behind the streams | dnf

five | shallow

SAPNAP

"Oh, what a shame." 

Karl's acerbic, cooing remark accompanies my stumble in Speedrunners. My fingers miss the controls and George's character pulls ahead, too far ahead. I fall back with failure to regain, and another point goes to him. Suppressing a groan, a rebellious smile threatens to show in my words as I listen to him crow in victory.

"I almost had it," I protest. "I just messed up. Also you've played this game so much more than we have."

Both of them descend on me with mocking tones, and I fire back with painful imitations of their own attempts. Eventually we all back into quiet giggles and our attention is refocused as a new round begins.

"This is too easy," George flaunts as he swiftly maneuvers through a change of direction. No more than two seconds later, he misses a jump and Karl's gloating is relentless as he pulls into first place. The rest of the round's filled with friendly banter and occasionally, audible clicking of controllers during the spikes of competitive intensity.

Eventually, in a last ditch effort, I take down George and myself with a somewhat cheap stunt but I'm tired of him winning. George automatically retaliates in dramatic blames, but eventually he too eases into our laughter. 

It's a lazy afternoon. One where the sun's not sweltering, one where it's not completely shadowed by the thick of clouds that are so common in Texan autumns. Especially now, as fall gives way to winter, I give some acknowledgement of how truly refreshing the air feels today.

So I spend it inside, gaming. Scattered sheets of homework, a few crinkled wrappers and unfinished breakfast eye me unimpressively.

It's still enjoyable, in its own way. No stream, no viewers, just the three of us in a call after rediscovering a game George had buried years back. A brief search for usable controllers, getting acquired with the controls after the initial rustiness. The game itself is simple enough, but that's just the beauty of it, as it's occupied us now for several hours and we ponder the possibility of playing it live one day.

Everything's going well. On the surface, it would seem so.

On the surface.

My last stream still nags, a twinge of muted confusion and annoyance, never enough but always there. Every time I speak directly to George, it's there, and in moments of dangerous impulse it threatens to spill. I try to forget, try to let it go, but my half-hearted efforts prove unsuccessful.

George seems like he has already, from the ease of his words and how freely he's acting. Karl, unknowingly a mediator because I don't think I could pull off the indifference I'm maintaining otherwise.

But the hours pass and the sun continues its lazy arc as the afternoon blue begins dimming into its dusky counterpart, and Karl leaves. First. Leaving me with George alone in a call and unease he's probably not even aware of.

I stare at his icon in the voice channel, and grudge acceptance without further question; I don't like letting things go. The only thing that causes a halt is how he seems completely unfazed.

Or maybe he's acting, just like me.

The thought is staggering and immediately my resolve evaporates. My words practically force their way out.

"What was Dream doing last stream?"

Blunt, very blunt. Straight to the point. The abrupt edge in my voice is probably daunting but deep down I know if I really cared, I would have tried to coax it out of him.

I can hear the shock in the silence. "What?"

A flicker of uncertainty begins inching up and I shove it down. "You told the viewers he was busy," I walk him through slowly. "And... I just want to know what he was doing."