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“Dude’s dating an alligator,” Gueira says as he taps incessantly on his cellphone.
“Bull.”
“No, for real. Asked that Aina chick and everything - dammit, stay in the ball!” He rams his forefinger against the screen with intense effort, like pressure mattered or something. He did the same thing with controllers, or elevator buttons, or revving his motorcycle: at maximum velocity, and with little disregard to its actual effectiveness. “You’re just a Pidgo! You - agh, it ran away, are you kiddin’ me right now?! I wasted ten balls on that stupid thing for it to flee?!”
“Lamp post,” says Meis, and Gueira hops to the right without once taking his eyes off the game. “Fire hydrant,” says Meis, and Guiera glides to the left, tongue sticking out with concerted effort. “There’s no way he’s actually dating an alligator.”
“As pink as Aina’s hair and as sweet as caramel sauce, my dude.” He scowls at his phone and throws his hands up in the air. “Whaddaya mean, I’m outta balls!? Meis, gimme your credit card, I see a cute flaming doggo and I need it. I need.”
“Last time I gave it to you, you spent half of my entire bank account. For a gacha game. And you still didn’t get your ‘best girl’ or whoever.”
“That was the old me!”
“That was last week.”
“Still old!” Gueira pockets the phone and clasps his hands together in front of Meis, putting on his best kicked kitten act while batting his big dumb eyes. A faux tear dribbles along his cheek, accompanied by well-timed sniffles. “Please?”
Meis stops. He yanks Gueira by the collar of his leather jacket and pulls him into a dirty alleyway before slapping a hand over his mouth to silence the protests. He jerks his head toward across the street. After a momentary defiance, Gueira follows Meis’s incessant gesturing, gaze landing on the man in question.
Remi.
“Oh, dude,” Gueira pulls down Meis’s hand and grins, “you got it bad, eh?”
“I have nothing bad.”
“You’re so into him. Totally, a hundred-and-fifty percent into him. Who do you take me for? I’m your road bro. Your motorcycle homie. I can read your ass like a damn cereal box label. Nutritional facts include eighty percent of your daily dose of Vitamin G for ‘gay thoughts’.” He pounds his chest with an unaccounted for pride. “Too bad he’s spoken for.”
“He is not,” Meis says with exasperation, “dating an alligator.”
“Wanna bet?” His eyebrow quirks, grin shifting into a coy smirk. “How ‘bout this: if I’m right, you gimme your credit card. If you’re right, then you ask him on a date.”
“I don’t see how I ‘win’ in this little bet of yours -”
“Shit, we’re gonna lose him!” Gueira scrambles and emerges from the alleyway like a rabified rodent caught in the beam of a flashlight. He waves his hands wildly. “C’mon, man, we gotta go after him and see who’s the winner!”
“I never agreed to -”
But Gueira, as Meis ought to know by now, isn’t listening. He drags Meis by the wrist in pursuit of the man of the hour donning glasses and an expression best described as “please take me seriously and don’t call me a nerd.” Inwardly, Meis sighs, and chalks up the afternoon to be wasted by yet another bout of Gueira’s Impromptu Escapades.
(Though, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy said-escapades.)
*
How the plague called “feelings” originated, Meis could only guess. Perhaps it came about during Promepolis’s restoration efforts as they exchanged smalltalk while clearing buildings reduced to rubble. Maybe it occurred when Remi recalled Meis’s coffee order from memory after just one instance of reciting it (light roast groovy flavor with two shots vanilla for the extra oomph, two dashes of almond cream, and an atrocious heap of sugar). Or it arose during a joint meeting between the ex-Mad Burnish crew and the Burning Rescue discussing ideas for relocating citizens, wherein their knuckles brushed together while walking to their seats.
