August 20, 2013 at 1 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

Too loud bass-boosted techno music blasts out of my phone and my hand flops clumsily over on the nightstand, searching for the green phone lit up on the screen. I notice the time before the cold plastic hits my ear and shocks me awake: it took them until one in the afternoon to fucking call me with my results. This is the exact reason why I bought the tests to do it myself at home - you can't go seventeen god damned hours without having any fucking clue what might happen to you and your life.

"Hello?"

"Hello, it this Rob Latsky? I'm calling from Pharmaprix with your test results from yesterday."

"Yeah, hi. So, what's the judgment?" Sleep and the preliminary test yesterday have dulled my nerves, but only by an iota. I try to rub the drowsiness out of my eyes, the haze from the tranquilizers refusing to dissipate.

"Your blood test came back negative, but I'm sure you know that you aren't out of the woods yet. We'll need to see you back here in four weeks and again at the three month mark to test for antibodies, in case the virus is there but taking a little while for your body to notice. Any questions?"

"No, I think we're good. Thanks for calling."

'Seven fucking hours late.'

"Thank you." He hangs up and I just keep holding the phone up to my ear. When I finally open my eyes, still halfway asleep, there is a very persistent Furby forcing its head under my empty hand, seeking affection from the only living thing in this dimly-lit hell.

"What do you want, eh? What do you want?" He flops over on his back and squirms around, paws curled back to touch his arms as he spreads even more hair all over the bed. "We should probably get up, huh? Your dad's coming home today." He knows the word 'dad' and he violently thrashes until he is back on his stomach, eyes wildly searching for the ever-absent human. "Come on, let's go out." He bolts over to the bedroom door and sits, waggling his ass back and forth on the floor while he waits for me to get mine in gear. I check the time on my phone again and I see that I only have about forty-five minutes left on the alarm I set last night, anyway, so there's no real point in going back to bed. Jake switched his flight to today and cashed in some of his sick leave so he could deal with his meltdown outside of a series of meetings with his clients, and his plane is due to land in a couple of hours. I don't know what else has happened, he hasn't told me much except that his test came back negative, but I know that he doesn't want to be alone right now, even if he says otherwise. I blink and see the squirming ball of enthusiasm waiting, still patiently, for his dumbass human to let him back inside.

I realize that my plan isn't going to work.

I had been planning on going to the airport to pick Jake up after his plane lands, but I can't leave Toby alone here by himself anymore and expect to come home to an apartment. This fucking dog, though... I look over at the crate, with the back wall still lying pitifully on the floor. If I had something that he couldn't destroy or eat to hold the pieces of metal together, I could lock him in the crate and not have to be chaperoned everywhere I go.

That's the answer.

His nose is buried in his food dish in the kitchen and he turns to the side to watch me while he eats, always praying for me to be merciful and give him something better. I dig through the junk drawer and find the padlocks from the moving truck and snap one on the top front and one on the top back after I snap the back wall in place again. If I pick up a couple more of these at the store to hold every side together, he shouldn't have a way of busting his way out of prison when I'm gone. I head to the bathroom to take my new and improved daily drug cocktail like the instructions told me, preparing to battle the PEP concoction for the first time.

The usuals go down peacefully with a gulp of water but the new pills are going to be a struggle, I can tell by looking at them. The little green one dissolves as soon as it hits my tongue and I feel like I'm trying to swallow a mouthful of sand from a faceplant on the beach, and that was just the first one. The capsules don't try to pick a UFC fight with me, although the red and white one tastes like Windex smells and leaves an aftertaste in my mouth for fifteen minutes. Finally, we get to the one I was most afraid of: the diarrhea-colored horse pills that are so big that they needed two large bottles and a bag to themselves. They are bigger than the nail on my thumb and I can't help but stare at how fucking gargantuan they are. If I can't even brush my teeth or begin to shallow-throat my boyfriend, there's no way in hell I can swallow this without hitting my gag reflex.

'What Mitch doesn't know won't hurt him.' I set the monster pill down on the side of the sink and I get down on my knees and reach back behind the base of the toilet to grab the razor blade tucked into the divot on the bottom side of the tank. I wash it thoroughly in the sink and pull up the drain stopper before I start sawing my way through the shit-colored pill, catching myself making faces in the mirror when I can't get the sliver of metal through it.

