Chapter Text
It’s two weeks later, and they’re still not playing Killcore. The eviction notice Steamin’ threw in Ryland’s face has long since been thrown away, but the threat of it lingers in not just his, but also Alex’s mind.
Ryland hasn't done anything, but Alex has taken the plunge and has applied himself to finding the last team members they need for their team with an amount unbearable amount of vigor, enthusiasm edging towards this side of annoying for Ryland's tastes. He’d kick him out, were it not for the fact he’s taken to making sure the apartment is well-stocked with beer, frozen pizzas, pancakes and distractions.
Especially distractions, Ryland thinks, as they’re side by side on the couch. He can feel the outside of Alex’s thigh flush against his in the sticky heat of the apartment, as he flips through everything the other man has compiled about prospective teammates. This somehow includes scribbles on napkins and receipts in what he's come to know as the other man's messy handwriting, haphazardly crinkled papers in an equally haphazard pile Alex tossed at him as he came in the door with a partially eaten pizza and six-pack he immediately put in the fridge before picking up a cartridge, blowing in it a few times and popping it into his NES before settling down next to him on his couch.
“We’re checking ganks now?” Ryland asks, as he shuffles the papers Alex handed him. He scans the list. HotDiahrrea. Ballbang96. Ashes2Dust, even John who got kicked out of Lucid Nightmare. Some of the people Alex found are legitimate players, and their stats look... actually pretty good.
Huh.
“Yeah, isn’t that what you look for?” Alex asks without looking away from the screen, square nintendo controller in a tight grip. "Whatever those are. You check those, right?"
He’s completely in the zone, teeth chewing on his bottom lip in concentration as he dodges the onslaught of projectiles being sent towards him. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, disappearing into his fluffy hair. Finally dying, he hands the controller over with a sigh and reaches out for a bottle from the table.
Ryland tosses the papers onto the ground next to him. Hits the small black button to continue the level as Alex picks the least dubious looking bottle up.
“I mean, yeah. I’m just surprised.”
“I’m as serious about this as you are— as you want me to be ,” Alex replies, pulling a face as he drinks from the half-empty bottle. “That… that was not from today. Super gross. Do not recommend.”
They both laugh and Ryland begins playing the game Alex chose again. Jumping in, he immediately dies and it sends them into another fit of laughter.
“Dude, you are like really bad at this game for some reason,” Alex remarks with a smirk, after finding his original bottle of beer. “Just like, wait for a sec and go with the flow.”
“I am going with the flow," he growls back. "I am so goddamn one with the flow right now, I'm a flowmaster.”
“You talk a lot of talk, Ry. You forget how to play 2D games because of your MOBAs already?”
“No! I am flowy as fuck, asshole. The physics on this game are just fuckin' garbage.”
He starts the level over again, but this time Alex leans over, into his space. Hooking his chin over Ryland’s shoulder, he taps along to the rhythm of the attacks onto Ryland’s arm —one two, one two, one two three four— and he jumps, shoots, ducks and jumps again to the beat of long fingers drumming on his sweaty skin. Once he gets the rhythm of the attacks he’s set, focusing entirely on the screen and not on Alex. Its just the tiny pixels he’s been dodging and nothing else, just like when he plays Killcore.
“There ya go,” Alex says, finally making a satisfied noise before leaning back into the couch, but not completely out of Ryland’s space. Sipping on his beer, he occasionally checks his phone for messages but mostly has his eyes on the screen, as Ryland clears the level.
The sounds of the vibrations rattling on the table from his phone break the good mood. Ryland doesn’t have to look from the game to the screen of his phone to know who it is, but Alex is suddenly fidgeting from his side of the couch after glancing at his phone. He hasn’t seen Steamin’ since he came by, hasn’t logged into Killcore since forever , and hasn’t drawn anything since well before then. Life has mostly been playing this, old-school games and beers on the couch with Alex.
“Hey, Ry?” Alex asks quietly, fingers still loosely wrapped around his bottle and now picking off the label, a nervous habit he picked up from Ryland.
“Hm?”
He continues to pick at the label, looking down at the grungy carpet. “What do you want to do about the apartment after you leave Lucid Nightmare?”