Who knows. Meis doesn’t care, because Meis definitely does not have feelings for some four-eyed goody-two-shoes firefighter who, before the past three months, was their self-proclaimed enemy (kinda). And Meis certainly isn’t the type to develop a stupid crush over minor yet totally gooey romance-tropes that never actually happened in real life. And he also doesn’t cry at a good chick flick when they finally kiss, dammit, who do you take him for? A loser? He has tattoos on every inch along his back. His aesthetic screams rebellion, telling authoritative assholes to get lost. He is and always will be the antithesis to the pastel idyllic dreams where everyone plays nice and gets along because they follow the rules.
If he needed more evidence to contradict this internalized argument he made for himself, he need only look to his closest companions. Boss and Guiera both didn’t even think about such gross topics - well. Actually, Boss and that Galo Thymos gave each other those looks these days, and Gueira scored with some shy scientist who apparently is a “total freak” in certain regards.
Well, forget that then. Poor supporting claims. Any prosecutor worth their salt would’ve torn Meis to shreds by now and called him an idiot.
“Why are you following Guiera if you don’t give a damn about Remi’s relationship status,” cries the imaginary prosecutor, slamming their hands against the bench’s countertop.
“‘Cause I wanna know if he actually is or isn’t a scalie?”
At that, Guiera turns his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “Dude? Are you doin’ that weird thing where you’re talking to yourself again? Pay attention.”
Oh. Right. The “wager.” They hid their faces behind days’ old newspapers salvaged from a trash bin before following Remi into the successfully rebuilt Marsluck. Remi appears to be a regular, exchanging friendly banter with a barista as she conjures the clusterfuck that is his order. There’s a bunch of Italian in there Meis can’t be bothered to repeat, and the cogs of his brain only work so hard to keep track of much more important things (daily meetings, finances, Guiera’s smoking tally they’re working on pegging down a notch). His grip tightens around the paper, giving it a fresh coat of crinkles to join the old ones.
“God, he’s a total casanova!” Gueira lets out a low whistle. “See how she gave him that wink there? And he just smoothly plays it off with a laugh! Man, what’d I’d do to get that confidence.”
“Just eat your snack so we can leave,” Meis says, taking a well-timed sip of his hot chocolate. He’s still not used to gauging the temperature of boiled water and burns his tongue every time. He steals a glance of Remi - lame, totally unattractive Remi - and frowns at the monstrosity of his coffee. “Wow.”
“You think that’s why he’s such a hard-ass all the time? Can’t be good for you.”
“I wouldn’t call him a hard-ass. More like,” Meis waves his hand, “dedicated? Honest? To his work. To a fault?”
Gueira’s eyes narrow in cat-like glee while Meis rolls his.
“Don’t.”
“Was that a compliment I just hea--”
“No, you’re hallucinating. One of your Gachamons whispered that into your ear.”
“Oh, shit dude, speaking of, you think this place would count as a Gacha Stop?” He pulls out his phone and, in a stunning display of ballerina-esque grace, fumbles it. It flees from his fingertips like his chances in getting a second date, soaring through the air in dramatic slow-motion towards its impending, catastrophic landing. Both Meis and Gueira reach out, jaws dropping as a slow “Noooo!” escapes them both. The Boss bought them their cellphones. If they were to break such a gift, then - then - !
The phone falls into an opened palm, a mere two inches away from the polished floor. Both let out a sigh of relief before shifting their gazes to their savior of the day.
Remi.
He straightens his back and sets the phone onto the tabletop, then readjusts his glasses with concern. “That was close.”
“Dude, that was sick.” Gueira whistles. “Did you stack all your points into dexterity or some shit?”
“There you go again, talking about things you assume I have and understanding about.” Remi shakes his head and looks between the two of them. Meis forces himself to breathe and maintains a cool composure despite his cacophony of internal screaming threatening to shatter his skull and leak his brains all over the floor that some poor part-time associate would have to clean up. “It’s strange to run into you two here at this time of day.”
“Could say the same for you.” Gueira jabs a thumb at the coffee. “You trying to get a spot on the Twidder obituary feed?”