"What the hell is this made out of? I don't want this in my body..." I hear Toby clicking his way down the hallway and he perches in the doorway, watching, waiting for me to drop the pieces on the floor. "That doesn't mean that you get it, either, drug dog." The blade finally makes it through the bulky pill, leaving thick dust all around where it was in the sink. It looks like a soil sample from Mars. I screw up my courage and choke down the aspirin-esque poison one piece at a time, realizing yet again just how much I want to be bug-free; I don't want to be doing this everyday for the rest of my life. I stash the hellish blade under the toilet tank and line my collection back up in the medicine cabinet. My bathroom is turning into a full-service pharmacy and pretty soon the city is going to make me file for a vending permit. I walk next door to the bedroom and change into cleaner clothes that don't look overly wrinkled or filthy before I snatch up my audience and ruffle up his fur on the way back to his prison cell. "Do you want a treat? Yeah, you want a treat." He doesn't give a shit about the treat and his legs thrash wildly as he soars down toward the crate, like he's trying to swim through the air to escape from a nest of baby hawks. "Dad will be back soon. I have to go get him."

"AAAAAAIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" he shrieks as he spins around, bodyslamming the crate to try to break it open again. At least now I know how he did it last time.

"Eevee used Tackle! But nothing happened! I'll be back later with your dad and you can tell him all about how mean I am."

"EEEEEE!!!" His eyes are all dilated and he starts digging at the metal tray, like we hadn't already thought of that.

"Try to be good! We'll be back soon." I grab my pile of crap off of the end of the bar and fish around in the drawer for my parking pass and a pair of sunglasses. I haven't been out in direct sunlight for over a week and I have to squint to even look into my living room during the day, my eyes are so accustomed to me living in the dark. I can hear him screaming over the sound of the alarm arming through the door and his countertenor notes of fury follow me into the elevator. "God damn it, Toby." The lobby and the parking garage are deserted and the parking attendant doesn't even look up from their phone when I finish the trek over to my car and wobble my way over the obstacle course of speed bumps on the way out through the spike-protected exit.

I make the journey to the airport in silence, realizing for the first time that Preston must still be asleep because he isn't blowing up my phone yet. He'll probably spend the next couple of days wallering around in his pit of despair before he remembers that he was tired of her ass, anyway. Then again, it might take him longer this time because even I was warned by the overlords to limit my exposure to social media for the next few days, and I wasn't actually part of the SteemKar controversy. Who knew that there wasn't enough drama on the internet already and that we needed our own Jerry Springer, refereeing cheap shots and smearing shit in our faces? Once again, no regrets about my coming out video, even if I wish the circumstances had been different. Who knows, maybe I never would have had the courage otherwise. Jake and I might have been a front page story for Steem's bullshit; if this scare gets out, we still might be. I glance behind me in the mirror at the stoplight. I haven't noticed anyone following me, but I'm also no secret agent. I need to be more careful about people trolling around after me with cameras now that YouTube has its own paparazzi clan trying to make easy money by ruining other people's lives. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts just as the light turns green. When did all of these other cars appear around me? I blink to try to wake up, already knowing that it's fruitless. My brain no longer belongs to me.

---

August 30, 2013 at 3 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

The doors open automatically and the boarding attendant turns away from the screen but only for a split second. I set the odd-tasting decaf coffee down and lean back in my cafeteria chair to watch for him. The flood of tired faces flows past and I start to wonder if I had guessed the right plane or if I have another three-hour wait on my hands. For someone who always flies first class, he's taking his sweet ass time.

I almost miss him when he finally spawns in - he looks so shitty that I almost don't recognize him with his rumpled hair and oversized weekend clothes. I get up and stand against the wall by the creamer carafe and the drink supplies, waiting for him to walk past. Even better: he walks into the coffee shop. I wait until he walks past, oblivious as always, before I throw my arms around his shoulders and pull him out of the way of the foot traffic.

"What the fuck?!" It takes him a moment to recognize that it's me and not a drunk stranger from the pub across the walkway. I feel him relax ever so slightly, his back pressing gently against my chest and his free hand coming up to hold onto my arm, the other one still clutching onto his luggage for dear life. "What are you doing?"

"Coming to drive you home. Did you think I was going to make you take a shitty cab?" The briefest pause tells me that, yes, he did.

"Why? Why are you here?" His voice is softer, lower now and his grip on my arm tightens and I have to fight to control my visceral reaction to yank it away.

"Believe it or not, I actually meant it when I said I loved you."

" 'Loved.' "

" 'Love.' I'm not going to ditch you because of something that you didn't have any control over." His head tilts downward and he tries to pry my arm off of him; I cringe but I refuse to let go. "Jake. It's okay."

"Everything is so not okay. Do you remember yesterday at all?"

"Of course I do. Do you remember the six months before that?"

"How many times do I have to fuck you over? Wasn't this time enough?"

"One time is never enough." He curls forward a little bit to choke back the inappropriate laughter, turning a little to look around us. I can see a few people staring at us, but they can all be damned. I'm tired of giving a shit about what people think of me. "Do you want coffee?"

