Arthur opened the door, kicked off his shoes, and lined them up neatly, heel to heel. The air hit him with the cheap, chemical stench of watermelon. He grimaced at the cloying sweetness.
From the living room came a monologue, loud and rising in pitch. Kurt was sitting cross-legged on the floor, phone held out in front of him. In his other hand was a vape, which he kept bringing to his lips, exhaling massive clouds of watermelon-scented vapor.
“...minus two viewers? Minus two? Are you guys colluding or what? I'm pouring my soul out here, and you're logging off! Come back! I haven't even dropped the main point yet!”
Arthur stepped into the room. Kurt was muttering comments from the chat under his breath: “you're psycho,” “wash your hair,” “when are you gonna kill someone?” Kurt read the last one louder and let out a jagged laugh.
“When am I gonna kill someone? Hit that follow button, turn on notifications, and find out first!”
Spotting Arthur, he jerked around like a dog hearing its owner at the door.
“Oh, my roommate's home! Arthur, tell them I'm cool! They don't believe me!”
Arthur leaned in, staying out of the camera's frame, and dropped his voice.
Then he snatched the phone from Kurt's hand and hit ‘End Stream.’
“Hey!” Kurt jumped up. “There were three people watching! Three! That's two more than yesterday! I was boosting my channel!”
“You were screaming at a cloud of vapor and threatening murder on live stream.”
Arthur shrugged off his blazer and hung it on a chair. He checked his shirt cuffs – clean.
Kurt watched him from below, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. His hair had grown out, greasy and hanging in stringy clumps. His t-shirt was wrinkled, with a stain on the shoulder. A real looker.
He got up from the floor and walked over to Arthur. Just because Arthur was there, and Kurt always wanted to be closer to him.
“You smell like watermelon,” Arthur said.
“And you smell awesome. Like a garage. Or a basement.”
“That's not a compliment.”
Silence settled. Kurt rested his head on Arthur's shoulder. A dirty head on a clean shirt. Arthur froze for a second, then relaxed. He didn't pull away. His hand moved on its own to Kurt's hair – he touched it, then winced.
“When was the last time you washed your hair?”
“Dunno. Three days? Four? Who cares? Are you turning into those losers in the chat?”
“Kurt, go take a shower,” Arthur said evenly. “I'll give you fresh sheets today, too. Self-care matters.”
Kurt blinked. Then his face split into that crooked grin of his. He never knew how to handle care – it felt alien to him, something confusing that made him want to either laugh or cry.
“Will you come with me?” he asked. No subtext. He just didn't want to go into another room when Arthur had just gotten back.
“No. I'll be in the kitchen. Waiting.”
Kurt slid off the couch and shuffled toward the bathroom. From the doorway, he looked back.
“You're definitely not leaving?”
Kurt nodded and disappeared behind the door. A minute later, the sound of running water came from inside, followed by singing. Kurt was singing something unintelligible, loud and completely off-key.
Arthur went to the kitchen, deciding to distract himself by sharpening the knives.
A few minutes later, Kurt returned from the shower, thankfully in clean clothes, his vape dangling around his neck on a lanyard like a pacifier. He pulled a bag of chips from the cupboard, tore it open, and started crunching.
“Have you eaten anything?” Arthur asked.
“There's potatoes in it. Potatoes are vegetables. Veggies are healthy.”
Arthur said nothing, took the leftover pasta bake out of the fridge, and put it in the microwave. Kurt sat at the table, propping his feet up on the neighboring chair. Crumbs rained down onto the floor. Arthur noticed and frowned.
“Listen, those people you film,” Kurt said, chewing thoughtfully, “did they want views too?”
“They wanted attention.”
“Isn't that the same thing?” Kurt genuinely didn't get it. “Attention is views. Like, in real life. You walk down the street, people look at you – that's views. You perform – views. You exist – views. If no one's looking at you, you basically don't exist.”
“So that's why you're streaming for three people?”
“Yeah.” Kurt shrugged. “Three isn't zero.”
The microwave beeped. Arthur placed the plate in front of Kurt. Kurt looked at the casserole like it was a work of art.
“You'd starve to death in my apartment otherwise. I don't need the hassle.”
“Ah, right,” Kurt nodded vigorously and started eating. Fast, greedy, like he hadn't eaten in a day. “I was thinking today: if I get famous, will you be my cameraman? I've got skills, you haven't even tested me yet. I can grab attention! Not just those three. And there was this one other guy, but he typed ‘shit’ in the chat and left immediately.”
Arthur sat opposite him, hands flat on the table. He watched Kurt eat, crumble, talk with his mouth full.
“My rates are high,” he said flatly. He took Kurt's empty plate and put it in the sink. Then he opened the window to air out the watermelon vapor.
“Are you going to stream again tonight?” he asked.
“No. Just if you start screaming past midnight, I'll kill you.”
“Oh,” Kurt grinned that crooked grin again, “that would make a killer video! Can I make out with one of your mannequins for it?”
Arthur stood up abruptly and walked out of the kitchen without a word. From behind him came:
“I was joking! Well, mostly. Arthur! Arthur, it was a joke!”
Arthur didn't turn around. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
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