“It’s only effective with four espresso shots these days.”
“Four?”
“That aside.” Remi sits down beside Meis in the booth without bothering to ask for permission. He rummages through his briefcase, oblivious to his frozen-stiff seat mate, before setting down a pile of documents. “I printed off the blueprints for the second ward for former Burnish to settle down in. I have yet to see Lio, so I was wondering if you two could pass this along to him for me. It’s a good location - Chief really helped with negotiations at the Promepolis City Council meeting.”
“Sweet.” Gueira nods and takes the documents, rifling through them and pretending to understand a lick of what they said. “We’ll make sure he gets them… for a price, of course.”
“I’m sorry?”
Oh no. Meis’s head snaps up. “Gueira.”
“What?” He leans back and props an arm along the back of the booth, head cocking to the side. “S’only fair, right? He’s asking for a favor, what’s the harm in asking for a little compensation in return? It’s not much. Just a quick question, Rem-Rem. If you ain’t mind,” he struggles to reign in his malicious laughter, “of course.”
“Gueira, I swear to - ”
“Ask away.” Remi takes a disinterested sip of his liquid cardiac arrest. “I’ve nothing to hide. But call me ‘Rem-Rem’ again and I will have you sit through one of Thymos’s infamous powerpoints. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, buddy.” The air stills in anticipation. Meis is halfway out of his seat and reaching across the table to get his so-called best friend to shut up for once in his life, but his reaction time is all but a fraction too slow: “It true you be dating an alligator?”
Time suspends. Meis turns his head, horrified, in Remi’s direction. A beat passes. Then two. The cafe chatter surrounding them becomes unsubstantial white noise. Steam wafts in indifference from their cups. Cars rumble by, unaware the entire world has shifted with but a simple, asinine question. Remi’s audience awaits with bated breath as the man’s expression flickers in a myriad of emotions: confusion, understanding, aghast, and then settling on annoyance. He takes a slow, long sip of his drink, which turns into a chugging session. He slams the emptied paper cup onto the table, almost knocking the hot chocolate over, as his glasses glint with simmering irritation.
“Let me take a gander.” He licks his lips and laces his fingers together. An eerie smile creeps onto his lips. “Aina told you?”
“Holy shit.” Gueira sputters and jerks back, arms flailing. “It’s true?!”
“As true as rain falling upwards, you gullible halfwit.” Remi scowls and pulls out his phone. “Lala is a pet. Not my girlfriend.”
Pet? Meis peers over at the phone as Remi flicks through his photos. He notices a few selfies fly by before stopping on an alligator wearing a pink bow atop its head. Its toothy smile is far from endearing, but Remi lets out a gleeful sigh, smile quirking into a proud pet owner’s joy. How is that legal? More importantly, where does it sleep? Or live? A flurry of questions barrage Meis’s thoughts as Remi continues,
“I found Lala hurt when I was twelve, and I begged my parents to take care of her.” He props his chin onto his palm, turning the phone to show a flabbergasted Gueira. “They thought that once she healed, I would’ve turned her to the wild, but I got so engrossed in her progress that I accidentally kept her. She’s a real treat. Hasn’t bitten me or anything. When I got my own place, I even constructed a little oasis all for herself.” His smile softens. “When the days get real tough, she keeps me going, you know? I think, ‘Lala needs me to make bank so I can feed her the bestest foods.’”
God, not only is he a nerd, he’s an endearing nerd. Meis blinks, watching the showcase of pictures starring Lala slide by. He thought that maybe this revelation would help dissuade the feelings plague, but instead, he feels it grow stronger. He wants to meet Lala. Worse yet, he wants to hear Remi brag more about his eclectic, probably (definitely) illegal pet and her overflowing propensity for charm. How could someone who is such a stickler for rules own an overgrown predator?
Talk about hot. Meis’s ears burn. Shit.