"Please." I squeeze him a little harder before I abruptly push him and his oddly familiar pair of sweatpants with the bleach stain on the bottom of the right leg toward the maze of rope in front of the cash register, laughing at the half-hearted glare on his face when I walk back to get my own coffee and vacate my table. We won't be staying in this godforsaken place any longer than absolutely necessary. He playfully glares at me again when he walks over with his carry on draped backward over his shoulder, overfilled crème brûlée disaster in his other hand. "So are you going to take me home... or what?"

"Isn't that the routine?" I slide my sunglasses back on and he makes a horrible face when he tries not to smile, but when we start walking back toward the parking garage, his face slowly slides back into a guarded mask. He looks around, for what, who knows? We make it halfway through the airport before he speaks again.

"Do you ever run into people you know without meaning to?"

"Like fans?" He hums in agreement with his face buried in his quickly vanishing coffee. "Sometimes, more often than I'd like to, actually. I never know that they know me until they either come up and talk to me or start acting really weird and point at me. It's really awkward because I never know them but they know all of this stuff about me, you know? Having other people tell you your own jokes gets really disorienting."

"I can imagine. It would be like having a conversation with a tape recorder." He stops and chugs the rest of his coffee before throwing the cup in a recycling bin and reaching up to wipe away any residue he might have on his face, his eyes travelling between my eyes and my still half empty cup.

"No, Toby. This is my decaf vanilla crappuccino. For real, though, it's fucking awful."

"I'll drink it."

"F-iiiiine." The coffee has disappeared by the time we pass the next set of recycling cans, but I'm still thinking about how much has changed between us in the last twenty-four hours. It's an odd feeling, knowing that one (or both) of us might be infected with a contagious and incurable disease. He catches me looking at him and he looks ahead of us, avoiding my gaze.

"I'll tell you in the car."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're always saying something."

"Maybe I was saying how your dog found a way to let himself out of his crate." He wrinkles his nose at me in dismay and shakes his head, both in disbelief and to let me know that he knows that I'm lying.

"Did he get into anything?"

"He ate a day-old tuna sandwich out of the garbage and, well, the rest of the garbage. That was about it." He chuckles to himself then falls into an uncomfortable silence until I lead him safely back to my vape-scented car, empty eyes staring out the side window as we drive back toward the blinding sunlight. I wait for him to speak; we're almost to my apartment when he starts.

"Lizzie gave me the greedy bi guy talk and threatened to sue me. She would probably win somehow if she tried. I love hearing about being someone else's biggest regret and about how disgusting I am for being who I am. I never should've..." His forehead is resting against the side of his hand, his elbow propped up against the glass of the window.

"Jake, I'm not going to break up with you over this. I'm not a piece of shit who's going to beat the hell out of your dog and leave you all alone to deal with this."

"Rob, I can't be doing this right now when I can't even take care of myself." I knew it was coming and I can't blame him, but it still hurts.

"That's fine. That's perfectly fine. I get it, you're worried about the tests, and I agree. But I still want to stay friends, at the very least." He doesn't say anything, he just goes back to staring out the window. "I can't lose you, man... What am I going to do when we're thirteen points down and I need someone to carry my ass in CS:GO?" He laughs through his tears.

---

August 30, 2013 at 9 PM, Sumas, Washington: Preston

"You sure you're okay, dude? You don't even have your ring light on." He wipes his forehead with his hand then wipes his hand on his pants. Why the freak's he sweating so much? It's like he just did a half marathon, and not in a video game.

"I told you, I'm fine. I think I'm coming down with something from PAX."

"Rob. PAX was like three weeks ago."

"I don't know, man. Sometimes I leave my apartment and shit. I'm not a complete shut-in. I go and get food every once in awhile and check to see if the zombie apocalypse has started yet." He laughs it off but I'm not so sure. He seems like he's acting kinda weird today and I don't know what it is. The lobby's almost full after like a week of waiting for the server to wake its butt up and find people.

"I don't be-lieve you! You told me you melt when you go out in the sunlight and your face ain't even melted a little bit! I call bullshrimp." I mean, he's laughing so that's gotta count for something, right? He's not working like crazy or disappearing for days at a time or acting all sad and slow and tired like he does when he's depressed. So what's up with him today? Is he actually just getting sick like he said or is he lying about something again?

