Chapter 14 Netflix and Chill
fourteen
netflix and chill
The first opportunity that Damien and I have to hang out after Thanksgiving is a Thursday night, what with my work at the shop and my Monday-Wednesday-Friday streaming schedule, and I’m grateful when he suggests we meet up close to my apartment even though I know it’s selfish of me.
Maybe I should be making more of an effort to meet halfway, but that sounds like too much effort.
We settle on my favourite pub, boasting a hybrid of British pub classics and pretentious fusion cuisine full of sriracha.
But they have a good variety of beers on tap, rotating weekly, and they do these battered French fries that are even better than the ones at Costco. (With sriracha mayo dip, obviously.)
It isn’t until we’re seated at a high wooden table, facing each other, that I realize this probably looks like a date to the casual observer.
But he’s in his usual hoodie and jeans combo, and I’m wearing corduroy overalls with one of my mother’s old striped turtlenecks from the 90s.
I look like an overgrown toddler. So clearly neither of us is trying to impress anyone tonight.
I have, on occasion, felt the need to try to impress the people I was hanging out with, but those people usually drifted away over time because I didn’t have the energy to keep up that sort of pretense.
It’s never been that way with Victory, though, and not with Damien either.
I feel like I’ve known him for three years, not three weeks.
He seems a bit overwhelmed by the beer menu at first, but in the end, he orders a red ale and I get an oatmeal stout—and halfway through our pints we swap, as the basket of fries between us dwindles.
He goes on a long rant about his family and his weekend with them, and I mention a few of the more annoying things my sister has done lately, except for anything regarding him.
She’s still staying with Mom and Gram, and most of her stuff is getting brought over from her place in Montreal this weekend.
“That’s gotta be tough,” he says with a sympathetic nod, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about Marie’s situation and not the fact that I have to deal with her.
“I guess I just figured she and Josh were perfect for each other because they’re both normies,” I reply, cupping my hands around my pint glass (that was once his).
“It’s almost like people are more complex than that.” He smirks. “Normies, weirdos, it doesn’t matter. Compatibility is a whole other thing.”
“Oh, and you’re a relationship expert, are you?”
“I have a degree in Social Psychology, I’ll have you know,” he says smugly. “Well, it’s a Bachelor’s degree, and it was just my minor, but still. I’m an expert on everything people do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can read anyone,” he continues, apparently unwilling to let the joke die. “And I never experience social awkwardness.”
“Yeah, remind me to screenshot your latest word-vomit from our chat log when I get home,” I say dryly.
“But seriously, imagine if you could just study in school how to be a person?” He stares off at nothing with a thoughtful expression.
“That is the most introverted weirdo nerd thing you’ve ever said.”
“Better yet, all conversations should come with dialogue options,” he adds, “and all you have to do is choose whether you want to be Light Side or Dark Side, KOTOR-style.”
“You just want BioWare to design your life,” I say with a laugh.
“Yeah, well, it’s better than having a Bethesda face.” He gestures to his own face before picking up his (my) glass and taking a large gulp.
I crack up at that. “You don’t have a Bethesda face!”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, thank you.
” The smile that spreads on his face isn’t wide and all-encompassing, the goofy grin he gives me when I make a terrible joke that he loves; it’s a half-smile, hidden behind his glass, that reminds me of all the thoughts that were swirling in my head the last time we were in the same room.
I quickly take a drink to obscure the blush rising up my neck and face.
My thoughts about kissing him last week—and the subsequent dream that I’m still trying to pretend never happened—probably had more to do with feeling like we had something in common.
It was like Cameron, in that way, I suppose.
I liked him as a person, and I confused it with romantic interest. Fine, whatever. I can deal with that.
But it occurs to me now, sitting across from him, that Damien might actually be kinda hot.
I can’t know for sure, though, because I have never thought that about someone. It’s not a thing I notice. Sure, I can usually tell when someone is conventionally attractive or aesthetically pleasing to look at, but I’ve never looked at a person and thought: hot.