“I say one time ‘who’s the bestest little lady in the entire world,’ and Aina teases me every other Tuesday about Lala being my girlfriend.” He frowns and turns off the screen. “So, to answer you plainly: no. I am not dating an alligator. I am raising one. Anything else before I storm Aina’s office and give her the riot act?”
Gueira lets out a dumbed uhhh before shaking his head to snap out of his daze. “Just one more, your honor. So does that mean you’re single?”
“What?”
“My buddy here’s super into you.” Gueira jerks his chin at Meis, who, in that very moment, wishes that those turbines Kray Foresight constructed actually claimed his life just to avoid this very conversation. “He won’t admit it, ‘cause that’s just how he be, but I think a date would do you both good, yeah? It’d get rid of them rumors about Lala, and Meis can live out the squealing high school girl drama life of his dreams. Win-win.”
Remi’s face slips carefully blank. Meis’s bottom lip quivers from a combination of unmitigated embarrassment and the urge to shove the empty cup down Gueira’s throat.
“Just sayin’.” Gueira lets out a yawn and opens his phone casually, like he didn’t just upend their professional relationship with his impatience for Meis to get a move on. “Do you already have his number? I can give it to you, if you w -”
“Buddy,” Meis says, willing his face to stop its best tomato impersonation, “how about we get going to deliver those documents to Boss, huh?”
“Aw, so soon?” This little shit. He shrugs. “But it was just getting good, man!”
“What’s getting good is if I don’t throw you into the ocean when all is said and done.” Meis climbs over the table to simply avoid looking and speaking to Remi and pushes Gueira out of his spot. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Wait.”
Meis and Gueira halt in place as Remi adjusts his glasses. His cool expression betrays nothing as he slides his phone across the table. “Your number,” he says, quietly. “It would be easier to contact you if I had it for a future meeting.”
For a date, in Remi-speak. Meis gawks, then nods fervently as his shaking thumbs mistypes and mistypes and finally types the digits into the ‘New Contact’ form. He pushes the phone back to Remi, who glances over the number with a somewhat pleased expression.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says simply. “It was - well, it was interesting seeing you two. Later, then.”
With that, Remi takes his empty cup, tosses it into a bin, and leaves the Marsluck. They stare after him for a few moments, watching him disappear from their line-of-sight, before glancing at each other.
“Well!” Gueira grins. “That worked out, eh? Hey - hey! Careful what you’re grabbing there, you should be thanking me - ow, ow! My ear! You’re gonna rip off my ear!”
“That’s not all I’m going to be ripping off by the time I’m done with you,” Meis glowers as they take their abrupt leave from the Marsluck. He pointedly ignores both the pressing, concerned stares and Gueira’s yelps as he drags him through Promepolis’s streets all the way back to their temporary home.
However. He allows himself to smile, ensuring Gueira cannot see it. A quick buzz in his pocket indicates a new message, and he already has a feeling who it’s from. Maybe he has something else to look forward to in the future now, after all is said and done with Promepolis’s long road to recovery.
The same can’t be said for Gueira’s future, though.
*
“I thought it was your turn to clean the bathroom?” asks Boss as he stands on his tiptoes to reach the plates. Meis reaches for him and sets it down onto the counter. It is promptly filled to the brim with pizza slices.
He shrugs. “Guess he got some motivation to do it for me,” he says. A distinct whimper emanates from upstairs, followed by more spritzing sounds of the cleaner’s failed attempt to get the old stains off the floor.
“Huh,” is his only response before he plops himself onto the couch for another invigorating round of Kekflix and Chill with Thymos.
Oh well. Meis opens his phone and grins at the photo message of Lala, who’s bow now features a little handmade patch of a flame.
>How do u rate my handiwork?
>10/10, types Meis, like her dork owner.
>I am no dork. I am an intellect. A savant.
>that’s all fancy speak for dork
>and yet you want to date this so-called ‘dork.’ really, who’s the dork here?
To that, Meis shakes his head and lets out a huff of a laugh.
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.
>touche