"You seem awfully happy today, bro. Are you sure you're okay?" I'm really not but it's not about Hannah. My phone's a lot quieter now she's gone and my calendar's looking nice and empty right about now and the only things that feel like chores are things that're really chores. Even all the hate comments aren't that bad since they get deleted like an hour after they're posted and the like button's disabled on all my new videos. I get paid for people clicking on my vids and watching the ads, and it doesn't matter why they're watching the ads. Things'd be pretty sweet right now if the drama wasn't all over Twitter where I had to worry about my family finding it. Weirdly enough, I guess I should kinda thank Steem for the extra bonus I'm gonna get on my paycheck this month... Coulda been a lot worse, like the last time someone tried to poke the Bacca with a stick and everyone's crap got hacked into and broken. Even my hand isn't feeling that bad right now - I just wish I could use a controller instead of the keyboard. A week or two from now it'll all be over and then I can enjoy chillaxin' on my weekends and weekdays and holidays and sleep days all by myself. I never noticed how freaking sweet being single is. You never appreciate it 'til it's gone, I guess. Maybe being a bachelor forever wouldn't be that bad a thing.

" 'Course I'm okay. Guess I just never noticed how negative she was." Not even a breath passes before I cut off senpai's 'I told you so.' "And stop trying to change the subject. You're sweatin' buckets over there and I wanna know what you did."

"I didn't do anything, I swear. I just don't feel amazing right now."

"You hafta be halfway decent at something before you can be amazing at anything." He looks up at the webcam and squints at me with pursed lips and a loud breath in my ear. "Kinda early for Halloween."

"Fuck you, too, Preston. Fuck you, too." The countdown ends and we start the round with partial teams. Gonna feel sorry for the suckers who join the other team halfway through the game and get roflstomped. My phone buzzes again and I just ignore it. It didn't play a text tone so I'm not gonna deal with it - it's either more crap in my business inbox about Hannah, more Twitter notifications about Hannah, or junk mail. I blocked her number and that's all, folks. Show's over. It was really sucky how it happened, yeah, but it saved me the trouble and the guilt of trying to find a way to break up with her for good. And it's so nice not having to worry about arguments and crying and two-faced talking and crap with her anymore. So what if a million people saw some ugly freakin' garden gnome talking smack about me for two or three minutes? Doesn't make it the end of the world and it's not like I did something illegal or anything.

"I'll fudge you even harder if you don't get outta my way. Cover me." I sprint across the courtyard to take cover behind the cargo crates and I know something went wrong with the plan when there're bullets raining down on me. Wasn't even close to making it. I watch the kill playback and see Rob just stood there and died like a pleb. But when I turn to look at Skype to call him on it all I see's an empty computer chair swivelling over to the left where he ran away. "What the fudge is he doing? Rob?" Of course there's no answer - his headset's sitting on the desk and he can't hear me. I respawn and continue the game solo and wait for him to reappear with an explanation and food or a little evil Bacca dog or something. Who knows why Rob does what he does?

But things start getting weird when the game ends and I'm in a new lobby but he still hasn't showed up. It's not like the internet went down again. I'm staring at his empty chair and I can see his character's orange gun skin reflecting off his door handle. I bet the dog got in something again and he had to go on an adventure and get it back. I might hafta go on an adventure and heat up my Cheesy Parmesan Bites in a minute if he doesn't come back. Maybe being forever alone and Woof-less wouldn't be so bad, after all. But then who would I record with? Who would I randomly send fish-and-pineapple pizzas to at three in the morning when I'm so bored I'm gonna die, and who else would sit there and apologize to the fish and eat it? Who would carry me around at PAX next year when my feet start to hurt? Dangit. He isn't really gone and I miss him already. Hypothetically.

The second game ends and I go get my leftover dinner and come back and he's still MIA.

"Happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary - screw Hannah! - happy anniversary to me." I hafta chew the garlic butter sauce cup open like a hamster because the tab got ripped off and when I finally get it peeled back I see there's a light on right across from his office. I lean over like an idiot and try to look through the doorway to see what's in that room, but me moving isn't gonna move his camera. Duh, Preston. It looks really bright in there and I can see something grey just past the edge of the door but I have no clue what it is. A few seconds later I see movement and I pretend to be checking something on my phone so I don't look like a total creeper. He finally reappears but he doesn't have food or coffee or a puppy and he's wearing the blue shirt from two days ago and he looks like crap.

"Dude, you look like crap," I say as soon as his headphones are on and I know he can hear me. He gingerly closes the door behind him and sinks down in his chair like he's a boneless rubber chicken.

"Why thank you, Preston. You're looking particularly shitty yourself today." I try to flatten my bed head again and he scoots back and leans back in his chair until it reclines a little bit. Then he just sits there.

"Maybe you should take a couple days off if you're that sick, Rob. No point killin' yourself over a time lapse."

"It feels bad, man. The time lapse will be fine; I can handle that. What I can't handle is jumping off of buildings and dodging missiles and shit."

