“Don’t make me say it,” he whispers.

The rough draft of tonight’s story was set in my head this morning, but now it’s rewriting itself into something ten times better. It makes a weird kind of sense. It’s not going to happen in some expected place like the dance floor, while “Such Great Heights” tweedles in the background and the disco ball bathes us in generic starshine. It’s going to happen in a stopped elevator, like the worst, hackiest Cadsim fic on the Internet, only now it’s for real and it’s going to be amazing, just like if hey_mamacita had stayed up all night to get every detail just right.

I kiss him.

Brandon’s blood sizzled as his lips met Abel’s: his body sang an anthem of strength and softness, of celebration unshackled from fear. I’M KISSING A BOY, he silently shouted. They conjugated the verb with rapture and wonder and cinnamon-flavored bliss. Kiss, kissing, kissed. And kissed again.

We break apart, the scent of cinnamon jelly beans tickling my nose.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters.

“Abel‌—‌”

“You just think you like me,” he says to the floor. “That’s all this is.”

“That’s all it ever is.”

“You think you do, because you told me all those private things and we like, bonded, and maybe you think you owe me‌…‌” His eyes are filling up. “Or maybe‌—‌”

“Abel.”

He looks up. “What?”

“I think I love you,” I tell him.

It slips out soft and quiet, and so easily I think maybe I didn’t say it out loud. But then I see his face, and I know I did. He tilts my face in his warm hands and kisses me back, and it’s like one of those perfect TV kisses they save for May sweeps, the ones the previews tease you about all season until you swear it won’t happen, and then when it does the forums blow up and the fans add eighteen exclamation points to everything and swear they’ll never ask God for anything else for as long as they live.

Abel rests his forehead on mine.

“That is most welcome news, Captain.”

I don’t call him Tin Man. I exhale, for the first time in five minutes.

I hit the elevator release, and we’re on our way.