"Games " by nevercry “-And they were all staring and, and, and I froze up, but she just smiled and explained the whole thing. In excruciating detail.” Amal took a sip of his Coke and nearly spit it up when a cackling TJ slapped him on the back. “Even the part where you screamed like a little girl?” TJ snickered, finishing the last of the crust from his fourth piece of pizza. Amal laughed, too, more softly, because he hadn’t really seen the funny side of that story until he was around TJ 24/7 and thought that maybe TJ would like to hear it. The taller reached for his beveled-plastic cup and tried to suction the bottom out with his straw. “Alright, alright. I’m gonna get a refill. Be right back.” He pushed himself up and performed a series of circus maneuvers to get out of the bench seats that were perfect for under-ten baseball team parties. Amal watched him go, and then pushed the crusts of his pizza slices around on his plate. And then took a sip of his Coke. And then tentatively took a nibble of one of the crusts, decided that there was a reason why he didn’t like them, and set it down again. Ten minutes passed. Amal craned his head around the pizza parlor. It was constructed like a Viking longhouse, with the cash registers at one end and a wall of windows at the other. All other space was taken up by thank-you pictures of youth sports teams, signed posters of mediocre players, and thematic paraphernalia. The soda machine was next to the counter, but no scarecrow-straw dreadlocks rose above the crowd between Amal’s seat and there. He waited three more minutes, and then got up and lumbered through the low brush of laughing kids and inattentive parents. When he reached the soda dispensers, TJ still wasn’t there. But he saw that what he’d thought was a solid white wall was really a hall leading down to another, much smaller room. As he walked down the hall, the chatter of the locals faded away, victim to the acoustically unfriendly spackled walls. The electronic flashing lights and sounds of violent imagery requiring parental guidance replaced them. He finally emerged into an under-ventilated room with four giant decade-old consoles and a mechanical prize-picking hand, with small stuffed animals inside. Against the far wall stood a time-worn version of Ms. Pacman. And there was TJ, just finishing one level and gathering his fortitude for the next. To the right stood two boys, staring at the screen and the tall man in mute awe. Amal said, “I found you.” TJ launched himself into the new challenge, and said absently, “Oh. Sorry, man.” “Got distracted, I take it,” Amal said, standing a little to TJ’s left because he wasn’t tall enough to see over his shoulder. “I was powerless. Ms. Pacman kicks too much ass.” The two kids’ eyes expanded to the size of saucers, hearing an adult curse so freely. TJ said, “I tried the prize-grabby thing first, though. Couldn’t get anything – I’m usually good at that game, too.” Amal jingled the keys around in his pocket and found a quarter. “I could give it a try,” he said thoughtfully. TJ’s eyes were dancing around on the screen, tracking the movements of the ghosts and his own player. “Go ahead. It’s rigged, I swear.” Amal went over to the devious claw machine and popped the quarter in, listened to the bolts sliding and the metal clunking down. He held the joystick, rearranged his grip, held his left hand over the ‘drop’ button. He spent about fifteen seconds zeroing in on a spherical rendering of a giraffe, listening absentmindedly to the musical translation of TJ’s on-screen death and a quiet voice telling the kids to clear out. And then TJ’s large, knobbly hands closed around Amal’s hips and slid forward. Amal’s hand slammed down on the drop button. “Hey,” TJ chuckled, rubbing his nose on the back of Amal’s ear. “Saw you across the room.” He sounded like the most clueless pick-up line enthusiast, hopefully on purpose. “And admired the way you handle a joystick.” Amal coughed inside his nose as the long fingers squeezed just-nearly-barely too hard. He didn’t even notice when the claw missed the target. TJ set his chin on the broad shoulder, one arm fitting more warmly along Amal’s lines and the other moving around on his pants a little faster. “Are you going for the yellow egg thing?” “I – shit – I thought it was a giraffe,” Amal admitted, letting his head drop back to TJ’s bony shoulder. “But it’s all round,” TJ said obviously, hand pawing, lazy and friction-heavy. Amal hummed, eyes closed and leaning most of his weight on his companion. “Thought it looked like one…” “Here,” TJ said, voice suddenly much less husky. “You get two turns from a quarter. I’ll try.” Amal panted loudly when TJ gave a reassuring squeeze and then let go. TJ leaned closer, pressing them even harder together to reach the – goddamn phallic – joystick. Amal’s vision cleared abruptly when he realized the hand wasn’t coming back. TJ was very diligently and attentively jiggling the plastic, ungrateful claw machine joystick. The metal grabby thing was precision-aligned over the giraffe, with probably more twists of TJ’s wide, flat wrist and trailing fingers than absolutely necessary. TJ’s stubble scratched at Amal’s temple as he hit the red button, and the claw was lowered on its internal pulley system. Right on target. Amal’s eyes couldn’t stay open, and he groaned in the back of his throat, letting his breathing speed up and knowing that TJ was doing all this on purpose. “I got the egg-giraffe for you,” TJ said, and the huskiness had crept back in. “Shit, Teej,” Amal sighed, hand around his wrist and dragging that hand back to its original target. “Stop wasting all that manual talent on prizes.” TJ laughed and touched Amal’s nose with his until Amal took the hint and turned his face for a kiss. And then TJ found his fly and all bets were off. Good thing the acoustics were so bad between here and the main room… end