"Good thing you suck at parkour then." He opens his eyes to make his grimace-y mocking face and find his mug full of cold coffee. "But really though: are you okay? It's not everyday you get dropped from a lobby for yukesin' on yourself like a baby."

"Stop worrying about it so much, Preston. You're freaking out about it more than I am, and I'm the one who had to clean the bathroom floor." That's not a visual I needed to see but now it's here and there's nothing I can do about it. How do the physics of that even work? Now I'm seeing it in slow-mo and it's like someone throwing a can of paint and that's not what I wanted. No one asked for that.

"I'm not freaking out. I just don't wanna hafta send Benja to check on you 'cause your stomach's hanging outta your mouth like a big juicy worm."

"Please don't send Mitch after me. I'll be a good boy, I swear."

"Why? What'd you do? What'd you do, Robert? What'd you do?!"

"I didn't do anything. I just like having food in my apartment, man. Is that so bad?" I wouldn't want Mitch snooping around in my stuff, either. I don't even like it when Mom does it and she's my mom and she's better at pretending she isn't doing it. Mitch's more like a health inspector: you know he's coming someday soon and you're gonna lose no matter what you do because he always finds something. And he usually eats it. I wonder if Mitch steals more stuff from Rob's apartment than Nooch does. Probably. Unless Nooch is a yandere and has a Rob shrine in his bedroom... He's covering his face with his hands and groaning like a ghoul.

"I'm watchin' you, Rob."

"There's always someone watch-" He jumps and turns his chair around to look at the door that just popped open behind him. Did the dog learn how to open doors now, too? Holy crap, he's smart.

"Are you okay?" That's not a dog. I've seen that guy before, I think on Twitter. But what's his freaking name? He always has shades on and his hair's all fancy and gelled and crap and he looks kinda like that one boarding school guy from Glee when Mom and Keeley used to watch it. Why's he over at Rob's place leaning with his head against the doorway like that? He looks like he's drunk or something, or like he's been asleep for like a year.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think it might be a stomach bug." They look at each for a second too long and the guy looks over at me on the screen and nods and stands up a little straighter. He's lying about something, I can feel it. But why's Rob lying to me? I hate this guy and his stupid smiley meme face already. He moves his hand up the doorframe a little bit more and keeps standing there.

"Do you want some coffee?" Rob tries to pass the mug over to him but he won't take it. "Not that nasty shit, real coffee."

"Bro, it told you in bold letters not to have caffeine and you know you can't control your inner addict. You should just stay here." What the heck are they talking about? Were they doing drugs or something and both got sick? I thought Rob kept saying he didn't do that crap.

"Unnnnggghhhhnnnnnnnnnooooo... I don't like you that much, sorry," he groans while he stretches and goes back wherever he came from in the dark. Rob stares after him and sighs, looking down in his empty mug all sad and crap. So he's gonna ditch me and go puke somewhere in a coffee shop with this creepy drug addict guy. Nothing good's gonna come from this and I know I'm nosy but if he leaves I'm gonna call Mitch. Friends don't let friends OD on drugs.

"Damn it. Can you at least take Toby with you?" He leans his head back to listen for an answer and I guess he doesn't get one. So this's the guy with the dog? I thought Rob only got stuck with the dog when he was on business trips and crap. So why're they both Netflix and chillin' at his apartment at like midnight when Rob said he's been feeling like crap all day? Something sketchy's going on here.

"Who's that?" Rob's head flops toward me and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere other than here right now. I feel like such a great friend. Nobody's ever online and when they are, they always think of some lame excuse to leave like not even an hour later.

"His name is Jake."

"Okay..." I can tell by the look on his face he doesn't wanna answer. How much has he been freakin' hiding from me? Why does everyone think it's okay to lie to me and avoid me and not tell me anything? It's like no one thinks I can keep any fudging secrets and they don't trust me! I'm sick of it!

"Don't give me that look, Preston. It's complicated."

"Whaddaya mean 'it's complicated'? I didn't ask you for your dad gom Facebook status. You're being all weird today and I just want you to tell me the truth for once." He rolls his eyes and just looks up at the ceiling for a couple seconds.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want this to happen."

"What?"

"A big fucking fight. I really don't want to be doing this right now. Can we let the bass drop and never pick it up again?"

"I'm freaking worried about you, okay? It's like... I know nothing but bad things about your life and to me it looks like all you do is sit around and grind out videos and pop pills and chase dogs with dead birds in their mouths all around the world. Why don't you talk to me about anything?" He sighs and groans under his breath and pulls the side of his headphones away from his ear, I guess so he can hear if his friend tries to leave without his hairy tornado.