I hook a finger under the collar of my turtleneck to let a little air in, hoping that it’s not obvious that I’ve started sweating. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Audrey?” The sound of my best friend’s voice snaps me out of my fevered trance, and I look up to see Victory and Pal standing next to our table. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”
She sounds delighted that I’m here and reaches over to give me a hug. Standing, she’s still shorter than me, sitting on this bar chair.
“And Sc—Damien,” she says, looking over at him with a smile, though I can tell his presence catches her off-guard. “Hi!”
“How’s it going, Glasses?” Pal asks him.
“Not too bad,” he says with a self-conscious smile. It’s no less charming, though. “And you?”
“It is going great for me,” they reply with a self-satisfied grin. “Thank you so much for asking.” They slap him on the shoulder and then walk around to his other side to take a seat in the chair beside him.
“Uh, I guess we’re joining you?” Victory says to me with an apologetic shrug before scooting behind me to get to the other chair.
“Yeah, of course,” I say with a laugh, trying to mask my obvious discomfort. I don’t particularly want these two huge parts of my life—my real life with Victory, full of history, and my gaming life with Damien, new and fragile—to intertwine, but it would be rude to kick them out.
“I figure it’s not like we’re intruding,” Pal says, leaning casually on one elbow. “Since this isn’t a date or anything. Because you’re just friends.”
Damien glances at me, sharing a look that reflects everything I’m feeling: annoyed by my friends’ interference while at the same time trying not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous the situation is. (I also make a mental note never to let Pal and Malcolm be in the same room together.)
“You’re welcome to join us,” I say to them with a smile. “We were just talking about video games.”
“When are you not?” Pal scoffs.
“Exactly my point.”
“I was saying it would be nice if real life gave you dialogue options, like an RPG,” Damien adds with a shrug, lifting his glass to his mouth again. I make a point not to track the motion with my eyes.
Victory seems to consider this for a moment and then nods. “Could be useful.”
“What’re you drinking, Aud?” Pal asks, reaching across the table to swipe my beer and sniff it. They take a sip and wrinkle their nose before taking another sip, and then nod. “Yeah, okay.”
“Um…” I stare at them blankly for a moment. “That was Damien’s first,” I say, pointing to him.
I’m used to Pal stealing sips of my drink, at the pub or the coffee shop—they very quickly inserted themself as a close friend by proximity to Victory, and I just went with it because they can be incredibly endearing, despite being the most obnoxious person I know—but it seems weird for them to share a glass with Damien when they hardly know him.
Then again, it didn’t seem weird when I shared his glass.
Pal shrugs, completely unfazed, and slides my drink back to me. “If I was worried about catching the C-word from you, I wouldn’t be sitting right here,” they say to him.
“Well, I’m vaccinated. And I wouldn’t go out in public if I thought there was a chance I had anything,” he says with an awkward laugh.
“Good to know.” They give him another pat on the shoulder and then swipe his glass to take a sip as well. “Oh, this one’s better.”
“Audrey ordered that one,” Damien says, nodding in my direction, and I feel my face heating up all over again. Like he’s bragging on my behalf for ordering the better drink.
Pal orders their own glass of the same beer and Victory gets her usual ginger ale, and we settle in for a couple more hours, though I don’t know how to act in this situation.
I feel like the person I am with Victory and Pal isn’t the same as who I am with Damien, and I don’t know which me I’m supposed to be here.
It’s like all the new subscribers on Play’N who joined after my SOA stream. How do I give them what they want—what I may want, too—when my regulars expect something else? Which version of me is the real one?
I’ve known Victory for years, but sometimes I feel like Damien understands me even better than she does—or maybe not better, but differently.
He understands parts of me that she never will, and I’m sure the opposite is true as well.
And while I don’t think I have to choose between the two of them, I still feel like I’m stuck in the middle.