And that’s the thing Ryland isn’t sure about. He hasn’t really been doing anything about the situation other than avoiding it. Avoiding Steamin’. Avoiding Killcore. Avoiding commissions. Avoiding checking his dwindling bank account. He could fix the situation, but he’s just so goddamn tired of what it will probably mean to do it.
“I have some money,” Alex blurts out when Ryland keeps his eyes on the screen and doesn’t answer him, suddenly looking very guilty. “I should probably pay you for crashing here.”
“No. Man, no . I can’t take your money.” He turns his head a split second to look at Alex and ends up jumping one too many times, narrowly dodging the oncoming projectiles. But fate had other plans for him and his character falls off the platform. “ You’re already— Fuck!”
He dies at the boss and throws down the controller. It hits the carpet with a soft thunk, and they both stare it instead of each other. His phone alerts him he has a voicemail before the screen goes dark again.
“I’m also the one convincing you to leave your job.”
“Yeah well I can do some more commissions or something. Don’t sweat it. Besides you said you met with some of those people, right?”
“Oh yeah. Dude, I met one in a bar. Super cutie.”
“Only you could somehow pick up a Killcore chick in a bar,” he scoffs, picking the controller back up and leaving it on the table in between them. Readjusting in the form of stretching, he presses himself against the arm of the couch and puts some space between him and Alex, now busy packing a bowl for his bong. Lighting up, Alex inhales, only slightly coughing as he offers the bong to him, but Ryland waves him off.
“Well she seemed more interested in talking about you, dude.”
He raises an eyebrow at that. In the glow of the television screen he can see Alex shrug minutely and take another hit, leaving the living room hazy from the bluish-gray smoke. It feels like the room has ratcheted up another couple degrees To the point he'll have to turn on the AC before he goes to bed, or open the windows and let the now perpetual smell of pot air out of the apartment.
“Me?”
“Yeah, I might have— I swear it was completely by accident— I said your name. But like yours, not your Killcore name.” Alex sets the bong down none too gently. Takes the controller back with an apologetic look. “But she knew who you were and got really serious after that. Weird, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryland agrees, furrowing his brow. “Weird.”
“You still want her on the team though, yeah?”
“I mean, if she wanted more than just being on the team, she would have already done it,” he replies, leaning back into the cushions and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not worried.”
He wakes up with a gasp, sheets tangled around him. Drenched in sweat from head to toe, he’s shivering even though he ended up forgetting to turn on the AC before going to bed after all. Swiping at the sweaty mess of hair covering his face and obscuring his vision, he sees the fan lazily turning above him. Shit, something else's moving in the dark of his room. His eyes refocus in the dim light and meet Alex's, who look like a deer caught in the headlights. Hovering over him, expression panicked.
His hand makes a nervous, skittery path from Ryland's shoulder to his wrist and back. He's trying too hard to not obviously linger on the skin the pads of his fingers find in the dark. Voice barely a whisper, he tentatively pets Ryland, shushing him. “It’s just a nightmare, Ry. You’re fine, you’re here. It’s okay.”
Ryland rolls onto his back with a huff, shying away from the contact.
“Why the fuck are you in my room, Alex?”
“You were yelling in your sleep,” he replies softly, sitting back on the edge of his bed. “I used to have night terrors as a kid and you were really loud, man. I thought you were hurt.”
His bottom lip quivers and Ryland closes his eyes again. “Shit.”
“You want a hug, big guy?”
“No.”
“Want me to stay here with you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hey, I made sure not to ask about your feelings this time!” Alex says, already getting off his bed, but hasn't left the room. Standing there for a moment, he sways like a spindly limb from a giant tree in a gentle breeze, indecisive. Ryland wonders how much he's drank since he went to bed. Probably a lot.
“Fuck off,” Ryland finally grumbles out, without teeth. He'll probably regret it later but launches one of the pillows from his bed at Alex’s grinning face anyway he catches and holds on to with two arms, hugging it tightly to his chest. “Get the fuck out. I’ll see you when I get up.”
He closes his eyes when Alex doesn't reply. Hears his door creak as Alex closes it and the echo of his retreating footsteps, padding down the hallway back to the couch.
Rolling over, Ryland tries to let sleep consume him again and marginally succeeds the second time.