"To be honest, Preston, some things are none of your business. If you absolutely have to know every god damned detail about my life like you're my therapist, here you go," he says and he starts counting things off on his fingers: "My dad was in (another) car accident last week and had to get stitches; I'm running out of storage on my recording computer and I can't afford to upgrade it; the dog learned how to unlock the door of his crate from the inside and can't be left alone at home ever again; I earned $400 less this month than last month and I'm losing subs; I think I might be allergic to my new medication; I can't seem to communicate with my boyfriend in a way that he understands; I'm fighting with you again just like good old times; and I feel like I'm going to be sick again. Does that make you feel better now?"

"What? No! What boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?"

"Oh, Preston. You're so fucking innocent. This is exactly why I don't tell you anything."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Y-es," he moan-laughs while he bobs his head up and down, "we've been dating for five fucking months now, and he and his dog are almost always at my apartment. He forgot to pay his own rent because he only stays at his place for like one night a week. For fuck's sake, Preston, he just walked out of the only bedroom in my apartment with no pants on and looked right at you to see if you noticed, and you didn't. There are literally dozens of pictures of us together on my Instagram and twelve-year-old fangirls figured it out within five minutes of me posting the first picture, meanwhile you're having a complete shit fit about it five months later after I had to tell you about it to your face."

"I'm not having an ish fit!"

"Then why are you yelling?" Why am I yelling? I feel like I'm just going 'round and 'round in a circle and just fighting for the sake of fighting. What other bad habits did I pick up from Hannah? "Can you stop trying to buy clothes from the Soup Store and just listen for a second?" He doesn't look annoyed anymore and I'm too busy laughing to stay mad. Well, too mad. He doesn't need to think I'm gonna forget about this anytime soon.

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"It means that you should stop being a dumbass and just chill for a minute so I can explain. I need to compartmentalize my life or else I'll go completely fucking insane. I don't like bitching about my home life to my internet friends, and I don't like bitching about my online life to my IRL friends and family." Oh. Is that all I am? An internet friend? Am I just here to play games with him and entertain him and not be like a serious friend? Is that why he doesn't think I care about what's going on in his life and if he's okay and crap? No wonder he doesn't wanna spend time with me anymore - he'd rather hang out with the guy creeping in his apartment and the slobbery dog.

"So we're not really friends?"

"Of course we're friends! There isn't a limit on how many people I can care about or how much I care about them. You're my best internet friend and Jake is my best non-internet friend, and I just think that things work out better for everybody if I don't go around bitching about everything in my life to everyone I know. He doesn't know very much about you, just like you don't know very much about him. He didn't even know I was a YouTuber until I had to fly out to PAX this month, and it's like this whole new world to him. I need to escape from my problems sometimes, man, and dragging everything around with me like a ball and chain doesn't let me do that. You might want to think about doing the same thing."

So how much do I not know about Rob's life? How much do I not know about Rob? He seems like he's who he says he is when we meet up in person and when I stayed with him during the crazy Canada trip until I could sit on a plane but now he's got a boyfriend he didn't tell me about and he's taking new pills and I don't know why and he's losing money on his channel and it sounds like he's even talking to his brother now. I can't even remember his brother's name. I don't even know where his parents live and his dad might've almost died and I didn't even know about it. I don't think I can pretend whole parts of my life don't exist and remember who I told what and who I shouldn't tell things to. Why can't I just be all of me all the time?

But Hannah was the biggest reason I've been fighting with Rob for like the last three or four months and he's still avoiding me as much as he can. And I don't think he ever met her up until three weeks ago. And I could get in some really deep bullshrimp if I accidentally tell someone about Mitch and the Bacca hacking YouTube's formula to get more money per ad view, or Rob being on pills and how he used to hurt himself, or Vik sometimes doing coke to stay awake for days, or Lachlan forgetting to end the Skype call before he starts watching unholy videos and doing the five knuckle shuffle under his desk. But what else am I supposed to talk about besides YouTube? Videos and games are all I do besides stupid stuff like grocery shopping and getting the oil changed in my freaking lame Prius.

Who am I without my online life?

"Are you coming?" We both look over at Jake and his hair's messy and wet and he's wearing the t-shirt Mitch bought Rob from that one electronica band's fundraiser a couple years ago. And he's wearing pants this time.

"No, I'm going to go watch TV for a while." So he's gonna ditch me, after all. Great. "Could you pick me up the usual, but decaf?" The usual? I don't even know what that is unless it's a mug of cold crap from yesterday. Is he doing this couple-y crap right now just to tick me off? Why couldn't this guy just text him or something and not butt in when we're trying to talk? Is this how Rob felt when I had to go do stuff with Hannah and stop recording to go call her or something? I feel bad for talking about her in front of him all the time now if this's how annoying it is. No wonder he didn't wanna play CS:GO last week when the new patch came out.