It gets worse at the end of the evening, when Victory offers to have her and Pal walk me home, even though it’s out of their way. Damien says that it’s on his way to the streetcar, and they don’t have to trouble themselves.
So maybe right now I do have to choose.
“I’m feeling pretty lazy, babe,” Pal says to Victory, slouching back in their seat. They’re the only person I know who can call their partner babe and not sound like a tool. I think they might be magic. “I’d rather just get out of here. No offense, Aud.”
“Uh, no, that’s totally fine,” I tell them, though I blink in confusion when they wink at me.
Damien excuses himself to use the restroom before we head out, and Pal mouths the word horny at me behind his back.
“Stop that!” I hiss at them, leaning forward on the table to keep my voice low. “He definitely is not.”
“I meant you, too,” Pal says smugly, finishing the last dregs of their pint.
I scowl at them, though I know my face is going redder. “That doesn’t happen to me,” I say, though I’m not sure which one of us I’m trying to reassure.
“Look, I know you’re ace-spec, but I have demisexual friends who have zero reaction to a hot person in front of them, but they are absolutely feral with their partners. It’s not impossible.”
“I am not feral!” I argue. “And I thought demisexual is when you need an intense emotional bond before you feel sexual attraction.” (Although it’s hard to keep track of which label is which.)
Pal smiles dryly. “What’s your point?”
“There’s no bond here!” I motion with my arm between myself and Damien’s empty chair. “And I’m not feral or horny or—”
Pal’s eyes flick upward, over my head, and I can tell by the sadistic amusement on their face that Damien must be right behind me.
So that’s fun.
The walk back to my apartment is, in a word, awkward.
I told Damien that he didn’t need to walk me, as I only live a couple blocks away, but he said it was on his way.
What neither of us has mentioned, however, is that I just shouted in a busy pub something about not being feral or horny, and he almost definitely heard at least part of that. Which should not be that embarrassing, really—it would be worse if I had said that I was.
At least, I think that would have been worse. Though it may have been more honest because, yeah, okay, I may be sweating a little more than the mid-October temperature should allow.
All I know, as we reach the side door of the house that leads up to my apartment, is that I don’t really want him to leave. But I don’t know what to do about that.
I bide some time, fishing for my keys in the pockets of my overalls, even though there’s nowhere for them to hide, and then pause once the key is in the lock, turning to face him.
He’s standing so close, I have to crane my neck a bit to look at him.
For a moment I almost think he might kiss me.
.. But then his attention turns to my hand frozen over the lock and he clears his throat.
“Do you want to…” I swallow nervously. “Come in and hang out?” That sounded so lame, I might as well have said Netflix and chill.
“Um…” He scratches the back of his head, both of his shoulders hunched up like he’s in physical discomfort.
“I won’t make you watch Disney!” I blurt out, and he breathes a laugh.
“Maybe some other time, okay?” he says, and his rejection nearly knocks the wind out of me.
“Okay,” I croak, forcing myself to smile and nod as if that wasn’t a huge blow to my ego.
“But I’ll probably be online later, playing Stones, so if you want—”
“I think I’m just gonna head to bed, actually.” I yawn involuntarily but it helps sell the lie. “Didn’t realize I was so tired.”
“Okay, well…” He starts backing away leisurely. “Talk tomorrow, then.”
We say our goodbyes and I head inside, up to my apartment, where I immediately wake up my computer and check Play’N—though I switch my status to appear offline, in case Damien shows up later and figures out that I was just being incredibly awkward.
I have a notification that someone has tagged me on one of Damien’s archives—his Stones of Ayor 3 speedrun from the week before mine.
The commenter asks if he’ll consider doing a speedrun of the fourth game after his one-month moratorium to avoid Spoilers, but has tagged me as well, saying we should do a face-off and challenge each other.
I dismiss it as a ridiculous idea, but an hour later another notification pops up—I’ve been tagged again on the same archive.
SconesOfAyor: I’m in if @OddlyAdored is