"Sure. Hi, Preston." He waves and somehow I like him even less now. I fake a smile and wave and I'm glad I'm not on speaker so I don't hafta talk to him. It's not that I don't like him because he's gay. I don't like him because Rob thinks he has to hide him from everyone for some reason. That has to be why he doesn't want Mitch to come over. He'll find out about how this guy's always hanging around at Rob's place and not paying rent and leaving his troll dog for him to take care of. He's taking advantage of him and he probably doesn't even have a job and goes around cheating on him when he says he's on those 'business trips'. The more I think about him, the less I like him. I feel like a bad person but I hope they break up. It's not like they're married and Rob said they weren't getting along, anyways. He walks away and I hear him whistling for his dumb dog to go with him.

"I'm sorry about the three-minute COD marathon, but my stomach just can't handle the vertigo. I should still be able to record on Sunday, if you're up for it." What does he think I'm gonna do? Cancel on him because he's super gay with this Jake guy? We already knew that.

"Sweet. Just hit me up if you can't make it. I don't wanna be the one who makes you yukes on your keyboard." He smiles and sits up straight again but I can tell he's in a hurry to leave and I don't wanna think about why. I don't need to think about what he does in the toilet or the bed. None of my business. Nope. Not gonna think about that anymore. I said we're not gonna think about it anymore! Sometimes I really hate my brain.

"I will. I'll talk to you later."

"Take it easy." The call ends and I just sit and stare at the blue background until it goes back to my call list. I still have like half my Cheesy Bites left so I guess there's that to look forward to. That and playing Ghosts all by myself all night. It's like a frickin' punishment. "I guess it's back to my anniversary party. All by myself. Because apparently I'm the only one who can't find a person who can put up with me. Freaking great."

I open a new tab and head over to Instagram and I feel really stupid when I start scrolling through Rob's crappy photos. The Harry Potter wannabe's in at least a dozen of 'em and he's always dressed up like some kinda star kid or somewhere cool like a concert or a hockey game or somewhere with lights strung up everywhere. He's always freakin' smiling. I click on one with the dog staring at something off in the distance from a couple weeks ago and Rob's mom's petting the dang dog while Rob makes a creep face at the camera. I bet his parents are in love with Jake, too, with his big cheesy smiles and his ooey gooey lovey dovey bullcrap and his designer sunglasses and suits. I hit the right arrow button a couple times past pictures of his new apartment and a close-up of Lachlan making a thoughtful derp face and some weird-looking chicken ramen with two cups in the background and there're three selfies with him kissing Rob on the cheek and there's another picture of them together in front of a bar somewhere and the description says he's celebrating hitting half a million subs with his "love mate Jake." I mean, half the comments are saying it's his brother so I wasn't the only one who didn't figure it out but he's supposed to be one of my best friends and I didn't even know this guy existed but the internet did.

"What the heck is wrong with me?" I hafta close the tab because the longer I stare at their stupid selfies together the more I just wanna find him and knock his big dumb Chip Skylark teeth out before he can start singing that shiny teeth song that used to get stuck in my head. He's too perfect and dressy and handsome and just thinking about him makes me feel like a piece of sun-dried dog crap. I bet he wouldn't punch a wall and screw up his hand, then spend the whole next day eating barbeque chicken wings and pizzas and cheesy breadstick bites to make himself feel better. He has a dumb dog everyone likes and I just have a furry pot belly to pet because I'm a freakin' pig. And I say this while I cram another Cheesy Bite in my mouth.

But he isn't a YouTuber and he doesn't know how any of our YouTuber stuff works or what it's like to have thousands of viewers stand outside a convention hall for hours in the summer waiting to scream his name and hug him and get his autograph like we do. He doesn't know what it's like to have people recognize him on the street and ask him for a selfie after he just got done spending nine hours recording and editing videos for hundreds of thousands of people for the week. He doesn't know what it's like to do his favorite thing in the world and call it a job and live off it. All he does is live off Rob, and even if he thinks Rob's his favorite thing in the world - 1. he's not and 2. Rob's not a job. They can't be jobless together forever and keep goin' out to hockey games and eating fancy ramen crap. No wonder Rob's always broke. Jake's whole life is just the boring crap I do on my days off and you know what? I feel sorry for him.

I bet he doesn't even play video games.

---

August 31, 2013 at 1 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"Take it easy." I can tell he's still pissed that I don't tell him fairytales about my life every night before he goes to sleep, but I ran out of give-a-shits around this time last night. I sit in my chair for ten seconds after I end the call to make sure he can't see anything, then I sprint as fast as I can across the hall to the bathroom. The coffee from this afternoon isn't cold anymore as it comes bubbling back up, along with chunks of food that I would have thought had been digested last night. I hope these pills aren't fucking up my stomach. I can't even begin to imagine a full month of feeling like this all day, every day. I'm going to have to schedule an emergency appointment with my doctor and see if I can get a different prescription cocktail covered under my insurance, or at least for less than what I paid last night. I would do just about anything to not feel this way again.

Another wave comes over me and I'm glad that Toby isn't here to try to eat it out of the toilet again. My throat is burning, my tongue is stinging, and my teeth feel fuzzy and numb when I scramble upright onto the seat and grab the little garbage can by the sink, thankful for the little things in life like not shitting myself like a two-year-old while Preston laughs at me. It feels like someone is twisting my insides with a hand crank and my stomach is singing the tenor part for some tragic song I've never heard before. If the point of one of those pills was to expel any leftover swimmers by any means necessary, it did its job. Maybe I should plan to sleep in the bathtub tonight, where I won't piss Jake off again by accidentally touching him or have to worry about getting out the mop and bucket.

I try my best to drown my sorrows in the sink, grabbing the hand towel and running it under the water before I go sink weakly down on the couch and soak in the peaceful silence. It feels like hours have passed and I'm halfway asleep before the lock on the front door clicks. I can hear the chime of Toby's name tag on his collar and the jingling of keys being set down on the bar, but it's the smell of overpriced coffee that wakes me back up, even though it makes my abused stomach churn again. I feel a warm hand on my ankle and I lift the towel up to see him trying to move my legs so that he can sit on the couch next to me. That's new.

"Sorry, I didn't know if you were awake. Here," he says as he pulls one of the off-white paper cups out of the cardboard drink holder and hands it to me. "Now that we don't have an audience, be honest: are you feeling any better?"

"Fuck no."

"That's what I thought." He sits over at the far end of the couch and leans against the armrest, his eyes searching my face. "You need to make an appointment tomorrow, I mean it." I nod and take the smallest possible sip of the coffee, knowing as soon as I smell it that there is no way in hell I can drink this tonight. "So I overheard a little bit of your conversation... that was Preston. If you don't mind me asking, how old are your Minecraft friends?" I give an involuntary snort of laughter and use it as an excuse to set the cup down on the table, noticing that Toby's eyes are greedily locked on the drink, hoping against all odds that I might give him something this time.

"He's actually nineteen. It's hard to believe, I know, but I swear I'm not a pedophile."

"And here I was, wondering why you two hadn't fucked yet. The age gap doesn't bother him?"

"For the thousandth time, it isn't like that." He smiles his smartass smile at me and holds his lid for Toby to lick the foam off, the little beggar scrambling his way over to his favorite human under the coffee table. "We play up the bro crush thing for views. That's probably the only thing keeping my channel going right now, to be honest. He has exactly zero interest in me as more than just a friend, and he buys into hardcore fire-and-brimstone Christian bullshit even if he did. He just about burst into flames when I called you my 'boyfriend'; I couldn't imagine trying to explain anything else to him."

"That was what that look for for, huh? You didn't want him to know about me." He isn't angry or hurt when he says this - he seems more amused than anything else. How often does he deal with complete closet cases who can't find their way out of the magical wardrobe to Narnia?

"Not you, the situation. Personally, I don't care about anyone's opinion about my sex life, except maybe yours," I say to coax another diabolical grin out of him, the guilt and uncertainty still heavy in his eyes, "but I don't want word of me possibly testing poz to spread to the internet." I lean down to ruffle the fur behind Toby's ears, using it as an excuse to distract him from me moving closer to his end of the couch. When I settle into my new spot, he doesn't seem to mind as much as he used to, when he used to stand straight up and back away slowly.

"Rob, we can't be doing this." I can tell by his tone of voice that he doesn't really mean it, and he doesn't make any effort to move away. I cross the line that had always been drawn between us and rest my head against his shoulder. I feel his sigh ghost through my hair and his fingers tentatively brush against my leg. "When did we get to this? We were supposed to be a weekend fling and now look at us."

"I don't want you to leave."

"I have to eventually. Nothing lasts forever." His touch is so light that I can barely feel it. "You're making this so, so difficult. I'm not 'boyfriend' material and you said that wasn't what you were looking for."

"I wasn't looking for anything, but I still found this." He pulls away and puts his cup down on the table before he turns his head to look back at me.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You need to go get some sleep." He holds out his hand to help me up, the tug of his hand and the song of Toby's collar leading me down the hallway and into the darkness.

I know they won't be here in the morning.